Our train to Dunhaung was a real hard sleeper. As we were to later discover, the hard sleeper we took to Kashgar was a bizarre variant. This was one open car, immaculately clean, lined with bunks, 3 layers high. Each bunk was short, and the higher bunks were narrow enough that the the metal bar protecting one from falling greatly hampered one’s ability to lay. But the color scheme was a refreshing white and lavender. And for some reason, the day in Kashgar had put us in such a fantastic mood, that we might as well have been staying at a giant rolling Ritz Carlton.

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We rode 1st class, or so called “soft sleeper” back to Urumqi. This meant that we were given the special privilege of not having to wait in the train station, and allowed to amble around the outside of the train while they prepped it for its journey. We were not allowed actually board, however. Rather it seemed that we were allowed out first to watch the giant stream of people exiting the station, trundling all the goods they had acquired in Kashgar.

It seems that the main thing one pays for here is the dignified company, though the beds were perhaps a little softer, larger, and more comfortable. As the day burned on outside, we shared a stateroom with two Korean gentleman. One was the ex-CEO of Hyundai Motors and an ex-elected official (something roughly equivalent to mayor, I believe) of Seoul. The other was a Harvard man and a distinguished professor of Chinese philosophy.

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We rolled out of bed at the Cornfield Xinjiang etc. etc. hostel to find that the building’s pluming had backed up and our bathroom was full of a grey and reeking water. Crossing showers off the list, we packed our things and checked out. I still felt full from last night’s giant Uyghur feast, so we breakfasted lightly at the same divey restaurant around the corner from the hotel that we had visited the day before. Finally, Scott was able to have his Baotza, a meat stuffed steamed bun which for him had been a much romanticized, but unattained breakfast earlier on the trip.

We paused for a photo with the owners of the restaurant who had been hard at work, outside in the sun, chopping meat for kabobs. The younger one with the knife was enthusiastic. As you can see, his father still harbored some skepticism about these panama hatted foreigners.

Meanwhile in the taxi, in our attempt to communicate to the driver our wish to visit a super-market, we ended up at a giant fresh vegetable market, also sporting some 15 large cages filled with roosters. While enthralling, this was not exactly food we could take on the train. Our next attempt hit gold, though, and we were soon in the midst of the humongous Chinese shopping complex, with a huge market on the top floor, and Jetsons style moving walkways stretching diagonally from floor to floor. Our backpacks were, of course, to voluminous to put in the small locker provided there for shoppers. So, despite Mandarin protests from Scott’s end, one of us was forced to stay behind as the other shopped.

Scott volunteered to stay behind, as I had the greater experience in Asian groceries. And with a glance at my watch (10:35; our train left at 11:20) I dove into the fray. The selection was bewildering and the products nondescript. Many products simply showed healthy looking people on the front, with no hint at the contents. Sweating, and careening my cart around the calmly perusing Chinese, I threw things in with abandon. Stopping from time to time to remove some items, placing them in a haphazard stack on the nearest shelf.

In the end I checked out with:

2 tubs of instant noodles (darkish meat flavor)

1 package digestive biscuits (alpha brand with Xytol!)

2 cans of chinese stout (looking much like Beamish knock offs)

2 hunks of dried yak meat (good one, right?)

1 bottle of Nutri-Express (some kind of fruit/soymilk vitamin drink)

I paced in line, fumbled cash, and threw my pack on. We ran back down the Jetsons style inclined moving walkway. We got caught behind a woman struggling to hold her cart on the incline, and waited anxious and sweatily for the ride to end. Outside there was a fine cab driver waiting as if for us, and we thew our bags in the back. In no time we were running up the giant and quite endless stairs of the Urumqi train station and to our platform on the third floor. We had just found our cabin and thrown our stuff down when the train began to leave, first heading east towards Turpan (where the con artists had been arrested) then swinging around westward towards Kashgar.

Scott and I had the two bottom bunks of the 2nd class, or so called “hard sleeper,” the two top bunks were occupied by two pleasant, but un-talkative Chinese gentleman. One of these fellows did inform us that he was from Kashgar, and proceeded to spend a large amount of time scrutinizing our lonely planet phrase-book and muttering under his breath.

