March 21, 2019. My day started with a conga line.
We were staying in cabins by a Minnesota lake. Family, brothers-in-law, my sister-in-law and their families, my mother-in-law, and goodness knows who else.
But there were many more people, enough for the line to snake around the entire lake.
I wanted none of this, so I hid behind a sofa. My sister-in-law found me and cajoled me to join the merry throng. This seemed out of character, as she is so good at understanding I don’t do conga lines. But, there she was, guilting me to go outside to that dreaded frenzy.
A quiet voice told me it was time to wake up. My partner, Dwight, had thoughtfully brought water to wash down my meds, and a fresh-brewed mug of coffee. Life is good.
I’m fairly sure the conga line originated 1,000 miles away at a family wedding in New Orleans. Dwight went to that wedding, I went to Chicago. While I wandered through architectural heaven, Dwight snaked through the French Quarter in a conga line.
After catching up with newspapers, it was time to get out of bed and on with the day. We took the light rail to the airport where, by design, we were amongst the last to board: another line avoided. (See the picture at the top of this post.) We flew west on an Airbus A330 for nine hours to a magical, warm place which greeted us with the smells of aviation fuel and damp tropical vegetation.
