So, after a rousing 6am flight out of medford, I walk/ran to catch my connection that was departing in 20 minutes. You know, just a nice "30 minute" layover. Nothing like a little adrenaline to get your travel jitters going. Gracias a dios I made it in time. From San Fran I made a brief stop over in DC, feeling quite nostalgic about the area I called my home a mere month ago. DC and Baltimore are worlds apart from the West Coast. I lived there for two years, and by the end of my time there, it really felt like home.
Anyways, back to the real story. So, if any of you know my travel habits, you know that I strategically pack all my heavies items in my carry-on, and pretty much pack it till the seam is about to split. This works out great for bringing way too many things, but not so well when it's time to lug the 50+lb bag into the overhead compartment. Everytime I get on a plane, I develop this instant feeling of embarrassment and anxiety as I scope out the friendliest, strongest, tallest male sitting on an outside row. When I spot my victim I abashedly ask in a sweet and quiet voice "please sir, could you help me with my bag? I would be so grateful". The man usually abliges kindly until he picks it up and says something to the extent of "Good God woman what do you have in here?! Bricks??" It's all a bit embarrassing but totally worth it compared to attempting myself to lift it (When I first moved to Slovakia I made this mistake which almost resulted in the decaptitation of an unsuspecting passenger sitting below).
This time as I boarded the plane I spotted my seat from a few rows back. Quickly my eyes landed upon my best subject yet: A dashing young spaniard quite fit for the job. Now I'm really not one of stereotypes, but if I were to think of a typical Spaniard, he fit the bill to the tee. Dark olive skin, black sweeping hair, and a beautiful Spanish accent. Perfect, I always knew Spain was the place for me.
