Last night our new neighbors (five college-aged kids, all recently relocated from Colorado) threw their housewarming party, which was toga themed and included some wickedly strong backyard jungle juice. I went over to say hello and meet them all, and learned that one of them works at Trader Joe’s.

“Ooh, I love Trader Joe’s,” I admitted guiltily.

“Yeah, you look like you would,” the neighbor said.

“I do? Are TJ shoppers that easy to spot?”

“Hippies love Trader Joe’s,” she said with a smile.

I laughed and tried explaining that I wasn’t really a hippie (”Oh, you’re just a poser?” she asked), but was just descended from hippies (”Oh, hippie by association?”) and really if you wanted to get serious about labels, Andreas and I were probably more retired ravers than hippies.

She put two-and-two together and said, “Hippie … ravers? I didn’t know such a thing existed.”

All I could do was smile and say, “Welcome to the West Coast.”