Transcontinental

I'm back from my latest cross-country adventure, and was welcomed home this morning by the rudeness of this frigid air. Just yesterday I was walking around in the sun, wearing shorts.

We flew into and out of Long Beach on this trip. It's pretty close to downtown Los Angeles, but somewhat more distant from San Bernardino, our destination, than the Ontario airport, which JetBlue also serves. But while Ontario is medium-sized, Long Beach is puny, and puny airports have one thing going for them: they're easy. I think there are ten gates, total. The baggage carousels are outside, which I found quite amusing. Security, while still tight, is a relative breeze.

The five car rental agencies all share one small metal building that looks like it was made out of aluminum foil and held together with chewing gum. You pick up your bags, cross the roadway, go into the building and check in, go outside and find the row with your car in it, and drive away. Total elapsed time: about seven minutes. Try that at Logan or O'Hare. Plus our rental had built-in satellite radio: bonus.

One strange thing did happen during our arrival. When the bags started to come out, I spotted the Mrs.' bag, grabbed it, and parked it in front of her. A few moments later I saw my own bag, coming toward me from my left. Then a guy down to my left leaned over and picked it up. He set it down and extended the handle. I thought it might be a good idea if I did something to stop him, so I drifted over and got in his path, and said, "Would you mind checking the name tag on that? Because it looks just like mine." He leaned down and looked at the tag and said, "Oh, you're right." He was genuinely surprised that this was not his bag. I thought to myself, one of the reasons I bought a red suitcase is so it would stand out and not look like everyone else's black rolling suitcase, so I could spot it easily. But even so, I always check the tag, just in case. Silly me.

Tomorrow: adventures in southern California fast food, and more.