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Sal and Oscar, her lovely little boy who's six months younger than Clara Jane, met us at the airport with a surprise-that-shouldn't-have-been-a-surprise: our mutual friend M. and her daughter R. flew in the night before from Dallas. M.'s well-known for her spur-of-the-moment traveling. Obviously, she's a graduate of the same School of Creative Vacation Planning that my mother attended.

R.'s a delight. She's in her early teens and is already an accomplished violinist. She's got shaggy blonde hair and a penchant for wearing vintage neckties with t-shirts. She adores the darker side of Harry Potter. For good reason, M. is one of the most adoring mothers I've ever met.

After I hugged M. and R. I blurted, "You brought your violin, right?" I didn't get to hear her play last October during their last impromptu visit, and I knew my fiddle-happy child would adore seeing the real thing. R. didn't disappoint. We returned to Kirsti's house and were treated to a concert that included everything from Vivaldi to Cotton-Eye Joe and everything in between.

Clara Jane was too mesmerized to lose her mind.

Ladies and gentlemen! It's the Incredible Unblinking Child!

In Detroit, there's not a huge desire to get out and see all the local sites. Someday I'd like to add the Motown Historical Museum to the long list of music pilgrimages I've made, but I'm sure there will be other opportunities, seeing as the universe demands my presence in Detroit every few years. Regardless, there's something about Detroit that makes it easy to just hang out with Sal without feeling like we're missing out. Which is exactly what we did on Tuesday - hung out at Kirsti's and caught up while the kids played.

This is what I love about my friendship with Sal. Having a friend who lives half a continent and and ocean away whittles friendship down to its essence. I have a person I love dearly, but I only get to see her every few years for a day or two at a time. I never know when - or if - I'll see her again. What's the best use of that precious time? The answer never involves big, elaborate plans with enough fun to make our skin melt off. It never involves doing backflips to please each other. It always involves simple time of just sitting and being together. Every visit with Sal reminds me that friendship and love aren't about what I can do to show people how much they mean to me. Being together is plenty. It's everything. And any friendship where either partner doesn't feel that way ain't a friendship, my friends.

While I couldn't wait for this trip to see Sal, I also couldn't wait to travel with Clara Jane again. We had our weekend in Illinois last fall, but that wasn't exactly a solo trip. This was, what with the two of us flying and all. We also had our first mom-daughter night in a nice hotel. And dear readers, when we talk about our trip to Detroit, and what was fun, do you know what's near the top of my daughter's list?

The room service picnic dinner in bed, in our jammies. She may have her father's blonde hair, blue eyes and face, but that room service picnic in bed love? That's all me, shining through.

After our long, exciting day that didn't include a nap, I snuggled with Clara Jane in the armchair, trying to find a way to lull her to sleep without her usual routine. It didn't take much, just a few minutes of snuggling and she was out. I let her sleep on my chest long enough to ensure she was sleeping deep enough to not be disturbed by the transition to bed. I talked to her about our day, and how good she had been. Despite the upheaval of the day and her tiredness, she'd barely made a negative noise of any sort. I told her how proud I am of her, and how this is just the beginning. As she gets older, there will be more trips, with B. and with just the two of us.

"We're going to do this when you're a big girl in school, and when you're a teenager and think you don't want to be around me. We'll do this when you're in college. We'll definitely do this when you're the one who's 33 years old and footing the bill." I smiled through tears as she snored.

When she awoke the next morning, sleeping sideways in our king-size bed with her head rammed into my ribcage, she opened her eyes and asked, "We're gonna have a picnic in bed breakfast, right?" Of course! We're going to eat $2 cartons of Yoplait with a 15% service charge, and we're going to eat them in our pillow fort, because that's what hotels are for, my child.

Wednesday, we were Frankenmuth-bound with two goals: feasting on an awesome family-style chicken dinner, and getting some water park time, all with two cranky, overtired toddlers in tow.

