Hour 1 (8:21 – 9:21p) The original plan was to spend these eleven hours exploring San Francisco (a city I've never been to...not even the airport). I was going to walk up the infamous hills, cross the Golden Gate bridge, and party the night away with new gay friends. That was the plan until I got directed past the exit doors, to the Air Train heading to Terminal 1, through security, leaving me with no other choice but to head on down to Gate 30.
Fortunately Gate 30 has a huge waiting area with a wall of windows overlooking the incoming planes. Unfortunately there are no outlets in this huge waiting area. Worse, there are no outlets by chairs, causing me to find my niche on the floor near a pole. Hey, at least I found an outlet to plug my computer in, right? Right.
Hour 2 (9:22 – 10:22p)
Directly in front of me is Peet's Coffee & Tea. I'm pretty hungry, maybe I'll get something to eat or possibly a coffee to help me through this night. But the question is, with the waiting area filled with people, do I really want to take the chance and give up this outlet? Besides, dad gave me a bag of Tropical Trail Mix, which I haven't opened.
My father is an interesting character. He has a bias against Mexico and everything related to it (sadly, the language, the people, the music, the art, etc), so he didn't see me off for my trip going there, yet when it comes to France, he not only offered to drop me off at the airport, but he wrote me a letter (see Hour Eight), gave me advice and a bag of Tropical Trail Mix for the plane. See what I mean?
The trail mix is filling me up enough to get my mind off of the hunger and onto how bored out of my mind I already am. After finding out that I have to pay for internet, my options seem pretty limited: find a cafe, finish reading
Eat, Pray, Love, play each of the seven free games on my computer, write a story, read all of my 939 unread messages (it's not as impressive as it sounds), chat it up with any cute guys who are waiting as well (I'm joking, trust me), or create a new song on GarageBand. Since I don't know too much about GarageBand except the very basics, the best explanation I can give is that it is an application on macs where you can create songs using rhythms that are 8 or 16 beats long. Sometimes you can even use songs that are in iTunes.
I look up at Peet's in hopes that they are still open. They are! Okay, I tell myself that once the crowd dies down a little I will gather my stuff and get something to eat, but as soon as I compliment myself for creating this brilliant plan, the guy behind the counter starts closing up shop, including turning off the computer system. I've figured out in the past and at work that once the computer system is turned off, then that means the place, whether it be a store, a restaurant or a cafe, is closed for sure. My brilliant plan is completely foiling in my face! Hopefully this isn't a sign for how the rest of my night will turn out, or worse, my entire trip.
Hour 3 (10:23 – 11:23p) Onto reading my 939 unread messages, I guess. Not to get your hopes up, but I don't actually get through all 939 unread messages. In fact, I never even planned on reading all of them. To tell you the truth, I only get through seven. But it's the first message that is worth sharing. The first message is a FaceBook message notifying me that Ben Atkinson left me a message. Ben Atkinson is an Englishman that stayed in the same room as Maya and I in Hostel Guadalajara Centro in...Guadalajara, Mexico. Ben is 22 or 24 and has the worst farmer's tan I've ever seen. It's pretty impressive, actually. Yet he was so amazingly interesting and full of life. The type of person you want in your life, even if it's only via FaceBook.
The message is long (which he warns at the beginning), describing his past four weeks in the U.S. and Mexico. In it, Ben writes
“San Francisco was a great place to start things off. After arriving just before midnight, I spent the first night sleeping in a closed cafe at the airport to save on the cost of a bed (surprisingly without being moved on by security), and then got up at about 4:30 to get the train into the city in time to watch the sunrise.”
What a perfect idea! I'll be just like Ben and sleep in a cafe and watch the sunrise at about 4:30. Well, okay, maybe I won't sleep in a closed cafe, but I will watch the sunrise. Actually, I'll be just like Ben and write about my overnight stay in the San Francisco airport, only, I'll do it hour by hour. But what to title it?
* * *
This Tropical Trail Mix is actually called “The Ultimate Tropical Trail Mix”, and I can understand why. There are not only peanuts, raisins, milk chocolate candies (aka M&M knock-offs), cashews and almonds, but there are also dried pineapple, papaya, cranberries and banana chips. Not too many people know this, but I
like banana chips. Not enough to eat an entire baggy of them, but I like them so much that I've been picking them out and eating them first.
