The sky was clear, 95 degrees, humidity relatively low for the last day of July in Virginia. I drove to the Richmond airport to catch a flight to California. I rolled into the parking lot and scored a spot right away. Security was a breeze. Plugged into a charging station, no problem. We boarded on time. Then, our flight was delayed-thunderstorms in Atlanta. No planes in, no planes out. Most of us got off the plane, most reboarded, some did not.
Our flight was easy, smooth, and uneventful-the best kind. I dreamed a few dreams. We touched down gently and fortuitously, airplanes sat at almost every gate, waiting patiently for us to arrive. It was just after 10 p.m.
The Atlanta airport resembled the Jersey shore on a holiday weekend: bodies lounging everywhere, scantily clad, revealing a laisse-fair attitude and attire to match. The terminal looked like the Atlantic City Boardwalk with slews of people eating ice cream cones, chugging down cold drinks. My gate was at the end of the line, host to lost travelers who had to turn back and figure out what they were going to do for the night. One thunderstorm, tens of flights delayed, thousands of lives interrupted. I grabbed a cup of coffee and punched out a blog.
We boarded, departed after midnight, and I caught some z's. We arrived at 2:30 a.m. PCT. The airport was completely unrecognizable except the smell of SFO itself. Airports have distinct smells-a combination of jet fuel, the local smog levels, plus humidity that I came to know well flying helos. I passed by the yoga room, bought a ridiculously overpriced Americano-$4.21-took the Air Train to the rental lot, and rented a GPS free, cramped, underpowered American car. Weeeeee!
280 or 101? Which highway do I take? I search my memory banks and only recall 280 being the more scenic of the two. I opt for 101 because it's the middle of the night and soon I will have to pee. I pass by the old United Airlines building with fond memories. 101 passes through the industrial areas of the South Bay, depressing and unchanged from what I can tell. I recognized street names as I flew down the car-free lanes and found my way to De Anza College, my old stomping ground. I passed Coffee Society-holy shit it's still here?!
The battery on my phone is nearly dead but I pull up Google Maps to finish out the last two miles to my sister's house. I text her, unload, text again. No answer. I knock-quietly-which is stupid. I don't want to wake Casey but expect mom to have super sonic hearing. So, I sit and wait, and wait, and wait...but she doesn't open the door. I text a few more times before I wonder if peeing on her hoastas will kill them. It's chilly out. I forgot my favorite beenie and I'm cold. Perhaps Peets is open. It is. I love the West Coast for this-open at 5 a.m. On a Saturday. Yes!!! These people are doers!
I drive over to Peets. Pee. Order a chai latte and slice of citrus bread. It's peaceful and unexpected. I recognize nothing here-a lot has changed in the 20 years since I was last in this part of town. I watch the sun come up and the town begins to stir. I don't miss it here, but it is kinda cool to visit.
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