In Minnesota, leaving a house is a ceremony longer than the visit.
I learned this at a dinner.
At 8:00 the host slapped his knees and said "welp."
I understood this to mean we were leaving. I stood. I put on my coat.
I was raised to honor a signal.
I was the only one standing.
"Welp" is not the end.
"Welp" is the announcement that, at some point in the coming hours, an end will be considered.
At 8:15 we were still discussing a cousin's new truck.
At 8:40 we had migrated to the front door, where a second and entirely separate conversation began, richer than the first, because now everyone was standing and therefore relaxed.
At 9:05 the door was open. Cold air came in.
Nobody acknowledged the cold air.
To acknowledge it would be to admit that leaving was physically possible, and this would be rude.
At 9:20 we stepped onto the porch, which unlocked a third conversation.
At 9:45 the host remembered he had something for us. He went back inside. We waited.
When he returned with a jar of pickles, the giving of the pickles required its own farewell.
I have timed the Japanese goodbye.
A bow and a closing door. Clean. Efficient.
Cold, I understand now. So cold.
Here, the goodbye is the party.
The visit was only the excuse to earn the goodbye.
At the car, at 10:10, the host took my hand in both of his and said, "Well, we won't keep ya."
They had kept me for two hours past "welp."
I have never felt more kept.
I have never wanted less to leave.
Now, when I host, I say "welp" at eight o'clock, and I mean by it: please, for the love of everything, stay until midnight.
Nobody has left my house on time since.
It is the proudest I have ever been of a failure.
When you haven't got a watch or phone and need the time, just do this. With @thedoggodex and @SammiFawkes
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