I got back from Los Angeles on Sunday. It went well. Very well. I miss everyone already, all those brilliant, beautiful new writers. But I’m glad to be home.
The travel was the smoothest I’ve experienced in years. On the way there, a friend drove us to the airport. Virgin America had a wheelchair waiting at the drop-off point. Security was efficient and painless. (Have I ever told the story of how I came *this* close to getting into a fight with a security person at the Atlanta airport? Remind me sometime.) The plane left on time and arrived early. There were no shrieking children. The food (food!) was utterly delicious. We were met at the airport by a reader of this blog (thanks, Jill!) who wafted us to the campus, then drove Kelley to pick up a rental car. And the same in reverse. Not a hitch, not a glitch, not a bump. I’m not entirely sure I believe it.
Which is a good thing because I’m crushed-into-the-carpet tired. I was up at 6:45 every morning, and talking all day every day until 11pm, or later. (And subsisted on dorm food. And slept in single dorm beds.) Last night I slept seven hours straight through (haven’t done that for so long I can’t remember) woke up, beamed at Kelley, and slept another two.
Free of my repressive presence, the perbs ran absolutely wild. Perhaps it was the sunshine–ironically it’s much, much hotter here in Seattle than it was in Bel Air, where the weather was perfect–mid-70s every day, 61 at night. Here, it was 95 on Sunday, 91 yesterday, heading for 85 today. That, plus the smooth travel, the deep sleep, the tangle of perbs, makes me wonder if I’ve fallen into a dream or a fairytale.
Tomorrow, hopefully, I’ll figure it all out enough to set down the story of my week. For now, I’ll leave it at this: I’m glad–very, very glad–I went and happy to be home.
While you wait for me to catch up with myself, here’s something you might find interesting: an essay by Cheryl Morgan on the Changing Images of Trans People in Science Fiction and Fantasy Literature.