The Hard Parts Matter Too

About 5:15 p.m., the idea of driving from Santa Rosa to Kalispell didn’t seem nearly as good as it had earlier in the day.  Most of the day had been easy and beautiful, especially the drive from Redding to Bend, sunshine and clear blue skies, evergreen forests and stark dry landscapes, all newly seen on a road — US 97 — that I’d never taken.

But as the sun fell on this shortest day of year, fatigue set in.  The sky darkened, clouds rendering the snowy peaks to the west eerily dim, almost surreal, hovering in dusky reddish-gray light over the valley.  And to get to The Dalles — where I’m writing this — I had to split off of US 97, and take a spur, US 197, which in a broad view on Google Maps looked to be the same kind of road.

Not quite.  For if you look at the topo view here, you’ll see that 97 runs through the flats, while 197 bounds over ranges and down into two canyons, one a deep cut made by the Deschutes River at Maupin, the other a lesser drop at Tygh Valley, before going up and down a number of small ranges before falling into the Columbia River valley.  Not the way best way to end a long day of driving, narrow hairpin 25-mph turns in now complete darkness.

But here’s the thing … it was the most memorable part of the day.  That and the huge pile of congealed lava, seemingly coming out of nowhere, near Bend (how had I never heard of this?).  It’s one of the great things about travel, that sometimes the most difficult situations are the most memorable.

Follow Up to Climate Change Post

This report suggests skepticism about skeptics is in order. My main point still stands. It may be a long time before we get an answer.

Global Warming Prediction and the Problem with Models

It’s with some trepidation I dip my toes into this subject.  But this recent report from the Earth System Science Center at The University of Alabama in Huntsville, using data from NASA’s Terra satellite, shows why keeping a minimum of skepticism about anything you hear about what conditions on Earth will be like in 20, or 50, or 100 years is probably warranted.

The problem is that predictions about future temperatures on Earth are all based on models.  And as anyone who has ever worked with models (whether financial — can you say “subprime”? — or scientific) knows, models are only as good as assumptions that go into them.  Small tweaks to those assumptions can result in big differences in model outcomes.

One assumption in climate change models has to do with how much heat energy is released back into space during hot spells.  The reported study suggests that climate models may be at least partially based on a bad assumption:

In research published this week in the journal Remote Sensing, Spencer and UA Huntsville’s Dr. Danny Braswell compared what a half dozen climate models say the atmosphere should do to satellite data showing what the atmosphere actually did during the 18 months before and after warming events between 2000 and 2011.

“The satellite observations suggest there is much more energy lost to space during and after warming than the climate models show,” Spencer said. “There is a huge discrepancy between the data and the forecasts that is especially big over the oceans.”

The other inherent problem with models is that they must by definition be based upon either existing conditions, or predictions about how existing conditions will change in the future (which are, of course, themselves based upon trends existing within current conditions).  Models about the future can’t incorporate unexpected, unanticipated changes in conditions.  With  a system as complex as Earth’s climate, affected, as it is, by a huge number of factors, a skeptic can wonder whether or not unanticipated changes in assumptions will occur and, if they do, whether they will affect model results.  A small sort of example of this seems to be at work in this study:

Not only does the atmosphere release more energy than previously thought, it starts releasing it earlier in a warming cycle. The models forecast that the climate should continue to absorb solar energy until a warming event peaks.

Instead, the satellite data shows the climate system starting to shed energy more than three months before the typical warming event reaches its peak.

“At the peak, satellites show energy being lost while climate models show energy still being gained,” Spencer said.

The ScienceDaily web site’s report concludes:

Applied to long-term climate change, the research might indicate that the climate is less sensitive to warming due to increased carbon dioxide concentrations in the atmosphere than climate modelers have theorized. A major underpinning of global warming theory is that the slight warming caused by enhanced greenhouse gases should change cloud cover in ways that cause additional warming, which would be a positive feedback cycle.

Instead, the natural ebb and flow of clouds, solar radiation, heat rising from the oceans and a myriad of other factors added to the different time lags in which they impact the atmosphere might make it impossible to isolate or accurately identify which piece of Earth’s changing climate is feedback from human-made greenhouse gases.

Now, a caveat:  I am not an expert in climate change studies, and have no independent way to evaluate this particular study, or to evaluate the impact on the viability of climate change models even if the study is accurate.  My personal view is that yes, human activity is increasing concentrations of carbon dioxide and other “greenhouse gases” in the atmosphere, and yes, that increase probably will have long-term impacts on Earth’s climate, but just what that impact will be is uncertain.  Probably warmer, maybe by a lot, maybe by a little, with negative effects most places and positive effects in others.  But models being imperfect, this is an area in which the answer to the question will only really be known over time.

