I like to pretend that I am from California. If people ask me where I am from, I will generally word my response so that I don’t actually state that I am from California, but I will imply such a thing.
I think that is fair, considering that I lived there for 11 years.
The reason I do this is partly because I grew up in coughUtahcough and I don’t like the inherent questions, assumptions, or biases that come with that. (No, I’m not Mormon. Although I have lots of good friends who are. Yes, Utah is a gorgeous state. No, it is not awesome to have a friend send a missionary to your house in the 10th grade because she is concerned about your soul.)
The other reason I imply that I am from California is because I really like California. I lived in Berkeley, then Oakland, then L.A., then Oakland again, and I loved almost every minute of it. (I did not care for the booming car stereo that idled across from my last home in Oakland for much of each day.)
My trip to BlogHer was the first time I had seen San Francisco in five years. And yeah, I mostly saw a very specific two square blocks of it on this trip, but it was cool to get back. I don’t know that I’d want to live in the Bay Area again, but it is one kick-ass place to be.
San Francisco, I’ll be back.
Oh! And did you hear?! BART goes all the way to SFO now! Good times.
Plus, in more traveling news, I would like to tell you how relaxing my flight to SF was. I sat in my little seat for five or so hours all by myself and loved every second of it. I read a trashy magazine. I took a nap. I woke up and ate a sandwich. Then I finished the book I’ve been reading in three-page increments for the past month.
Why did I ever complain about airplanes before I had kids?
Oh, this is why:
I was originally supposed to fly Southwest airlines from SF to Las Vegas, then board another flight to Baltimore, arriving at 11:30 p.m.
However, my first flight was delayed for an hour, so they put me on another flight, a flight that was also delayed but would get me to Baltimore on the same plane I left San Francisco on, thus eliminating the chance that I would miss a connecting flight. (And the remainder of this story aside, I am really very grateful to Southwest for re-routing me.)
The thing that Super Sucked, with two capital S’s, was that this plane went from San Francisco to San Diego to Phoenix to Baltimore, landing at 1:30 in the morning. So I spent ELEVEN HOURS on that airplane.
I was smart enough to move to the exit row for the third and longest leg (“Ah, the poor man’s first class,” said the man who sat down next to me.) so at least I had some decent legroom, but by about hour nine of that flight, I was this close to banging my head on the window. Or opening the emergency door just to see what would happen.
To sum up:
San Francisco rocks.
Utah is slightly less awesome, but all right. (Especially if you have cool Utah friends—not the kind that sic missionaries on you.)
BARTing directly from SFO rocks.
BARTing directly to SFO is slightly less awesome when your bag suddenly weighs 68 pounds—and that doesn’t include your two carry-ons.
Traveling without kids rocks.
Traveling for 11 hours without kids to get from San Francisco to Baltimore is slightly less awesome. But still way better than traveling for 11 hours with kids to get from San Francisco to Baltimore.