Backpacking across Europe was an adventure that I had dreamt of since early childhood. Now, at the age of fifty, I was finally doing it. I spent the entire winter planning and replanning my itinerary, packing and repacking my backpack, and shopping for just the right clothes, shoes, and things. I had to compromise between quantity and quality -- after all, everything I was bringing had to be carried on my own back, I was ready for any emergency, contingency, situation, and eventuality.

Except for blisters on my feet, that is. I should have known better than to go hiking in brand new boots. I ran out of bandages on the third day, and at that point I had only walked halfway through the Chunnel. I tried hitchhiking, but nobody stopped to give me a ride. At least they yelled words of encouragement to me (I hope that's what those words were ... they were speaking in foreign languages).

When I finally arrived at the end of my journey, I found myself standing in a que behind six huge crates being wheeled into the Conference Center. Each of them had a word stenciled on them that I recognized: "DQueene".

"Pardon me, sir" I said to the burly fellow wrestling with the last crate in the line, "what are all of these crates for?"

Between grunts and groans he replied, "They belong to someone attending the Larian Conclave. We're delivering them to her just now."

I began to think that my backpack wasn't quite as omnipotent as I had hoped it would be. Nonetheless, when I registered at the Check-In Desk I received a key to a single room on the fourth floor, "at the end of the hallway near the stairs" as the gentleman described it. I also signed the R.S.V.P list for the special conference and received a handbill describing the meeting's agenda.

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I went up to my room for a wash-up and a nap. Before dozing off, I reminded myself to wake up at precisely 18:50 (I have an internal mental alarm clock that never fails).

-- BG