Time to Close a Deal

This gets tiring after a while, watching politicians on the left and the right using the upcoming deadline over raising the federal debt limit to score political points with their respective bases.  The idiocy of the Right’s “no new taxes or revenues ever ever ever” position against the Left’s preposterous “we’ll give everyone everything they ever want forever forever forever” — what a choice, huh?  It isn’t even as if the politics behind the bickering are even very sophisticated; it’s basically “I’m keeping what I got, and so what if I blow up the economy for the second time in three years, at least I’ll win my next primary.”

Pathetic.  Juvenile.  Sad.

I give President Obama credit for being willing to compromise.  While the Left howls in “he’s-sold-us-out” indignation, he’s doing the statesmanlike thing: placing interests of the country as a whole ahead of those of his political base.  Sadly, the Republicans only see this as weakness, an ironic projection, probably, of their own political cowardice.

Any eleven randomly selected, moderately intelligent and knowledgeable, relatively politically neutral individuals could get together in a room and cut a deal in a day.  It takes some tax increases (yes, some increases in addition to just loophole-cutting) and some spending cuts (yes, for some “third rail” programs, not just low-hanging fruit, most of which has already been picket).  It takes serious adults putting the long-term national interest ahead of their short-term political interests.

It’s time to close a deal.  But reading my last sentence above makes me extremely doubtful that will happen.  Courage seems in very short supply in Washington.

15 Seconds to Spare

It was brutal this morning getting up at 3:30 a.m.  Following nights of 4 hours and 5 hours of sleep, it was painful.  Why I had scheduled a flight out of SFO at 6:55 escapes me.

But I did get up, and managed to cajole my son Will into truly believing that we needed to get into the car and on our way by 4, a process that involved some not-so-gentle parental guidance.  The clock on the dashboard said 4:02 a.m. when we backed out of the garage into the pitch black.

The advantage of the hour, on a Saturday no less, was the almost complete absence of traffic, and we were rolling our way down the construction zone on 101 just past the 116 interchange in Cotati when something didn’t sound right.  Thump-thump-thump-thump.  In denial, I asked Will, “Do you hear that?”  To which he replied, “It sounds like your tire on the road.”  Which if he’d included the word “flat” in there would have been completely correct.

Soon the smell of burning rubber and the sound of rims on pavement confirmed it:  A flat, at the worst place and time.  Completely dark, narrow shoulder, plane to catch (on Virgin America, a carrier with limited flights to O’Hare from SFO).

I called Suzie just because I thought she should share in the joy.  Actually I first called Triple-A, who said I’d get priority for assistance because I was in a construction zone and thus in some physical danger, but the wait would be 20 to 30 minutes.  It was 4:25 by now, so the only way to catch the plane, I thought, was if Suzie could come and switch cars with me.

But as it turned out, the tow truck arrived before she did, and the efficient and friendly-as-could-be-expected-at-4:45-a.m. driver did a NASCAR pit-stop number on the tire, completely changing it faster than I could have found the jack.  So much more quickly than expected, we were rolling again, although our likelihood of getting to the off-site parking, checking our bads, clearing security, and making a 6:55 flight seemed marginal at best.

No traffic, though, and we flew down 101 (blessed be the Highway Patrolmen on their coffee breaks, for they shall inherit the earth).  We made it through San Francisco on 19th Avenue faster than ever — three stops the whole way.  We got to the Park SFO lot quickly enough that I thought, well maybe we have a chance.  I dropped Will off with the bags, zoomed up the ramp, found a spot, and ran down the stairs.

To find, to my consternation, Will standing behind a group of 15 Japanese tourists, waiting to board the shuttle bus.  Crap, crap, crap, it’s going to take God-only-knows-how-long for them to get on, and even if there’s space for us, it will delay our getting to our terminal.  But — a miracle — we were the last ones on, and the elderly lady driver must have been a racer in a prior life, and we were to our terminal more quickly than could have been expected.  Still not likely to catch the flight, but still possible.

The line to check bags — moderate.  We got through and rounded the corner to head to security, where our hopes of making the flight dimmed considerable.  A huge, huge line, so long that even with all of the screening positions open, it was going to take a while.

And it did take a while, snaking through the line, ID and boarding pass check, another wait for screening, belt, shoes off, laptop out, come on, come on, and finally, finally we were through.  Just then we heard, final boarding call for our flight, better get here because we wouldn’t want to leave without you.

