So back in late February, a whole bunch of my relatives met in Aspen for a family ski vacation. My mother and I both had connecting flights in Denver, and since hers was delayed about five hours, she was still there when I arrived from Portland. We reunited and I bought some food and she continued reading her book and I did the crossword and we both waited for the time and weather to pass until we’d be able to take the 18-minute flight over the mountains.
Then I got a phone call from my friend Dan, who had just spent the last 10 days in Colombia. “Hi Dan, are you back in Portland yet?”
“Nope. I’m in Buenos Aires.”
“No, not really. I’m in Denver.”
“Really???!?!?!?!? So am I!”
“You are? Since when? I’m in the airport.”
“ME TOO! Gate 54! Terminal B!”
“Oh shit, really? I’m at Gate 43.”
“WELL COME ON DOWN! You can meet my mother!”
And Dan arrived in no time.
This becomes relevant later, otherwise I wouldn’t say it, but he looked good—his skin was tan and he was sporting some stubble. He wore a tight t-shirt with the image of Hugo Chavez on the front, and a campesino hat he’d bought while in South America. He told us about what he’d done while he was down there, and we all chatted for a bit about this and that and our layovers and flight delays and the like. The most notable event was when my mother gave him a cookie that she found stashed in her purse, and soon after he left to board his plane for Oregon. (I’ve discovered that if I use the word “Oregon” in my entry, my posts show up on the front pages of orblogs.com, so if you notice that I toss it in every now and again, that’s why.)
Anyway, not moments after he left, my mother turned to me and said:
“Well, he’s rather fit and firm.”
That is all.