As he entered the departure lounge, I thought the tall lanky man with the guitar case was a friend of mine. At least, he was as familiar as an acquaintance. Perhaps, it was his attire of khakis, loafers, a jeans dress shirt and a BoSox cap that fit an archetype so close to simpleton traveling types. Through his Ben Franklin spectacles and under the bill of his cap, I recognized him. I caught myself slightly smiling at him as he scanned the room and placed his guitar case on the ground. Two boys and two women followed him in, adding to the eight other passengers waiting on the flight. The boys were twins, both dressed in blue and white pinstripe shirts, and were no more than three years old. As for the ladies, one was a
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