I arrived in San Francisco last night, safe and sound but a little later than expected. Nothing terrible happened, but little things added up to a few hours lost door-to-door. The origami seating in cattle class exacerbated my sciatica a little, but careful planning and unspeakable doses of ibuprofen are keeping me functional.
I’d say the highlight of getting to SF was the van ride from SFO to my hotel, a Super Shuttle shared with six other weary travelers. The first sign of trouble was the two man crew, a first-day driver and his trainer. Both had heavy Russian accents and neither seemed to know any of our hotels by name, obscure hotels like “The Marriott”. They made a great team–but only in the comic sense. The trainer would turn up the radio; the driver would turn it down. They’d bicker back and forth in Russian as each turn took us further away from our next destination. They finally overcame their reluctance about using the GPS plastered to the windshield. Maybe the female voice reminded them too much of wives nagging them to pull over and ask for directions.
It was about midnight when I settled into my hotel room, too late to explore the immediate surroundings. Traveling wore me out enough that it was straight to bed, although 3am EST is my usual bedtime now anyway. Hmmm, it’s like I was on PST before getting on the plane; will I end up on Hawaii time now that I’m actually in PST?