Admitting that one likes banana chips seems to get the same reaction as one admitting they like a big heaping bowl of shit. But I still like them and will continue to pick them out first.
* * *
Would it be too cliché to entitle this essay “Eleven”?
Hour 4 (11:24 – 12:24a) On my way back from the restroom, I hear Seinfeld playing from a TV inside Legends of San Francisco, a cocktail lounge. As I inch closer to see if I could possibly sneak in to watch, my eyes narrow in on an outlet in Gate 31, the next gate over, this time one that is connected to a roomy chair! As the news starts, signaling that Seinfeld has ended, I sit down and plug my computer in. Right as I sit, my mother texts me asking the typical, yet kindhearted questions such as “did you eat?”, “will you be able to sleep?”, “how are things going?”, and to let me know how Maisy's doing (“stretched out asleep on the floor”) and that Ted Kennedy had died. The weird thing is, I was just about to text her asking how Maisy was and that the news just reported that Ted Kennedy had died.
Once I turned a teenager, my mother and I have always fought. Let me take that back, we
had always fought. That is, until my trip to Mexico. Being apart has really made me appreciate everything she does and has done for not only me, but for my siblings and my dog, Maisy, as well. She's the type of mother who takes time out of her busy schedule to make little pictures of Maisy “coming over” to see me. Such as Maisy copied and pasted into a picture of Universal Studios or Maisy copied and pasted into, well, here:
Maya saw these and said my mother was very cute, and she's right. My mother works all the time, yet she cares enough to send emails with these pictures FROM Maisy. An example,
Hi Mommy,
I'm on the road on my way to see you and Maya. I know you won't mind. Grandma wouldn't buy me a plane ticket, so I'm walking. I stopped in LA on my way to rest my poor paws. Here's a picture so you don't forget me.
See you soon!
Love, Maisy
* * *
It's times like these where I wish I packed a blanket around. The seat I'm in is right next to a window, which sounded like a great idea, but in actuality is freezing my bum off. So much so that I will literally have to shave my legs again by the time the night is over.
Hours 5 and 6 (12:25 – 2:26a) Sleeping is not an easy thing to do when
1. One is wearing a dress that hits above the knee
2.One is wearing a light sweater that barely works as a blanket
3.One's dress happens to be sleeveless as well, so the sweater-blanket is trying to cover the upper AND lower half of the body
4.It is freezing (see Hour 4)
5.The place one is trying to sleep in is an AIRPORT
And this is why I only slept for (an interrupted) two hours.
Hour 7 (2:27 – 3:27a) David Jackson is another Englishman Maya and I met at Hostel Guadalajara Centro. He too was amazingly interesting, but wasn't full of life. In fact, when the three of us went out for drinks on our last night in Guadalajara, he told us that “most English people don't say 'that's amazing' or even 'that's great'” when describing something they like. Apparently, the English are strict on their usage of these exclamatory words, so much so that if they do think something is truly “great”, then they will just say it's “alright”. The only time that it's okay to use one of these exclamations is if something is the most absolutely brilliant thing in the world.
So David says.
In Ben's message about his trip he, an Englishman, not only describes places he's visited as being “fantastic” (not once, but four times), but he also uses the word “amazing” to describe a train ride, describes San Diego and his time in general so far as being “brilliant”, and uses the exclamation mark NINE times in the entire message. Interesting, huh?
Hour 8 (3:28 – 4:28a) The seat I've been sitting in is warm. I'm back at Gate 30 because though Gate 31 had comfortable, roomy chairs with outlets, they were way too cold. I just couldn't get my body heat to stick to it – especially after sleeping in one.
I think the Peet's guy is back. It's 3:35 and he's back at work. Does this mean they are opening soon? Some real food would be nice to have before the long flight, maybe even hot tea or hot chocolate or hot coffee or hot apple cider, even though I can't stand hot apple cider, but if it were the only hot choice on the menu, I'd take it. Just to use as a heat pack.
It's finally sinking in that I'm going to France. This has been something I've wanted to do for a long time, and now it's finally happening.
