I landed in the Philadelphia International Airport in February right after that huge snowstorm, and I wasn’t there for an hour before my chilly fingers were met with a giant, soft pretzel, freshly fished out of a warming container at the rental car company. It was like any normal soft pretzel, but better and uniquely oblong, casting aside the traditional pretzel shape to fit perfectly in my frozen grasp. I hadn’t eaten a thing all day and wouldn’t until we got to our hotel, so a free snack was a welcomed friend, but I had no idea how one small bite would change so much.
I am from Madison, Wisconsin where cheese curds are currency and hamburgers are an invasive species, but neither were as plentiful as those pretzels were in Philadelphia.
They were everywhere. Gas station? Pretzels. Hotel? Pretzels. Restaurant? Pretzels. Even when I thought I was safe, they followed me. Airport? Pretzels. Info sessions on campus? A big ‘ole table of pretzels.
Everywhere I went, the pretzels were there too. Not that I’m complaining. In a foreign city, they became something familiar. I had never been to Pennsylvania before and it was a lot easier to stick my nose into new territory when my mouth was full of warm, doughy goodness. I was especially nervous because I was on a college visit. I was touring Villanova University, which I thought would probably end up being my home for the next four years (I was right).
I bought my last pretzel right before I boarded my plane to Wisconsin, and before discarding the wrapper, I copied the 1-800 number into my contacts. The data memory filled my iPhone, however, it could not fill the void in my pretzel-less heart when I landed in Madison. Not only did I miss the snack, but I missed campus. The pretzel just helped me realize that.
When I got home, I called that 1-800 number and hit the wall of an automated voice messaging system. Not quite discouraged, I kept my eyes peeled in gas stations, hotels, and restaurants, but no matter my efforts, I have not found those pretzels since.
So what were those pretzels? Did they even exist? Were they as good as I thought they were? Or was I merely blinded by the fatigue of a 2-hour flight? The deep chill in my frozen fingers? The nerves of a prospective student? And most importantly, why can’t I find them anywhere else?
Now I know that until I return to Philly I must be patient. Those pretzels, I have realized, were so much more than a pacifier for my stomach. They kept my nervous hands from quaking, my mind from racing, and my feet from sprinting full speed back to Wisconsin while I submerged myself into the new life I will live for the next four years. They represented a new home in the fall. The peace, warmth, and excitement that come with a new start, a new school, and a sense of community, all things that I can’t seem to find anywhere else.