Back in ‘Frisco

I’m back in San Francisco. ‘Frisco, my dad says. We’re supposed to cringe when we hear those two syllables, but I don’t think I understand why. I imagine Edward G. Robinson talking about his ma’ in ‘Frisco, or Ida Lupino pouting through a smoky halo about the man that ruined her life—back in ‘Frisco…

So getting here wasn’t that difficult, despite how hard Virgin Airlines wanted us to stay on the east coast. The morning after seeing the rowdy and raucous Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson, a very entertaining and educational emo-rock opera that positioned the 7th president as a sort of rock star, our flight back to ‘Frisco on the 28th was canceled. We were rescheduled to depart on the 6th, a week and a half later. Lucky for us, my family is scattered all across this great big land and my big brother Paul lives just a little train ride away in Connecticut. We hopped on the train and spent a few days with Paul and his family, nibbling and imbibing in wintery bliss. Big Chris and I found a flight out of a little airport nearby and used his frequent flier miles to get us back home on the 30th. The only space left was in First Class. I’ve never flown First Class before and could not believe how many beverages we were encouraged to ingest—and all for only 100,000 frequent flier miles. I was finally one of those unpleasant people that every schmuck leers at while schlepping back to Coach. Finally.