I never visited my sister, her husband and their kid in the two years that they lived in Manhattan, Kansas. It seemed so far, and they came separately or together to DC with some regularity, and there was that whole rejection-of-evolution thing that made me feel like people like me wouldn't exactly fit in, and I was too cheap and basically weak. So when they moved to Boston, it looked like things would change. But I never visited there, either. Worse yet, I went up only a month or so after they moved away, when Susan's mildly Autistic English cousin Paul came to visit the US and wanted nothing more than to see Salem, Massachusetts. Paul probably has Asperger's syndrome, a condition frequently marked by fascination with a particular topic or interest. Paul simply cannot get enough of the Salem witch trials. He thinks about them constantly and will talk about them long past the endurance of most conversational partners. So we took him to Salem, where we visited an amazing number of witch-trial-related tourist destinations -- some genuine historic sites, others blatantly exploitative shams. I honestly believe it might qualify as one of the best days of Paul's life. I'm pleased by that, but by the end I felt I'd seen enough witch trial scenery and paraphernalia to carry me through the remainder of my existence.

Paul also insisted that we rent and watch Rainman together, the story of Tom Cruise (I think he was playing a character, but I'm not sure) driving cross-country with his Autistic savant brother. I think it bothered Paul that he himself doesn't seem to possess a unique superhuman skill like the Autistic brother's extreme ability to memorize and recite information. Paul is aware of the fact that he has Asperger's, as well as its typical behavioral expressions. Although he is a font of knowledge about witch trials, he cannot, for example, memorize the phone book or remember the weather on a day that's years in the past.

Anyway, the upshot is that in the two years that my sister and her family lived in Boston, I never showed up. About a year and a half ago, they moved back to Chicago, where they resided several years back when I returned from Senegal. Back then, I nannied my newborn nephew while I gradually re-acclimated to things like lots of food and violence as entertainment. I'd felt raw and painfully unequipped to deal with my country, and taking care of a baby was a nice thing to do while I waited for whatever part of me that had atrophied during my three years in Africa, the part that allowed me to be happy where I was supposed to be most at home, to grow back.

Now they're back there, in an actual house in a little nicer neighborhood, and the baby I helped out with is now a six-year-old who goes to hockey practice. We flew up for Thanksgiving and had a groovy time.

The return plan was a little different. We'd bought one-way plane tickets and reserved a rental car to drive home. This idea was hatched when Susan's mom Jane was talking about how she'd just had a painting cleaned by a man in Chicago who now felt it was too fragile to be shipped back to her. I still kind of grimace and twitch when I think about that. The idea that I would be dating someone whose mother would have paintings worth cleaning is kind of humorous if you know my family. We're not hillbillies or anything, but we're pretty hard pressed to get things framed instead of just tacking them up on the wall. It's when I hang out with Jane that I get a vision of the stunning vista of differences between me and Susan. It's just amazing that we get on so famously.

So we would rent this car, a big car, and drive the painting back to DC. It turned out that the rental companies don't like to do one-way rentals; apparently, they're more likely to be stolen by the renter (note to rental car thieves: just say it's a round-trip and then don't return it). We only had a couple models to chose from, so on Saturday we picked up our gold Nissan Pathfinder, a vehicle apparently designed by the petroleum industry. You fill up this car at the gas station and the needle falls down a quarter-tank before you leave the parking lot.

When we left Chicago, everyone was like "Look out! Lake-effect snow is everywhere! Head south! Otherwise you're sure to die on the highway!" They practically shrieked this and ran around in little hysterical circles to make the point. That was unfortunate, because the whole point of the trip (for us -- we didn't really care about the painting but Jane was paying the rental) was so we could pass through Oberlin, where I went to college. I hadn't been back since I graduated. I'm such a sucker for bittersweet reminiscence that I just stay away from things with which I have long-standing emotional histories.

So we said good-bye to my family and assured them we'd take the safe southern route, deep into Indiana. Then we got out on the highway in our big SUV and said Fuck It, we're in a big four-wheel drive car and we really want to see Oberlin, so let's just do it, lake-effect snow be damned. How bad could it be? The answer, as it turns out, is "so bad you'll tailgate a tractor-trailer in near-complete whiteout because you can no longer see where the Interstate highway is" but we didn't know that at the time. And even that was only for part of the drive. We made Oberlin a little later and more jittery than we'd planned, and dropped off our stuff in a cheap hotel near the highway. It was almost nine PM.

As we drove the last few miles into Oberlin I was telling Susan about the first time I'd ever seen my college town, which was when I'd driven up with my mom and all my stuff just before the first day of classes my freshman year. I hadn't visited it (or any other colleges), but picked it based on my sister's advice and the printed materials they'd sent me. Which is funny, because I don't really like to catalogue-shop. We were driving through these endless Ohio flatlands, just farms and the occasional Ames store to liven things up. There was no topography. I'd never been anywhere with a horizon like this one. Raised in mountain country, I felt like a primate that had been forced out of the comforts of its tree and onto the naked plains.

As we passed into the town's posted limits that first day, my anxiety doubled. Nothing looked like the pictures, just a personality-free businesscape of grubby gas stations and convenience marts. Then, we emerged onto a town square lined by beautiful college buildings, each different from the adjacent ones, a funny mishmash of styles. Sedate Italianate columns marched next to crisp 60's modernism. It immediately felt comfortable.

Spraying salty slush, our Nissan Pathfinder passed from the featureless white fields through the ring of businesses and gas stations to the center of town, the core of my life for four years, where I once experienced the blinding realization that everything would turn out all right after all.

"How's it feel?" Susan says as we get out of the car in the cold darkness. Ice crunches under our feet on the downtown sidewalk. Most of the stores and restaurants are closed, but up the alley I can see lights telling me Lorenzo's Pizza is still open. In my time at Oberlin I probably ate my weight twice over in Lorenzo's Pizza.

I suddenly realize how hungry I am after the long, trying drive. It's nice to be somewhere I know.