So we ran, sprinting, to our gate, which when we arrived was completely empty except for the gate attendant, waiting for the last passengers.  Amazing, amazing, we’d actually made the flight.  Then Will said,

“I forgot my bag.”

Huh?

“I left my bag at security.”

Crap again.  I asked the lady at the gate how long she could wait before closing the gates.  She said 5 minutes.  OK buddy, hustle on back to the screening and hope they haven’t destroyed your bag as a security threat.

Off Will goes.  I wait.  After a few minutes the gate attendant says, “You should probably board the plane now.”

“We’re traveling together.  Just wait, he’ll be here.”

I paced around the gate, swearing under my breath.  But of course I couldn’t really blame him; that’s exactly the kind of thing that happens when you’re rushed.

Waiting, waiting, waiting …

And here’s Will, running down the corridor with his bag!  And here we are, walking down the jetway, hearing the door close behind us.  And here we are, in our seats, all ready for our 6:55 flight, with a good 15 seconds to spare.

A long flight, a wait for the rental car shuttle, a long drive from O’Hare, and here we are:

I love to travel.

Obnoxious Cheap Petty Gouging Hyatt

I spent part of the day in the basement of the State Capitol with Suzie’s group, where I was treated to a free and fast wireless connection to the internet.

Flash forward to 4 p.m.  After checking in at the Hyatt, I pop my computer out to check work emails, only to discover that I have to pay for wireless access.  That didn’t particularly phase me; it was expected, if annoying.  What got me was the two-tiered connection fee — $9.95 per day (hardly chicken feed) gets you a wireless connection that seems to download at the measly rate of 80 kbs.  If you want to have faster service, it’s $15.95 (I think; I frankly was so hacked off that I don’t remember the exact figure).

I understand hotels have to make money, but if the State of California (and the Citizen Hotel, where we stayed last night) can offer free wireless and still stay in business, then why not Hyatt?  (Ha, ha, ha, I made an inadvertent joke there, sorry, State of California.)  The real point is that what I’ll remember about my stay at the Sacramento Hyatt won’t be the nice corner room or the comfy bed or the friendly older lady who greeted me as I was taking my stuff onto the elevator, it will be getting shafted by having to pay for a service — a crummy slow service, at that — that should have been free.  I imagine Hyatt spends millions and millions on advertising to build up good will; you’d think they’d be reluctant to lose it all for ten bucks.

One of My Pictures Goes A Little Viral

On April 29, 2009, I attended a Giants game at AT&T Park and took this picture and posted it on the photo site Flickr:

The picture sat out there in the cloud somewhere, largely unviewed, until the day before yesterday, when I checked my Flickr stats and noticed that it had been viewed by 79 people. This has happened before with several of my pictures, when someone has used them on a web page for some purposes. This time, it looks like it somehow got posted by someone on a Tumblr blog. (For those of you not social-media savvy, Tumblr is a so-called “micro-blogging” platform; I set up a page just there more or less just because I could.) From that one post, it got posted and reposted and favorited and liked, and appears to have been reposted or liked more than 2,500 times.

A wonderfully useless thing, the Internet.

Further Adventures In Linux-Land: OpenSUSE Rocks

We bought Suzie a new computer last weekend, which meant that the one she was using (which was running painfully slowly under Windows XP, for reasons I could never figure out, notwithstanding a lot of effort and, in the end, a complete new install) was now available to me to more or less do with as I wished.  What I wished was to see if it would run any better under a Linux distribution.

I was familiar with two — Ubuntu, which I’d originally installed on my old laptop after its hard drive failed and I had to replace it, and OpenSUSE, which I put on the same laptop after an Ubuntu upgrade resulted in the laptop not working.  But it’s so boring dealing with the familiar, so I decided to download the latest version of Debian.

Debian is an older distribution of Linux, one dedicated completely to the “open source” ideal, and it has spawned a number of other distributions based on it, including Ubuntu, which is perhaps the most popular Linux distribution.  From what I read, it seemed like Debian was very much a root version of Linux.  Unlike Ubuntu and OpenSUSE, which in addition to releasing Linux distributions that are free and more easily accessible for Windows users, but have for-profit aspects to them (OpenSUSE, in fact, is a project of the Novell, the old owner of WordPerfect), Debian is strictly community-based and open source.  So I thought, what the heck, I’ll try it.

