Saturday: Marquette, Michigan.
Where’s that? 455 miles north west of Detroit. Almost a thousand miles from home. I am out here; or up here. I could sneeze on a Canadian and hear them say God bless you.
They get about 250 inches of snow a year in Marquette. Some of it is still on the ground. On the ride in from the airport I saw people skiing. I’ve never been skiing in my life. Oh I’ve been on a ski trip or two, but I’ve never "hit the slopes." It’s not a "Black thing." It’s a "I-hate-cold-weather-sports-and-possibly-breaking-a-bone-thing." Steve, the shuttle driver, told me that’s there’s a group of skiers who come every year with their own crutches. I don’t know if that’s smart or pessimistic.
The people here are really nice. It’s like a small southern town with snow. "Everybody know’s everybody here and the crime rate is very low. Almost non-existent," said Steve. I believe it. If something ever was stolen, they’d probably know exactly who did. "Okay Bob, give it back."
For the record, my cell phone has no idea where I am. It’s been searching for a signal ever since I left Detroit. Instead of signal bars, I’ve got an icon of a little man scratching his head, looking at a map in consternation. And in case your wondering. My phone worked just fine in the Bahamas. I guess T-Mobile doesn’t like the cold either.