I am stuck in the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport at 8pm Central on a Friday night. I’m NOT happy.
I’ve been here since Wednesday for a “CRM Summit” arranged by my company's marketing personnel and hosted at the mega-headquarters of a major Midwestern-based retailer. It’s been interesting talking to different people who do more or less what I do at companies that sell home-improvement products, pet food and accessories, and hunting and fishing gear. Better yet, it was good to get out of Manhattan for three days in August.
I HATE August in New York. It is the most disgusting month of the year in the city, especially if you have no friends with boats, or houses on Shelter Island. The cars and buildings of the entire metropolis are breathing on you, and it all smells like ass. I find it increasingly difficult over the years to avoid killing myself during this cruel season.
The weather here in Minneapolis has been very pleasant, as have been the people, but I always get restless when I go to a very white, non-urban place. The town and the folk could not be nicer, but I still feel weird and like I shouldn’t stay long. I need to get back home. Case in point: I was having dinner yesterday evening with the major-retailer folk at a steak house located in a monstrous strip mall. The retailer guys were all telling engaging stories, like you are supposed to do in these social situations. The head guy told this great story about the legend of a ghost that inhabited the house he grew up in, which was built in the 1800s. Inspired, I attempted to chime in with my own “ghost story” after he was done. I awkwardly narrated my experience at a candomble in Salvador da Bahia, Brazil a few years ago. “I didn’t see ghosts,” I piped enthusiastically, “but I saw people possessed by spirits, which is kind of similar!” Everyone just stared at me, and then looked at each other, and sort of smiled and nodded their heads, unsure of how to respond. Clearly, I don’t have a talent for telling stories that other people can relate to, especially over steak at a mall restaurant in Minnesota. I should have just kept quiet.
I’m watching white, fat middle America walk by as I wait for my very-delayed plane to arrive. They wear shorts (which, considering the state of their legs, should be ILLEGAL), sandals with socks, and have the ugliest luggage I have ever seen.
I shouldn’t criticize my fellow travelers. I am happily carting around a brand new set of luggage, made of lavender vinyl with big white polka dots. I know lavender, spotted luggage looks impractical, but really, it’s the best stuff. Any scuffs come right off with water and a mild solvent, and it’s very lightweight.
I hope I will get home soon. The oppressive heat, a rude driver, and the smell of ass are awaiting me.
