CNY in STL: Roundup

As usual, I've composed more entries in my head than will ever make it into this journal. So maybe I should content myself with tossing out a few bullet points so I can move on to the latest on my life of neverending wonder in Chicago.

But foremost I want to stress that I really did enjoy myself, because I think that tends not to come through between my catty remarks on my family's foibles. They are all lovely, loving people and I treasure their company dearly. Even though I wasn't able to spread myself around as much as I'd originally planned, I did get to spend some time with everyone, and that pleased me very much.

• My one-line summary of driving down on Friday night seriously understated the suckiness of it all. I can't really complain, since I actually got to nap a tiny bit despite it all, but e. deserves some kind of medal. She's known in her family as "the Camel" because she normally never needs to stop for anything during a car trip of less than 8 hours, but she demanded we pull into two different rest areas so she could actually unclench her upper body for a few minutes. Ominously, both were spilling over with parked semis; when truckers don't want to be out on the highway, you know it's bad. In all, we passed about 15 accidents--mostly spinouts, but two or three crashes. The worst involved a Volvo that had roared past us a short while earlier (any schadenfreude effectively neutralised by the fact that the jerk took out two other cars in the process).
• Further confirmation--if any were necessary--that St. Louis lies south of the Bourbon Line: When I asked for a "hot toddy" at the bistro Monday night, I had to specify rum as an ingredient. According to the waiter, "We usually make it with Makers Mark." (I simply impressed they knew how to make one at all. More than once, I've dragged myself to a bar when recovering from or coming down with a cold in order to meet someone and ordered a hot toddy because it's the only thing I think they'll have that could make me feel less crappy. Almost invariably, they look at me like I just ordered a tankard of hot spiced sack.)
• All things considered, my older brother was in great shape while I was with him. I shouldn't complain about his behaviour at the local Bulgarian bistro, since he was very good about not ordering too much or making too many demands of the wait staff. But Jesus God I wish he would learn to eat like a human being. How do you get to be nearly forty without learning not to put your elbows on the table? Watching him drink makes me cringe, since sipping is not in his repetoire. Between that and the way he chokes down his food like someone is trying to take it away from him, I worry about him eating alone without anyone in earshot who knows the Heimlich manoeuvre. Years of lowest common denominator institutional communal dining have definitely taken a toll.
• One of the things at the top of my agenda when I went down was to play games and, by gum, play games I did. It goes without saying that I also wanted to win games, but, alas, Norebo had his vengeance on me for making fun of his silly name. At least I can take comfort in some near victories--the last night I lost Carcassonne by only 10 points and Ticket to Ride by a mere 2. You might think it would be more irritating to believe yourself to be winning until a last-minute reversal hands victory to your archrival, but it sure beats knowing from the start that you having nothing to look forward to but a slow descent into despair (which is the nutshell description of the game of Goa I suffered through Monday night in order to be agreeable to my hosts).