adventures in transit

I flew into San Francisco on the 21st. My dad and I are slowly making our way to Utah (where he’ll drop me off into my new life) by way of Calaveras National Park, the Utah Shakespeare Festival in Cedar City, Arches, and Ashley National Forest.

–I’ve sat next to massively overweight people, had couples engaging in heavy PDA next to me, have told stories to kids, and even had a glass of whiskey dropped into my lap once (that was especially fun for an almost-non-drinker like me). But this was the first time I’ve shared my row with a woman and her dog. I’m allergic, so that was fun. At least I didn’t start sneezing till halfway through the flight.

–because I was using my dad’s frequent flyer miles, and he has a Premier Access/Gold Elite/Whatever Status because he flies a lot, I had access to the United Lounge at the airport on Wednesday. The ground steward asked me if I needed directions, and it immediately became clear I was not the owner of that card, since my answer was, basically, “Lounge? Me? What lounge?” I am so smooth when traveling.

–Case in point: my first day in the States, I stood in line to get a bagel, but when it was my turn to order, suddenly wasn’t sure in which language I should order and started out in a mixture of English, Dutch, and German. That was very helpful, as I’m sure you can imagine.

–on our first night in San Francisco, the rental car was broken into and our camping stuff gone through. The thief made off with all my dad’s socks and underwear (leaving his clothes behind), two towels, and five dollars in quarters. Quite the heist. We’ve replaced the underwear but are kind of wondering what the purpose behind it all was.

–Concierge lady at hotel, after my dad leaves the breakfast room: I didn’t want to say anything, but yesterday, when you came in for breakfast, I wondered if you were his daughter or his very young wife.
Me: Um, his daughter.

I then felt the need to include the fact that he has a completely age appropriate wife (which is technically true). The lady later told me about the father of one of her sons, a punk rock musician who hasn’t missed a Giants game in years and is completely passionate about fishing baseballs out of the bay, so I’m thinking it’s her, rather than me. (Also, I don’t think I’m blond enough to be a trophy wife. Small blessings.)

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