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Why am I in Detroit? I DON'T KNOW. And as more than one person has asked, what does one do for six hours in Detroit? Answer: one acquires overpriced internet access and an uninspiring chai latte and bitches about how one is in Detroit.
(Could I sound any more of a bleeding heart Guardianista snob? I mean, could I? If it makes anyone feel any better, I kind of loathe myself too at this point. I hate Northwest, I hate American domestic airlines in general, I hate the head cold that turned into galloping sinusitis the moment I stepped onto the aircraft, I hate being the only person in the history of ever who went to California in July and got a head cold, I hate the small child who screamed and kicked the back of my chair for exactly four hours and forty-five minutes, I hate Northwest again for good measure, and surprisingly, I hate wasabi. I'm pretty sure I never hated wasabi before. Dear self: shut up.)
I left San Francisco this morning at the crack of dawn - literally; it had just begun to get light as I stepped outside - after having been awake all night. I don't like the going home from places, so I don't seem to sleep. Also, in the middle of the night there was an argument on the pavement below the window that featured someone yelling, in very Geoffrey Tennant fashion, "I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!" and being answered by nothing but violent sneezing. Yes. I shall have to write about San Francisco properly when I am not hideously sleep-deprived in Michigan, but it is probably worth noting now that it is a beautiful city and I am ridiculously glad I went. Also, Leigh and I did not fail. We got public transport to places and we walked to places and we found Haight-Ashbury and we found the ocean and we found armies of sea lions and found Stanford and cooked dinner and drank a lot and ordered a lot of take-out and made a lot of fun of William Shatner. More on all of this anon, perhaps.
Still three hours to go before I get out of here. Mmmmm. Onwards and upwards.
(Could I sound any more of a bleeding heart Guardianista snob? I mean, could I? If it makes anyone feel any better, I kind of loathe myself too at this point. I hate Northwest, I hate American domestic airlines in general, I hate the head cold that turned into galloping sinusitis the moment I stepped onto the aircraft, I hate being the only person in the history of ever who went to California in July and got a head cold, I hate the small child who screamed and kicked the back of my chair for exactly four hours and forty-five minutes, I hate Northwest again for good measure, and surprisingly, I hate wasabi. I'm pretty sure I never hated wasabi before. Dear self: shut up.)
I left San Francisco this morning at the crack of dawn - literally; it had just begun to get light as I stepped outside - after having been awake all night. I don't like the going home from places, so I don't seem to sleep. Also, in the middle of the night there was an argument on the pavement below the window that featured someone yelling, in very Geoffrey Tennant fashion, "I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!" and being answered by nothing but violent sneezing. Yes. I shall have to write about San Francisco properly when I am not hideously sleep-deprived in Michigan, but it is probably worth noting now that it is a beautiful city and I am ridiculously glad I went. Also, Leigh and I did not fail. We got public transport to places and we walked to places and we found Haight-Ashbury and we found the ocean and we found armies of sea lions and found Stanford and cooked dinner and drank a lot and ordered a lot of take-out and made a lot of fun of William Shatner. More on all of this anon, perhaps.
Still three hours to go before I get out of here. Mmmmm. Onwards and upwards.
