On dreams come true
On the morning we were to return home from a recent trip, I waited for the elevator near the hotel lobby, leaning on the empty luggage buggy I'd come downstairs to fetch. I felt the presence of another person behind me, also waiting. The door dinged open and a succession of early 20-something males poured out, all wearing khaki pants, white shirts, and dark winter jackets. There must have been eight of them, at least. When the last one dribbled clear, I pushed the cart in and then turned to the thin, cigarette-scented fellow who entered with me. "Whew! Now THAT was an elevator full of young men!" I proclaimed, striving for humor. His eyes twinkled as he responded in a peaty Scottish brogue "And was that a dream come true for yeh?"
I laughed out loud, and kept laughing before finally replying "No, actually it isn't. But that's a reasonable question." I continued chuckling as we exited and went our separate ways down the carpeted corridor.
Dolce and I loaded up the cart with our various baggages, and we headed back out. As we walked down the hallway I hoped the Scot would reappear so that I could show him what a dream come true really looks like. And perhaps make a comment or two about quality trumping quantity, every time.