But they ditched us. Alas.

Which turned out just fine by me. I got to eat my first (and only) proper meal of the weekend and have a six hour conversation with my most excellent sister-in-law. Being ditched by famous people is perfectly fine, under those conditions.

Finally back home, the kittens clamoring for food, attention, and escape (in that order). So we let them run wild on the rug for a while. I tried to figure out how to smuggle them back to Michigan.

And then, straight to bed and missing my wife very much.

Tomorrow, soon, at last.

Her husband is sitting across the aisle from us and when I switch, he holds her hand through the whole flight — letting go long enough to let people pass. All in all, she does just fine.

I, however, have some issues. I’ve been seeing priests everywhere, all day long. Either there is a convention somewhere or I should be more worried about this flight.

I’m wrong on all counts. Like the rest of America, this food was assembled in a Thai sweatshop — cheap, fast, and ready to be overpriced. Everything is fried to the point of petrification, impossible to cut with the terrorist-safe plastic ware and too hot to eat with your fingers. The steamed “spring” vegetables have the taste and consistency of artificial Styrofoam greenery from a hobby shop. Only the beer is cold . . . but I have to order it three times before it arrives.

And, I’m sorry, but when did Mariah Carey record at Sun Records? I only ask because she was on heavy rotation during the overhead muzak. As were those other Missisippi Delta classics, Celine Dion and Fergie.

Awful. I escape, grateful for once to be getting on a plane.

Sleep now, post more later…

The airport in Minneapolis is like a mall, a very grumpy mall full of very grumpy people dragging around very grumpy children. No gods . . . but they have a monorail, which is a very cool thing to watch zipping by while you’re eating a steak and drinking a beer. I never realized I would live in the future of my youth. I hope I live long enough to see flying cars.

And giant robots. I want to live in a world with giant robots.

We wander through the newstand. Neil Gaiman lives in Minneapolis, or just outside it somewhere. But none of the stores seem to be carrying any of his books with a “Local Author” sticker featured prominently on the cover. Browsing the magazines, I wonder who Jessica and Nick are and why I should care?

In the waiting area, a little girl named Ireland plays with her toys, very much aware that everyone is watching her. A young Alpha in training.

Another plane, this time just a short jump. Keeley discovers a self-help book in the seat pocket in front of her called “Living the Centered Christian Life” and also a copy of ‘SELF’ magazine which appears to be ‘Maxim’ for Morons (which is already ‘Esquire’ for idiots).

I don’t write, I do some fantasy shopping in the Sky Mall magazine and make a mental note that Sam wants “Gadgets, lots of them…” for Christmas.

Then, before I know it, we’ve arrived.

Well . . . nearly so. Apparently Orange City is remote. So remote, in fact, that I fly in to Omaha (which, I assume, is the closest major airport).

You know you’re deep in the map when Nebraska is convenient.

My entourage and I disembark to an airport wasteland. Someone is meant to meet us and drive us back to Iowa. Under questioning, I confess that I do not know who the someone is, what they look like, whether they are male or female. And, no, I don’t have a phone number for anyone.

I had assumed someone would be there at the gate to meet us with a neatly lettered sign reading “Tim Klemp” but there’s no one.

Waiting for the baggage carousel to start grinding out everyone’s suitcase but mine, we scan the crowd looking for people who appear to be looking for people.

“What about the purple windbreaker. I bet you a hundred bucks that’s her.”

“She’s getting away!”

“I’m sure she’ll find us…” I say as the woman in the purple windbreaker embraces a teenager coming down the escalator “…or not.”

The older, vaguely academic guy wandering nearby is promising as well and I try to meet his eye with the nonchalant intent of someone who might be looking for him but not too direct so that, if he’s not the one, he’ll think I’m crazy. He looks like a professor at a small midwestern Christian college . . . only, apparently, not the one we’re going to.

“Well . . . I hear Omaha is very nice.”

“We’re stuck here.”

“It’ll be an adventure.”

“That’s what my parents used to say.”

I’m already planning for a three day stay in the airport, just in case no one shows up.

There is a sign, apparently. And someone to hold it.

Keeley points with her chin. “What’s that girl holding?” she asks through clenched teeth, like we’re spies.

I look over to see someone, speaking into a cell phone. There’s a sheet of paper in her hand and I read it, upside down.

I squint. “That’s her, that’s my name.”

Someone is holding a sign with my name on it.

We walk over to make introductions.

It’s our contact, talking on the phone to her husband, Jonathan, who is apparently waiting in the car.

And she has two signs. One with my name, spelled properly and with all the periods in the right places (“There was a debate in the department,” she tells me.)

The other one reads “Song to You” — which I would have recognized instantly.

I steal both the signs from her. After a moment her husband arrives and we set off across the dark prairie towards Orange City.

It’s a two hour trip and, after about five or ten minutes or figuring out who everyone is and what we’re like, we settle down into a stream-of-consciousness ramble through the world of theatre, resumes, academic performance, politics, and a lengthy discussion on where the actual Ice Cream Capitol of the World really is.

I don’t recognize it at the time, but the whole thing is the start of a pattern that will repeat itself throughout the trip: People introducing themselves and then being amazingly kind and hospitable, over and over and over again. At first I thought it was just people being polite. But I was wrong.

Eventually, we make Orange City. We drive past the theatre — a beautiful glass-fronted building — and Jonathan notes that people are still working, putting up the lobby display and finishing up the set for Opening Night.

Opening Night? Not for the last time I realize that I’m a captial-W Writer on this trip and that I should act more aloof and professional and so on. But all I can do is smile goofily and babble about how terrific everything is and think how lucky I am. Again, another pattern is emerging.

We pick up a car at the school. I try not to act too amazed that they’re giving me the use of a car, like I was some sort of person who might somehow need or deserve transportation — and then we head over to the Dutch Colony Inn to check into our rooms.

The clock on the nightstand says the same time as the clock on my laptop. I didn’t think Iowa was EST and worry for a few minutes about what time I should set my alarm. I don’t want to miss breakfast with the Director in the morning.

I finally decide to assume Michigan time is correct, no matter where I’m sleeping. That way my biggest danger is being early for breakfast. Although that also means that it’s 2:30 in the morning and I have to get up shortly.

Bed. Finally. Collapse. Sleep.