So I'm up in the Idaho hinterlands at the family getaway lake house over the holiday break and I'm sitting at a nice dinner party with some family friends, and the wine is flowing and the friends are lovely and the conversation seems relatively open and hence I forget what a deeply, aggressively red part of the country I'm in because, well, the wine was very good, and when you're from San Francisco you tend to carry the progressive bubble with you as some sort of happy delusion that much of the world must be at least relatively informed and open and somewhat willing to lick the divine candy of current truths.
It can be, you know, a problem.
. . .
This is when I should've noticed. This is when I should've been paying attention to the signs: the crossed arms, the utter lack of smile or nod, the narrow eyes looking at me like I was from some planet where pagan pervert yoga teachers grow Toyota Priuses on the backs of organic chickens.
. . .
