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A Sentimental(ish) Journey Through England, Ireland, and California II
It wasn't sunny, getting off that plane.
Which you'd expect, getting off the plane at Heathrow. Not, however, what you'd expect getting off at SFO.
Or maybe you would. I wouldn't really know. The three times I've flown into SFO it's been 1st) pissing it down with rain so hard you'd be wishing you'd order that extra shellacking the car salesmen are always trying to sell you, 2nd) It was gorgeous and sunny, I think, 3rd) it was cloudy, raining, and then not raining, then raining a lot, then not raining, sort of, then raining again, with gusto.
Anyway, it didn't really matter, I wasn't there to enjoy the sunshine, this time round. Couldn't have, if I was, because there was no sunshine, but I wasn't there, so I kept telling myself to stop dwelling on it. It was hard, though, with the pitter patter of raindrops against the glass and on the pavement outside the arrivals hall, and the sound of taxis squishing through the puddles after having picked up their passengers and headed off into the afternoon gloom.
And it's not like where I was going had a pool, anyway, or so I thought. At the airport. Of course, when I got there, what did I find?
A pool. Outdoors. And probably damn cold, what with all the rain falling in it. Figures.
But it wasn't like I was going to go swimming, either, this time around.
Even if it had been warm.
And not raining.
No. Not this time.
After all, I was here to kill someone, and if you're in a place to do something like that, you're not supposed to care about the weather. In fact, sitting inside, staring out at the pool, which was being disturbed ever so slightly by the constantly falling rain, I was thinking the rain should have been preferable to having the sun streaming down. I always felt vaguely disappointed, having to kill someone in nice weather... like I should be outside, playing tennis or something, you know, getting the most out of the weather.
And I couldn't really afford to mess this one up again, as it was more likely than not the final tryout for the CIA, though you know those guys, they'd never come out and say so, exactly.
disclaimer:
We made it! Miracle of miracles! And most of our equipment for running this sort of operation is in working order! The miracles of DHL!
As promised (or predicted, at any rate), we're slightly late this week, this is due to the age old problem of securing yet more internet connections in yet another city, and we appreciate your patience.
However, we've got a pretty damn slick setup here in the Valley, thanks to our technical guys' connections with the Russian Mafia, it seems (if the Russian Mafia are good at choosing locations within easy walking distance of Main Street, a brewery, and Borders Bookstore, a pool, a nice desk and television and free cable, at any rate).
Sooooo-ho. Californians are weird, you know?
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Yer Weekly Horoscopes.