The City of Lost Children

Heading to Oakland yesterday turned out to be a lot harder then I expected.  I was late to the airport, barely made my flight, sat in front of a loud Ed Hardy wearing dude who kept on kicking my seat while flirting with the woman sitting next to him.  I am not sure why but overly happy people just irritate the hell of me these days.  Once I got to Oakland, I could not quite figure out how to get on a shuttle to get to the Bart (public train to get to San Francisco for my non Cali peeps).  Apparently current change is required to get on and I did not have the two dollar bills to do so.  This whole episode reminded me of coming to America when I was 18.  I landed in Oakland and could not figure out how to get to Santa Cruz where I was meeting my hosting family.  The difference this time around was that excitement of a new town and country had been replaced by pure frustuation that soon turned into a royal meltdown.  I know... It's northern Cali, not the amazon jungle I kept on telling myself but being used to get picked up by the ex, I felt alone, abandoned and just wanted to go back home to my comfy bed.  After letting it all out I decided it was time to get it together and get on the bus.  I made it to San Francisco and thanks to Zel was able to check in right away at the ever so hip Clift hotel and call is coincidence or perhaps a manifestion of the universe but my room number turned out to be the same number as my residence in L.A.. 1310.  Like I was being told by the powers to be that although I felt like I did not belong anywhere, this too was home and there was nothing to fear...