An Odd Conversation

 I had a short conversation with my roommate.  Short, but odd.  We were walking her two dogs.  I'm an extra set of hands and legs in that instance.

Anyway, out of the blue, my roomie asked me, "If you could have any car you want, any make or model and price was not an issue, what kind of car would you choose?"

I never think about things like that so I was a little taken aback, but I gave it a moment's thought.

"My truck," I said.  

I have a fifteen year old Ford F-150 half-ton pickup.  Gold in color.  A little damage to the body (my fault), a little damage to the tailgate (the previous owner's fault), but all in all, I'm happy with it.  Despite having to say "no" to all the people who feel entitled to borrow it (the previous owner's fault) and who are now disappointed that I own it (my fault), I really like having a used pickup truck.

I had a dream once, maybe twenty or thirty years ago, that I bought an old, beat-up, banged-to-hell late 1950's white Ford pickup.  I can still see it in my mind's eye.  I woke from that dream maybe the happiest I've ever been.  Go figure.

"My truck. I like the truck I have."

Then my roomie asked, "If you could live anywhere on earth, in any country anywhere, where would you want to live?"

I briefly thought of New Zealand, where my great grandfather was born, emigrating to San Francisco 150 years ago to become a scout in the Old West (we had his powder horn and bowie knife on the wall when I was growing up), marrying a mixed breed woman in Kansas whom the family euphemistically referred to as "French Canadian," before he struck gold on a mountain in what is now British Columbia, but alas, was murdered for his claim -- at least the mountain is named after him.   

I spent a winter/summer in New Zealand once.  That's not what I said, though.  I surprised myself by saying, "I don't think it matters where one lives."  Meaning, I suppose, that "place" does not necessarily define happiness.  You can choose to be happy -- to have a good attitude -- no matter where you live.

"But what about a home?" my roomie asked.  "Don't you want a home?"

"Home is wherever I am," I replied.  

And I mean that. With the caveat that, yeah, it would be nice to have a home.  I can't even begin to count the number of places I've lived in my life.

And then came the final capping question: "If you could have any meal, from any culture, what would your favorite meal be?"

I like almost any kind of international dish.  I like Chinese, I like Indian.  I like Middle Eastern.  Vietnamese.  Mexican.  I like Thai but that's because I like peanut sauce.  The best meal I ever had was in the Latin quarter in Paris.  I bethought myself a moment and gave the most honest answer.  

"A hot piece of toast with butter on it."  

Now it was my roommate's turn to laugh and shake her head.  And I have to admit, my answers were offbeat.  They surprised me, too.  But they were my real unpremeditated answers to questions that I never ask myself.  I was struck by how simple my own choices were.

And as I write this, I am eating that piece of toast.  But I'm living large.  I slathered some peanut butter on it.