Stories from the Road: Hotel Breakfast

It was not the greatest hotel.  Stains on the furniture, elevator buttons that did not work, and an odd, indistinguishable smell in the hallways were enough to convince Tracie we would be staying elsewhere on our next trip to Houston.  For me, I tend to brush off such things when the price is discounted deeply enough and they give me a free hot breakfast.

        Ah, yes.  Breakfast.  Let’s talk about the breakfast.

The potatoes were gone.  The sparse smattering of eggs was dry and tasteless.  “Hot” might qualify as false advertising.  Even to the eye, it was clear the juice was watered down.  It might have been the worst meal I’ve ever been served that did not make me physically ill.

But my story only starts here.

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Let's get serious about Jesus

In the late spring of 1994, as I rooted on the Houston Rockets on the way of the first of two “Thank you, Michael Jordan, for trying to play baseball” world championships, most of the world was watching another sport.  The World Cup had come to America.  (That’s a big soccer tournament, in case you were unaware.)  And the American home crowd got a thrill when the Yanks pulled off an upset victory over traditional power Colombia.  The 2-1 win was helped along when Colombian defender Andres Escobar scored an “own goal,” giving a point to the Americans and effectively eliminating Colombia from the tournament.

In related news, Andres Escobar was shot and killed in his hometown of Medallin a few days later. 

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