“Have you ever had an MRI?’ I asked.

“Yes.’

“That’s what this plane reminds me of.’

“Without the clanging.’

John was born in Queens, lives north of Boston, attended college in Virginia and married a girl from Jackson, Mississippi, which is where he was headed. He’d been to Mississippi many times, once to Oxford. I thought, Faulkner.

“You met her in college?’

“Church. You hear about people meeting women in bars but I met my wife in church.’

That was an alley I didn’t want to walk down. It might be innocent or I might be the next pheasant locked in his conversion sights. John looked to be about forty and spoke in a softer, slower voice than mine.

“You don’t sound like you’re from Queens. Not a hint. My brother-in-law is from the city and we would have had this conversation in half the time and said twice as much.’

And that was it. No in-depth, I’m going to my grandmother’s funeral and by the way I work for your wife’s former beloved boss dialogue that I might turn into a googleable entry while sitting on Jim and Susan’s deck.

Instead, I listened to the soldier directly behind me talk about Iraq as I looked through my porthole at puffy pink clouds. I unfolded the Boston Globe and worked on the crossword puzzle before finally nodding off.

Brian said, “This was the worst plane ride.’ The cabin was small and the space between the chairs invisible. The chairs tilted back all the way from bolt upright almost bolt upright. I’d drift off and my head would then fall forward threatening to crash into the seat back in front of me. I’d wake up, jerk my head back, drift off and repeat – over and over again. I knew I looked like a bobbing wooden duck you win in carnival ring toss games, but I was so tired I had no remedy. I tried arms-as-a pillow on my seat back tray but my big head really didn’t fit.

We changed planes twice (reboarding the same one with a different flight number in Indianapolis) and landed in Evansville five hours later. Bedraggled, but happy to be back.

Our routine from the moment we touch ground is as locked in as a shuttle astronauts. We comment on how small and friendly the airport is, we rent a car from Candy (“I’m now a grandmother’), we drive to the Marriott and get checked in by, typically, but not this year, Zane, who is much too young to understand the origins of his name, and then we find a restaurant, usually Denny’s, to feed Brian’s voracious, carnivorous appetite. Stomachs full and ready for a nap, we drive to Bellemeade Ave and eat home made soup.

Last night, Jeff and Karen took us to the Gersthaus, a German restaurant in a converted hardware store. Back in its Heldt & Voelker incarnation, it was the prototypical, wooden floor, tall ceilinged, everything stored in wood cabinets or on wooden shelves, hardware store. All men over forty-five know that store. But now it is a restaurant with character, with the original stained glass windows and the old wooden cabinets displaying glass mugs, not nuts, bolts and ten penny nails.

Adventurous Diane ate weiner schnitzel, I ordered the catfish basket, Matt and Brian each devoured a blood-red rib eye steak, HO, shrimp, Mack soup and bread, and Jeffrey flapped his arms when I asked from across the table what he was eating. I don’t want to leave Karen out, but what I really remember was her dual order of iced tea and pale ale – twice Even Brian, who never drinks, asked for a “fish bowl.’ Near frozen beer served in mugs big enough to dive into.