Building My Hell

I just finished a book by Cecelia Ahern called There's No Place Like Here. It's an interesting dive into another world that houses all of lost possessions, people and memories. The book is imaginative and creative and even contains a mystery. I loved it. In many ways, it reminded me of Lucky Bones and Sebold's creation of Heaven.

(On a side note, I was curious about the author, who also penned the recent movie "P.S. I Love You." She's young (only 26!), the daughter of the Prime Minister of Ireland, and is also a writer for the ABC TV show "Samantha Who?".)

So back to my main story. Today I visited a teeny tiny town in the East Bay desert of California. One side of the old town is antique store after antique store. The other side of the street is a massive parking lot for a train. The town is was filled with middle-aged bikers revving their engines in the many parking spots they took up.

What does this have to do with the title? Today I saw what my version of hell would look like. It slowly built itself piece by piece in front of my very eyes. I hate antique stores. Hate with a capital 'h'. If you know me at all, you know that "organization" is my middle name. Antique stores are comparable only to Michael's in their disorganization. They are wall-to-wall crap in no random order. Finding things in those stores is virtually impossible. I know that makes it fun for some people, but I am not one of them. The overwhelming amount of "stuff" affects me physically: I hunch up, sink into myself and am constantly worrying about breaking something when my butt bumps it as I turn around. Ahh!

Add this to a loud train whistle every few minutes. At Hope College, the train ran right through the campus. It woke me up several times a night. It interrupted every dance class I took - we literally had to stop because the floors shook and you couldn't hear the music or the instructor. Train whistles make me cringe.

I think I inherited a few of Rachel's loud noise aversions, because motorcycles are definitely on my cringe-worthy sound list. Looking at ungroomed middle-aged men and listening to their nasty bikes - eww.

Last but not least. I arrived early for my obligation. I ate lunch in the weirdest little cafe. It was run by three Asian women who spoke almost no English. It was covered, wall to wall, with Egyptian stuff - murals, fake snakes, etc - everywhere! My sandwich, which only cost $5, was awful. On soggy white bread and just a terrible combo of items. After killing as much time as I could stand there, I still had an hour to go. So I walked up and down the street to seek out a cafe where I could have a cold drink, make a few calls and read a book. To my utter dismay, there was not a single cafe in the entire town!

Now I know what hell will look like if I ever have the displeasure of finding myself in one. My heaven? Container store, Crate and Barrel, Barnes and Noble and Starbucks. Complete with an underground train system and free of motorcycles.