The season of crazy summer travel is about to begin its reign.
Today, I fly out to San Francisco. It’s not my first time there, but the last time I was in the city I don’t think I could couple together nouns and verbs, so needless to say I don’t remember much.
This time around I’m flying solo, tacking the trip onto the beginning of a West Coast work trip. Yesterday morning I got a little stressed when I realized that my Air BnB host had never written me back. Of course, he had my money, but he never told me how to get the key or get to his place. I had a mini panic thinking that I was going to show up in San Fran and not know where the hell I was going. I may have cried three times before nine in the morning. It was on of those days.
Then, I pulled it together, sent some minorly passive-aggressive messages to my new west-coast bff and decided I would live either way. Update: He got back to me and assured me there are lots of towels and coffee at his place, so what’s not to love?
My awesome friend from college, Jess, literally sent me a play-by-play itinerary, which I printed out and plan to follow like a good little tourist. So if you see me, I’ll be the one with my big-honkin’ camera, sporty walking shoes and nerdy backpack, just like an American on the Seine.
And I’m pumped about it.