It is 3:00 in the afternoon and we were three bus rides away from the ferry terminal and at least 90 minutes from the mainland from there. And the ice pack was melting.
Who’s going to pick up the free world’s dry cleaning if husbands continue to shake a new cocktail of linens and woolens and berry-red t-shirts in one giant tumbler of a washing machine? Our underemployed nation dozes in the Land of the Lotus Eaters, its only accessories a shrunken, formerly blue pashmina and some pink athletic socks.