After a push to vacate my mother-in-law’s house, we staccato-ed our way through LA traffic to Sam’s bargain parking lot, where a turbaned Indian in a brilliant tangerine shirt took our car keys and told us about his 5-year-old who says he’s ex-kited when he means to say he’s excited.
Then we rode in a van every bit as crappy as one I’d expect to find in rural Africa. “Air,” a non-English speaking co-passenger barked at the driver, pointing to the vents in the ceiling. Our non-English speaking driver rolled up his window, and a second later, hot smelly air whooshed down and I thought I might barf.
Just at that instant, we nearly collided with an 18-wheeler. I instinctively made the sign of the cross and then our van sped through a gas station lot, illegally short-cutting our way to the thoroughfare to the airport. There, we paid $47 for three sandwiches and are finally airborne.