Perched prominently on the hotel desk, a tent-folded sign in large letters screamed: IN CASE OF TORNADO PLEASE READ. To make sure we understood, a black spiral cascaded down the sign, illustrating an ominous twister. This is normal in Tulsa, Oklahoma. So is a black-hatted cowboy parking your car at the valet service. And a round-robin display rack of “Jesus Loves You” books at Wal-Mart. Ah, how I’ve missed Tulsa.

I just returned yesterday from a Tulsa-style weekend wedding. It’s hard to believe six years have passed since I called Tulsa home. The trees were greener then I remember. And the air more humid, like a bathroom after a scalding hot shower. I sipped a lightly salted margarita without guilt this weekend, something I wouldn’t have done six years ago. I was a Theology student then. We didn’t do things like alcohol sipping. We also didn’t wear pants to class (skirts only, girls) or stay out past the midnight curfew. But I did say “crap” from time to time…I was rebellious like that.

Returning to my old stomping grounds was a bit surreal. Like a dream. Every minor change muddled my recollections of the city, leaving me questioning whether the new feature belonged to my original memory of a place. My gal pal, Sara, took me to Tulsa’s new Riverwalk. The row of shops snaked along the water’s edge and ended at Los Cabos, where we popped into for chips and salsa. At first, the area looked sparkling and new. I wished it’d been there when I was. But mingled with the familiar skyline, distinctive smells (why does every city smell different?) and the face I’ve known for years smiling back at me over the corn chips basket, I suddenly felt it belonged. In an instant, the “newness” wore off and the Riverwalk easily slipped into my mental filing system of all things Tulsa.

Inside the restaurant, good ol’ boys munched on chili con queso wearing their sleeveless T-shirts and, probably as a result, displaying bright pink shoulders. Very Tulsa. As the sun went down, Sara and I opted to leave the fiesta and head to a quiet coffee shop to catch up on life. Coffee shops are to Tulsa what bars are to New York. Social must-haves. One on every corner. The place to see and be seen. We went to Shades of Brown and caffeinated ourselves until the fireflies came out.

"Welcome back," said the hotel valet, tipping his black cowboy hat. It was well before midnight when I spun through the rotating Marriott doors. I was late, but not for curfew. Clinton was already waiting for me. "Crap," I muttered when I checked my watch. Then I smirked.

I still feel rebellious when I curse. Some things never change.