Peace, Walk, Now: Chapter 6, When You Are Summoned

Funny update since my last post:

Last week I joked about being “summoned” to Alaska in very clear and explicitly unconventional ways (which I’m about to share).

I joked that if our presence is required somewhere, the Universe will make it unmistakably, undeniably known to us. For example, getting calls from random (or not so random) numbers from that location.

“If Alaska summons you, I dare say… there’s no turning your back to her. The pull will only get stronger and the call will get louder and even literal. For example, someone with a (907) Alaska area code might start dialing you accidentally, or for no reason. No reason at all. (Moo-ha-ha-ha…)”

Peace, Walk, Now: Chapter 5, Something Else, Cont.

“Moo-ha-ha-ha,” I said.

Famous last words.

(insert rolling laughter emoji)

In the last seven days, I have, in fact, received three random calls from the (907) Alaska area code:

1. Inferno Seafood (no clue how they got my number or why they called; I’ve never been here or heard of the place; they didn’t leave a message)

2. The State of Alaska (person on the phone quickly realized she had dialed the wrong number, apologized, and hung up)

3. Adventures in Eye Care (okay, I used to go here, but I already told them I moved, so huh?)

Clearly, Alaska still requires my presence. I don’t deny it.

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August 2013 — Manhattan Beach, California

On August 8, 2013, I was summoned the first time.

Alaska summoned me just a few hours after leaving Alaska.

The invitation was loud and clear. And I knew I had to move quickly.

Technically, I received the invitation the day I landed in Anchorage the prior week. A little voice whispered it into my ear at brunch:

What if I moved here and we were together? said the ridiculous little voice as I watched the Anchorage Café bartender pivot during a busy shift.

It was tourist season, and the mom-and-pop Euro-American fusion restaurant was packed.

How silly, I thought. Why on Earth would I move to Alaska to date a bartender I just met?

I mean—not saying anything against bartenders—just saying, there were plenty of bartenders where I lived in Southern California.

Of all the cafes in all the towns in all the world… Alaaaas-kuh??!

Unlike any other bartender I’d encountered, he won my mother over in under 5 minutes. It was our first day on vacation and she was already starting to MICROMANAGE me. She had insisted that we wait until arriving in Anchorage to book our hotel. Before we left L.A., she insisted that I call around after we landed to find the best local deals—never mind that it would be 1 A.M. by the time we got there. Then in Anchorage, she demanded I do all the driving and all the research for the trip (while driving) to “see how it goes” and “go with the flow.”

And yet, she was very picky about “the flow.”

Neither of us knew anything about Anchorage. We hadn’t read any reviews or planned anything.

Seriously, Mom? This isn’t Vegas! You can’t just show up whenever you want and do whatever you want.

Word of advice: Anchorage is NOTHING like Las Vegas.

“In case you get lost,” said the bartender, handing me a piece of paper with his name and number written neatly on it. My mother had been talking to him nearly non-stop.

“Are you married?” she asked him, rolling the rrr’s with her shrill Eastern European accent.

“Uh, no,” he responded coyly. I saw his cheeks turn a pale, vaguely discernible shade of pink.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Why not?!”

“Mom!” I cut her off before she could do any more damage. “That’s not polite.”

“It’s okay,” he said, turning to the bar to fill up some drinks. “I don’t mind answering.”

“Okay, so why not?” she insisted.

Wow, this was a bit awkward. Yes, I was in my early 30s and single, but was my mother seriously trying to set me up with someone we just met on our first day in Alaska? Like it was my last chance, or something? I couldn’t tell. She was known to make random, often inappropriate, comments to people (including me) on a regular basis.

“I just haven’t met the right person yet,” he said plainly.

She gave him a big smile and assured him he was a really nice guy and would meet someone when it was time.

(Equally awkward—assuring a total stranger that there’s nothing wrong with them, and it’s not “too late” for them either.)

I’ll give her this much: my mother certainly had a way of breaking the ice.

The rest of brunch went by pleasantly and was rather fun. The bartender was a welcome intervention.

“Text me, and I’ll give you some travel tips and local tour suggestions,” he offered after we paid our bill. His expression was earnestly helpful, if not somewhat embarrassed.

I wondered how many tourists he handed his number out to?

There was no mistaking that we were tourists.

After two more days of being criticized and nagged by my mother full-time, I needed backup. I texted the bartender and he invited me out for a hike.

“How about a drink?” I texted back.

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