San Fran to Logan Int'l to Milton

Takeoff at 3:00. Plane is again packed nearly to capacity, and I again have a middle seat. Worse, this time, is near total lack of any visible windows. I fly across the country without ever seeing it. Hopefully I get a view next time.

On this particular 757, we were in Economy Plus, which means we got 4 inches extra legroom.

Crooked Little Vein doubleplusgood read. Doubleplusfreaky content.

The Japanese girl infront of me is playing Metal Slug on her PSP. I find it more entertaining than Ghost Rider, playing on the laptop to my left. Ghost Rider is also more entertaining if you listen to Squirrel Nut Zippers while watching it.

The plane Captain has an Irish accent.

Arrive in Boston at midnight. Am greeted by photo of an obese cigar-chomping man reading "I'VE PASSED KIDNEY STONES BIGGER THAN YOUR BUSINESS." Recorded announcement politely informs me that Logan Airport will fucking gut has surpassed in many ways JFK. So far, each airport has had a distinct smell from the others.

Meet uncle David at the baggage carousels and wait a surprisingly short amount of time. Depart, drive through the longest series of tunnels I've been in (the first that are beneath thousands of cubic feet of water, too), get a glimpse of Boston before driving to Milton where David's duplex apartment is. Meet cousin Martin who I haven't seen for years briefly. His handshake is weak and I could crush him like bug.

Ate cold pizza. First approximation of real food since my omlette at 6:30 a.m. PST.

Will wake up at approximately 5 a.m. by my internal clock to drive off to ferry, from whence we go to a fancy-pance neighborhood that cousin Catherine is moving out of. Plans from there are sketchy, and I will be playing it by ear.

Do not know if I will be able to get to sleep with those crickets outside. Were it not for the comforting pass of a car every hour, I'd think it was dark, horrid wilderness for miles out there.

Didn't get chance to post this on arriving night, though Logan has designated hot spots.

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