between meals

You could say that I am writing this between meals. There was breakfast (ah, how well I remember it!)...




(Is he grinning because he knows he'll get a break from morning photos for two days?)

And a lovely walk through the farmette yard, appreciating the strong show of annuals, especially now, in the full heat of August (note the expanding nasturtium and of course the cosmos)...






And then there will be dinner. Greatly anticipated, well planned, delicious sounding, happily reserved dinner, in Minneapolis.

Except, what's this? As I wait in Madison at the parking lot where the bus picks up riders, an email comes in on someone's iPhone from Megabus. Running late.

Geez Louise! Not JUST late. 1 hr. 45 min. late. Of course, if you know Megabus, you'll know that there are no comfortable waiting areas. You're on the curb. It works well, except when the bus is ultra late.

There is a big "I should have known" running through me. Last time I took this bus to the Twin Cities, it was two hours late getting there and four hours late coming back. And it was winter. The curb seemed like a cold and lonely place to wait.

The email notice tells us not to move far. The driver will try to make up some of the lost time. Fine, but it's hot and there is little shade. Some of the people leave. I go to a nearby Arby's with a view toward the stop.

And no sooner do I settle in with my computer and an iced tea than boom! The bus arrives. So not 1 hr. 45 min. late but only 45 min (at this point) late. Me, I'm happy. (My daughter obligingly calls the restaurant yet a third time to change the reservation. I can imagine her sweet voice -- no, not at 10:30 after all... yes, I know you're immensely busy and it's the weekend... now she's coming in not so late, but still late, so we can be there at 9:30...) Less happy will be those people who left the stop for a while.

And now what's this? We're not going to Minneapolis? Oh, we're going to downtown Madison first! Who knew. No wonder this trip takes six hours. Lord.

(This is the time that I think of trains zipping between points on other continents and sigh. We almost got a rail link to Minneapolis. Almost.)

And so the bulk of the post is written between meals. Breakfast, dinner. 'It ends with dinner. At Bar La Grassa, where I eat like a pig and indulge in that feeling of well being that comes when irksome details resolve themselves, as they so often do and life proceeds smoothly, lovingly forward.