Having gone to Denny's twice in the last 24 hours for the unlimited
free refills on coffee, it's probably time to go back to America's
large portions. I wander around shitty weather for a few hours until
my flight back in time. Making up for the lost day on the way here, I
land the morning of July 6th after having left the afternoon of the
same day. This international date line is a crazy thing.
And I'm an idiot: it's not until after several frustrated hours of calling cell phones and moms at the airport that I realize I've managed to mess up my booking and ended up in the U.S. 22 hours ahead of instead of the planned 2 hours after my cotravelers. Let this be a lesson to all about the perils of booking international flights while intoxicated.
But I can't say it's bad to be back in L.A. I get a hostel a block from Venice Beach, have time for a pitiful workout by Muscle Beach, and am asked if I "just smoked a big doobie or something" by one of the Malibu cops shining a Mag-Lite into the care of some dudes I met at the hostel and talked into an utterly unsuccessful midnight attempt to see "Fantastic Four" to wake me up after I fell asleep in shotgun. And that sentence makes more sense than me leaving New Zealand a day earlier than I should have:)