I am so freaking exhausted.
I got up at five o’clock this morning to leave for Long Beach airport. This morning wasn’t much of a hassle; I got up, packed my contact solution, etc. and waltzed out the door with Mum stumbling behind in the pre-dawn light. She was dropping me off today, not Dad.
So we get to the airport and park and I wheel my little bag into the terminal. She can’t go in with me, so I give her hug goodbye, determined not to cry (yes, I am a sentimental little snot, so shoot me) and wheel on ahead to terminal three.
No Oh-My-Gosh-I’m-Actually-A-Woman Arthurs this time.
Damn.
Anyhoo, I sat and waited for my flight to board around six-forty. I got the window seat, but Jet Blue airways planes are so goddamned CRAMPED. And that’s saying something, coming from a five foot three woman. And of course, I have to sit next to the biggest guy on the plane, whose considerable bulk was spilling over his seat into mine.
But he was an extremely nice chap, who had just spent the week in Los Angeles celebrating his birthday. The woman on the other side of him was from Cypress, and fulfilled every stereotype about the Southern Californian woman.
I meant to work on Justified or Crash Into Me or even read The Order of the Phoenix again, but I just fell right asleep.
Boom.
I don’t remember much of the flight as I was unconscious for nearly all of it, but I woke up right as we were trafficking above JFK International.
Only we didn’t land for another half-hour because our esteemed Commander-in-Chief was apparently flying in before us.
Damn you, George Dubyuh.
On the ground, I went out to the shuttle/taxi area. I debated whether or not to use the Super Shuttle like Mum told me to (the only problem was, I couldn’t find one), take the bus and then the subway like I did last time, or just screw it all and take a cab instead.
I spent about forty-five minutes debating.
Finally, I decided to catch a taxi when some huge black man from the Dominican Republic asked me if I was going into Manhattan. Startled, I answered “Yes,” without even thinking about the consequences. He grabbed my bags and said he’d charge me thirty-five bucks; I just had to share the cab with two other girls. No problem, I thought.
I ended up being squashed in the backseat for an hour and a half with two Swedish lesbians who were at first groping each other, and then later sulking in separate corners.
We dropped them off midtown at the Best Western, and then my lovely taxi cab driver took me to Washington Square, all the while telling me his life story, giving me advice on my future, and warning me to go out, drink some, and dance a lot.
He dropped me off at Weinstein Residence Hall, where I checked in and they gave me a key to my room, 731.
Only thing was, it’s on the seventh floor and the elevators are out of service.
I hauled my stuff up about two flights before this cutie comes down the stairs and offers to help me.
“Which floor?” he asked.
“Seventh,” I said.
“Oh, that’s my floor too. Hi, I’m Felix,” he said, extending his hand to shake mine.
“I’m Sarah.”
“Pleased to meet you. Here, let me get that.”
He was gracious enough to take my stuff all the way up to my door, after which he turned around and gave me his room number.
What a cutie.
Now I’m here in the library because I have no clue what to do. They gave us no plans, nothing. I’m free. I just have to figure out my dinner, I guess. I wonder if I have to buy my own, or whether the residence halls will serve me. At least there’s vegetarian fare abound here.
