Airborne

Everyone in the world is sick it seems.

And lately I've noticed an increased preoccupation folks have with a product called Airborne. The big selling, marketing, and advertising point is that it is "Made by a teacher."

I'd rather place my hopes of wellness on a product made by a chemist.

That being said, I arrived at MyAdoringPublic's house this morning, as she graciously offered to take me to the airport, to find her on the first stages of what looks to be a most nasty illness. Then she hands me a note wishing me a pleasant trip from Kitty Griffing, the "new" fiancée (after patiently waiting for thirteen years - yeah - 13!) of one ScubaSteve - who, that's right, is sick.

Now, for many reasons, I preferred to do stuff last night rather than sleep (sleep is considered non-doing stuff, the way I saw it). So I got a whopping 45 minute nap. So my well-made plans of catching up on my magazine reading, having cached six unread mags aside over the past couple of weeks, was not going to happen. I pretty much slept my way across the country.

I had a layover in Phoenix, where there was no Starbuck's in my gate area, and I was forced to eat Burger King at twice the normal cost, but I did get a surprisingly good cup of coffee from the Cinnabon. I foolishly ignored the warning signs of impending doom when my flight to San Diego was delayed for maintenance reasons for a half an hour. I thought all would be well. Oh no, Faithful Readers, I was forced into experiencing the Traveler's Hell - I was sitting in the back 1/3 of the plane, on the aisle and diagonally behind me was the SCREAMING CHILD. For a good solid twenty minutes he screamed and carried on, until he screamed himself into puking, sobbing and finally, blessedly, sleep. Again, not a chance of reading.

Ah, but then we touched down in sunny San Diego, and I could emerge from my accustomed many fleecy, thermally layers. And there was Scout, looking mighty attractive, fresh from work in a great black blazer, dress slacks and boots. How lucky can I get?

We stopped for drinks at Poseidon Restaurant On The Beach, and we got to watch the sun set over the ocean. Right outside the deck was a huge pile of sand, and I had to keep reminding myself that is was SAND, and not snow. Nicely disconcerting.

And then I got to go to Scout's house. It is a remarkable feeling to have reality come in and replace all of the sights you have been imagining over the phone for so long. You know, "Oh, there's the gas station you stop it, there's the market..." It is great to have pictures in my head of the places Scout frequents.

As we were driving around, we saw the huge blue and gold tent that signals the Cirque du Soleil is coming to town, and I saw the Del Mar racetrack, which I read about in Jane Smiley's book earlier in the year. I can't remember clearly if it is the right racetrack, but I was also overcome with images of Angelica Huston looking gorgeous prior to getting the living daylights beaten out of her with oranges wrapped in a towel from the Grifters. Racetracks will never be the same for me.

So, after we got all settled in, we decided to watch Mike Nichol's Closer. That was a really bad decision. If I can do any good with this blog at all, it just may be saving you Faithful Readers from the hideous waste of a couple hours of your life that endeavor would entail. Hateful film.

To Jude, Julia, Clive, and Natalie: You should be ashamed of yourselves.