Push Me, Pullman

I pulled up to the only empty pump at a filling station just before the highway. I didn't notice it was the only full service pump until the attendant was at my window. He made small talk about camping and his love for the mountains then astutely asked, "Where you moving?" I replied, "Pullman, Washington", unsure if we were close enough for him to place it. "Which way are you headed?" I told him, "Through Spōkāne." He gave a grin and said, "You'll be local soon and you'll know its Spō-kǎne." I had previously been made aware of the pronunciation of Mǒscōw, Idaho, but had no idea the verbal anomaly lent itself to other cities. Apparently the natives of this region have devised a series of verbal tripwires for the purpose of weeding out the rest of the English speaking world. As I drove away from Missoula I started thinking about the gas station attendant and his affinity for the mountains that surrounded his valley home. Never before had I heard someone talk about their geographical surroundings with such excitement. I wondered if I would feel the same way about Pullman.

Idaho wasn’t what I expected. Ever since I was young and first made the connection I had imagined hilly fields of potatoes. Although, if pressed to draw a picture of what this would look like I doubt I could manage much more than a few scribbles. It was pretty, as I had been told it was many times when I had brought up our move, and it was short. The change of Idaho to Washington couldn’t have been more defined. The series of mountains became a series of rolling hills. In all of 95 miles of Washington we drove there wasn’t a flat mile. There were just miles and miles of the Windows XP Bliss wallpaper. Parallelograms of greens, yellows, and browns were topped by the bluest blue and divided by a wavy horizon. If you squinted it was very surreal.

Amanda pulled ahead to guide the rest of the way. She had come to Pullman in April to find a place for us to stay. The city limit sign made mention of the altitude; three thousand five hundred something. We passed by this odd little shack with a drive-through window called the Espresso Express as we descended into a small town in the hills.