Spawn Of Travel Curse
Mar. 29th, 2009 09:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
masterofmidgetsComing back here is always worse than going home.
Not that I don't love it here, because I do - sometimes I look around me, when I'm on my way to class, or Tressider, or just walking around, and I can't believe how right and familiar everything seems, after only a year and a half. As much as I bitch and moan about it, I can't imagine being anywhere else.
But just the physical act of coming back is so much harder. Getting home is a trial - the train, the flights, the layovers - but at least I know when I get off the plane in Albuquerque my dad will be there to carry my bags, that it's just a short drive back to the house, that I'm really finally done and I can just stop. Which is good, because for something that mostly involves sitting in one place, flying really exhausts me.
But when I come back...well. There's the getting up early, because I always have a morning flight. There's the flight, and the inevitable layover, and the second (or third) flight. There's navigating SFO and reclaiming my luggage. And after all that, when I'm tired and headachy and sore and hungry and miserable...I'm not done. Not even close. I have to get to the Airtrain, and take that to the BART, and take the BART to the other BART, and that to the Caltrain station, and the Caltrain to Palo Alto, and then the bus, and then I have to drag my luggage from the bus stop to my dorm. My flight got into San Francisco at 2.00pm this afternoon, but I didn't get to my room until 5.00. At which point I was damn near comatose.
I've never thought before of how much more it takes it out of me to do all that hassle at the end of my trip, rather than at the beginning, but it does.
Other than the usual whinging, though, my trip was mostly alright. By a rather wonderful coincidence, I ended up on the same flight as a guy from my Japanese class, and we hung out at the gate together in Denver. The flight from Albuquerque was quite short and smooth. The flight from Denver, however, was hellaciously bumpy - the turbulence was so bad they turned on the fasten seatbelt sign four different times during the two and a half hour flight, which did not do much for either my fear of flying or my motion sickness. D: It being Sunday afternoon the television selection was thin at best; I ended up watching a lot of CNN and that really horrendous Real Housewives show on Bravo. I'm not sure which made me want to punch people more.
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hanjuuluver saved my life, or at least my sanity, by talking to me on the phone for almost two hours (literally) while I waited for the train, rode the train, waited for the bus, rode the bus, and walked back to my room. You are my hero, Envy! (And mostly I'm just glad I have weekend minutes, because otherwise my father would have eviserated me for that converation).
And now I am home, and fed, and mostly unpacked, and I have lovely new soaps and shampoos from Chagrin Valley that I am already trying out. And tomorrow I am sleeping as late as humanly possible.
Not that I don't love it here, because I do - sometimes I look around me, when I'm on my way to class, or Tressider, or just walking around, and I can't believe how right and familiar everything seems, after only a year and a half. As much as I bitch and moan about it, I can't imagine being anywhere else.
But just the physical act of coming back is so much harder. Getting home is a trial - the train, the flights, the layovers - but at least I know when I get off the plane in Albuquerque my dad will be there to carry my bags, that it's just a short drive back to the house, that I'm really finally done and I can just stop. Which is good, because for something that mostly involves sitting in one place, flying really exhausts me.
But when I come back...well. There's the getting up early, because I always have a morning flight. There's the flight, and the inevitable layover, and the second (or third) flight. There's navigating SFO and reclaiming my luggage. And after all that, when I'm tired and headachy and sore and hungry and miserable...I'm not done. Not even close. I have to get to the Airtrain, and take that to the BART, and take the BART to the other BART, and that to the Caltrain station, and the Caltrain to Palo Alto, and then the bus, and then I have to drag my luggage from the bus stop to my dorm. My flight got into San Francisco at 2.00pm this afternoon, but I didn't get to my room until 5.00. At which point I was damn near comatose.
I've never thought before of how much more it takes it out of me to do all that hassle at the end of my trip, rather than at the beginning, but it does.
Other than the usual whinging, though, my trip was mostly alright. By a rather wonderful coincidence, I ended up on the same flight as a guy from my Japanese class, and we hung out at the gate together in Denver. The flight from Albuquerque was quite short and smooth. The flight from Denver, however, was hellaciously bumpy - the turbulence was so bad they turned on the fasten seatbelt sign four different times during the two and a half hour flight, which did not do much for either my fear of flying or my motion sickness. D: It being Sunday afternoon the television selection was thin at best; I ended up watching a lot of CNN and that really horrendous Real Housewives show on Bravo. I'm not sure which made me want to punch people more.
hanjuuluver saved my life, or at least my sanity, by talking to me on the phone for almost two hours (literally) while I waited for the train, rode the train, waited for the bus, rode the bus, and walked back to my room. You are my hero, Envy! (And mostly I'm just glad I have weekend minutes, because otherwise my father would have eviserated me for that converation).And now I am home, and fed, and mostly unpacked, and I have lovely new soaps and shampoos from Chagrin Valley that I am already trying out. And tomorrow I am sleeping as late as humanly possible.