I arrived safely and on time in San Francisco. At the baggage claim I saw my red suitcase coming at me, followed two bags later by my green/gray Ricardo rolling duffel. I grabbed the red bag, quickly checking to make sure the identifying Chococat sticker was on the handle, then grabbed the duffel and headed outside, calling James to tell him I was ready. As I waited at the sidewalk I noticed that they had utterly and completely trashed my duffel bag, like to the point where this was clearly its last trip, ever. There were oil stains, ripped seams, and it looked curiously deflated, like maybe some of the contents had fallen out. So I unzipped the top to discover...a man's suit. A quick check of the tags revealed that this was in fact an impostor duffel.
I did not panic, knowing that somewhere out there someone named Chris was unzipping "his" bag to discover a bunch of salwar kameez he hadn't bought. (Luckily Indian Barbie was safely in my red bag, or else I might have panicked.) And indeed, the good folks at Delta baggage services had the whole thing sorted out and my bag delivered to me at home within three hours.
Remember how I had five days to spend in my new apartment before I had to go back to India in early January? Well, oddly enough, the boxes I left piled everywhere did not unpack themselves while I was gone. The place is kind of reminding me of India right now. I see a pile of crap and think, OK, I need to unpack that and put it where it belongs. And then I think, wait, it belongs on that bookshelf that's in the wrong room and doesn't have the shelves installed. OK, I will just move the bookshelf to where it belongs. But wait, it belongs in a room I plan to paint. So I don't want to set it all up and then have to move it in order to paint. OK, I will paint the room first. But wait, I don't have any painting supplies yet, and plus that room is full of crap that needs to get out of the way before I can paint anyway. OK, I'll put that stuff in the storage room by the back stairs. But wait, I need to get shelves installed in that room, which I can't do while it's full of crap. And so on. Basically, my infrastructure is so screwed up in so many intertwined ways that I can't imagine being able to get it sorted out and functioning within the next, oh, twenty-five years or so. And meanwhile I'll just live amidst the chaos and probably get used to it and forget that there even is such a thing as living somewhere other than in a big pile of unorganized, barely functional crap. India has done nothing if not dramatically lower my standards for what I consider a functional living space. Not to mention dramatically alter my opinion as to what counts as a "large" bug.
When Casey heard I was back, he asked whether I was drunk yet. Um, duh dude, I can get drunk in India--I mean, that's what Kingfisher Strong is for. What I can't do in India is eat a fresh salad or go for a walk without sustaining lung damage and passing out from heat exhaustion. So of course the first thing I did was go to Herbivore (which is right! around! the corner! from my new place) and get a major salad, and then I walked for about six miles, wearing a fleece jacket and long pants. God it felt good. And then I stopped by my corner organic market and bought a bunch of delicious, edible food. It's like being in heaven, only without Jesus loitering around and getting all up in my grille with his holier than thou attitude.
