Once upon a Wednesday, I flew to San Diego to visit my friend Kylie. The airport experience went as expected: check-in, security, bagel, large Diet Coke, boarding, another Diet Coke, a third Diet Coke, landing.
However, the following Monday when I was trying to get home, I experienced no such luck. The airport experience went as follows: check in, security, bagel, large Diet Coke, all flights full for 6:30, bagel, all flights full for 8:15, large Diet Coke, all flights full for 12:15, all flights full for 2:00, consume an entire bag Twizzlers, befriend a mother from Alaska and, in a state of complete delirium, almost share a salad, give up and go back to Kylie’s.
Two days and twenty-seven Diet Cokes later, I am still in San Diego.
I am the herpes of house guests.
I have said a handful of goodbyes to Kylie, only to have her pick me up from the airport later. I don’t think I will actually ever get home, but as long as I have a Diet Coke in my hand and a bagel to munch on, I think I’ll survive.
(P.S. As I’m sitting in a hip little cafe writing this, I must say, California is full of excellent mustaches. Seeing as most of my personal hygiene has been thrown out along with the idea of actually returning home, I think I’ll start blending in here really soon…gross.)