Chinese trains are nice. Unlike Indian trains, there are many many sleeping cars, and each is not too crowded. There is also a genuine dining car, with (I was quite astounded to learn) affordable prices. Every car has unlimited hot water, steaming forth from the rusty nozzle of a somewhat groady machine. I guess you could call it a samovar of types. And there was an unceasing flow of people using it to make primarily tea and instant noodles.

The desert raged by outside the window, looking quite a bit like mars, with the occasional oil drilling or refining site. As the ride continued, the landscape became more rocky and mountainous. After a few rounds of whist we headed to the dining car for a hot meal. While the scenery changed to something more like eastern Montana, then something like the deserts of the southwestern United States, we ate and watched the increasingly dramatic geology.

It was a meal of Uighur Chicken, Chinese cabbage, and a cold salad of spiced white things (we think they might have been raw potatoes). For 90 cents we got a bottle of non-alcholic, cool-ade-like wine, and felt like kings.

At one point the chef emerged from the kitchen and sat down at a table one down and across the isle from us. The burly fellow asked Scott in Chinese where we were from. When Scott said America, his face twisted into a terrible scowl and said no more to us. For the remainder of the meal, in fact, he would make a point of looking over and scowling most disapprovingly in our direction.

This is, I am quite glad to say, the first real encounter with such behavior that we have been as unfortunate to experience. I had, before the trip, wondered whether this would not be the norm. It is, after all, true that our fine nation has been abusing the rest of the world somewhat recklessly as of late. Also, though we obtained visas so far in advance that at that point there was no problem, we had been hearing rumors that even the Swiss were finding it difficult to get visas into China, what with the impending Olympics and the trouble in Tibet. I tried to shrug off the feeling, as our fine chef continued to press the point.

All was forgotten however, when we encountered a Russian speaking Swiss couple on an ornithological trip through Kirghistan and western China. They were most pleasant to speak to, and our short exchange in Russki Yisik gave me a harsh reminder of how poor my Russian has become. They did say that there were many Russian speakers in Kashgar. So perhaps I would get a chance to flex that old muscle a little more soon. If not then certainly on AsiaWheeling 2.0.

The scenery became greener as we began to follow a meandering river through a desert that was becoming jagged scrubby mountains. I could not shake the feeling that the land outside looked so much like America. If you had told me I was riding the Amtrak through Colorado, I might have believed you for a moment. Then the Chinese pop music would start up, and a woman would come by the door hawking instant noodles and mysterious pouches of pickled vegetables and.

We had been riding in the same car with a particularly audible Australian gentleman, also bound for Kashi (the Chinese way of saying Kashgar). He had been explaining many things to a young woman from that destination, a student of English. The topics ranged from genetics to world politics. Hearing spoken English reminded me how rare it has been on this to hear ambient English. I found it very hard not to eavesdrop.

We also we riding along with a number of other English speakers. A group of these returned,from the dining car just as I was waking from a nap, chattering loudly in somewhat of a fury. It seems the waitstaff in the dining car had produced one menu which had, I presume either pictures or English, and when they found nothing there to satisfy them, they waitstaff produced the Chinese menu, which had on it different prices (and perhaps for that matter, different dishes). This act provoked a screaming fight between the two parties, and in the end the English speaking crowd had come back to the car, empty stomached to find their English translator. I was just drifting back off for nap part II as they strode back, exclaiming, “now they’ll see I’ve got a friend who speaks Chinese.” Indeed, this might be a good time for me to restate how very grateful I am for Scott’s most capable Chinese. May his mustache grow ever longer.

Suddenly we were in Hong Kong. The airport and the emigration process were easy, efficient, and metallic. All around us, money flowed with a furious intensity. In no time we had turned our Baht into HK$

and were purchasing Octopus cards. Octopus cards are a kind of universal proximity card. Our primary use for them was to ride the MTR, the spotlessly clean, efficient, and devastatingly metallic subway/light rail system of this fine city.

Using the Octopus card, one can not only ride all over Hong Kong on trains, but they are also able to buy snacks from vending machine, pay for your purchases at the pharmacy or 7-11 (Hong Kong is full of 7-11s), take a boat ride across the Harbor, and all simply by smacking your wallet down on a yellow landing pad. One can even visit any of the strategically located octopus inquiry pedestals, and slap down your wallet to see you transaction history and current balance. The most unbelievable thing about the octopus card is that when you are done with it, you get not only your 50 HK$ deposit back, but also the money you had placed on the card! Unbelievable.

