Better Late than Never

I've been doing a lot of traveling lately, and as a seasoned traveler, I usually have a pretty good sense of how much time I need at the airport. Last week, I had to travel to Sacramento for a work convening.

I booked my flight through our company travel agent, on Alaskan Airlines. Since I knew Alaskan was part of Delta, and I wanted to move my seat closer to the front of the plane, I logged on to Delta to change my seat. Here's where I came upon my first twinge of anxiety: once I selected my new seat, Delta gave me an error - "We are unable to process your request, please try again later." I refreshed my reservation page and noticed that now I had no assigned seat for my flight out. Crap. I opened my original reservation page (through our company travel app) which still showed the original assigned seat. I decided to wait a few days and check again.

My flight was not departing until 8:50PM, so while at work I took some time to check-in online (since I wasn't checking any luggage). First, I tried at Delta, with no luck. Then, I tried using the Alaskan Airline confirmation number on the AA site, also with no luck. My immediate thought was that I had no assigned seat and that's why I couldn't check in. A metaphorical bead of sweat appeared on my forehead. The only thing I could do was wait until I got to the airport and check-in with an agent there.

If only they were as approachable as this.

I was carpooling with a co-worker who was also taking an AA flight, but one that was departing 10 minutes later than mine and through a different terminal. We had initially decided to leave for the airport at 7:30 but he suggested that we leave a little earlier - 7:15. Thank god we did.

We parked and boarded the LAX shuttle, and when asked which airline I was on, I looked at my itinerary.

"Uh...Alaskan...as American...as American Eagle. Terminal 4?"

She dropped me off at the terminal, one I've never been to before, since I usually took Delta flights which were out of Terminal 5. Once I entered the terminal, I found the American Eagle kiosks and proceeded to check-in. The first attempt resulted in a "Reservation not found" message and the second attempt produced an error which was printed out as a receipt to take to an agent. Oh boy.

The ticketing terminal itself was pretty deserted, except for a line of kiosks next to me that were surrounded by international travelers with overwhelming amounts of luggage. There were only two agents available for questions, one of which seemed free. I made my way over and waited for her to make eye contact before I handed her my receipt. Unfortunately, this never happened. It seemed as though she was deliberately ignoring the obvious "I NEED HELP" anxiety plastered all over my face. She kept leaving to chat with staff and then returning to her computer to continuously type away. Maybe I was being paranoid and she was busy, but either way, after 15 minutes of waiting I figured it couldn't hurt to try to check-in again (from a different kiosk). This time, it worked! I looked over at the kiosks where I initially tried, which now displayed signs stating that these computers were down for maintenance.

By the time I made my way up to the security line, it was around 8:15. The line was not moving, and I couldn't see the front since the line was a straight shot down a corridor which turned to the right. I asked a TSA officer how long the line would take, in which he replied about 15 minutes. My flight was scheduled to start boarding at 8:20, so even though I felt more anxiety creeping up on me, I rationalized that getting to the gate 10 minutes past boarding shouldn't be an issue, especially since that would still give me 20 minutes before the plane took off. I texted my coworker about my unfortunate circumstances to which he responded, "Fuck. Am I going to be holding down the fort? I'm already at my gate."

This would not have been a problem if the line only took 15 minutes. After over 20 minutes in line, I finally got to the ID checking agent. As casually as possible, to disguise my concern, I asked her if I'd be okay making the flight.

Agent: "What time is it at?"
Me: "8:50"
Agent: "Oh, if it's boarding at 8:50 you've got plenty of time. Boarding usually starts 40 minutes before take-off."
Me: "No, the plane has already started boarding, the flight leaves at 8:50."

She paused.

"You'll be fine."

I was finally through security and surrounded by gates. Yay! I followed the signs for the range of gate numbers my gate was in. However, as I speed walked through the terminal, and as the gate ranges on the signs became more concentrated, I realized that my gate suddenly dropped out of the range.

WTF Gate 44?

The next set of directional banners included a new sign, which made my stomach drop.

"Shuttle to Gates 44A - 44H"

My gate was 44H. Crrrrrrrrrrap.

This information would have been helpful.

I picked up my pace and followed the signs down an escalator, through a long corridor and to a set of sliding doors leading outside where a shuttle was parked. I flashed my ticket and jumped on to the shuttle, ready for it to immediately begin moving at lightning speed and get me to my gate. Of course I was not granted this unspoken request. There appeared to be some confusion as to whether or not an elderly man was on the correct shuttle, so the driver (slowly) helped the man off the bus to talk with an available agent. The bus driver waited until she received confirmation from the agent, which took about 5 minutes. By the time we started to move, it was 8:40. Remember, my flight was departing at 8:50.

I could feel my heart pounding in my head while we began to trek over the tarmac TO THE OTHER SIDE OF THE AIRPORT. At this point I had almost resigned to the fact that I would probably miss my flight, but a tiny glimmer of hope was still trying to convince me otherwise. Despite me telepathically willing the driver to hurry the hell up, we casually made our way towards the gate, stopping every minute or so at signs cautioning to "watch for oncoming planes."

Looks like I'm not the only one.

