StanleyWheeler

Although this isn't the post I promised about the SF airport experience, and its placement here is a departure from the chronological presentation of the trip, some things merit a move to the front. If any part of the trip to France merits a move to the front for Memorial Day, it is a discussion of the American Memorial  at Coleville-sur-Mer--Omaha Beach. Those crosses in that vast expanse of white and green mark the graves of the Americans who found themselves moved to the front, the front of the war, the front of the battle for Normandy. Our trip had been utterly delightful to this point. We spent the night in Bayeux , about five miles from the coast. We enjoyed one of the best breakfasts that it has ever been my privilege to eat. It was no struggle at all for me to consume two freshly baked croissants (nearly the size of footballs) with two cups of rich hot chocolate, along with fruit and cheese, and nearly a liter of cold apple cider along with the bacon and eggs that the...

If you're not early, you're late... That's why we arrived at the airport at 10:00 a.m. The flight was scheduled to depart at noon. Things began most auspiciously when we got to go through the TSA pre-check security line, instead of the general strip-and-cough-for-the-x-ray-machine line. It was quick and almost painless. When we located our departure gate, I recognized the petite woman at the counter from my previous flight with this airline some nine months earlier. That flight had been delayed; I had spent a great deal of time in lines and on the telephone trying to re-book alternate flights for the missed connection in Chicago. That time, my flight had not actually been delayed; the flight to San Francisco had been delayed, and the airline then cancelled my flight and used my plane to fly those people to SF. Ironically, when I was done with re-booking, my new flight plan took me via SF...several hours later. On this flight, we were already scheduled go via SF. ...

A parent/coach mentioned that it had been one long ridiculously windy day. I thought that sounded like the title of a Winnie the Pooh story, and said so. I made the attempt at whimsical humor during daughter's final tennis match of the day. The resulting laughter was of the subdued and polite type, like when the weird uncle says something strange and potentially offensive, but no one is quite sure what he meant. But it was true; it had been one long ridiculously windy day. The wind blew continuously. It was a cold, steady wind with just enough intensity to penetrate to the underpants of the soul. Even the sun could not bear the wind, remaining wrapped in a blanket of clouds.  The day had began early, as days are wont to do. Actually, the day began at the same time as usual for days (I have no control over such things...yet.), but I had become aware of the day much earlier than I had cared to do so. Daughter had a tennis tournament in Parma , a " a compact and thriving metro...

I had returned to the primary undisclosed location when the message came. My Brown-eyed Girl (MBG) who handles the communications referred the matter directly to me. She handed me the dinner-plate-sized device that is her cellphone. Of course, I had provided that particular piece of hi-tech equipment to MBG, so complaints about that unit (meaning the phone, not the girl) typically meet with icy stares, or offers of a knuckle sandwich with a side of waffle-sliced earlobes. I jest; she never says such things...out loud...but I know that she thinks them: the anonymous notes and morbid drawings that appear in my lunchbox possess a frightening clarity. The contact reported an agent in need of assistance. I double checked the information. The agent was a member of my cell; that was true; in fact, I had interacted with the agent just a few days earlier. I had to accept the assignment. I risked a communication with the agent's handler. After establishing a secure connection (via a mu...