Wednesday, October 19, 2005
The patron saint of travel stories
It’s not often that a trip to cover a story begins with crying and the screaming of obscenities and ends with a smile. But this latest trip to Atlanta did, thanks to the burnt-out “O” on the neon sign of a storage building, which made the name of St. Rage visible for miles.
Not that buying dinner plates for $1.99 at IKEA hadn’t already done wonders to improve my mood, but the knowledge that St. Rage was looking out for us as we finally made our way home caused the smile that had eluded me for most of the trip to creep across my face.
It’s not often that a trip to cover a story begins with crying and the screaming of obscenities and ends with a smile. But this latest trip to Atlanta did, thanks to the burnt-out “O” on the neon sign of a storage building, which made the name of St. Rage visible for miles.
Not that buying dinner plates for $1.99 at IKEA hadn’t already done wonders to improve my mood, but the knowledge that St. Rage was looking out for us as we finally made our way home caused the smile that had eluded me for most of the trip to creep across my face.
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