Jetlagged....
What should've been a twelve hour trip, turned out to be a thirty-eight hour trip. Normally, I either fly through Tokyo or Honolulu to/from Guam, but this time around I had to fly through both since I booked my flight late. The eight hour layover in Japan wasn't too bad, except for the fact that my knowledge of the Japanese language has exponentially declined since learning it in high school. Fortunately I remembered the kanji for teriyaki chicken, otherwise I would have starved to death trying to decide what to order. Can you just imagine some brightly-colored Japanese robot hauling my emaciated remains away to be recycled? Because I bet you that the Japanese have invented a robot specifically for that purpose.
I arrive in Honolulu at seven in the morning. My ticket says my flight leaves at nine, so I figure I have only an hour to kill before I have to board. I go to the check-in counter and discover that it's closed, and my flight is nowhere to be found on the departure screen. After frantically questioning the janitor unsuccessfully, I call the Continental hotline and discover that my flight is at nine in the evening and not nine in the morning. So what does that mean? A fourteen hour layover! And mind you, I was already 20 hours into my trip so I wasn't exactly a happy camper. So I make my way to my uncle's place in Makiki, but it turns out he was hungover from the night before so he wasn't much company. I ended up wandering Waikiki and shopping at Ala Moana, the only mall better than South Coast Plaza. I think it has something to do with the shirtless surfer boys wandering around aimlessly.
So I get to LA and drift in and out of consciousness for a few days in an unsuccessful attempt to adjust time zones. I still fall asleep around five in the morning and wake up at five in the afternoon. In my jetlagged state I manage to visit Rachel down at USC, and we catch up over hookah in Old Town Pasadena. I meet her friend Chris, who has the most gorgeous blonde hair, and we reluctantly head over to Tigerheat. It never ceases to amaze me how I always manage to run into a Berkeleyan at that place... At what point did it turn into gay Mecca? At any rate, despite having a great time, going out wasn't exactly the best idea. I haven't had any sleep since, and in a few hours I'll begin the long drive back to Berkeley...
See you there.
I arrive in Honolulu at seven in the morning. My ticket says my flight leaves at nine, so I figure I have only an hour to kill before I have to board. I go to the check-in counter and discover that it's closed, and my flight is nowhere to be found on the departure screen. After frantically questioning the janitor unsuccessfully, I call the Continental hotline and discover that my flight is at nine in the evening and not nine in the morning. So what does that mean? A fourteen hour layover! And mind you, I was already 20 hours into my trip so I wasn't exactly a happy camper. So I make my way to my uncle's place in Makiki, but it turns out he was hungover from the night before so he wasn't much company. I ended up wandering Waikiki and shopping at Ala Moana, the only mall better than South Coast Plaza. I think it has something to do with the shirtless surfer boys wandering around aimlessly.
So I get to LA and drift in and out of consciousness for a few days in an unsuccessful attempt to adjust time zones. I still fall asleep around five in the morning and wake up at five in the afternoon. In my jetlagged state I manage to visit Rachel down at USC, and we catch up over hookah in Old Town Pasadena. I meet her friend Chris, who has the most gorgeous blonde hair, and we reluctantly head over to Tigerheat. It never ceases to amaze me how I always manage to run into a Berkeleyan at that place... At what point did it turn into gay Mecca? At any rate, despite having a great time, going out wasn't exactly the best idea. I haven't had any sleep since, and in a few hours I'll begin the long drive back to Berkeley...
See you there.