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it hurt you to look at them. The bus’s sunroof was glass and I could see them in there scrambling over every seat. The street in front of our hotel was just crawling with people. One group waved brooms. A few boys had found golf clubs somewhere and were throwing these up then catching them like majorettes would. A naked man and a woman danced around, holding a vacuum cleaner over their heads. He lifted the body of it and she’d slung the hose over her shoulder and kept shaking the wand part at people. Even from the second floor, I could tell it was an Electrolux. The crowd didn’t seem to know what a vacuum cleaner was. They kept staring up at the thing. Seeing this scared me more than anything so far. Then our bus drove off. Most of the Africansran after it, all cheering. I stood there at the window thinking, Well, there our only hope goes. This is probably it, what could be worse for us? That’s when I noticed our tour guide. He went sneaking across the street, looking left and right, guilt written all over him, and carrying a red Samsonite makeup case exactly like Mimi Martinson’s, a rich divorcee’s from St. Pete. That little Arab turned a corner. I knew then we were on our own, with this mess out of our control.
    I decided to build a barricade in front of my door but realized that the rest room was out in the hall. We had to share. Father Flannagan’s leaflet said in big printing, “Rooms with private baths at the best of the earth’s four-star hotels.” I went to find the bathroom but somebody was in there and four more of our people were waiting in line.
    Old Mr. McGuane, one of the Texans, stood around, real casual, holding a pistol. He was telling the others how he’d brought it along just in case, and somebody asked how he’d gotten it through customs and the hijack inspections and he said he didn’t know, it had been right there in his bag all along, but he could tell them one thing, he was mighty glad to have it with him now. Other people asked, just in case, what his room number was. I had to use the bathroom so much but I knew it was going to take forever. Seeing people from our tour had depressed me even more. So I walked back, locked my door, and just sat down on the bed and went ahead and had a good cry. I thought of Teddy and Lorraine, my son-in-law and daughter, who’d given me this trip to get my mind off my husband’s death. I couldn’t help believing that I’d never see Toledo again. I kept remembering a new Early American spice rack I’d hung in my kitchen just before leaving. It’s funny, the kind of thing that gives you comfort when you’re scared.
    I told myself that if I just lived through this, if I got to go one more time to the Towne and Country restaurant near my home, and order their fantastic blue-cheese dressing, and then drive over to the Old Mill Little Theater and see another production of
Jacques Brel Is Alive and Well
, I’d give five thousanddollars to the Little Sisters of Mercy Orphanage. I vowed this and said a quick prayer to seal it. I found some hotel stationery and sat down and wrote out my will. I already had a legal one back in our safe deposit box, but it soothed my mind so much to write: I leave all my earthly goods to Teddy and Lorraine. I leave all my earthly goods to Teddy and Lorraine. Sitting there, I fell asleep.
    I know I’m rambling worse than ever. But in emergencies like this, little things bunch up and get to seem important as the big facts. So I’m putting most everything in.
    I woke up and at first didn’t know where I was, then I remembered, Africa, and I thought, Oh Lord. Even in Ohio, sometimes this feeling comes over me and I wonder, What exactly am I doing here? In Tongaville, it was that same question but about five hundred times as strong. I crawled to the end of my bed and looked out the balcony window and that’s when I saw your mother and father wandering around down on the street. Frankly, Mrs. Whiston, I thought they were