Much of our time in Hong Kong it was raining hard. The rest of the time is was threatening to rain or misting fiercely. This is not to say the the city was not a beautiful sight to behold. This is to say that we spent a lot of time dashing through the rain in and out of shops, restaurants, and tea houses. Hong Kong was a time for getting things together, refueling our minds and bodies, and purchasing much needed provisions for the upcoming journey into the heart of China.

A List of Important Tasks Accomplished in Hong Kong:

Umbrellas — purchased

Woody’s Health — verified by physician (no charge; the man liked asiaheeling.com)

Pants Which Were Terribly Filthy After 11 Days in India — cleaned

Terrible Plaid Shorts — jettisoned

Colds — Discovered in both Scott and myself

Strange Chinese Medicines — averted

Inordinate Amount of Cash — spent

Very Tight Pants — purchased

Tap-water — consumed with relish

Replenishment of Spirit — achieved

Internet — found readily available

Savage New Calculator Watch — purchased from fantastic Pankisani fellow

Ability to easily communicate with the US — present

Our time standing on the doorstep of China was a much needed interim in the savage adventure which is (oh dear and valued reader don’t worry) is about to continue with renewed savagery. I found Hong Kong to be a very livable city. So much did this place appeal to me, that at times I found myself considering working and living there for a piece of my life. But as always, I stand by the mantra, of it is not so much where you are and what you are doing, as who you are doing this thing with. And Scott, having lived in Hong Kong for his study abroad experience, was a most knowledgeable and capable guide, with many charming friends.

For deeper insights into our time in Hong Kong, I fear I must refer you to the gallery, where you will no doubt enjoy our rather large chunk of Hong Kong photo-documentation.

We checked out of the hotel Amar in Agra and caught an auto-rickshaw to the train station. When we got there we found our train to be delayed by 30 minutes. As they were announcing this news, Scott was intercepted by a fellow with a wooden box full of little instruments, not the least among them were shoe cleaning and polishing materials. Though Scott’s canvas shoes were not in need of (or indeed capable of) any polish, we asked the good sir if he might by any chance be able to repair my backpack the chest strap of which had been ripped of by a over-zestfull baggage attendant on my way from California. Upon hearing our request, the man pantomimed as though changing his hat, and proudly presented himself to us as a certified repair doctor, and to be very reasonably priced. So we agreed and he proceeded to rage on the location from which the chest strap had left, slicing it apart into its components using an old razor blade. In 20 minutes time, and much complaining about how damned sturdy my baggage was, he had re-sown the the thing to an approximation of good as new.

We thanked the fellow and he haggled us up to 100 rupees. Off we set only to find the screens of the Agra train station proclaiming our train was now delayed 3 hours. I quick calculation revealed that such a delay was getting dangerously close to cutting out our planned visit to Kaustubh Shah:s Delhi residence and even placing us in danger of meeting our train to Varanasi, and rendezvous with head snake charmer and Bangalore office chief Nikhil Kulkarni. Also of interest was the availability of “Bogie’s Position” on the information display.

As the heat of the day began to dig in, we set to solving the problem. We were pricing cab fares to Delhi from Agra when the Malarone we had taken about an hour earlier kicked in, and with it, the slow clutch of impending doom. What doom? you may ask, dear reader… well we too were asking that very question. Sensing the weakness, the driver we were talking with kicked his end of the conversation into overdrive. So we agreed to pay the fellow 2500 rupees to get us to Delhi in 3 hours. We took a look at the cab, asked for non-AC to save some dough, and soon I was passing said cash to a grumpy man in a white box in the parking lot. It turned out the man were talking to was not the driver at all, but a salesman. And our driver was introduced to us. In exchange for our 2500 rupees, we were given a little slip of paper “to sign and give to this driver when you arrive.” Our belongings had been loaded into the taxi that we had been shown, but after I had payed, they were removed and placed in a smaller cab. Our driver then got in that cab, and another man climbed in shotgun. “this man is a police officer. He is just going as far as the boarder.” Scott asked for his ID, and it looked legitimate. “You will need to pay 100 rupees at each checkpoint. It is like a tourist tax.” With stomachs full of ice, we pulled onto the roads of Uttar Pradesh, headed for Delhi. I tried to nap and not to play through scenarios in my mind: kidnapping, stealing of our organs, slaughtering us in the name of all the dirty tourists who were ever ass-holes to the Indians.