The first new thing I had to do was to partition the hard drive, so as to keep the existing Windows XP operating system on the machine (Suzie wanted it to remain available).  I’d heard that partitioning a hard drive was a mystical and dangerous thing, but I found a version of a Linux program called GParted, which booted from a CD, and which was in fact straightforward and easy to use.  It allowed me to create the two new partitions necessary to house another operating system, without harming the existing Windows XP system.

Partitioning accomplished, and me at this point feeling very super-cool nerdy, I downloaded a Debian installation “iso” file and burned it to a CD.  Here’s where things got off track.

Linux distributions have a particular problem with wireless devices.  The variety of different hardware, firmware, and drivers for these devices — developed predominantly for Windows machines — apparently makes it difficult for wireless devices to work in an easy “plug and play” way in a Linux OS.  Many older wireless cards have no Linux drivers that have been developed for them, or the Linux drivers that have been developed often don’t work.  I’d struggled with this problem when installing OpenSUSE on my laptop; you have to use a program called “ndiswrapper” that allows Windows wireless drivers to work in Linux, then install the proper  Windows driver in the proper location, and discovering that this is necessary takes some sleuthing through the Internet.

But knowing that, I assumed I’d be able to deal with the problem.  I wasn’t.  The first Debian distribution (on the CD) did not have ndiswrapper as a program you could install.  And the process to locate and install ndiswrapper separately (by downloading it on another machine, then putting it on a USB thumb drive, was incredibly frustrating.  I easily found the program, the Debian “package” file, for ndiswrapper, but could never figure out how to get it to install.  The Debian OS didn’t seem to want to open the file with the program needed to unpack and install it.  After frittering away some time on this, I decided to download a huge Debian iso file to burn to a DVD, then reinstall the system, assuming that the larger distribution would contain ndiswrapper a program which, after all, seems to be very needed.

After taking the time to download a 4+ gigabyte iso file and reinstall Debian from a DVD, it turned out that, as far as I was ever able to tell, ndiswrapper wasn’t provided.  So I again spent more frustrating time trying to install the program manually.  I like to think of myself as a fairly computer-savvy guy, but after fooling around with the programs on the OS and researching how to install a program manually on the Internet, I never got there.  I was defeated by Debian.  (Any readers who know how to do what I was trying to do, leave the answer in a comment.)

At this point, I gave up on Debian.  It just wasn’t worth the effort.  (It didn’t help that at the same time, Suzie’s new computer was acting up, requiring me to spend several hours to remedy her Windows 7 problems.)  I knew that I had been able to get my old laptop’s wireless connection working with OpenSUSE, so I figured I could do the same with Suzie’s old PC.

But much to my surprise and amazement, I didn’t have to do much of anything.  The OpenSUSE 11.3 distribution had ndiswrapper on the DVD, and I installed it, but I’m not sure whether it was necessary, as my wireless connection (a Linksys USB device) started working as soon as I went into the network manager and pointed it at our home network.  On top of this, the OpenSUSE installation process was much easier and intuitive than Debian’s.  Here I sit, connected to the Internet, writing this post.

The bottom line:  OpenSUSE rocks.  If you’re interested in a Linux distribution, I recommend it (use the KDE desktop option, cooler in my opinion).  You can get it here.  It’s fast and elegant and professional.  And I like the name.

Grande Faute d’Orthographe

J’etais en train de regarder cette photo quand je me suis rendu compte que j’ai commis une grande faute d’orthographe pendant cinq années.

Le nom de la ville où nous sommes restés en France n’est pas “Levellois” mais “Levallois.” Avec un “a.” Plus précisément, le nom est “Levallois-Perret” (bien que il semble que on utilize “Perret” de moins en moins).

Donc j’ai modifié l’orthographe dans tous les posts et toutes les photos. Dites-moi si vous voyez un “Levellois” dans mon blog.

Our Return from Paris: Incompetence, Thug Border Agents, and “Why Do You Live in France?”

We’re back in Sonoma County after a long, stressful, long, hard, long, hectic, hard day of travel, which started when I woke at 4:30 a.m. in Paris and ended 25 1/2 hours later when I finally climbed into bed in Santa Rosa.  In between, it was a combination of stress, boredom, irritation, and anger … anger like I haven’t felt in a long, long while, at the rude, smug, arrogant, small-minded idiots working at the immigration and customs operation (if you can call it that) at the Minneapolis airport.  But more on that later.

