The farther you’re gone the homer you get?

The next three days or so, I’m in Chicago, put up in a hotel where my assigned space is marginally larger than the apartment I had on Inglis Street–not to mention the walk in closet with a full wall of window, the zebra-striped chair in the “living room” and the tiger striped robe in the closet (oh, bob, it is shades of that Cupertino hotel with the jungle theme gone crackers!).

My flight was smooth as were all the ancillary hurdles:  check-in, customs, even finding a cab immedaitely ready just for me.  I tumbled into the hotel and found that its door leads squarely onto the registration desk:  do not pass go, potted plant or couch.  In keeping with the smoothness of the trip so far, I was helped immedaitely, by a charming young woman who smiled, twinkled and was efficient simultaneously.  

I’d changed my watch while airborne but the time it showed didn’t feel right, and ther appears to be no timepiece in the lobby, so I asked her.  Her answer cme with her own casual question of from whence I’d jsut arrived.

“Halifax, Nova Scotia.”

“That’s where I’m from! I’ve been here for two years now and haven’t been home since.  What part of town do you stay in?”

Pretty quickly we established that she’d gone to school about three blocks from my house and had worked in a hotel where I nearly had Christmas dinner last year.

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One Response to “The farther you’re gone the homer you get?”

  1. Dave Ferguson Says:

    Just came across this today as I was searching for Halifax neighbo(u)rhood blogs… I can assure you (as someone born in Cape Breton who grew up in the States) that there’s a kind of Maritime magnetism; its action gets stronger the farther the two parties are.

    You’ll be in line at Woolco in Topeka and discover that kind of thing. It may be worse for Cape Bretoners; in a first-time conversation with the wife of a lawyer while my ex worked for a Virginia law firm, the ex learned enough for my dad to figure out he’d dated the woman’s mother.

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