I spot an old, blue Dodge pickup truck under a blue, sun-scorched neon sign that says, 'The Maverick Motel.' In the empty lot, a lady — in a blue shirt — sits under a canopy. My photography heart leaps at the perfect confluence of all that blue.
"Can I maybe take your picture?" I ask her. "Yes, of course," she replies with a distinct voice in a dialect still unfamiliar to me. In the distance, I notice a man stepping out — also dressed in blue. It turns out to be her husband Nick. Nick starts talking from afar, and from that point on my toes barely touch the ground. I float in a blue bubble carried by Nick's sentences. Virtually all of them sound like iconic anecdotes ending with an exclamation point, supported by affirming — or dissenting — sounds from his wife. The dialect turns out to be from the former Yugoslavia.