My father gave me a “letter” when he dropped me off at the airport. Inside, there was a card accompanied with $400. FOUR HUNDRED DOLLARS. Now, my father is the type of parent who randomly gives us twenty dollar bills and who once gave me twenty dollars for a missing tooth (though he states it was the Tooth Fairy), yet on Christmas and birthdays he sometimes gives $100 and sometimes gives candy bars instead (no joke). So $400 is quite a bit of money for him to be giving out so freely.
Naturally, I'm trying to decide what to do with it. Nice souvenirs? Treat myself to a fancy dress, dinner or new necklace? Go to Italy and/or Spain? Take Charlotte and Vincent out? Or save it to help pay for school?
Seriously though, I hope Peet's opens soon.
Three and a half hours left. At least the rest of the people joining me on this flight are probably getting ready and heading on over to the airport by now. See, it doesn't seem as bad when I put it like that.
Hour 9 (4:29 – 5:29a) Been listening to Kanye West.
It's four a.m. and I can't sleep. It's 4:45 and not only are people here, but Peet's is almost open. I have figured out that they must open at five. If they don't, then I will wreak havoc and make sure they are open. I kid, I kid. There are a good twenty people here so far. My breath stinks and I look like crap, but that's okay. You know why? Because I'll flash a sweet smile and pop in a stick of gum making sure not to speak to anyone. Not only do I look terrible, but I also just realized that I'll have worn the same clothes for two, almost three, days in a row. Flying to France from the U.S. really isn't that great. At least it beats walking, har har.
(Side note, I completely stole the “har har”'s from Lindsay Baltus.)
The man who changes the display for the U.S. Airways desks in each gate has updated the signs with the upcoming flights and it just makes me wonder – why would anyone possibly want to leave for Philadelphia at 6:30 in the morning? Or to Las Vegas at 7:00? Now, with the getting ready time and traveling time and security time and waiting time, don't you think that it just seems a bit ridiculous?
Anyway. I need food. The man next to me is eating a hamburger. That's one fear I have about traveling a lot – eating terrible food at terrible hours. It's like doing theatre - you have to make sure to stock up on healthy food that's easy to make for people on the go.
The line is getting longer and longer. Perhaps I'll stand and wait...but then I'll possibly lose my outlet and will have to sit on the floor by the pole again. Maybe it'll be one of those things where I can wait it out and the line will decrease, not only cutting my in-line time in half, but also securing my spot in this roomy chair (because once the people in line get their orders and sit down, they will see that I'm sitting here).
There are four empty chairs (once I get up to get food), I'd be surprised if they were all taken by the time I get back. I'll take my chances.
Hour 10 (5:30 – 6:30a) There were only two roomy seats left. Not only did I get a croissant (which I hope to get at least one in France) and a cup of green tea, I also found something to pass these last two hours – update my iTunes library and input all of the music files in it!
Earlier this year, I believe it was, the hard drive in my computer crashed. I lost everything. Luckily, most of my music was saved on my iPod, making it possible to upload on my computer. Unfortunately though, all of the music was saved as files that didn't automatically open in iTunes. So, I have to go artist by artist, album by album, song by song and open it in iTunes. It's a hassle. So much so that I've only gotten as far as Frank Sinatra.
Hour 11 (6:31 – 7:30a) The sun is finally rising, but it is so foggy outside that I can only see the sky getting light, not the actual sun rising.
While Maya and I were fantasizing about one day becoming flight attendants, she commented that she'd never want to be one for Southwest because of the khaki pants. Since I've never flown through Southwest (that I can remember), I had no idea what she was talking about. No tengo idea. It's not until now that I understand. I see the khaki pants. Actual khaki pants, as if they're about to go on a safari. I'd never want to be an attendant for Southwest, either. At least Alaska and United/US Airways have cute navy outfits, with cute navy skirts and cute black tights.
Before I GO (yep, you heard me right!), it's really interesting to see how many people are going to France. See, I've been trying to figure this out because these French women and men look different. How they hold themselves, how they dress. It's a lot different than how everyone (sadly, including myself), either slumps over or is wound up very tight. So how can I tell if they are actually French? There's this thing called eavesdropping that isn't very polite, but is completely necessary for when one needs to figure out things like this. They speak French, the look French, they dress French, they
are French. They eat croissants for breakfast with a cup of coffee or tea. They are so cute and so elegant, or at least look it.
My goal is to come back from France a “worldly woman”, as my friend Kim likes to put it, with a good grasp on the language, a better sense of style, and some better posture.
