2. The First Trip

The lobby of the Stillwater Wyndham Garden Inn reached up four stories, and there were balconies on some rooms overlooking the nondescript furniture arrangements. Though the enormous clock on the wall had obviously stopped, I knew that it was around 8:30 p.m. My stomach was telling me it was well after dinnertime. We felt travel-weary, gritty, crabby, and we just wanted to settle into our room. “Could we have a room on the atrium side?” I asked the young woman at the desk.

She stared at me blankly, then pulled out a map of the rooms, pointing to one that was free. “But does that overlook the atrium?” I asked.

With her pronounced Oklahoma drawl she said, “we southerners have different names for things I guess. We call this ‘the lobby.’” I suddenly remembered the snooty Parisian hotel concierge in the movie French Kiss, where he tells Meg Ryan, “sank you, madame, for that fascinating lesson in our cultural differences.” I tried desperately not to laugh. But my urge to laugh faded quickly; had she just pre-judged me, based on my “northern” accent? I wasn’t the one with an accent! She was the one with an accent! Ha!

Finally in our room, we tried to decide on a place to eat. My husband wanted to eat at a place they’d taken him on his interview, but it meant a longer drive downtown. My son wanted to eat at a Texas Road House. I wanted food and didn’t care. I’d never eaten at a Texas Road House, but I knew they’d probably have simple fare, and we’d passed one just up the street. I mean, how bad could it be? Our waiter was an eager, friendly young puppy. His eyes opened wide at my husband’s accent; I’m assuming there are probably not too many French accents heard in Stillwater. He was sweet and enthusiastic, telling us he really liked being a student at OSU. He joked that Texas Road House and The Olive Garden down the road were considered fine dining in Stillwater. I was not amused.

Back in the hotel room, and despite being lulled by road hum and drugged by cheesy fries and an overcooked steak, I tossed and turned. This couldn’t possibly be my new home, could it? I flipped to my back and tried to think of the positives. The trip had been easy, a smooth highway cutting through the middle of Missouri, then the Cimarron turnpike from Tulsa to Stillwater. We had reached the path through the Ozarks mid-afternoon, with its cuts through striated rock and over gentle mountains. The ladies at the toll booths in Oklahoma were as cheerful as could be, wishing us a good evening and safe travel as they unhurriedly gave us back our change and a receipt. I tried to imagine them at the toll booths on I-294 in Chicago; they would lose their cheer after about 10 vehicles, I imagine. The inky sky was full of stars from Tulsa to Stillwater, and I had realized how much I missed seeing the night sky. Maybe we would find a house with a view of the night sky, I mused as I finally drifted off.

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The buffet breakfast was copious, which was good, because it had to sustain us through a solid day of house showings. We had five on the schedule, with the possibility of a sixth if time allowed. The realtor we’d been referred to was on vacation, so she had arranged two viewings with her colleague in the morning, and three with her parents in the afternoon. The house we’d chosen first from the realtor website—a bit further out and with acreage—was now under contract and couldn’t be shown.

The first house was a sprawling ranch with lots of wood paneling, tiny closets, and had obviously been the recent home of a group of male college students. The most impressive part of the house was the collection of beer cans. Need I say more?

The second was a “Tudor-style” with five bedrooms and an enormous office. We weren’t crazy about it, but it had potential. It was seven miles from the heart of Stillwater, but sat on four acres of wooded lot in a sprawling subdivision. The deer tracks made us smile. We could hear birds. There was plenty of wood for the wood stove. But the house felt strange, as if something had happened suddenly to the family who had lived there. They had obviously moved out, but left loads of clothes in the closet, food in the fridge and pantry, the children’s PS4 in the living room. What kid would willingly part with his PS4?! The water had been shut off and the house felt cold and neglected. Dead flies had collected next to the french doors to the patio. When my husband looked into the wood stove, he discovered a dead squirrel. Exterior repairs had been neglected. We waffled and waffled, mostly because of the beautiful site, but inside I was saying “no, no, no.” The design flaws screamed at me: enormous bedroom with itty-bitty bathrooms; a laundry "closet" just to the right of the entryway, and in the main corridor to the garage door; no dining room. I just couldn't imagine myself living there.

In the afternoon we met our realtor’s parents—her mother is also a realtor—at another house. The house was another no, but the parents—both in their 80s and her mother with severe visual impairment—were delightful, insightful, kind and friendly. They imparted their advice as he lovingly helped her up stairs and through doorways. They were well-connected in the community; he had been a professor of anthropology at the university, but also had built several houses for family and friends. She knew the local real estate market like the back of her hand. After the last showing, they took us back to their own house which they would be putting on the market soon. It was not our style and probably out of our price range, but we appreciated their opening their home like that. We petted their friendly goldendoodle and chatted about houses.

The next day we met my husband’s future boss, and she bought us lunch in the student union. It was mostly empty except a small handful of students, but she assured us it would be packed in two weeks when the students returned. She is not from Stillwater, and has lived all over the country, and insisted that Stillwater is a great place to live, that the people are extraordinarily nice. I felt a bit better. After lunch we went to the bank to inquire about loan pre-approval and to open a bank account. People jumped through hoops and bent over backwards. We felt like royals. The vice-president of the bank introduced herself and said she’d be happy to recommend any services or give any advice we needed, from where to go to the dentist, to where to get your car fixed, to who gives the best haircuts. I have to say, it started to feel a bit surreal, like people were being too nice.

Saturday morning we decided to view the “Tudor” again right before leaving, this time with the older couple. They offered to pick us up at the hotel in their double cab white pickup truck. I was watching out the hotel door for them, jumping up every time I saw a double cab white pickup truck. I finally stopped; it seemed like every other vehicle in Stillwater was a double cab white pickup. The day was sunny and warmer, and as we drove to the house we saw two enormous does running through a neighbor’s front yard. Quail strutted past us. It was charming, but in the end we decided the house was not meant for us. I tried not to feel disheartened. We returned to the hotel, packed up our things, and headed back east, over rolling grasslands where I could picture past herds of buffalo roaming, and through native lands, the only indication of this being the signs on the road. Google maps had no markings of native lands. I found this frustrating, but not surprising.

Ten hours is just long enough to endlessly mull over options and ideas until you are sick of talking about it.

1. We could buy some land and live in an RV until our house was built!
2. We could buy a condo and just leave most of our stuff in storage—who knows how long we’d be there?
3. We could live in a small town a few miles away, where all the old houses hadn’t been ruined by students and torn down in favor of huge apartment complexes!
4. We could find a beautiful old house in a small town, buy some land in Stillwater and move the house there!
5. A! B! C! D! Rinse, repeat.

By the time we got lost on a detour in downtown St. Louis, we’d exhausted all known possibilities, and we had three hours left of road trip. By the time we pulled into our own driveway, we were more weary of the discussion than road-weary. All I knew was that I was glad to be back home.