That Time I Had Dinner with a Mormon Man

The blue hour washes over Idaho Falls, Idaho and a golden glimmer of the Mormon Temple in the distance.

I have a friend who absolutely hates the idea of me or anyone dining alone. Her heart is so big it just breaks over the sight or thought of any poor soul sitting and eating alone in public. But I don't mind it. Actually, I kind of dig it. Particularly when I'm far from home without a chance of running into anyone I know. This may seem odd to you, but I'd rather strike up a conversation with a stranger over lunch than run into someone I know in a supermarket. Of course, that all depends on who the someone I know is, but still, eight times out of ten, I'd prefer talking to a stranger over talking to someone I haven't seen in a while. I think it's because you're less likely to have small talk with the stranger. You're also less likely to have to sum up your life and the lives of everyone else that long-lost acquaintance knows, in some neat little verbal package that's light and easy to digest. You're more likely to tell that person, "Yup, yup, everything's good, yup, he's good, she's good. We're all really good!" Whereas with a total stranger, you're more likely to say, "Honestly, I'm finding the nine-to-five flow to be suffocating. I think I want to work in the parks even if it chops my pay in half." Real, authentic conversations – genuine heart-to-hearts...that's what I'm after. That's what interests me.

On my solo trips, there's a lot of room service to be had, a lot of car picnics usually Subway sandwiches consumed at high speeds, but then there are also many meals had alone in a diner booth or at the bar or counter of some local eatery. Lately when I travel, I find myself gravitating more and more towards the bar, even though I'm not much of a drinker, because then I have more of a chance of chatting it up with the bartender or some other solo wanderer sitting beside me. And I find there's often some kind of sign to be seen in many of those chance encounters...usually some kind of profound discussion to be had. Such as meeting a lady in Tennessee who just moved there from the place you might want to move next: Sedona, Arizona.

As I run this mental ticker tape of all the people I've gotten to talk to throughout my travels, I don't recall a single mindless chit-chat encounter. I suppose that could be because those wouldn't be memorable encounters, so my mind purged them shortly after having them, but I've had a lot of really great, really meaningful conversations with folks I may never meet again. I'm convinced that I've met some, and some have met me to learn lessons or reinforce certain midframes to help guide us to a place we, deep down, know we truly want to go. But more on that in another post.

I have another friend who can't help but feel a little worried when she calls to check on me and ask what state I'm in. I remind her how happy I am to be all alone out on the open road, and it makes her happy. But sometimes I accidentally only amplify her concern, like when I tell her I just had dinner with some Mormon man in Idaho Falls. "Wait, you what??" "Well, sort of…we didn't get a booth together, or anything like that…there was a long string of half booth…can you picture it? You know, when you go to a restaurant, and on one side of a row of tables there's a nice comfy booth that stretches down the whole row, then on the other side of the tables there are just free-standing chairs? Well, we were both dining alone and both sitting on the cushiony booth side of two tables that weren't more than a foot apart, so we got to chatting. Our meals came at the same time, so we talked and ate…we had a lovely dinner together." Katie still remembers the exact store she was in and exactly what she was buying when I told her that.

Before John was seated next to me, I had an uplifting chat with my waitress Desiree. She was bald, beautiful, and eager to get out and see the world. She was so inspired by my travels and telling me this nearly moved me to tears. Compliments, kind words, any kind of verbal affection tugs at my heartstrings in a way too profound to explain. We couldn't chat long – just enough for us to leave lasting impressions on each other. Then the restaurant started filling up. Downtown Idaho Falls was the place to be. Who knew?

While I waited for supper to be served, an older, bearded gentleman, with sort of a jolly, reminds-you-of-Santa-but-in-a-country-kinda-way look about him, was seated beside me. "Evening, ma'am." "Evening, sir," I instinctively responded even though I've never once uttered those words aloud in my life. "Looks like big storms'll be rollin' in any minute," he said so casually, without looking at me, as though we'd already been talking. I dug it. "I'm hoping so…I love a good storm." "How 'bout that thunder a few nights back? Near shook the pictures off our walls." 

I explained that I wasn't there the night before and that I was on a road trip route that had me hopping from town to town every day. He wasn't too curious about the particulars of what I'd seen or what I was planning to see – only as they pertained to his own experiences. "Oh, you saw Crater Lake, we were there years ago, many years ago." You've talked to people like this. Sometimes it can feel a bit one-sided, but other times, when you're just along for the ride, the experience of it all, it's enjoyable to observe and engage in. I was just soaking it all in. I'd tell a short story, then he'd tell a short story. I'd share a thought or an idea, then he'd share his own relationship to it. He didn't ask me any questions, but he answered all of mine. And he listened when I spoke.

My long-awaited lobster mac-n-cheese was served sizzlin-skillet style with my favorite bubblin' beverage: Sprite. "So sorry about the wait, Lauren. I do hope you enjoy everything." I felt right at home. Desiree delivering comfort and familiarity, and John talking to me like we were relatives gathered 'round the dinner table. 

John's first course, steak salad, arrived just as my meal did, and without skipping a beat, he went right back to telling me how much he loved living in Idaho. "We'd never live anywhere else, me and my wife. You see it out here, it's beautiful country." I learned that John and his wife had a son and daughter and that they were fifth generation Mormons living in I-forget-what-county, Idaho. Meaning that for five generations, no one in their family had ever moved out of their little slice of predominantly Mormon heaven.

