The old man sneered disapprovingly. He spit the words, "This is ridiculous," at me, kneeling on the floor, then claimed his boarding pass and stalked off. I'm a good packer. I've taken a nine-week road trip with just a large duffel bag. Gone away for long weekends armed with only what fit into my purse. So you can imagine my mortification as I desperately attempted to lose 12 pounds in the middle of the San Diego airport.
A printable, basic packing list for surviving a two-month trip with one suitcase. For a more complete list, please visit twobytour.com
On our way to our room we walked past some of the motel's other guests, who were quietly smoking or finding privacy outside on their phones. Once inside the room, I looked at J, "People definitely live here." I dropped onto the bed. "Oh fuck yeah they do."
Anything worth doing is worth doing right, and arguing done right is an exhausting endeavor. Both a bit spent, we made our way to Luke's Inside Out to indulge in the restorative powers of beer and sandwiches. Luke's is an unassuming food truck parked between a bar and a cafe. You can have your meal delivered to either bookending establishment. Its menu is small, specializing in sandwiches that are reworked versions of Italian and Asian classics.
The bar was empty except for two middle-aged white bros, wearing the ubiquitous indoor fucking ballcap, high-fiving to an election we were both trying to avoid paying attention to, at least for the evening. The world started to feel a little more dangerous, and we hopped a car back to my place in Polish Hill, and kicked on NPR's election coverage. My roommate Sam, Y and I drank heavily, listening to the commentators become increasingly frantic before I turned it off and walked a skewed line into the kitchen for another drink.