One day of traveling so far. Rerouted from Chicago to London, in the Crown Rivers pub now, waiting on shepherds pie with gravy and mash, and tea. Lots of tea.

I sat next to a Welsh gentleman on the plane from Chicago. He had a burn on his neck, and a roper’s hat, which he tilted down his face when he made a go at sleeping. On the flight we talked about Jimmy (Hendrix, who he’d seen in London) Dylan, Neil Young and the Boss. He told me about his two boxers and his horse, a chestnut Arabian stallion with a white blaze on his forehead. The Welshman had raised the horse from foal, and said the beast had grown to be beautiful. 

It had been five years since he had been to England, and returned now for a funeral. We all die, he said. We all get older, and eventually pass. He cut himself off, not wanting to talk about such dark subjects at 30,000 feet with frost covering the windows to our already dark view. It’s ok, I said. My father’s a pilot, I know about these things. We’ve made it this far, we’ll be fine from here on out. 

My whole life of travel, whenever I’ve told a fretful passenger on a plane that it’s ok- I know about these things- the expression of relief that flickers, for however long, has been constant. It’s nice.

In Chicago I met the cutest boy (don’t you love to tell a story that begins that way?) who had just the prettiest eyes, with eyelashes unfit for a man. When I asked to share the lone outlet in a sea of nothingness for my computer, he got up and moved so I could be closer. Somewhere in the conversation he said “You have a safe trip, Miss.”

 SWOON.                                                                                                      

I have total faith in mid-western charm. Here’s the other anecdote from my ever-so-brief stay in Chicago-O’Hare: I went to get a cup of coffee, and mentioned to the barista that I was a stranger to Chicago. Also queried him on the total lack of mountains. This kid stopped short, took his lanyard off of his neck (it said “CHICAGO” all over it) and handed it to me:

            “Here Miss, I want you to have this. We’re nice here, you should come back.”

True story. Even about the Miss part. My takeaway is that the legends of mid-Western charm must be rooted in some seriously appealing truth.