I just returned from a night and a day in Missouri's capital: Jefferson City, a small town named for our third President which sits along the muddy banks of the muddy Missouri River about halfway between Kansas City and St. Louis. (Missouri was acquired from the French in the Louisiana Purchase during the presidency of Thomas Jefferson.) Although I didn't see or step in any cow plops while walking along the streets, Jefferson City is the type of place where that would not be totally unexpected.
I did see one sign which read, "Jefferson City: The Prettiest Small Town in America." It isn't.
I was in the capital for a day of social work training entitled: "Always Turned On: Sex Addiction in the Digital Age," an interesting topic which is worthy of a blog post on its own. The instructor was very competent in his field, and I felt that the drive and expense of the trip and the class was well worth the education on human nature that I received.
My son reserved a room for me at the Truman Hotel and Conference Center which I mistakenly thought was right downtown. After failing to locate the building where I thought it should be, I hailed a Hispanic gentleman who was just getting into his car, probably after a hard day of work. I asked if he knew where the hotel was at. "Yes," he replied. I then asked if he could tell me, and he responded by asking me if I had GPS. "GP what?" I queried. "Follow me," he sighed.
The guy led me on a fifteen minute drive through the heart of the city before finally reaching my "hotel." (It was actually a motel - a hastily and minimally refurbished old Ramada which I had stayed at several times when I was working for the state.) I pulled out some cash to tip the Good Samaritan, but he waved me off and drove on toward his own destination. He was a very courteous and nice individual!
One other note. As I was taking a walk downtown during lunch today, I heard some music playing on the street from the Madison Cafe. It was a song by Connie Francis. How very Jefferson City!