A Plea for Comments - by Tre

***Disclaimer: Shout out to my fellow middle schoolers (and almost 9th graders) back home! This is meant to be read only by those of you who can appreciate some sarcasm. I mean no offense by poking fun at you and our entire town.***

To our dearest friends back home in Alaska, I hope this letter finds you in the best of health. We send you greetings from far and wide, where the sun sets upon Adriatic shores and the people are far more stylish than you. We have had many unimaginable experiences, from being blessed by a buddhist monk to the smell of durian on public transport to the painful sensation of an acid burn from an Ayervadic oil massage. But, as the Croatians frown at us for mispronouncing their language, I am reminded of home, where Mr. Hickox's glare can make even the bravest seventh grader stop leaning back in their chair and pretend to pay attention.

Truly, we do miss the comforts of home: the freezing rain, the scent of dead salmon on the riverbanks, and   the ever-present smell of wet dog that permeates our mud-room. During our travels, we've had many amazing foods: satays in Singapore, "walking chicken" in Vietnam, and delicious Croatian shark steak, but none of them compare to the unexplainably disappointing Sitzmark nachos. In a town such as ours, it's no wonder that we have a special competition celebrating our own unique weather marvel: slush—the objectified feeling of depression created by slowly melting snow mixed with rain, revealing a pile of year old freeze-thawed dog poop hidden underneath. 

Despite all of these crazed adventures we've had, fear not, for we have not forgotten the lessons of home. We still look both ways before crossing the street, although in some places it seems that chaos reigns supreme and traffic lights are merely decorative ornamentation.

Over the past few months, I've been searching for the perfect birthday gift for each of my friends in random open-air markets often run by packs of little old lady fishmongers. But as my family and I reminisce of all our joyous times back home with all of you, freezing our fingers off both in pouring rain and dumping snow, we wonder: have they forgotten us? Have they abandoned us in the wilds of the Eastern European beaches?

We're very lonely over here—the Barbers were great fun for a time, but now they have left us, and the only English speaking people we now meet are rich cruise-shippers that wear scarves and think umbrellas actually work. Any true Girdwoodian could tell them otherwise. 

If you think that eighteen hours on planes, multiple long layovers, several thousand dollars, and abandoning your home lives to visit some rather mentally unstable Petersons might sound like too much to ask, we've got a much simpler alternative. Comment on the dang blog posts! I feel as if I'm just writing into the darkness, with my fellow Girdwoodians oblivious to all of our funny adventures and unwanted history lessons. If you're reading this, please say something! 

We miss you all and are most excited for the next time we meet, whenever that may be. 

Your's truly,

The Petersons

Post Script: I kid you in my less-than-beautiful descriptions of Girdwood, it is still the best town we have ever had the pleasure of visiting—there's a reason we chose to live there. It's been too long since we've stood around a bonfire. We miss your faces exceedingly, and we can't wait for the next time we get to see you all skiing, partying, and pretending you didn't just see your dog take a dump on our lawn.