And now a quick sequence of places I’ve lived during my almost-21-year lifetime:
I was born in Los Angeles. A smart baby, some would argue.
After a month, I didn’t enjoy living in such a tight, busy, over-populated city, so I was able to convince my parents to move out East, where the grass is green and where I could watch the sunrise over the ocean.
So at age five weeks, my family honored my request and moved me out to Baltimore. My dad got a good job and for five years, life was dandy. The sandboxes were of first-class nature, snack time was always something yummy and nutritious, and I could see myself living there the rest of my life. I would marry Erin, my kindergarten sweetheart, and raise our family in a small town just outside Baltimore.
And then we heard the news. In a while my family would be moving to Salt Lake City. My dad had a better job offer at the U, and we’d be leaving that May.
Was it something I had done wrong? Was it because Erin and I got in trouble at recess when we covered the chalkboard in chalk? Perhaps it was the time I rode my tricycle a little too far away from home.
So, just before my fifth birthday, the five of us drove to Salt Lake City. Though we stopped in every state along the way, I had no idea where on the map I was. There goes that smart-baby theory.
We arrived in Salt Lake on May 19, 1987. Our house was bigger than our old one, and my 3-year-old brother and I would share a huge room, wallpapered with Major League Baseball logos.
I remember asking my dad, “When’s the next time we’re moving?” with anticipation in my voice. “When you’re in college,” he replied. I didn’t even know what college was.
Well, as I type this article, I’m in that same room, without the wallpaper, of course. I had moved to Colorado to attend school, but transferred back here after a couple years. Moving isn’t all that fun anymore.
What’s the point of this article, you ask? How does it affect your life?
Let me ask you, the reader, a question. Do you feel proud to live in Salt Lake City? Truly. Honestly. Think.
Are you proud of the city that the Beach Boys once sung about, claiming, “It’s got the grooviest kids, that’s why we never get tired of Salt Lake?”?
Well, I was really excited for the Olympics to arrive here in Salt Lake. But when I moved to Colorado for school, I would tell my friends that I was actually glad I wouldn’t be in Salt Lake for the Olympics because of how messy everything was going to be. The traffic, the parking, the vast number of people.
Knock on wood.
After I transferred back home, I promised myself I would not be in town for the Games. No way. I would drive to Boulder the day before the Opening Ceremony and drive home the day after. I could hang out with my friends and pretty much do nothing.
But then it happened. That one fateful day last January.
I slipped on the way to class. It wasn’t just your ordinary slip. I slipped on a big pile of snow. My notebook, which was in my right hand, flew to the right. My cell phone, which was in my other hand flew to the left. I went down and landed in the same pile of snow that I slipped on.
And then I opened my eyes and there it was. High in the sky, like a sign from God Himself. It was looking me right in the face. Rice-Eccles Stadium read: SALT LAKE 2002. LIGHT THE FIRE WITHIN.
At that point I realized that I was proud that my city had the greatest snow on Earth. Not because I slipped, but because it enabled us, our great state, our great city, our great university, to host the 2002 Olympic Winter Games.
I was proud that it was our football stadium that hosted the Opening and Closing ceremonies. It was where my favorite basketball team played that there would be Olympic figure skating. And it was where I parked my car every morning before class that there was now a sign which read: RESERVED FOR SLOC.
So I stayed for the Olympics. Beforehand, I spent a week in Florida, which was only 10 degrees warmer than Salt Lake. But when I got home, it was truly party time!
I spent a lot of time downtown hanging out with the foreigners. It was so fun seeing them wander around the city, getting lost because they couldn’t figure out why Utahns were naming the streets “2nd South” instead of “200 South.”
I always cracked myself up when I went up to ticket scalpers and started haggling with them. I told one guy I’d give them $2 for five speed skating tickets. He was willing to go down to $800s, but wasn’t able to match my final offer of $7.50.
The conservative Christians were really funny too. One guy asked me if I was perfect. I said no. He said he was 100 percent perfect.
If I was 100 percent perfect, I wouldn’t go around bragging about it and making people feel bad about themselves. He was a nice guy, but I wasn’t able to convince him of his mixed-up theology.
My all-time favorite people, however, were the people who were so drunk, they would see you a block away and want to meet and talk with you automatically.
One Friday night, 15 of my friends drove out from Boulder to hang out for the weekend. We were downtown at 1 a.m. and some guys about our age began talking to us. They were from Nebraska and I told them that I was from Salt Lake. One guy yelled, “We’ve got a local here! Marie, get the camera, I want a picture with a local!”
I was truly proud to live in Salt Lake City at that point. Since I was a local, he asked me where he could go to sober up. I was able to tell him.
I helped, because I was a local. A super-local!
For the past eight years, Salt Lake City has been all about preparing for the Olympics. Now they’re over. All done. Finished.
But from now until I die, whenever people ask me where I grew up, I’ll be able to say in a deep, proud voice, “Salt Lake City, Utah. Home of the smelliest lake in the world and the 2002 Olympic Winter Games.”
I wouldn’t be able to say that if I hadn’t convinced my family to move to Baltimore where my dad would eventually be offered a job here. They have me to thank. If it weren’t for me, none of us would have been able to experience the Olympics.