"I prefer the backroads myself…those loose-gravel, county roads where you don't see another bike for miles." John rode a Harley, drank only Coca-Cola, and didn't really have any use for big cities like New York. I wanted to ask him how he felt about the play, The Book of Mormon, but he seemed to me to be deeply religious, and he was so kind, I didn't want to upset him, so I canned my curiosity. We spent some time talking about the goodness in people. I told him how remarkably kind, warm, laidback, and unhurried everyone west of eastern New York seemed to be. "Everywhere else in America's pace of life feels so different than where I'm from."

But not to knock my own people, because we New Yorkers sometimes get a bad rap, I shared a story of when I was living in Manhattan, and I slipped down the subway steps in the pouring rain in my very favorite flip flops that have been worn so much they possessed no trace of traction whatsoever. I must've fallen down at least seven very steep steps carrying a jam-packed purse, my reusable water bottle, laptop, cell phone––the works––when I slipped on the soaking wet steps and whacked my head so hard I was out cold for, I'm gonna guess, a minute or less. But when I came to, I was sitting at the bottom of the stairs, lots of people passing me on the left in rush hour foot traffic, but there were also a handful of people gathering up my belongings, asking if I was alright then helping me to my feet. I couldn't believe it. They even put my broken water bottle back in my hand. No one stole my laptop, phone, or wallet, and lots of itty-bitty things had fallen and scattered on that grimy wet floor. They picked every last one up for me. One woman even walked with me all the way to the subway and asked if I was sure I was ok once we were standing on it.

I really felt fine, but most definitely confused. And by the time I got to work, I'd completely forgotten what happened until everyone at work was asking what the heck happened because I was apparently covered from head to toe in dirt and city debris, and my hair was looking all kinds of crazy. They ended up sending me to get my head checked out that day, and I ended up having the third or fifth concussion of my life. But that's neither here nor there. This was an impressive story…a beautiful demonstration of the goodness in people, especially my people. But John wasn't terribly impressed. He went back to describing how the city wasn't for him. Too crowded and loud.

We got back to talking about our love for desolate dirt roads, and I decided to ask him a question that'd been on my mind ever since I'd encountered massive technical and navigational difficulties in rural Oregon. "John, let me ask you something…let's say you're driving around out on those empty open roads we love so much, and you pop a tire or your car or Harley just flat out dies…and you're miles from civilization, haven't seen another vehicle for a long time, you've got no cell service…what do you do? What happens next?" This was a "kind of" concern that had come up for me a bit throughout this trip, and I never really found an answer to the question, so I stopped nagging myself about it. But I asked John because he was surely the localest yokel I was ever going to meet. If anyone would have my answer, it'd be him. And some part of me thought maybe there was some well-established plan in place for situations like that. I thought maybe he'd respond with a step-by-step procedure of what you're supposed to do if something like that happened.

But when I asked him, he stopped chewing. He rested his hands on the table, still holding his fork and knife. He had a pensive look on his face, his head kind of cocked to the right, and he just paused...for more than a moment. He was really thinking, really trying to solve my equation. And something about his expression told me he'd never contemplated this question before. I thought I had him stumped until he replied, "Well then, I reckon you'd starve to death then." And with that, he stabbed another hunk of steak and went right back to chewing. I let out a laugh. I wasn't sure if he was trying to be funny, but his response wasn't even within the realm of possibility in my mind. It startled and entertained me, but I think he was serious. "I guess you're right…gee, that's a scary thought." He quickly added, "Well, unless someone found you, of course…if someone was passing by out here, they'd surely stop and give you a hand."

And you know what, I believed him. A memory of a kind couple up in Big Sky Country pulling over in their mini-van to ask if I needed help because I was wandering aimlessly along the side of the road, taking pictures of what might've looked like nothing to a local, but to me was everything I'd been looking to see. Another memory surfaced. This time of what the Navajo in Monument Valley have told me about people getting stuck in their cars along the unpaved scenic loop drive and how every Navajo resident is legally obligated to stop and help. But something instinctive tells me they'd do it anyway out of the kindness of their hearts.

I was still fascinated by the fact that my what-if question seemed to have never occurred to John before. A man who's lived his whole life traveling through dead zones, so isolated and far from services. I wondered if this was the kind of thought that only really occurred to us perpetually-prepared types. Then I thought back to the time before cell phones and AAA existed. Hell, I was even driving before GPSs were around. I used to print Mapquest directions to drive to a beach that was 60 miles away. I guess I'm so accustomed to this world-at-my-fingertips way – it's like learning to crawl again after walking all these years when you're forced to be without modern luxuries for a bit.

We were long done with dinner, but John could've told me stories till the bulbs burned out. And I could've listened for a while longer too, but I was eager to catch the tail end of my first-ever Idaho Falls sunset then scurry back to the most magical hotel room I've ever had the privilege of staying in. Folks on your way to Grand Teton and Yellowstone by way of Idaho must a) visit Craters of the Moon National Monument. It is by far my favorite NPS site that's not quite a national park and my favorite place to be in Idaho. And b) if Idaho Falls happens to be a good stopping point for you on your way to the Tetons, you MUST stay at the Destinations Inn. Choose the Paris room, if it's available, and get excited for the most magical stay imaginable. More pictures and info about that wondrous place are in another post on my blog: https://www.arctictumbleweed.com/posts/2019/7/25/destinations-inn.