And as I drifted in and out of consciousness, the crazy hour passed. The police officer got out at the boarder, and smiled at us thanking us for the ride. Horses passed and the cars was delayed a number of times, by herds of cattle, traffic jams etc. But after about 4 hours we were entering Delhi.

Delhi is massive and sprawling. I saw the first traffic light I had seen since California (though it seemed to be broken). Everywhere people were building. Delhi is constructing an impressive new subway system, which demanded huge holes be dug at what seemed like every street corner. Our driver quickly became hopelessly lost, requiring many more than 2 calls to Kaustubh’s house, so a member of Mr. Shah’s staff could give directions in Hindi. Finally, we were on the correct road, at house 32 and the numbers were falling as we went, moving us ever closer to the fabled building number 23 (which was by the way directly across the street from the Turkish Ambassador’s residence). Despite this, our driver drove slower than ever, and stopped repeatedly to ask for directions. We tried to tell him it was just ahead, but then it dawned on us: this neighborhood has only English street signs. Our driver could not read English and as such, was baffled. But after waiting almost 6 hours and eating only little snacks (like “magic chapata” flavored potato chips), we pulled into the drive and were met by Kaustubh’s father heading out to go do business, he was immaculately dressed in a monogramed cornflower blue shirt and looked cool despite the sticky Indian heat. He paused to smile and shake hands, and was quickly on his way.

A well spoken man who introduced himself as Mr. Ashwani piled our luggage, Scott, another member of the staff, myself and his fine self into a small elevator. And up we went. The next moment were were standing, filthy and disheveled in an elegant apartment. Bowls of dried flowers delicately scented the apartment. Smells of fine Indian spices wafted from the kitchen and we were shown to an immaculately set table, with silver dishes. We were immediately served a steaming bowl of blended broccoli soup, accompanied by fresh buttered toast. Then came a green salad, the first such dish we had dared to eat in some time. Then the feast cam: a succulent chicken curry, fresh cucumber raita, mellow dal, roasted potatoes, spiced cauliflower and the fluffiest most flavorful basmati rice I have yet encountered. Needless to say, we were madly sated. Just as we were considering falling into the internet, our phone rang. It was non other than Nikhil Kulkarni, chief snake charmer and Bangalore office head for asiawheeling global. This meeting was one I had been most excitedly anticipating.

And Nikhil did not disappoint. His relaxed and gentle attitude, paired with sharp whit and keen instincts made him a tremendous asset to the team. Our ability to have a great time had just been increased by an order of magnitude. We had barely shaken hands by the time we were invited back into the dining room and served another meal of tomato soup and lightly grilled sandwiches, filled with herbs and goat cheese.

Now full to the point of bursting we piled in a cab bound for the Delhi station. At the station, Nikhil pointed out to us a singular phenomenon. Those people who wished to travel in the general compartment had lined up all the way down the platform. The train was idling, empty, and men were pacing back and forth with bamboo staffs, keeping these travelers in a tight line. Each member of the line looked frantic, clutching his baggage, in some cases his wife, and the fellow in front of him. Nikhil explained that each member of the line clutches the one in front of him in order to avoid people cutting. And as a second line of defense, there were the men with the staffs. We watched as many people attempted to cut in line. Some were extracted and beaten, others managed to squeeze in successfully.

Still others jammed some personal item through the barred windows of the general compartment in order to secure a seat via precedent. When the train doors opened all hell broke loose. People scrambled to get into the car, the men with staffs tried in vain to keep things orderly, and most fascinatingly, this phenomenon just kept going indefinitely, the line being so long and the disorder so great.

Soon we grew tired of watching and made out way to the first AC car and our luxurious state room. We had no sooner deposited our luggage on the floor that the sound of a scuffle brought my eyes up to the window on our stateroom door. The sight I saw in it is not one I will soon forget. A young woman, hair soaked in sweat and eyes wild with the crazed fear of a cornered animal, locked her gaze onto my own from where she was being awkwardly hustled along in the arms of two men. My mouth fell open and I realized I was staring now at a blank window. I shook my head and was about to address my cabin-mates, when suddenly our stateroom door burst open and in came the girl, carried by two men, who sputtered something in broken English about them having some mandate for use of the room.

