Somewhere between Nevada and Missouri
The big Vegas trip ended with a tasty breakfast (egg whites, basil, tomatoes, shaved Parmesan, toast), one last whiff of the Venetian signature scent (urinal puck) and a leisurely cab ride to the airport. Our driver was happy to receive a few of the Coca-Colas we had been chilling in our room. Better down his gullet than in the trash-bins by security.
I had a window seat on both legs of the return, stealing views between chapters of Armistead Maupin’s “Michael Tolliver Lives.” And though it apparently wasn’t a Tales of the City book, any story that goes near Barbary Lane is a welcome stroll and dandy vacation read.
I read the last pages with watery eyes and closed the book in time to snap the photo above.
Seeing these snow-capped mountains provided a small sense of okay-ness with the world (at large, not the fictitious one I’d just left).
Sometimes when everything seems so crammed together and haywire, such grandeur and expanse puts it all back in place.