A week later and I have just recovered from my trip to SF. It took four blogs to accurately cover the details.
I departed from DFW on United Express and now understand why people are afraid to fly. I’m not afraid to fly. Just the opposite. I love flying (wanted to be a pilot until the 10th grade), but now I see why people think they are going to come crashing down in flames every time they board a plane. I m pretty sure this was the same duct-taped wing plane of Matt’s Elizabethan-esque tales. (Note: If you haven’t heard a story from the master, Elizabeth, well boys and girls, you haven’t heard a story). This plane was so small. If I sneezed I would have hit my head on the ceiling and punched the lady next to me in the boob. What struck me as odd, however, was the size of the bathroom. It was huge. Tons of leg room. I should have taken my laptop and sat in there.
Three hours and one mini-bottle of wine later, I was in SF. After getting lost en route to Ruby, her awesome (!) cousin Melissa, and her instantly-likable (point!) friend Kimber, I made it to the Prius without the parking nazis issuing any tickets. Whew. It’s become tradition to stay up too late and drink the first night I arrive. This time was no exception. At least everyone kept their clothes on. Mmm… Coronas