Life and Times of Kevin Wikse

  Tucked into 419 Chestnut Street like a smuggler’s secret, Rincon Latino is the kind of place you wander into once and then wonder how you ever lived without it. I’ve never met Miguel—the supposed man behind the magic—but I’ve met the woman at the counter, and she’s proof enough that the stories are true. She’s made of every fresh breeze that ever rolled down from Mount Shasta, every alpine flower that ever dared to bloom here, and every whisper of pine that’s ever chased a hiker down the trail. And yet, she’s also somehow threaded through with the warm pulse of the tropics—sweet rhythms and harmonies carried inland by Pacific waves, with an aftertaste of jasmine and coconut that lingers like an invitation to stay a little longer. The wine, beer, and spirits are all fairly priced—borderline generous, really. Apparently, they even do smoothies here, though I’ve yet to indulge. My draw is something far more primal: they are, as far as I can tell, the only establishment in Mount Sh...

I struggled with how I felt about leaving Boise after living there once more for an extended period of time, and truth be told, I hope for the last time. Familiarity breeds contempt, and I had become far too acquainted with the "City of Trees" to feign politeness for much longer. The thing was, I didn’t want to resent or despise the people, the city, or my time there as I had previously. That weighed on me. I knew coming back to Boise from South Tucson would only be temporary, although at the time I had not yet made any concrete plans, even if I was zeroing in on Northern California. I wanted the opportunity to say what I needed to say, do what I needed to do, and walk away from a place, a city, a people, a culture, and a collective hub of stifling ideology, and not feel pieces of me missing.  I can finally say I left Boise where, at least to me, it always belonged: in the dust. And none of it followed. "No Dust Follows" Boise lay behind me like a dog turned to s...