The girl was placed on our long bench, covered in sweat and still staring wildly into the infinite, eyes darting around in her sockets, but looking at nothing. One of the men with us explained, “This girl’s father has just died on the platform, and she has been seeing the body.” We, of course, told them they could have the room for as long as they required and picked up our valuables, leaving them the bottles of water we had just purchased. Nikhil rushed off to consult the conductor and soon the two of them appeared together, talking animatedly. After assuring many parties, whose affiliation to the girl and/or the deceased was unclear, that we would be fine with sitting in Nikhil’s adjacent stateroom for as long as was needed.

And that we did. It was one of Nikhil’s first very wise insights into Indian culture. “In India, emotion is worn completely on the exterior; when we are happy we sing and dance, when we mourn we allow it all to pour out.” Before too long our room was once again free and we settled in for the night, as the Saraswati Express whisked on through the steamy Indian night.

Our first AC room on the grand trunk express was delightful, as was the train car in which it rode. For the majority of the ride, we were the only people in the entire car. With two bathrooms to our-selfs. There was no dinning car, rather food was delivered from the pantry car, and the rest of the train was other cars simply full of people.

Though the scenery was quite striking, the highlight of the grand trunk experience was our interactions with our chip-wallah; that is the guy who walks the train back and forth all day and call out in Hindi that he is selling chips. Not speaking Hindi, his cry befell our ears as something more like “contaminated chips and cake,” endlessly in the same nasal incantation. Since the first AC car is nice and cool, our dear friend (on whom we have now bestowed the esteemed title of Official AsiaWheeling Snack Packages Distribution Manager) began to stop by our room, and linger.

We were inside, of course, as we were for the whole ride –there being no dining car and no lock on the door– playing whist or carefully preparing correspondence for you, dear reader. Soon this became a staple of his walk back and forth on the train. The man spoke no English and we no Hindi, but indeed I believe a bond was formed. It was while sharing popular American music and eating biscuits with the chap, that we realized this fellow is badly in need of an AsiaWheeling t-shirt. So the next time he came by our room (this was likely the 12th or 13th time) we offered him the position. Needless to say, all concerned were thrilled.

As one of his first duties, we give him the AsiaWheeling cell-phone so that he could call his home. What he said, we have no idea, but it was a heartfelt and tearful conversation. We were later to learn that this was the first contact he has had with his mother in weeks.

The grand trunk ran into the night, loosing time steadily, until our 3 am arrival we pushed until 6 am. We considered this a boon. And that assumption was soon confirmed as we found Agra not as easily navigable as one might hope.

I believe when we last spoke, your humble correspondents were pack tidily into a Korean airways flight to Mumbai. In what seemed like no time, said flight landed in Mumbai at what we were forced to begin calling 1:30 am. The first impression I had of India was that it was disorganized and completely ok with it. Also there was the head wiggle. It’s everywhere. It seems to translate roughly as “no problem.” And everyone does it. So after much confusion, wandering, and waiting around, we were shuttled from the expansive, and very much under construction, international terminal over to the domestic terminal. We waited around and drank tea from the “cafe coffee day” (as I understand it, a Starbucks competitor) until they opened up the domestic security scan around 5 am. There were separate lines for women and men, so we entered the men’s line and got scanned, then entered the gate. I say “the gate” in the same way that some might say “the terminal” because there is only one gate, which is gigantic, with multiple lines for different flights all fighting to get out the same exit. Then, passengers are bussed to different parts of the runway where their flights are waiting. The sun was just rising as we piled on the bus towards our flight, and in no time India was unfolding beneath us.

All the while, I succeeded in trouncing Scott repeatedly at whist. We walked out of the Chennai airport and into he morning heat and the midst of a giant crowd of drivers, waiving names written on cards.

We found ours at the end of the line, a young man who drove like a demon and spoke very little English. I quickly realized that driving like a demon was a prerequisite for any hope of navigating the boiling veins of traffic in Chennai. At first it was an intense fear of death by traffic accident which held my attention, but as near miss after near miss became the norm, I became transfixed with the sights around me.

