To Mr. Hughes, with love.

Not very long ago, my husband and I went to Chicago. It was at Oprah’s request, though we can’t really talk about it. Truth be told, we were iffy about going, and in the end, it came down to one question: Will we have time to go to the Chicago Art Musuem and see A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte? And they said yes. And so we went.

Our plane was late, though, and we ran to the museum through Chicago streets on a  dark, snowy February afternoon. They let us in for free because we arrived 20 minutes before closing. We spent those 20 minutes sitting in front of Seurat’s painting.

And that was the best part of the trip.

Another time, when we were looking at wedding locations in Oregon, we met with a man named Doug Froman. I giggled. I laughed. I asked my husband if Doug was heir to the sausage throne. And then he lost it as well.

And then there was the time when we really were in Central Park in fall. Fortunately, no dresses were torn.

So, for making my travels just a little bit more wonderful, I figure I owe Mr. Hughes a big thank you. Or maybe a danke schoen. Either way. Rest in peace, good sir.