kulture shok

I faked sleep on the last leg of the flight, Chicago to Minneapolis. The two guys next to me discussed various topics- going to Sturges, riding in a hummer limo, hunting, rifles, water heater repair, the various bases in north and south dakota, the "Jack Daniels Girls" ("easy on the eyes"), and metal versus plastic pipes. Guy number one paid for the drink of Guy number two- just being Midwestern friendly. I faked waking up and explained my exhausted state of flying in from France and the three hours stuck in O'hare. Guy one, "Paris, huh? They're not really on our side right?" More factually stated than a question.

No, non non. Life is surely different here. As my dad correctly summed up, everyone at the airport looks like they just rolled out of bed and wearing their pajamas. While slurping their 40 ounces of Starbucks coffee (4 starbucks stores alone in terminal 2B, as soon as you had passed by one the next was in sight).

But then I get into my beautiful old house in Minnesota, freshly coated in snow, the temperature hovering around zero farenheit, delicious food awaiting, newspapers and the entire year's back issues of New Yorker's waiting on me, and I feel quite happily home. Plus I went swimming and I only had to share the lane with one other person and it was so clean and friendly and wonderful.

So, two weeks to focus on relaxing and writing and then back to the gray sky and drizzle. And beautiful people and warm croissants and menus that read like poetry.