Story: Locals

"Surf with the locals." he cryptically declared. It was one of those 'meaning of life' discussions that younger people have to have with their elders. My writer friend was patient with my questions, but right before he took off to a Northern port of Ireland where the only things he would see were fences of stone and a couple of sheep he offered that advice. I didn't surf but today writing this article, it finally makes sense.

Growing up in Denver, I understood the battle entitled "Tourist versus Local." It must be human nature or something but no matter where we are born we are destined to look down our noses at the tourist. "We were born here. We are better", runs through our brains.

Skiing in Aspen or Vail, I learned very quickly to cluck my tongue at anyone from Texas or California in Colorado. In 1985 when the biggest blizzards for a decade hit downtown, it was obvious that it was only Texans where stuck in the snow drifts on the side streets. We all knew better. We lived there.

That's the gig. Locals know better. They live there. My father wore plaid shorts, a Minolta and short sleeve polo that barely fit over his gut in Mazatlan Mexico. Two days of Montezuma's revenge later, the locals looked at our whole family and thought in Spanish, "Sabemos mejor. Vivimos aqui." Dad got over it and we went back home where we could repeat to the Texans that we all knew better. We live here.

Back to my friend retiring to trips in Ireland. Now I live in Yakima Washington. It is a place. It is local. Tourists run through here and drink wine and gamble at the local casinos. They don't run into us very often, but once and a while they buy some groceries and skirt away to the local hotel. I do the same thing when I'm in another city.

But having lived here almost twenty years, I still find discoveries that make me not quite a local. One week it may be that a family here is about five generations deep and remembers coming to the Valley in the mid 1800's. Another week I discover that a Native American has been here since before we remember writing things down.

Then finally I discover that the agriculture is changing here so that the apples that used to bring such a French provincial lifestyle to this area is being replaced by a vinter's lifestyle that confirms that we are locals.

Locals. What that means is when I'm on a road trip and I look at the houses in Anytown USA the soft glow coming from houses reminds me that they are inside and I am outside. Locals. What it reminds me of is that a hotel may have hot tubs or little white towels but they don't have noises of home. We travel to see new places. We travel to take a break. In the end, though, we want to come back to that little place where the door latch has a hitch and the wind blows through the windows because we haven't quite fixed the latch.

When my friend traveled to Ireland to meet his cousin he didn't do any surfing. He traveled to listen to the tide coming in and out and hope that he could hear one thing. That even in Ireland he was local.

Keep the plaid shorts and the polo shirt. Keep the camera around your neck. No matter what you do you'll never blend in. Cluck your tongue at the tourist when you're home. When you're out and about enjoy the sights. Let's you know you're a local. We're all a local. Depends on who is passing through.

If you're lucky enough to find a place where they told you the best place to find doughnuts in a town that's less than 7,500 before 7:30 A.M. and you see the local soft ball team on the wall when you get there- you struck gold. You're surfing with the locals.