San Francisco International

View from here is about the same as Portland. Overcast, hills, airport. There's even something resembling a MAX. Had I not seen the alien landscape of twisting, ancient rivers and artificial islands I would have suspected the plane has done an about-face and landed us in Portland, or transplated us to some doppleganger Portland with higher hills and MAX trains painted blue.

The plane was cramped, and I sat between two skeletal old women who had very different ideas about which social class they belonged to. It's strange to sit near the back of the plane and watch all the rows of ceiling-televisions playing the same thing in different color tints.

I was the only person with a book on the plane that wasn't Harry Potter.

The San Francisco airport is older. The seats are more worn and less plentiful than in PDX.

There is a tabloid advertising the 'Sordid Secret Life of Drew Carey REVEALED!', which is the last thing I'd want to happen to Drew Carey's sordid secret life, much less pay to see it.

We touched down late at 12:42, and I was beginning to panick when I read my next flight departed 1:00. Then I read the line noting that that particular flight was only on time 10% of the time, and indeed we will be boarding at Maybe Today P.M..

Not as dehydrated as I thought I might be, but it was only two hours. Next begins the great flight to Boston, also on a 757.

The airport's overpriced coffee stand (3.50 for 18 oz. of orange juice - not actually that bad, considering the quality) is staffed by a young Asian woman with a Minnesotan accent like I've never heard.

The airport announcements instruct us to call 911 if we see any unattended bags or suspicious activity. Being Suspicious In An Airport now seems to be something for emergency services to deal with.

San Francisco lacks reliable WiFi. Posted from David's apartment.

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