We are hopelessly punctual people, and my view is always that I would rather get out early and avoid the stress of possibly being late.  We also wanted to make sure the apartment was all neat, orderly, and clean for the the family who had let us stay there.  So for our 10:30 a.m. flight we were up at 4:30 a.m. for a quick breakfast, final packing, and final apartment-straightening.

There was an added bit of stress, which was that we’d been asked to drive the family car to the airport so that it would be available when they returned later that day from the States.  This would not have been quite so daunting but for the fact that their car is about the most un-Parisian car you can think of — an older-model Chrysler Voyager minivan (although the “mini” part doesn’t really apply), which, sitting in the very small parking space in the garage under their apartment building, looked enormous next to the little Renaults and Peugeots.  And, in fact, it turned out to be very difficult to navigate it out of the garage, up a very, very narrow ramp to the street level.  I was about halfway up that ramp, turning very slowly and (I thought) carefully, when I  heard a scraping sound coming from the rear passenger side of the vehicle.  Stressed anyway, and hyper-buzzed on coffee, I immediately thought that I was hitting the wall, so without thinking I steered the other way (to my left) — a mistake, since I had only about 9 inches of clearance on that side.  Sure enough, the corner of the left front fender hit the wall, and scraped a bit before I re-corrected by steering to the right.

I couldn’t believe it.  I’ve had one at-fault accident my whole life, pride myself on my driving ability, and here I was, a minute and a half into our trip home, and I’d damaged our friends’ car.  Not a good start to the day.  (If there’s any good news in this, it’s that the small scrape I put on the bumper is definitely not the only one on the car; you can’t drive something like this around Paris without it acquiring a bit of a patina.)  Then when we got to the garage exit and pushed the button on the door opener, nothing happened.  We had visions of sitting in the garage while our plane took off, but then, without explanation, the door started to open, and we were out onto the streets of Levallois.

The drive to the airport was uneventful, we found a large space next to a passenger walkway in the terminal parking garage, checked in, and had a fairly relaxed time at CDG waiting for our flight in the new Terminal 2E, which is gorgeous and, for some reason, seemed much quieter than most airports.

Our flight back had two legs, Paris to Minneapolis, and Minneapolis to San Francisco.  The flight from Paris was uneventful — the seats were larger than on the flight over, the plane was smaller (a 767) and had a 2-3-2 seat configuration, meaning that Suzie and I had two seats to ourselves.  The food on the plane was exceptionally good, the crew was marvelous, I got about 2 hours of sleep, and even saw an enjoyable movie (the unexpectedly good Matt Damon film called The Informant).  Still, the flight was nine hours, and after a while my legs started to ache, and no amount of standing and stretching seemed to help.  And the worst was about to come.

When I’d booked the flight, the layover at Minneapolis was around 2 hours, but Delta Airlines later changed to departure time of the second flight, reducing the time to about 1 1/4 hours.  I assumed, gullible consumer that I am, that if Delta had that as a viable connection, then it was possible to make the connection.  And it would have been, if not for two things:  the incompetence of the immigration and customs staff at the Minneapolis airport, and my stupid honesty.

Let’s first talk incompetence.  We had to clear immigration and customs in Minneapolis.  Our flight arrived at the same time as three other flights, from Amsterdam, Tokyo, and one other place I don’t remember.  This confluence of arrivals apparently came as a surprise to the immigration and custom folks or, more likely, they just didn’t care, because the facility was woefully understaffed, leading to huge lines to get through.  We’d met a charming French family on the plane who were sitting across from us; they were starting a 3 week vacation through the Western U.S. (starting in Denver, then to Seattle, then to San Francisco) and were in the same position as we were — their next flight left an 1 1/4 hours after the Paris flight arrived.  And they, unlike us, had to go into the non-U.S. citizen lines, which were (of course) significantly longer than our U.S. citizen line.  No way were they going to make their next flight.

But that wasn’t the worst of it.  The worst of it was having to watch people get unnecessarily hassled and questioned by the mean-spirited, small-minded, and (I don’t use this word lightly, but it’s appropriate here) fascist immigration officials.  Not all of them were like this; ours was a reasonable-seeming lady who processed us through quickly.  But at the same station as her was an obnoxious, not-very-bright-looking man who, as far as I could tell, was hassling people for the pure enjoyment of it, just because he could.  His first target was a black man who had been visiting China; he was subjected to an excessive number of questions that seemed to have no point or purpose.  His next target was a family returning from France; he started interrogating them just as we were finishing up with our agent.  His first question was appropriate enough:  “Where did you come from?”  The answer (“France”) lead to a second question, which was also, I guess, appropriate from a immigration official (“What were you doing in France?”).

