My Salt Lake City past and present

My generosity of spirit towards Utah's Capital was restored by the warmth and charm of the crowd at the Salt Lake City hostel and Jeffrey, the Papuan cancer researcher. I woke feeling quite chipper, despite the short night's sleep and my surreal encounter with "The Voice." I bounced out of the hostel, filled with enthusiasm for the joys of Salt Lake City.

I piloted the Cream Puff past the State Capitol building, which was under heavy construction and looked terrible. I was unfazed. Sunlight bathed the city like the glow from God's cozy fireplace. Trees rustled in the gentle breeze. Birds sang. A warning light fired up the dashboard: "Check brake light." Why does this city hate me so?

I pulled over and asked a very nice young couple who were loading their baby into a stroller if they would mind peering at the back of the Cream Puff while I pressed on various light-triggering pedals and buttons. They cheerfully agreed and the nice young man helpfully reported that my drivers' side brake light was indeed out of action. I thanked them with a peculiar combination of genuine gratitude, abject misery and paranoid fear that the city might have it in for me. They were such model citizens, he in a suit and tie, she in sensible skirt and shoes, and their baby smiling perfectly out of the stroller like a tiny future spelling bee champion. They were just so neat and wholesome and shiny. Clearly Salt Lake City is much better to its own than it is to its guests.

I couldn't stay bitter for too long. The shiny couple reminded me of a Salt Lake City connection from my past. I met Elder Weinberger when he, and a fellow Mormon missionary, knocked on my front door. For reasons that were not clear to me then and are even less clear now, I decided to talk to these nice, shiny young men. Elder Weinberger returned to my home several times, with a variety of other missionaries, in an effort to educate me about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Ultimately, of course, he was trying to persuade me to join the church. I was curious about the famous "Mormon" faith, about which I knew almost nothing and, I confess, I was curious about Elder Weinberger. Here was a perfectly delightful young man: a bright, intelligent, funny, charming ... Mormon missionary. I wanted to understand him. He wanted to save me. Somehow we became friends, and somehow that brief friendship atoned for the wounds that this city inflicted upon me.

It's very difficult to maintain a friendship with a Mormon missionary, especially after they go home. They're not allowed to share personal information like contact details. If anyone out there knows a Steven Weinberger, originally from Salt Lake City but later in California, who was on a mission in south western Sydney several years ago, I would love to hear from him.

In the name of Weinberger, I turned the other cheek and set out with my asymmetrical brake lights to greet the city, and Temple Square, as an old friend.