Sometimes I wonder how many poor unfortunate kids have had to stare out a car window as they pass by that ever so "iconic" sign. "Welcome to Gravity Falls, Oregon." OREGON. Why the emphasis you ask? What's so wrong with the ol' Beaver State?
NOTHING.
The only problem is where I'm from, which is Pennsylvania, on the other side of the country, 2,958.9 miles away.
Now you may be wondering, "Why Oregon?" Let's just say that my grandparents met this salesman in the 1970s in New Jersey. He was selling some sort of defective rag when they met him. My grandparents loved his wild spirit and determination. They loved him so much that they totally overlooked the fact that he was a total sham, and did the same thing at dinner the night they told my parents about his tourist hut in the middle of Oregon. This is how the conversation went:
"You should consider sending Ela to Gravity Falls for the summer. It'll be fun!"
"Isn't that in Oregon? Who would she stay with? We can't just drop her off in the middle of the woods! She's only twelve!"
"I'm almost thirteen mom."
"STANLEY PINES! He owns this fancy tourist shack in the woods. There's so much to do there!"
"Tourist hut? Wait, hold on-"
"Have you ever gone to the place, or have seen this... Stanley Pines since you first met him?"
"Sure we have! Kind of..."
He was lying. I've heard my grandpa lie around me before, so it was easy to pick up a lie around him. I bet my grandparents and Mr. Pines have exchanged letters, or even cheesy postcards, but that's about it.
"Come on Ela! It'll be swagalicious! That's what all the cool kids are saying nowadays, right?"
"DAD."
"Sorry sweetie."
And that's where the conversation ended. Two days later I was on an old, rickety bus making a 39 hour trip across the country, into the unknown.
