And the word from the middle seat is "Moo."

The early morning rain had changed to a heavy wet snow by the time that the meetings concluded at noon. Many people, particularly those from the south and west, were quite anxious about driving in the snow. On the highways, the snow was just slushy and melted as soon as the tires hit it.

Without a remote car starter, I never would have found my rental car. It's bad enough that the Hyudais and Chevys and Tauri look pretty much alike, but, covered in snow, they all looked like the same lumps.

Interstate 90 west of Chicago is a toll road. At the exit ramp to O'Hare, there are three toll collection stations. Two are designated for iPass users. iPass is an electronic toll-paying system similar to FastLane in Massachusetts and EZ-Pass in New York. (In New Hampshire, I think you still pay with chickens.) The middle lane is a coin-collection basket. You're supposed to toss in the exact change. If you arrive at the exit ramp with no change, there is no way to get change. You are supposed to write down a number (while people are in back of you, honking), drive through, and then call that number within six days to avoid getting a ticket.

With luck, I got to the airport in good time and was able to get on an early flight, but a flight that was completely full. We were herded onto the plane with minimal use of cattle prods.

It's easy not to like some of my fellow travelers, such as the ones who jam two big suitcases into the overhead bins so that those who arrive later have to have their bags checked. There's also the trick of putting your bags into the first available spot in the overhead bins and then walking back to your seat. That way, the people in the front of the plane have to go back to get their bags when it's time to get off of the plane.

We received a snack, something with BBQ soy nuts and a bunch of multi-syllabic additives, including not more than 2% silicon dioxide. But, the coffee was Starbuck's, better than the industrial-strength motor oil that other airlines offer.

We had a delightfully smooth landing and taxied to the gate amid the beeps and peeps and boops of cell phones coming on.

I had parked in Central Parking in row 3-T. From the stairs, I went to row 3-M and onward. They skipped O and resumed with P. Q. R. S. Y. Y? Y?! I'm standing in a darkened parking garage in a land where they've repealed the Roman alphabet.

I walked around for several minutes before discovering another corner with a row marked 3-Z. I looked back toward the terminal and saw rows Y, X, W, V, and in the far, far reaches, from which the light left last Tuesday, I see row 3-T.

Once I was in my car and driving out of the parking lot, I could breathe easily and appreciate the stunningly bizarre parking techniques that my fellow travelers employ. They parked in places that were not only illegal, but incomprehensible - jammed between concrete pillar and walls such that the only way out of the car is through the moon roof.

Sandra and Marley greeted me in the driveway on a very balmy night. The foot of snow that I'd left behind was patchy and almost gone. We went in for a fine supper that didn't have a trace of silicon dixoide. Even if it did, there's no place like home.