Within minutes of checking into our suite, the kids devised a game Clara Jane later told me was called "Elevator". It entailed The Crankmeisters shoving each other into the closet and slamming the door. There were more than a few occasions during this game when Sal and I discussed the merits of just leaving them in there.

By dinnertime, Clara Jane was over the edge and intent on taking the rest of us with her. Only the strolling accordian player could soothe her. The love of polka music? That's 100% from her father's side of the family.

Despite the lovely fried chicken, buttered noodles, corn, homemade bread with cherry-rhubarb jam, cranberry relish, bean salad, chicken soup, and stuffing placed before her, do you know what she ate for dinner?

The lemon from my iced tea.

To further complicate matters, just as she started showing interest in her dinner, a leiderhosen-clad waiter placed a mamouth tray filled with ice cream, cookies and cakes within Clara Jane's reach, thus ending any possible forays into nutritious dining.

There's a waiter in Frankenmuth who's still trying to untangle his leiderhosen from their noose-like grip around his neck.

But then we returned to the room and this transpired:

And the cuteness was so unbearable that I no longer wanted to lock my child in a closet and deny her delicious lemons.

Hundreds of miles away at this exact same moment, B. is overwhelmed by the urge to purchase a shotgun, although he has no idea why.

Both kids passed out by 7:30 PM. Kirsti shooed Sally and me from the room with orders to forget the kids and enjoy some time together. I invited my friend Mr. Raspberry Lemonade with Vodka along. We sat in the hotel's lobby for hours, doing that friend thing I mentioned earlier. It made up all the toddler-rendered chaos of the day.

Thursday, we headed home with a stop at a petting farm. Clara Jane and I had an evening flight to catch, and Kirsti had some local family obligations, but it all worked out.

Our flight was delayed, Clara Jane was agitated, and I was exhausted. But during the flight home, the beautiful little redhaired girl in front of us made friends with my kid. For the entire flight, they talked, shared their snacks, shared their toys, and compared pedicures. I thought about how quickly kids pick up together, how fast Clara Jane and Oscar latched onto each other. There's no pretense with kids, and they don't hide their emotions. From the little girl on the plane massaging Clara Jane's toes, to Clara Jane cornering Oscar in the closet and covering him with kisses, if they feel it, they express it.

When do we lose that? When do we become so scared of showing our true selves that we hide or smother instead of just going, "Hey you. I think you rock. Let's pretend this closet into an elevator and make a day of it," while planting a big ol' kiss.

About ten years ago I was getting to know my friend Sandy. We worked in different departments at the same university, and often wound up working on the same projects. One day we decided that we needed to hang out away from work. We went out for dinner and drinks, acting in the reserved way new friends do. In the middle of dinner she told me that she loved my lipstick and it looked great on me. "Was that weird to say? That's weird. I shouldn't have said that." We both laughed, because my God. Two decades earlier, both of us probably would have smooched a new friend whose lipstick we loved, had five-year-olds worn lipstick. But as innocence goes, so does the comfort in knowing that our affections will be returned, even with friends. We wind up shuttered, and then we wind up very, very lonely.

Since that night, Sandy and I have been great friends. We live in different towns and don't talk very often, but when we do it's always filled with that openness and love, which erases any expectations and obligations. It's just pure.

Spending time with Sal feels the same way.

The trip wasn't perfect. There were rental car snafus, money mistakes, cranky kids, a lack of sleep, an overabundance of heat and humidity, that damn dessert tray, and one perfect little bathroom sans door. But it was perfect. It was showing up in Detroit, picking a direction, and going. It was Sally, Oscar, Kirsti, M. and R. It's a girl playing Vivaldi, a pair of toddlers swapping slobbery binkies and sippies, dribbling sushi rice on the floor of the van, a box of mac & cheese and leftover chicken for lunch, an unplanned $100 ride in a Town Car, waking every two hours three nights in a row, two slippery kids splashing each other in the bathtub,little girls comparing toenails and eating pretzels on a plane. And it was perfect.

(In case you missed it yesterday, there are pictures aplenty.