Sitting in Legal Seafoods in Terminal B, at Logan, the man next to me asks the bartender a question. “Tell me, is the guy down there dressed in some traditional fashion?”

The bartender looks. The man in question is probably in his late 50s, wearing a white banded collar shirt, a widenecked dark blue sweater, and a grey and blue plaid hat, maybe more of a cap, like one might see on a London cabbie. He’s sitting down at the other end of the bar, eating chowder and reading a book. “Maybe for golfing,” the bartender says.

Other than that, a smooth flight home. Bumpy in the air, enough to keep the flight crew in their seats, but not so bumpy as to be unpleasant. Read a lot, tried to figure out why the daughter travelling with her mom carried herself with such weirdly adult composure that I mistook her for a dwarf, at first. Then to pick up my car at Ampco, a quick run down 76, and I was at home with my sweetie, just in time to prep for our trip to Wisconsin, tomorrow. Wheee!