I tread softly to the other side today.
I was welcomed as I exited the taxi, the front door was held open for me, and all who saw my drenched countenance smiled and greeted me as if my drowned-rat look was perfectly acceptable in such posh surroundings.
World Cup soccer was showing on the flat screen, just like at my restaurant. But set amidst the dark cherry paneling, marble floors, and plush rugs, it seemed more like background music than the center of attention.
Wine glistened in oversized goblets. Vodka on the rocks was gently poured and slowly sipped. Servers balanced silver-rimmed, cloth-topped trays.
I was not in Kansas anymore. Not even close.
Is this my next stop along the Yellow Brick Road?
And how will I know when I’ve reached no place like home?