Minneapolis

 

July 11, 2024

Twenty-fourth floor of the downtown Hilton, Minneapolis. Magnificent views in three directions, one of them east, where the sun approaches roaring and exultant. A chatterbox named Megan lightened the flight from Asheville. She lives in DC, was visiting friends in NC, now off to a funeral in Minneapolis, where she grew up. She works in finance, of late with Wells Fargo, now with Discover. 

My driver from the airport was an Ethiopian, who told me during the ride of the troubles in his home country. He described himself as a Tigre tribesman, and said that a million of his tribe have been murdered in a brutal war that hardly makes the news in the West, because, he says, the people dying are black, and Ethiopia has no commodity that the West desires. Tigre apparently insist on a election, while the present dictator forbids one. This is not the way it was described in the news, long ago when it was news. His last observation was that whatever troubles America has, they’re nothing compared to what his land goes through, generation after generation.

Arrived at the bustling Hilton and was told that my room was not ready.

“But it’s 9 PM,” says I

“I’m sorry, but it’s not ready.”

“It’s 9 PM,” I repeat in disbelief. “My scheduled arrival was 3.”

The lamentation about many conventions and how busy everything was did not impress me, and I used my Professor face. Got comped for dinner (which I did not want) and eventually made it to my room, which is fine and high far beyond my needs. 

Wore the wrong pants, which kept trying to fall off my, and which I sometimes I caught barely in time. It was especially interesting when I had my luggage in one hand, carry-on in the other, and could barely get the descending trousers in time. Belt in my luggage redeems all.  

I have some advantage, as my clock is an hour ahead of the local one. Early start for everything.