We finally reached our destination - a small isolated building in the middle of the tarmac. I rushed off the shuttle to the entrance, where an irritated agent questioned, "Sacramento?" I nodded as she pointed in the direction of the gate. As I approached the gate, the agent manning the desk began to yell at me for keeping the plane waiting and being late. I apologized profusely, handed her my ticket, and ran onto the ramp to the plane's entrance. As quickly as I could manage, I stuffed my roller bag into the first empty bin I could find and planted myself in my seat, trying to attract as little attention as possible. I looked at my phone one last time: 8:51. I texted my coworker that I made it and took a deep breath. The rest of the flight was wonderfully uneventful.

The Return of the Three-Legged Elephant and Nosey Head

After my brother and I had taken some furniture for our respective apartments, my mom realized that the value and quantity of items in our storage POD did not justify the amount of money she paid for it each month. The tenants who are currently renting our house agreed to let us store the remaining items from the POD in part of the garage so that my mom could get rid of the storage and save some money.

Today, I met my mom and brother at the house to go through the remaining boxes in the POD before we moved everything into the garage. My mom told me that there were a few boxes of mine that I had to either take with me back to my apartment, throw out or, if there was room, to leave in the garage. Since I don't have much room at my place to store things that I will probably never "need," I was hoping there'd be some left over room in the garage.

I arrived to the house before my mom and brother and started rummaging through the POD. I pulled out all the boxes that were mine and set them out in a row to start investigating their contents. I was pleasantly surprised to see that there were only 4 boxes, which meant a better chance of getting some prime garage space.

I thanked my past self for labeling the contents of each box:

Box 1: purses, teddy bears, art supplies
Box 2: yearbooks, books, misc
Box 3: beanie babies, old clothes
Box 4: graduation gowns, and my ren fair costume (lol)

While I wouldn't say that I'm a "pack rat," I find it really difficult to part with sentimental objects, and my definition of "sentimental" is very loose. Do I really need to keep a box full of beanie babies? HELL YES! Maybe one day they'll be collectibles! Or what if I want my future kids to play with them? Old report cards? I HAVE to keep them, they're legal documents! Kind of. A bag full of mostly broken sea shells? I can put them in a glass bowl for decoration!

I ended up condensing 4 boxes into 3 and storing them in the garage, while leaving with the fourth box filled with items that I wanted to take with me, which included:

- My old photography portfolio and negatives
- The Professional Correspondence Kit - a friend got this for my birthday a few years back since I'm so anally organized
- A few purses
- My glass animals
- My purple Gameboy Color, which miraculously turned on

Really intense game.

The best thing I took back with me is something that has disappeared and resurfaced several times over the course of it's existence. Now that I have it, I decided to scan it into my computer to ensure that it will forever be documented. Most of my close friend have seen it, or have at least heard about it, but now I'm putting it out on the interweb for the world to see (or, you know, for just the few people who read my blog).

It looks so innocent.

I feel really confident in assuming that most people had to write in journals and create drawings and stories and whatnot when they were in elementary school. When I lived in Russia, these were also activities that were expected of us as 7 year olds. It wasn't until years later (I was maybe 14?) that I reread my journal and immediately wondered why my mother was never contacted by my teacher about the disturbing stories contained in it.

I'm not saying ALL the stories I wrote were super unsettling; most had story lines indicative of a seven-year-old author.

The stories started out innocently enough:

Makes so much sense.

Then got a little stranger:

Extradited his ass.

These last 2 stories should have raised red flags for my teacher, but instead of a call home, I received spelling corrections and a check mark (good stories Natasha!). I first present to you, The Three-Legged Elephant:

Just a simple case of mistaken limb identity.

And Nosey Head:

The picture on the second page is my favorite.

...I'd like to chalk it up to watching too many horror movies as a kid.

Today, I'm 23

Today, I’m 23. I’m usually not one for reminiscing on time passed since last birthdays, but I'm gonna make an exception.

A year ago tomorrow, I received my last graduate school rejection letter, this one from UCLA. I wasn’t surprised since I didn’t even get into what I thought was my safety school, but was understandably disappointed. Four months, one appeal and countless persistent phone calls later, I found out I was granted admission to UCLA while on board a yacht off the Galapagos Islands.

In the past year, I graduated college, had my heart broken, got into grad school, traveled to South America, left the best job I’ve ever had and moved to Los Angeles.

Damn.

In the past year, I've stood at the metaphorical fork in the road, anxiously waiting for a reason to choose one path over the other. Soon after my excitement of being admitted to UCLA passed, a feeling of trepidation came over me. As exciting as this new chapter was going to be, I found myself caught between resisting change and embracing it. Leaving the home and work and friends and LIFE I knew to venture into this unknown new life was daunting, but ultimately necessary.

In the past year, I've learned a lot about myself, the kind of person I am and the kind of person I want to be. I've realized that it takes losing something you desperately wanted to discover how far you’re willing to push yourself to get it. I've realized that lying to yourself about how you feel about someone isn't fair to either one of you. I've also realized that it’s damn near to impossible to have a social life when you’re in grad school.

So today, I’m 23, and looking forward to everything this next year has to offer.