Wait a minute…

…didn't I go to San Francisco or something?

What follows is the first of four posts detailing my trip out to San Francisco two weeks ago.

Why four posts? Two reasons: 1.) Because I'm long-winded, and a lot happened on the trip, and: 2.) Because I took a bunch of snapshots—over 200 in all—and, while I'm not planning on posting all 200 of them, I do have 33 that strike me as worthwhile: 33 pictures in one post is a bit much, so I'm going to break it down.

OK, then; cue the funky drummer and hear him get wicked while we move on to…

SAN FRANCISCO, PRELUDE: AUG. 10, 2008
I'm sitting in my apartment, waking up, drinking coffee, surfing the web and getting ready to get ready to go to work. An IM pops up. It's my friend, Sean, wanting to know if I'm coming to his wedding on Aug. 16 in San Francisco. I reply that I'd love to, but I'm not going to be able to make it.

"Ah. Work or something, right?" he chats.

"No," I reply. "I actually have five days off in a row because I was planning on going to GenCon. However, I'm a moron and made a pretty big mistake on a pretty pricey purchase, so I no longer have the money to go anywhere except the grocery store. For cup noodles."

"Oh!" he chats. "I have money! You're coming to my wedding! Where do you fly out of? CLT? Charlotte?"

This is followed by me, fairly incredulously, asking if he's serious, him assuring me that he is and me, stunned, saying that I need to get ready for work, but I'll think about it and give him a call to let him know my decision when I get home. Provided he's absolutely positive that he's completely serious about this offer. He reassures me that he is and tells me to have a good night.

I hop in the shower, my head spinning.

I've already made up my mind: I've never been farther west than Dallas, and when I was there I never left the airport. I'm going.

SAN FRANCISCO, DAY ZERO: AUG 14, 2008
The closest regional airport is AGS (Augusta, Ga.). I'm slated to fly out of there around 1 p.m., land in Charlotte around 2 p.m., fly out of Charlotte around 5 p.m. and, five hours later, land in San Francisco around 7 p.m., local time. I've arranged for Adrian, a friend with whom I work, to drop me off; my good friends Chris and Kate will pick me up on Sunday around 4 p.m., after I get on a plane in San Francisco around 6 a.m., land five hours later in Atlanta around 2 p.m., then wait there an hour to board a plane and fly to Augusta. Cut and dry.

(Note: If the five-hour flights seem to be landing much too early and much too late, remember that flying from right coast to left coast involves a total of four separate time zones. According to Google maps, I will be over 2,500 miles from home when I land in California. Just another reminder that America is frackin' huge!)

Adrian drops me off. I've barely slept, because traveling always makes me nervous. I take off my shoes and belt, get by the plane cops and, eventually, board the plane on time. We fly. We land in Charlotte, on time. I get to my next gate with no problem and board the plane on time.

We hang out on the runway for 20 additional minutes. Kind of a problem.

We finally get airborne. The plane is narrow, and it is packed: I haven't seen this many people crammed this tightly into a vehicle since I lived in Spain and regularly saw families of four who'd all balance on a single moped. I've been on cross-country buses and subways with fewer people. I'm sitting in the very back row of seats near the crappers. I think I would, honestly, rather be sitting on the wing, tapping the windows and scaring the bejesus out of William Shatner.

About an hour into the flight, we encounter headwinds that turn our little cross-country jaunt into Six Flags Over Certain Death. I have flown to Spain and back (nine hours, both ways, uphill!), and I have never been this scared on a plane.

The turbulence lasts until we cross the Rockies. I drowse off-and-on while some douchebag loudly tries to convince the flight attendants to let him charge his phone in the outlet next to the crappers, going so far as to sneak past them on the pretense of going to the bathroom while they are out shilling $7 mystery meat sandwiches and plugging his phone in even though they've emphatically told him not to do that.

I begin to wish I was an engineer so that I could calculate how much oxygen and cabin pressure would be lost by opening up one of the doors and throwing this brainless kumquat out somewhere over Oklahoma.

The headwinds cause us to lose another 20 minutes while flying. The plane does, however, land safely. We are 40 minutes late. I call Sean to tell him that, finally, I've touched down. I know where he and his friends are and I have cab fare. I will be there as soon as I can, I tell him.

I'm in the back of the damn plane. There's only one door. Between me and that door are a couple-hundred people turned into snarling, ravening beasts by five of the worst hours of my life.

It takes me 20 frackin' minutes to get off the Gorram plane.

"This doesn't count," I say to myself as I navigate out of the airport. "None of that counted. I've touched down and I'm done with the trying, traveling part of traveling. Now is when I start…"

SAN FRANCISCO, DAY ONE, PART ONE: AUG. 14-15
I fall into a cab, finally. "Where you goin'?" asks the cabbie; I have one backpack and one huge carry-on bag. "The Salt House," I say, and give him the address. I have been told that I am to skip the hotel: This is the bachelor party, and my bags will be part of the trip.

After I catch my breath, I call Sean and let him know that I am, finally, in a cab and headed his way.

"How far out are you? Are you still on the freeway?" he asks.

"Uh…yeah, I guess. Hang on a sec'." I confer with the cabbie; my ETA is eight minutes.

Ten minutes later, I have stumbled into The Salt House, have dropped by the table—which is full; my plane's lateness has, rightly and of necessity, caused the bachelor party to start without me—and am sitting at the bar with a tall, freezing-cold beer in front of me. I am staring at the mirror over the bar, feeling and looking gray and travel-worn, trying and failing to imagine myself in California.

I stare a moment more and realize that all the people around me are so young and so beautiful that the mirror looks like a painting and that the arist—myself, I imagine—has tucked himself into it with a befuddled stare of awe and wonderment on his face.

My heart breaks, and I no longer have any trouble believing I am in California.

The hostess moves purposefully into the painting and leads me to our new table. For me, the bachelor party starts with conversation and an amazing steak. It leads, in rapid succession, to a small car full of friends and champagne, then a speakeasy. After that is a strip club and, after the strip club, beer at Vesuvius, the bar Jack Kerouac used to frequent. It's right next to City Lights bookstore.

Really, the less said about the bachelor party, the better.

I end up at my hotel at 3 a.m., local time. Sean, who's secured the reservation under his own name, checks me in. I stumble into an elevator and climb 17 stories into the sky before I find my room.

I've been awake for 22 extremely eventful hours.

I fall asleep immediately.