My sister Beth arrives today from England for her fourth, count ’em, fourth, visit of the year. By now, she must be on very friendly terms with the stewardesses – oh, excuse me, flight attendants*:
Flight Attendant (Heathrow): “How are you today, Mrs. A—-? How’s your Mum? So lovely to see you again!”
Flight Attendant (SFO): “Hi, Beth! Your Mom still around? Wow. Your usual Scotch?”
She and Megan are close contenders for the highly coveted Daughter of the Year Award. I wasn’t even nominated, for obvious reasons.
Beth is accessorized on this trip by her son Ben. I’m hoping we’ll all have some time in the city before heading up to the country together for Trailer Park Christmas. The good news for me is that I’m taking BART to the airport this time, and guess what? It goes straight to the International Terminal, which I can normally never locate without assistance. The powers that be at BART must have taken pity on me. That, or the airport employees I keep asking for directions couldn’t take it anymore and united in demanding that the International Terminal be the BART station so they wouldn’t have to deal with me several times a year.
I know what you’re thinking, but remember, I’m underemployed and nouveau pauvre, so yeah: public transit to the airport. However, we’re taking a cab back to Chez Suzy. You can’t expect people who have endured 11 hours of bone-crushing boredom of public transit, in the form of airplane travel (and in coach! *shudder*) to deal with still more, and at rush hour, too. Why do they call it rush hour anyway, when it actually goes on for 3 to 4 hours and ain’t no-one rushing, which is the whole problem right there?
Also, I’m having a festive Christmas lunch downtown with my old friend Richard that day, and filling in the hour or so before I need to head out to the airport by doing some non-holiday shopping. Fortunately, Lush and Vickie’s and Sephora are conveniently located right near the BART station. Now, if I can handle the horrible hordes of holiday shoppers, I’m set. If I can’t, there’s always the bar at John’s Grill, an oasis of peace and perfect Martinis.
Why can’t we still say “stewardess” (or, as it might be, “steward”)? So much sexier. I mean, can you imagine a Penthouse story that starts, “The flight attendant leaned over me, revealing her full, creamy cleavage”? And who hates being considered sexy?