Home Again, Home Again...But No Jigging Involved

So another visit to the place that had been home for most of my life is over and I’m once again returned to my new home…or at least the place where I live.
Is it really home? I’m not sure. I don’t really know that I even have a home anymore.
But I’m not going to get bogged down into that particular existential rumination, and so I’ll suffice to say that, as mentioned last night, I’m back.
Of course that brings us to the obvious question: how was my trip?
...
It was very nice to see Jourdan graduate, and it was extremely good to see my dad looking amazingly hale and hearty after his all-too-close call, but overall it was about as exciting as…well, not doing anything.
Which is pretty much what I did while I was there.
I didn’t manage to hook up with any of my friends in the area. I made some calls, but only got voice-mail and/or spouses who were, presumably, going to pass along messages, but no responses. I suppose I could have tried a little harder to contact them, and maybe I should have, but honestly, what for? Did I want to see them? Of course, but once we got together it would have been a question of “Now what?”
I did invite them to Jourdan’s graduation party, which would have taken care of some of the “now what” issues.
Ah well.
In any case, here’s a mini-travelogue that I call “Journey to the Butthole of the Earth (AKA Michigan)”

It started out on Tuesday, May 24, a rainy morning, when Brian picked me up and brought me to Dulles International Airport.
Upon arriving and checking in, I made my way, uneventfully, through security and headed to my gate.
Somehow, and I’m still not clear on how I did this, I made a wrong turn on my way to the shuttle that brings passengers to their gates and ended up hoofing it all the way over.
It wasn’t really that far, and wasn’t a big deal, but I just can’t figure out how I did that.
In any case, once there I had plenty of time to kill, so I wandered around the various shops that boldly proclaim that their prices are “comparable” to local, non-airport-based shops. I think that they mean that they’re comparable in that they all have decimal points.
I impatiently paced in the area around my gate waiting for the announcement informing us that we could begin boarding, as it was getting to be close to that time. While pacing I noticed that the crowd of people waiting to board the flight at the gate next to mine contained a disproportionately high number of hot chicks.
My flight, however, seemed to consist largely of escapees from the Island of Misfit Toys, and so many members of AARP that I was beginning to wonder if I had inadvertently gotten on a flight to Branson.
Eventually it was announced that the flight was going to be about forty minutes late. I had a two+ hour wait ahead of me in Minneapolis anyway, so it was largely irrelevant, as there was no danger of missing my flight and one airport is just as good to hang out in as another.
While boarding the plane, one of the Gray Panthers ahead of me turned around and informed me, with an amused, yet disapproving, shake of his head that no one in the airport ever asked to see his ID. I mentioned that I had to show mine twice in a polite tone that I hoped would convey my complete lack of interest in engaging in any further discussion with him.
I wanted to tell him, “Of course they didn’t check your ID; you’re a hundred years old! Nobody’s afraid of old white guys.”
I didn’t have any additional contact with him after boarding.
The flight itself was largely uneventful, and I contented myself to listen to my MP3 player and read my book.
Upon arriving in Minneapolis it took us quite some time to deplane. This always takes a long time, but imagine how much longer it takes when 90% of the passengers are over the age of 55.
I don’t understand what the deal was with all the old people on the plane. They seemed to be in a group, and were headed somewhere beyond Minneapolis, so I suppose the Branson thing is a definite possibility.
Once off the plane I had to make my way to the BFE gates, the ones that have flights to places like Fargo, North Dakota, Nome, Alaska, and, of course, Hancock, Michigan.
You know, the places that sane people would never go.
I made my way to the gate at a leisurely pace, as I still had an hour and a half or so to kill.
In the morning before I left I’d thought, “I should take some headache medicine with me” and considered that to be a very good idea. It was, unfortunately, yet another in a long line of good ideas that I didn’t follow through with, and so, as a headache started to kick in during my walk through the airport, I had to stop to pay the “comparable” price of $1.69 for two Alleves.
The short flight on the single-engine puddle-jumper from Minneapolis to Hancock was largely uneventful up until we were making our initial descent. I was seated behind the wing and noticed that the landing gear had been pulled back up just as I noticed that we appeared to be ascending again.
After a bit the pilot announced that there were two bald eagles on the landing strip, and that we were going to have to circle around to give the ground crew a chance to scare them away.
It seemed to me that a plane heading straight toward them at high speed would be pretty likely to scare the eagles away, but whatever.
During the approach, the kid behind me began crying about having to wear a seat belt, and, following the dictum of kids’ logic that states that saying the same thing over and over, if done in the whiniest voice possible, will change the nature of reality and get you your way, began chanting “I don’t want to go to Michigan, mama.”
While in many ways I could appreciate the sentiment he was expressing, having not developed his mother’s ability to completely tune out the sound of his voice, it began to get a little irritating after ten minutes, but I did manage to restrain myself and keep from turning around and screaming “We’re already in fucking Michigan and nobody gives a shit what you want!”
Still, the kid kept it up the whole time, and I got to hear it all the way into the airport, as he continued to not want to go to Michigan even after we got off the plane in Michigan.
Once in the airport I was immediately greeted by my niece Jenni, then by the rest of my sister’s family, sans my sister, who was getting a haircut.
My mom and dad couldn’t make it, as they had no ride (my mom doesn’t drive and my dad can’t for six weeks). After visiting with my sister, brother-in-law, and nieces and nephews for a little while, I headed toward my old home.
I think I’m going to go for a walk right now, so I’ll be back later with part two of the story of my travels.