CNN called it.

The phone rang. It was my mother. The nightmare was over, she said. Philly saved the world.

And I was on my way to St. Louis.

I wanted to be home. I wanted to be dancing in the streets, properly socially distanced, with the rest of the city, finally able to breathe a sigh of relief into one of my masks du jour, all of which now had the perpetual odor of coffee and rye. Instead, I was entering Illinois, enjoying sights like this:

Alas, like so many things in life (marriage, children, perfunctory disillusionment) I would not be following the crowd as I was preoccupied choosing my own adventure. I was on my way to meet a good friend/Philly transplant for lunch in her new hometown, St. Louis, Missouri. I always preferred low-key, one-on-one interactions and was excited to see my buddy We ate barbecue and had a lovely visit.

Next I stopped to see another St. Louis friend. We debated how long it had been since we last saw each other and decided about thirteen years. Her son was almost twelve and didn’t even exist as a concept at our last face-to-face interaction. I met her and her family at a park near their home in The Hill.

“This is Beth, and I’ve known her for a long time,” she introduced me to her children. “We were roommates when we both lived in a monastery in Rome twenty years ago.” Clearly one of the best introductions I’ve ever received.

At dusk, I got back in the car and headed to my Airbnb just outside of Rolla, MO. It was located directly on the old Route 66 and exceeded all of my Airbnb expectations.