One interesting thing about 3 years in law school at an exorbitant cost is that it doesn't guarantee that you'll ever even see the inside of a courtroom. Back in the day, $108k used to be enough to buy something substantial. Like a Nintendo. Perhaps those days are gone. Now, if you want to see what a courtroom actually looks like, its best to just save your money and hit the road instead. Specifically, head to a rainy town in western Washington where the logging industry has been replaced by sadness. Once there, ask for my friend, F, whose nickname is W, and whose initials are FW.
F/W/FW is the prosecutor for that town where Kurt Cobain once roamed the streets. He is a bit of a celebrity, whose celebrity status in town is challenged only by his wife, J, who receives excellent service from the Mexican restaurant while F gets ignored and remains hungry for far too long. I knew F in high school and hadn't seen him since, but he was quick to show me all the hot spots in town. We checked out the Star Wars shop, all things Kurt Cobain, and two (Yes, two!) dilapidated RVs. F and I decide that this town is the inspiration and cause of Kurt Cobain's angst. It might not be a stretch to claim that the town really kicked off the grunge movement simply by sucking so hard.
F also showed me his office and the courtroom, and introduced me to nearly everybody that had anything to do with the legal profession in the town, including the town vagrant / troublemaker, B. At the end of it all, I felt like I had a better understanding of how criminal prosecution works and what a courtroom looks like outside of Judge Judy. I wondered why I hadn't been exposed to that type of environment during my time in law school. I doubt it would've changed anything, but I still wondered. At any rate, I thoroughly enjoyed the grand tour and count myself luck that my wallet isn't $108k lighter.
Seriously, L, be less creepy the next time you send somebody a Facebook message. It's customary to start a message to somebody that you haven't seen for 20 years with a "Hello!" Don't just give me your address and breathe heavily. That's not cool. That is how horror movies begin. And porn.
At one point after dinner but before they made me soil myself out of fear that I'd be washed away by the ocean, a blast from the past drove right up in his Prius and walked into the living room like a boss. Mr. H (or, as just about everybody in tiny-town seems to call him, "H") was one of my high school teachers around the time that Meatloaf was making a bit of a musical comeback. I thought Mr. H was a good guy back then and still think he's a good guy now, just with a pinch more gray hair and responsibilities at work. Mr. H thought I was a smartass (his words; not mine) back then and curiously didn't mention what he thought of me now. Terrific! It was such a neat and fun experience to see him and it was really thoughtful of L to have him over while I was visiting.
L and his family were terrific hosts. Though about 50% of what L says are lies, and despite the awkwardness of having to witness L and E dancing to 8th grade L's favorite song, I had an absolutely wonderful time. They showed so much caring and concern, not just for me, but also for my wife, a woman who they'd never met and who was 2,000 miles away from them. I think that may be what I remember most. It won't be the carsickness, the terrible weather, or losing at mancala to a kindergartener (though those were all good times). Instead, I'll remember the kindness that they showed to the wife of a friend they hadn't seen since 1995, and I'll hope that I can some day return that kindness.