Okay, so, moving on: Packing & Departure

A couple nights before I left, Eric, Daniel and I found the carcass of a huge beast in the volleyball court behind Soda Hall.


We weren't sure what it was, and I was loathe to go nearer. Was it dead, or merely slumb'ring? Would it wake and violently seek to sate some dark hunger?

Eric insisted we press on...


It turned out to be a Sun Blackbox. Phew!


The next day, there was nothing to do but pack.


I don't think there is anything more stressful than moving. That night was no exception. Here's a nice picture of my bed, from the ceiling, before everything was dismantled:


I had to abandon my dance mirror in a park, which made me a little sad:


It took all night, which is a little pathetic, since I don't have much stuff. Pretty much everything I have fit in my car.


I don't do many thinks like my father. For instance, he thinks that practicality is worth nearly any amount of aesthetic degradation. I don't. But I do agree that marking ones luggage is a pretty good idea. Unlike my father, I put a bit of effort and thought into my mark--a strong yellow X, painted in the Soda Hall volleyball court.

My bag, almost ready to go:


My home at Amador Ave. was almost certainly the nicest I have ever had. I was very sad to leave it, and especially sad to leave Joseph and Elizabeth, my wonderful landlords.

The backyard, right before I left:


After I finished up, I said goodbye to Joseph and Elizabeth. Joseph told me about how much he hated the french when he was in NATO flight school right before the Korean War. Elizabeth was incredibly sweet as always.

And that was that. All that was left was to visit with dad, and then mom, and then drive to the airport. But, I won't speak of my family in such a public place.

Mixed feelings:


Then it was the airport:



Waiting...


The airport was nice. I met a woman who turned out to be the technology columnist for the London Telegraph, and we talked about London and how airport security is complete shit. Looking back on it, I'm really glad that I have this transitional memory of sitting in the airport, waiting for my flight. It's a punctuation mark in the paragraph that has been the last 25 years of my life.

Finally... Flight!