It didn’t start out with any hints of introspection. The weekend morning was filled with the usual cup of coffee, shower, get dressed and head to the grocery store routine.
The one anomaly from the week before was my car.

I just got a new Subaru wagon (well, new to me), and was excited about the bounty of space I would have to fill it with bulky booty from City Market, like eight-packs of toilet paper or paper towels.

After stuffing my cart to the brim and spending almost every penny in my checking account, I headed to my new chariot excited to use that remote button to unlock the doors, something that I didn’t have in the old Honda.

But, I didn’t get very far. I stopped in the third row, looked around and asked myself, “Where did I park?”

It wasn’t because I couldn’t remember. I’m really not the type to lose my car in a shopping mall parking lot, or a concert, or anywhere. I’m the one that points out the numbered row or nearby landmarks before heading inside.

It wasn’t even the fact that I had a new car. Sometimes you have that momentary lapse where you look for your old car, then laugh at yourself and remember you just signed the loan papers.

The problem was that my car looked just like four other Subaru wagons in the same row. The one seen all over town, that two-toned color scheme with green on the upper portion and beige on the bottom.

Sometimes, it feels like everyone has a Subaru, and almost everyone has a Subaru wagon. I know that’s not the truth, but they’re as common as bicycles and thrift store purchases.

My guess is that it’s because they are so practical, reliable and affordable.

They’re like four-wheeled paladins with plenty of room for the plethora of gear. Whether skis and boots, rafts and tubes, a bookshelf from the thrift store or that eight-pack of toilet paper, the Subaru can handle it all in the mud, snow, rain or drought.

As I stood in the parking lot, clicking my remote to see which wagon was mine, I realized I was part of the pack. That everyday trip to City Market became something else altogether, a realization that I blended in. I fit. I belonged.

Even though I don’t feel the need to wear parachute pants or Guess jeans anymore (did I just date myself?), I still have that longing to belong.
It’s nice to belong. That’s why no one wants to be picked last for dodge ball. It’s not because we all want to be super athletes. It’s that we don’t want to feel left out.

I’ve been on the road for most of my adult life and haven’t had much of a chance to settle down. The last time I lived in Durango was around the turn of the century. I moved to California and North Carolina to go to school for journalism and creative writing. Both states had some pluses. The weather in Santa Barbara, Calif., makes for a constant flower-friendly environment. It’s always in bloom. Even the Taco Bell flaunts budding Birds of Paradise. The southern part of North Carolina is full of history and, believe it or not, the only spot where the Venus Fly Trap grows in the wild.

So, moving around wasn’t all bad. The wonders of botany aside, there are other benefits to living like a nomad. After all, this is a beautiful country.

Once I dipped my toes in the cold waters off the Pacific coast, drove clear across the U.S., and just a week later (after a stop in Durango to visit family and friends), dipped the little piggies in the warmth of the Atlantic.  

I do still hope to travel, but it’s nice to come home. There’s something to be said for settling down in one place and setting up camp.
After my sabbatical from the Rocky Mountains, I happily returned to beautiful Durango with dreams of hiking, biking, snowboarding, rafting and a general propensity for stopping to smell the columbines.

I also came home with visions of Subarus. I wanted that reliable car that could handle the hardiness of Southwest Colorado. And, obviously, I’m not the only one. Now that I have one, I feel like I fit in just a little bit more.

Like a true Durangoan, I can step outside City Market and try to figure out which one is mine.

– Tracy Chamberlin