Life's About the Journey

If life is about the journey, then I've lived today.  The morning began with a ride to the airport courtesy of Punky's Car Service, with abrupt stops courtesy of traffic on I-5.  Arriving at the airport, having eaten breakfast at home, all three of my traveling companions required some sort of food and/or beverage before we could even board for the first leg of our flight.

Once on board the U.S. Airways low-tech service to Phoenix, we scattered to our not-very-close seats.  While I had a nice young couple to sit next to, Heidi got the big sweaty guy who was afraid of flying.  Our flight attendent was not the perky-boobs "stewardess" of yesteryear, but rather an older lady whose hair full of remarkably large sculpted curls made me think of those giant hard plastic pink rollers that my mom and aunt used once upon a time.

We had a quick stop in Phoenix to change planes, then it was onto another U.S. Airways low-tech cattle mover for the quick jaunt to Atlanta.  While I should have been working on GRE math problems, I opted instead to listen to an audiobook recording of the original Bobbsey Twins book.  Talk about a book that speaks in the voice of the time it was written!  A little girl jumping rope was warned by her mother not to jump so much for fear of getting sick.  When the little girl disobeyed and kept jumping, she suffered a fainting spell and caused her little-girl friends to think she was dead.  A lesson was learned--don't be too atheletic, little girls.  Such was the voice of the early 1900's.

Arriving in Atlanta meant descending through clouds and rain before hitting the rain-soaked runway.  We snatched up our bags in good order, then we hooked up with a lady cabbie with a town car.  This lady was Winnie, probably the best cabbie we could have wished for.  Originally from New Jersey, Winnie explained the virtues of living in the south as opposed to the "concrete jungle" of the northeast.  She also added to my vocabulary by introducing the phrase "high-stepping" to refer to people who are so drunk they cannot judge the distance between the bottom of their feet and the ground.  She told us people get into this "high-stepping" condition by going to the Buckhorn section of town which has streets on which are located "bar, bar, bar, bar."  Turn the corner and you see "bar, bar, bar, bar."  Look across the street, and you see "bar, bar, bar, bar."  While this is tempting, the inclusion of a nineteen-year-old in our traveling party will preclude all by the most casual of alcohol consumption.

We are staying at the Embassy Suites, which has the gracious amenties of an included breakfast and, most importantly, a room with two separate spaces where dignified ladies (Yvette and me) can be separated somewhat from ridiculously silly young women (Maddie, a.k.a. Complicated, and Heidi, a.k.a. Very Complicated).

For our first dinner in town, we chose a nearby brewery/grill.  The Trip Advisor map took us on quite the roundabout journey from the hotel to the restaurant, probably for the best considering the amount of food we were about to consume.

For my beer-loving friends, Yvette, Maddie, and I chose an ESB brewed at the place, which had a nutty flavor that went well with the burgers and fries we consumed.  On the down side, none of the people who worked at the restaurant had a Southern drawl.  I'm still waiting.

Dessert was fabulous--fried cheesecake for the girls and a carmel-pecan brownie with ice cream for Yvette and I.  Well-deserved after the long walk there and the not-quite-as-long walk back (thanks to Apple Maps rather than Trip Advisor).  Strangely, it was uphill both going to and coming back from the restaurant.  Could that just be me?

We're back in the room now, getting ready for bed.  While it's 11:30 p.m. here, we're still a bit on California time so no one's all that sleepy.  Yvette is watching Duck Dynasty and laughing like a crazy woman, Maddie and Heidi are watched Friends reruns.

As for me, I'm typing on my blog and getting psyched about maybe seeing Margaret Mitchell's house tomorrow.  I can't really imagine it yet, that I'm in Atlanta, site of Sherman's destruction, home of Margaret Mitchell and her famous novel.  Maybe it will hit me tomorrow.

I can feel my hair getting bigger and bigger....