Gone...gone...gone...

"Life has got a habit of not standing hitched.

You got to ride it like you find it.

You got to change with it."

~ Woody Guthrie

Well, it has been quite a while since I have written, and not a moment has been dull. It seems that the fates want me to get where I am going, safely, but are intent on letting me know it will not be easy. Where to begin?

Well...first there was the incident with the bus: Michael was supposed to meet me on the bus in Medford to continue on down to San Francisco. The schedules matched. It should have worked. It didn't. I waved goodbye to my Mother, said, "I love you," one last time, and stepped on board. No Michael. He had called me to say he was boarding the bus, earlier that evening, so he should have been there, but he wasn't. I panicked. What if he bought his ticket for San Francisco instead of Vallejo? What if he got the times wrong? What if he got on the wrong bus, or was 2 minutes too late?! ...I spent most of the rest of the drive from Medford to Redding consumed by these thoughts, with no music, no book to take me out of myself, next to a half passed-out gentleman in the window seat next to me smelling distinctly of alcohol, the aftermath of cheap food having been processed, and old and possibly not yet realised vomit. I mercilessly fell asleep for a 1/2 hour and awoke covered in sweat with the gentleman resting on my shoulder. I was afraid if I took off my down jacket and vest they would come back with little bits of extra attached, so I stayed in my seat, and tried not to cry...In the meantime, the bus driver seemed intent on devouring every morsel of the road at a speed I should have relished, given my present state, but when it came to going down mountainsides and around corners bordered by cliffs in the almost total darkness (I knew this part of the road well), I could only shudder and convince myself that if it was my time to die, I hoped everyone knew that I loved them.

...When we arrived in Redding, we were informed we were about 1/2 an hour early. (Oooh! Big surprise). And as I got off, I asked if there was a pay ohone in the area. Unfortunately, I had no change and nothing was open. A very nice gentleman named Leo, whom I and my Mother had shared some good conversation with while waiting to enter the bus, came round and, after explaing my plight, he assured me that there were probably two busses on the same route, and one way or the other I would find Michael, at some point. I went to our driver, and Leo's theory proved to be correct. The other bus, however, was known for being late and so would not show up for some time. I asked if I might be able to transfer to the bus my boyfriend was most assuredly on, but the new bus driver coming on duty said I should wait to make sure he was there, which, indeed, he was. However, when I asked to have my bags transfered with my person, I was greeted with a short, "Sacramento. You'll get it in Sacramento."

I didn't like it. Apparently my bag didn't either. In the long and short of it, after MUCH, MUCH questiong in Sacramento, (but no bag-- the other bus driver had already come and gone) I was assured it would arrive with me in Vallejo, so Michael and I spent the interim, waiting to change busses, eating Candy Corn & Chips w/ hummus; him teaching me how to play Sudoku-- a new fettish of mine, now.

But of course, we arrived in Vallejo, with no bag in sight.

I was tired. I was frusterated, and very dehydrated. And I was freaking out. The woman behind the counter proceeded to tell me there was nothing they could do, not even call Sacramento to see if my bag was still there, while the young man next to her proceeded to pull out his cell phone and start texting, while answering the other phone. I got angry. So I lied.

I told them what had happend. I told them, I knew it was not their fault, but I was frusterated. And then I told them that I had medication in my bag, and if I didn't get it within the next 4 to 6 hours, I would be in the hospital. I said that I would sue them. Now, undserstand, I don't like lieing. But I have worked in the service industry, in many forms, for almost my entire life. And I know when people don't care. I know when someone hates their job. But I also know that when the words, "hospital," "sue," and "your company" are heard, people pay attention. And it worked. It still took a number of phone calls, some not-so alligator tears, and having to tell them that, no, I would not go home and wait for them to call me, I was staying here until either my bag showed up or they had to call an ambulance (hoping that the former would happen soon before my 6 hours were up). Eventually they tracked my bag to Oakland-- Michael had thought ahead and asked them to contact the next possible stops for all the buses on this route as well as the previous ones-- and someone, somewhere switched it to go back to Vallejo. It arrived intact, and only slightly bruised. I gave them my Dogoba choclate bar as thank you for the phone calls (and the text messages and online game-time we had cost them). When someone works hard for you, you must learn to say thank you, and mean it. I meant every bit of it.

Eventually we met up with y best friend, Becky; were showered with hugs, orange juice, hot showers (haha), and clean clothes, and went on to see my family.

I had forgotten California. I had forgotten the pace. When you think the transit system in Portland is efficient, boy-o go to the Bay Area. Your mind will be blown. Here they dont follow the streets, they go above them; faster than freeways, and just as expensive: $5.05 got us a one-way ticket to Fremont from Pleasant Hill. Where we spent some wonderful time with Uncles and Aunts; Granma and ity-bits who are not so ity any more. Good food. Good talk. Wonderful, wondeful to see family.

The following night, we were thrown a party by my dearest friends, the Weiss family. We had stayed with and were generously hosted by Evan, their son (and a great friend from my middle school years) and Becky, my bestest (also since middle school), who are now love birds, nesting in a gorgeous little town house in Pleasnt Hill-- (a future I predicted way back when I was 14, and I am glad it has come to fruition). Evan's mother, father, and sister have been like a second family to me, and I was so blessed to be able to see them all again, along with so many other friends and loved ones. Unfortunately, only one night was alloted us, and we soon had to pack up again and rise early in the morning, when I was to depart for the Big Apple...alone.

I had no idea where in New York I was going to go. I had only once or twice been able to connect with my friends who I was supposed to stay with while my Godfather was out of town, and had no address, no phone, and no idea of where I was going or if I could even stay there...but I was going to arrive in New York City at 6:00 at night...and I was terrified.

Thank God for hurricanes, eh? (ha.Ha.)