Coincidence

I've grown fond of--almost possessive of--the "ladies' lounge", an antiquated avocado-green antechamber where I can stretch and brush my teeth and bemoan my greasy hair in private. The lounge even has booth seats and its own bathroom. Even better than the lounge is the observation deck, with huge windows and a snack bar. This is where people go to get drunk.

Today I made my first foray into the dinette. I had avoided it thus far because it was pricey and filled up fast, but I'm on my longest leg, with no Charlottesville pancakes or Chicago reubens to tide me over.
I was seated with three travelers from the sleeping car, which (according to the elderly San Francisco gentleman to my left) was comparable in price to flying first class. So, I knew my place among my breakfast companions.
Small talk ensued and, as often happens with strangers, coincidences started popping up left and right. We were all northern California natives. The Montana couple, whose matching cowboy hats contradicted their WASPy mannerisms, were well-versed in the field of pediatrics, as was the San Franciscan. But then the world got really small. I revealed that I was a college grad from NC.
"What school?" the woman asked.
"You wouldn't know it, it's tiny."
"Try me," she pressed.
So I tried her, and lo and behold, her daughter graduated from Warren Wilson. And won the downhill race at the '07 nationals in Banner Elk.
"Shut up, shut up!" I could barely keep myself from saying.
It was madness. We talked about her daughter's decision to run mud spikes because of the abysmal weather, about how Warren Wilson is doomed to be ever the bridesmaid, about the great comraderie among the teams of the dirty south, and best of all, about the questionable hygiene and trademark funk of Warren Wilson kids.
It was a good breakfast.

Recent flooding has plagued the Midwest, leaving everything green and delicious. Today I watched the sun rise over the waterlogged fields of Minnesota.