Arriving in something less than style

All that talk about youthful adventures and moving to new places over the past few days got me into one of those waking recollections this morning about arriving in Duluth the first time. About how my Dad had arranged for us to make the last leg of the journey by air so we could see what a wonderful thing it was - and it was a wonderful thing, taking off, before we flew into the storm. And we would wind up several hours later right back where we'd started, at the Minneapolis airport, all of us on that DC-3 having been violently ill the whole time except Russ himself - by then an old flying hand - and my kid sister, who blissfully slept through the whole ordeal. And subsequently arrived in Duluth in a tacked-on-at-the-last-minute antique rail car with hard, caned seats and nothing to eat but chocolate bars. And how we spent that first night in the Hotel Duluth, seemingly right across the street from the lighthouse and a pea-soup fog outside, the blinding beacon rotating past our window every few minutes and a foghorn booming loud enough to rattle our very bones.

And you can see why I get so nostalgic about traveling to new places, moving on.

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