Oh the Places You'll Go: St. Louis

I don't really mind a work-related gathering in the heartland (especially when there's really almost no time to leave the hotel), but en route, it occurred to me that, based on the number of seatbelt extenders handed out on the Chicago-St. Louis leg, we might have to turn the plane around, because at least one of the enormous people on board was going to have a heart attack. Definitely not in Kansas anymore, Toto. (Where Kansas is populated entirely by super-thin, multi-culti NYU students.) I somehow ended up in First Class for that leg, which was lovely, although I'm still unsure of the alcohol policy details (not that I would drink free champagne in the middle of the day! Never!), and I really don't like the bulkhead row. (Someone pointed out that you can put your feet up, but as I'm an aisle girl, that traps the person next to me, and that's just rude.)

I arrived late in the afternoon and strolled around the deserted downtown - deserted except for a shower of bridal parties having photos taken by the Arch. I discovered set of Choose Your Own Adventure bridesmaids - one in a halter-top red satin dress with ruffles and an asymmetrical hemline, another in cream with red embroidered flowers, a hoop skirt and red opera length gloves, yet another in a slip dress of periwinkle blue and the last sewn into a white dress with a large rhinestone decoration at the neck. (The bride, perhaps?)

Later that evening, the Posse Comm. and I went for drinks and dinner to the hip part of town, down towards the river but before Casino Hell. The Posse is considerably younger than the FG, and as we reviewed our respective afternoons, they pointed out that the CYOA girls were mostly likely heading towards prom and not the altar. Ahem. We four brunettes in jeans and ballet flats (plus escort) from The City thoroughly enjoyed the visual and audio feast of faux-blonde college girls and brides-to-be in teeny, tiny, technicolour outfits teetering down the cobblestone streets in white heels, drunk before 9 p.m., and leaning heavily on tequila-swilling boys from the cast of Friday Night Lights. (We judge because we can.)

There followed a brief trip to the local casino. It was a) unbelievably smoky, b) windowless, and c) full of people who for the most part might have been better off buying milk for their children with the cash they were pouring into the slot machines. So, rather than be completely overcome by angst at the state of the nation, I returned to the hotel for the first of several evenings of drinking and dancing with my coworkers from across said nation.

On our last night, I joined the Drug Czar's team for a beautiful meal at Monarch, easily the best restaurant in town. It was certainly the best meal I'd had since arrival, but that's not saying much. I began with a lemon drop and the yellowfin tuna involtini with alaskan king crab salad with sweet chile glaze and frizzled wontons (which only narrowly beat out the pumpkin risotto, pancetta, onion, and sage with mascarpone cream), followed by grilled Atlantic swordfish, roasted sweet potatoes and house made worcestershire sauce. The Yoga Goddess chose two beautiful red wines, and the evening was a resounding success. The YG and I were talked into the red velvet cake for dessert by a charming waiter who happened to grow up in the next town over in the YG's home state (which led to an extensive discussion of college football rivalries), but when it arrived and we discovered the icing was heavily flavoured with almond extract (which the FG does not enjoy), one of the attorneys at the table talked the waiter into bringing us each the bread pudding instead. It was much better, and went nicely with my chocolate martini. There's always a good reason to have an attorney on hand.

Next stop: New Mexico.