But the answer to that question (“We live in France.”) lead to a third question which absolutely floored me:  “Why do you live in France?”  It was said in a tone that implied that no self-respecting, God-fearing, patriotic, real American (remember, this was the U.S. citizen line) would ever consider living in France.  And I could tell that it simultaneously perplexed and irritated the woman he was questioning — she looked at once startled and puzzled and concerned.

We were in the process of walking away towards customs, but the question angered me to such an extent that for a split second I actually considered turning around and asking Mr. Fascist Border Agent if he could explain to me what the hell kind of a question that was and what possible relevance it could have to anything related to immigration or border control.  It was, in fact, more than a split second; I stood there for a moment, hoping the woman’s reply would be, “It’s none of your goddamn business why I live where I do,” but it was clear she was taking the path of least resistance, and actually trying to explain to the cretin why they lived in France.

Perhaps irrationally, I became as enraged and angry as I’ve been in a while.  This is what “Homeland Security” has come to?  Paying thugs to browbeat people at their whim?  “Why do you live in France?”  What the hell kind of a question is that?  What possible relevance?  What possible purpose other than to intimidate and demean?

Then reason (or perhaps cowardice) overcame my anger.  We had a plane to catch and almost no time to catch it.  If I’d called Mr. Fascist Border Agent on his crap, what would have happened?  Would I be arrested or detained for interfering with a border agent?  Did I even have any civil rights here?  As much as I wanted to react, to do something, it wasn’t clear that it would accomplish anything.  So I continued on, seething.

I mentioned my stupid honesty as a reason our connection was in jeopardy.  The custom forms have a number of questions on them, including one asking if you are bringing any fruits, meat, or food into the country.  We were — you can’t leave France without foie gras and chocolate, can you? — and so I marked that “yes.”  I should have lied, I’m sure everyone else did, and there seemed to be no random bag checking.  But because I’d marked “yes,” we were required to go stand in yet another line for yet another under-staffed inspection, this one of our luggage and, in particular, our foie gras.  (Oh, yes, our apples were also confiscated.  Don’t you feel more secure?).  This was an extra 15 minutes and, as at the last station, we again got to see a black man be hassled unnecessarily by a fat white man in a uniform.  This poor chap had to empty out his entire suitcase and let the fat white man rummage through it.  Don’t ask why, it’s likely the fat white man didn’t have a reason.  I just hope he wasn’t carrying apples.

We finally cleared this last station (the inspector had to read the ingredients on each can — it’s goose liver you idiot) and thought we had at least a chance to catch our next plane.  But after clearing the customs and immigration area, we were next faced with incompetence by the Minneapolis airport itself:  For all the incoming international flights, there were but two security lines.  This meant that we (and everyone else) had to spend more time standing in yet another long line.

My head is spinning wild and mad at this point.  What must visitors to our country think when they come here?  If the fascist border agent hassle their own citizens like I saw, how do the treat those (all of them suspicious, of course) foreigners?  I thought of the French family we met on the plane — what were they going to do, stuck in Minneapolis, barely able to speak English?  I wanted to apologize to the whole world for the obnoxious idiocy.  We have never been subjected to this in France or any other country.  How has it come to this?  Is this the face we want to give to the world?

We finally cleared security (by the way, there must be a low-IQ, high-bellyfat affirmative action program in place for hiring airport police in Minneapolis), and Suzie sprinted to our next gate (carefully located far from the international arrivals, of course).  We found that they had held the flight for us and for a few other (even later arrivals) from the Paris flight.  So I guess Delta Airlines deserves thanks for that, although they didn’t need to announce four times to the passengers on the plane that their delayed departure was due to us.

The poor lady sitting in our row got a big download from us, but she took it in stride, and was a delightful traveling partner (we learned all about Minnesota politics).  But the flight seemed endless, endless, my legs were aching sore, the time dragged on and on and on.

And then the plane descended.  Out the window, the Bay Area looked like dried mud, dessicated and brown.  After deplaneing, I went ahead and got the car at the lot; it had a deflated tire, so I had to drive around and find a service station, which took even more time, and when I got back to SFO it turned out our luggage did not make the transfer at Minneapolis.  Delta promised to deliver it but it still isn’t here.  The drive back to Santa Rosa was long but uneventful, and we soon fell into bed, into a deep sleep interrupted only twice by the sudden jolt of leg cramps, one last remnant of 14 hours of confined sitting.

Tomorrow it’s back to work.  Paris already seems far away.