Nostalgia is the cottonwood tree fluff that brushes against your cheek in the breeze of an early summer’s day. It reminds you that people and places are like time capsules: remembered, but shifting with each glance. You stumble upon these gifts of sonder and discover remnants preserved in the strangeness of UnChange. Bittersweet time travel that reminds you of the journey from There to Here. A glitch in the Midwestern Matrix.
Not all remains in the state of UnChange, however. There’s subtle magic in the passing of time, in these ephemeral little capsule gifts. Something that always got me with the Quad Cities is its’ slow, cyclical nature of gentle reminder.
I left The Quad Cities with 2 metaphorical middle fingers in the air. The chip on my shoulder bred from A Very Sad Story had quite frankly overstayed its welcome. Ol’ Chip, it was time to go. Respectfully.
I left seeking opportunity. I sought a change in scenery in a skyline that wasn’t flat, or gray, or complacent, or struggling. I sought ironically, the very same embrace of a creative community that I fiercely loved, but a different location. I didn’t like hugs anyway. They say a place is a place is a place is a place. That place can be found anywhere, can it not?
A Short List of Gentle Reminders That Sometimes, It Cannot:
#1. Scene: Fresh New City, mural painting for the local theater. I was questioning my decision to leave, citing reasons that were in the gray area of my control. Another volunteer approached.
“Moline, Illinois, hmm?” they inquired. I looked down at my paint-covered shirt, from no other than the local dive that previously held my employment.
“I loved it there. I used to live there actually, 15 years ago. I miss it. What brought you here?”
Hell if I knew. I stated that, but in the spirit of making friends, much more kindly. The stranger must’ve sensed my melancholy.
“Take a walk with me?” they nodded outside.
I was then given a gift: an unabridged strolling tour of my new city. My host presented in the experience of stories told, memories preserved, hopes outspoken, and dreams yet to be determined. Nostalgia is the shared experience.
#2. Scene: San Francisco, California. On a train, to which I missed my stop, due to drinking five too many Bloody Marys with a group of Exceptionally Entertaining Mixologist Santa Clauses (You cannot make this shit up). After some time evaluating the consequences of my impulsive decision making, I sheepishly asked a gentleman across the aisle from me where the fuck I was, and if I could still get to where the fuck I was going. The man belly laughed for long enough to help me not feel like a complete asshole.
“I heard you say that you’re from The Quad Cities! My mom still lives there. I miss that place. Man, I’ve got loooove for that place. Your stop is the next. Do you know where you’re going from there?”
I did not in fact know where I was going from there, but I wasn’t about to tell this guy. He offered to walk me to the location to which I very clearly stated in the spirit of not wanting to get murdered, that I was meeting a fellow QC Expat for eats. After a non-murderous escort, he was invited to join in our company to which we shared memories of our past lives. An exponential increase of belly laughs ensued. Seven Bloody Marys will do that to a person. Nostalgia is shared laughter.
#3. Scene: Manitou Springs, Colorado. I was exploring abandoned train tunnels that traveled miles into what I could only assume to be the pit of Hell, or the path to Mordor. Dynamite blasted in 1886, these tunnels held only enough light at the entrance to see the preludes of coal stained ceilings from decades of journeys traveled Before. There was no light at the end of these tunnels. There was barely enough ambiance to see your hand in front of your face. Seemed like the perfect place to go without a shared location, if you asked me.
One surprise in this ill-planned exploration however, was that these soot-stained tunnels had several abruptly revealed Secret Places that would expose a lovely little ledge oasis to The Outside. They held just enough room to stand carefully, remember the sun did in fact exist, remind yourself to not look down for fear of envisioning a dramatic death, before cutting again into a new entrance. Upon the last gateway into the final opening, shining in the sun, I saw words carved into mountainside:
“Rock Island, G5”
My late grandfather worked for The Rock Island Rail Line until it’s closure in 1980. His influence in my upbringing seeped through the mossy cracks of my life most when I was immersed in the magic of nature. As I ran my hands across the carvings, I was subsequently greeted again by my good friend Sonder.
I reeled. In the quiet beauty of the journey from There to Here, the imperceptible stories of lives once lived that had happened in between Now and Then had me in a state of awe. Upon post-hike research, I learned that I was traversing through what used to be the only passenger rail line from Colorado to Chicago: The Rock Island Line, a mighty fine line. Nostalgia is strange coincidence.
#4. Scene: Bakkagerði, Iceland. As an eastern-most location, this village was unavoidably remote. In the winter time, the village was not accessible. By contrast, I had naively visited in early spring. My hiking plans had been canceled due to an arctic squall, and I was left to my own devices.
Before I left, I had given my phone number to an acquaintance, in hopes that they would pass it along to their sister, who was rumored to be in Iceland around the same time. We had never met. When I connected to the only wifi spot in existence for the day, I received a message. MysterySister and her friend would be coming to meet.
I got their names, arrival logistics, and the color of their jackets. Dependable cell service was not an option, we were doing this Ye Olde Way: designated jacket colors. I loaded my bag with drinkable gifts for three, and set off to find them. I arrived at what I hoped was their campsite, seeing two women in the Designated Jacket Colors in the distance.
“AYE! MY NAME IS MEG, ARE YOU __ AND __, WEARING THE DESIGNATED JACKET COLORS?” I competed with the wind’s shriek.
They responded in what I thought might be Swedish.
Welp.
As I was preparing to make an ass out of myself with another duo wearing what may or may not be the Designated Jacket Colors, the two MysteryWomen found me, themselves rosy cheeked and laughing at my observed Attempts In Hollering.
We met each other for the first time in a camp shelter under the howl of the arctic wind. We connected over shared street names and gin, and did what those from the Quad Cities always do: share stories. As Fate would absolutely not fuck around with it, MysteryFriend #2- was from the same city I had recently moved home from. Nostalgia, you son of a bitch.
I returned to the Quad Cities seeking opportunity. I made a home in scenery that included a skyline that wasn’t flat, or gray, or complacent, or struggling. I returned unironically, to the very same embrace of the creative community that I loved fiercely. I now fervently love hugs. They say a place is a place is a place is a place. That place can be found anywhere, can it not?
This piece was originally published for Cary Grant Died Here, Issue 3: Repatriation, January 2024
© Meghan Hollister, 2024
Studio 2 
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