A homeless editor ought not be involved in modern travel.

I used to fly often -- always on the company dime -- and considered myself sophisticated. Hell, savvy.

But this trip was essentially a confused son of the Wisconsin Northwoods wondering through vast crowds of people until some nice person notices the look on my face and asks, "Can I help you, sir?" I'm not unlike Unfrozen Caveman Lawyer. Your world frightens and confuses me.

Someone undressed me -- and not just with their eyes. Removing my belt, some stomach pushed my pants on a race to the ground. Despite my age, my hands were quick enough to catch them. I had to take off my shoes just like I was at my friend Kellie's house. At least she always has a bottle of free gin at her place.

These major airports serve as little cities, moving tens of thousands of through them each day. But I've grown used to living in smaller cities and love my final home in Hayward, Wisconsin, a town of 2,400. 

I'm not sure I care for the sophisticated life, though it was certainly worth any pain to see Kid graduate before she heads to Hollywood. (A phrase that will remain forever odd to write.)

I will say the big airports are great people watching. I saw more faces, heard more languages and can't imagine the colors and creeds. Oh, the humanity.

Somewhere out there, a blogger whom I passed is writing about this guy they saw at the airport who was red-faced and wearing a huge blue shirt. "It looked like one of the Bluemen stung by a bee," that person is writing. (That's a good line.)

I write this from Boston Logan, land in Minneapolis at 6:30 p.m., hit home at 9 p.m.

Happily.

Peace unto Ukraine and peace and happiness unto all of you my brothers and sisters.