The road outside the airport was busy, and crammed with cars, trucks, auto-rickshaws, bicyclists, and from time to time a spurt of pedestrians, forced into the road for lack of a decent sidewalk. Our driver spoke little, but honked often. It quickly became apparent that the honk of the horn in India holds a very different place than it does in the US and is polar opposite of Iowan horn etiquette. Here, the horn is used as a sonic pulse, sent out to alert other drivers of your position; in Iowa, it’s like the button like that which holds the potential of nuclear holocaust: right there in front of you but never to be touched. Slowly the scenery changed from crumbling urban proprietorships to open views of the ocean and and grass huts. As the air around us began to heat up, the driver asked to stop for a little snack, then again to wash up, we agreed and added in a stop of our own to photograph a salt producing operation.

We also passed school after crumbling school, all focused on technology and engineering. Our driver dropped us off outside the Hotel de L’Orient in Pondicherry, and we were immediately greeted by a man in flowing robes who served us a sweet and slightly salty lime tonic.

Refreshed, we were shown up to our room. The hotel is breathtaking, with a beautiful courtyard restaurant and a French colonial theme.

After no more than 5 minutes of collecting ourselves, we hit the streets. First thing’s first: we rented bicycles. The entire rental (two people; three days) was only 180 rupees, or about 5 dollars. Wheeling in Pondicherry, is quite the wild ride. Bikes, like the cars, must use their bells to alert fellow traffic of their position. The road is busy with the same assortment of vehicles, and one rides on the left to boot.

So naturally, I was frightened of dieing on this first day of wheeling in Asia, but as we rode, stopping to perform errands (buy a cellphone, some shirts to sweat up, handkerchiefs, visit Scott’s old pad), I began to feel what Scott describes as a “more heightened humanity” among the Indians. Each person that we interacted with was friendly, willing to chat, helpful, and seemed to give off a carefree stressless air. We stopped at one of Scott’s favorite restaurants for a thali, which was the tastiest thing I have ever had the pleasure of shoveling into my mouth with my bare right hand. By the end of the wheel I was ringing my bell like a madman and beginning to relax my fears of bodily harm. Sweaty and tired, we arrived back at the hotel to relax and write this post, grinning like buffoons, when we were confronted by the man at the door of the hotel, “a man in a jeep arrived at 1pm to talk with you, he is still waiting, let me go get him.” After some searching we finally found this fellow, who turned out to be the courier, send by our illustrious chief snake charmer and head of the Bangalore office, bearing our 1st A.C. tickets on the grand trunk express (stay tuned) to Agra, Delhi, and later to Varanasi (ditto).

After our long, parabolic flight across the Atlantic, you faithful correspondents strode somewhat bleary eyed into Seoul’s Incheon international airport, though I in retrospect I am unsure if “airport” is really the correct term. Indeed planes did land and unload/load people, but the entire international terminal was more like a spotlessly clean shopping mall, occupied exclusively by expensive European retailers and East Asian eateries than anything I have come to know as an airport. We strode through the gleaming terminal surrounded by well dressed Korean business men and young Russian couples, where the burly men struggled to keep up with giant spindly blonds. Also striking was the silence of the place. While American malls (or airports for that matter) subject their patrons to an assault of musics, screaming people, and crowded visual stimulus, this place was quite, minimal, silent, and colored tastefully in deep sea greens, stark whites and dark grays. We stopped into a food-court-type enclave and ordered a pair of Erdinger weissbeirs amidst children dressed in Pier Cardin sweater vests slurping pungent noodles from bowls of broth. We left the cafeteria in much revived spirits and we on our way the gate when we noticed this sign:

and thought perhaps this was exactly what we were looking for. We ventured in to inquire and inside we met a very kind representative who informed us that we did not have the sufficient time to make the little hand painted fans which were the activity of the day, but we stayed to chat anyways, and (don’t tell anyone) were given a free couple of fans to boot. She explained that she had visited the States once: Las Vegas “for the slots” she said; won $400. May we one day be as lucky.

As we were boarding the plane we struck up a conversation with a Gujarati diamond merchant, with manufacturing operations in Surat. As we descended on the escalator, he explained he was a Jain, which among other things means he is forbidden to eat anything which grows beneath the earth: potatoes, onions etc… so while he liked Korea, or “KR, a very good place” as he put it, it was hard for him to eat there. When we finally reached the bottom of the escalator, ready to board the plane to Bombay he bid us farewell and mentioned, “I told my wife I missed my flight and I’m not coming home tonight… but I am!” May we one day be as lucky.