Dear Mr. Keillor,
I know you will never read this so I feel pretty comfortable with the spelling and grammatical errors that will happen in this letter as well as the run on sentences like the one you are reading right now.
I am an American. I live in Antwerp, Belgium because I married an Antwerp, Belgian. Recently I was shopping in the kringwinkel, a charity shop here in town, when I discovered your book "We Are Still Married" laying behind some British paperbacks. It cost ten cents. I bought it along with Dave Pelzer's child abuse memoir and an ancient copy of "Jane Eyre".
I've worked through the book slowly, reading the short stories and poems out of order. This morning I read "Nineteen" as the tram wound its way toward my neighborhood. I saw myself in your story about being an American in a foreign country, but doing my best to not make the mistakes of being a "loud" American, or a fat one, or the kind that doesn't say please and thank you in the native language. I saw myself in the walking fast and keeping my face to the ground so as not to look too touristy. I saw myself missing your 'fun in the sun'. I smiled when I finished the story and looked out the window just in time to see two ladies kissing passionately. One was very much taller than the other one.
I know you get loads of compliments all the time and I don't intend to do too much of that here, though you are one of my heroes. Of the three books I bought in the Kringwinkel that day, I didn't love yours the most, but I certainly liked it best!