Today the travelogue rolls in a diesel Silverado, all the bells and whistles, the rain pounding the turnpike in fits and starts, as we embark on our annual pilgrimage to the national shrine of Our Lady. Bread and wine are stored in the hatch as we park and pick our way through multitudes of pilgrims with the same intentions. It's a three day break from the daily dose of corporate responsibility (at least for those of us who still work for the mayor), and we anticipate a fulfilling, vicarious enlightenment, perhaps a miracle of hope as the experience unfolds.
By halftime the rain is as relentless as my roommate's snoring, the Irish are dominating (the miracle fulfilled!), and we opt to dry and Mass at the hotel. Chinese completes the ongoing feast.
Breakfast finds doubled eggs and hash, 'cakes and 'toast, coffee to pee as we flee the land of goshen for home, hearth, and country. The wind whips the road, following and breaking trees and houses.
The front door again, and deep breath of thanks before plunging back into the mainstream.