Work was great today, since I'm good at planning and had little to do before I left for vacation. I did forget, until 3:30, that I had promised to have a Newsletter for my department drafted before I left, but I had the time to write one. I picked up a note from my doctor, one final prescription, and headed back home.
My roommate was watching the first season of Community, and I decided to re-pack my suitcase, removing items of clothing that were no longer desirable for the trip. We watched Jeopardy, and both got the Final Jeopardy question right, but, to be fair, it was a joint effort. Then we watched two more episodes of Community before we walked to the BART. I decided that I wanted to spend more time with Roommate before I spent the entire evening alone.
We hugged goodbye, and I heard a familiar voice wishing me well on my trip. It was a man I see at Sweet Adeline's every morning, with his dog (the "Lassie" kind, I forget the name), who just happened to be at the BART station. The Fremont train arrived and I boarded, then transferred at MacArthur, where I grabbed a photo. I'm sure that you think I headed all the way to SFO at this point, but you would be wrong.
While stopped at West Oakland, I suddenly realized that I had forgotten my passport. WIth a gasp and a jump, I was suddenly off of the train, and headed down the escalator to cross to the other side of the platform. My mind raced through the possibilities - first that I would have to get back to Ashby, and if there were faster ways to get there. Next, I considered the fact that exiting from the same BART station would be costly, and the walk to my apartment would be time consuming. However, I knew exactly where my passport was, and have a roommate. I called him frantically, he finally answered. My passport was just where I said it would be, and he could meet me at the BART station with it. Never let me forget how awesome my roommate is. I took the train back, got the precious document, and set out, once again, and an hour later, for SFO.
I still had plenty of time, as I knew from my Christmas mishap, where I arrived at the Virgin America check-in 30 minutes before my departure, and still made my flight. A person on the train was asking about how to get to San Francisco, with a sense of urgency and confusion. I remembered my own first time on the BART, when I was upset at the lack of maps on the platform, and didn't realize how painfully simple the Dublin-Pleasanton to Richmond transfer really was. At MacArthur, the display above the San Francisco train read "Not in Service", which freaked the person out, because there had been issues at the El Cerrito station, apparently. I explained that "Not in Service" usually meant that the next train would just whiz by, and there would be another one shortly. In reality, the sign was just wrong, and the next train was going to San Francisco. So I transferred at MacArthur, for the second time, and sat down to read things on the internet until arriving at SFO.
As I arrived at the tram - or whatever that train around SFO is called, I noticed an older white man staring, with some determination, at people arriving from BART. My head immediately feared that he was going to shoot up the place, given the recent craziness all over the country. I quickly realized how paranoid I was, and got on the tram to Terminal 2, for Virgin America. When we got there, I waltzed off of the tram, down the esalator, around the corner and across the moving walkway. There was a sign that I was sure was a joke, that said "90% of people get their [unknown acronym] from [different, but equally unknown acronym]". I took a second photo on the escalator down to the Virgin America check-in.
I found an airline employee, and confirmed that my printed boarding pass meant I could go straight to security, and headed over. I was behind a family group that I later learned was finishing their American vacation, and heading back home to Barbados. One of the kids was wearing a shirt with Betty Boop, and I told them that I grew up in the town where the artist who created Betty Boop was from, and that I worked at a museum in the town that has a lot of that guy's work.
I played my part in the security theater, and got a trip through the cancer machine. My wallet, which was in my pocket, got looked at, so they knew that I didn't have any razor blades or something. I sat down at the area that is called the "Recombobulation Area" at the Milwaukee Airport, and waltzed on to Gate 55. I sat down in these fancy-dancy chairs in the Virgin America waiting area, near a father and his two teenagers, took out my Chromebook, and wrote up this post.
And though I am sure that I'll have other interesting (to me, anyway) observations, and perhaps even funny conversations, I'm going to end my Day 0 post here, and completely ignore the poor couple who may be about to miss their flight home because they didn't hear their names called while they were in a restaurant, giving me flashbacks to my SFO to Anchorage and Frankfurt to SFO departure experiences.
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