After navigating around Hollyweird for the last three days I finally made it back to LAX for my return flight, this time prepared for the worst.
My flight was at 7:15 am; I left my hotel (a mere 12 miles from the airport) at 4:30. All I needed to do for my rental car return was fill 'er up, but I went ahead and washed the car (at least partially. More on that later). I knew that I shouldn't need to wait in all the flight check-in lines because I had self-checked in, but I stood in (count 'em) THREE supremely long, only-at-LAX lines just to make sure that my bags AND I were on the same flight.
The really amazing thing about the whole experience is that as soon as my plane took off, as soon as we leveled out and the fasten seat-belt sign blinked off, (as soon as California was RID of me), everything improved dramatically. The lady sitting next to me moved to sit by her husband in the row behind, leaving me with an entire three seats to myself. I asked the stewardess for a blanket and after she brought it I stretched out vertically across the row, thought that perhaps I would request a pillow when the drink cart came by, and promptly fell asleep. I didn't wake up until I heard the pilot announcing that we would be landing in the next 15 minutes. It was like time-travel, with nap included.
After landing in Dallas, I easily found the baggage claim, retrieved my two suitcases, walked about 15 feet to the escalator that led directly to the correct shuttle stop, and waited a mere 5 minutes to be picked up by a polite, English-speaking driver who not only informed me of the service number I could call should I have any trouble with my car, but also loaded my suitcases into the back of my vehicle for me.
It's nice to be home.
Oh, about the car. Because California hadn't hated on me quite enough, I got in a wreck last night. Yes, I was rear-ended by an illegal immigrant, one who had NO driver's license, NO insurance, and NO English-speaking skills. He hit my rental car. The one for which I begged, pleaded, and traded my soul to the devil. The one which I (for the first time ever) chose NOT to insure. Fabu!
Anyway, the reason I was washing said car was because in a quirky twist of fate, I was able to swerve out of the UNINSURED DRIVER'S way quickly enough to incur only a long, sweeping black mark on the car, rather than a full-on dent. I was hoping (not really daring to believe) that perhaps if I scrubbed hard enough, chanted "I believe, I believe, I believe", and clapped my hands three times, the Car Fairy would appear and poof! Fix the car!
And you know what? It totally worked.
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