We're off like a dirty, stinky, sweaty pair of socks. We officially left Colorado. Our remainder of meager belongings and last bits of wedding appliances that we couldn't bear to part with are now securely wrapped in boxes awaiting the New Zealand shipping boys in the confines of a climate controlled 2nd story storage closet. And we are in Virginia with what Christmas gifts and clothes we could stuff into two over sized duffels, two barely zipped travel packs, a wheeled carry-on, and an enormous stretching, ripping red Christmas target bag (which looked like Garfield had a party in it and tried to break out.)We arrived at DIA yesterday morning to discover that one of our wheeled duffels was 15lbs over the limit and we would now owe AirTran $25 and the prospect of our fly fishing rod getting through security looked grim, according to an annoyed yet forcibly cheery customer service attendant. She even added, with a smile, that we would probably miss our flight if they decided that they wouldn't let it on the plane. How nice.
Security went quite smoothly and nobody even questioned the rod's presence. (Take that, Debbie Downer!)
Our first flight, we sat next to a chatty retired Marine who was on his way, with his wife and kids, to Miami to embark on their first ever family cruise. He was very stoked. Our second flight was less upbeat. The male attendant assigned to our section was quite enamoured with the gentleman across our aisle. He was sending out some serious i-like-you vibes as well as i'm-desperate-for-you-to-like-me-back. I don't believe the passenger, even though, clearly of the same gender preferential genre, shared the return sentiment. It was almost comical if it wasn't so blatantly obvious. He talked to him while motioning the safety protocols. He handed us our beverages and minuscule snacks all the while giving 21E the "puss-in-boots" imploring look. He was still staring when he came by with the last trash run and I had to actually grab the bag to make sure the cup made it in, even though he was holding it out to me.
We made it to Richmond. Our bags obediently came off of the conveyor and we lugged them to the rental car pick-up. In the midst of everything we've been working on and taking care of the past 3 months, pre-arranging a rental car was not one of them. Our bad. Since Christmas is pending and just because they can, they take all your money and your left kidney with a deposit of your gallbladder that is only returned upon return of the rental car and that is purely contingent on it having no nicks, scratches, or smudges and that is with the insurance. Key in hand we continued to huff and haul our belongings in the direction of our dearly paid for wheels, passing a smirking cop who looked suspiciously at the vast amount of our belongings in tow. Coming to the space marked B13 (that should've been a clue right there) we had to do a double take. Before us crouched the chariot of all things impractical with a trunk big enough to hold maybe a carton of milk and a can of wasabi peas: The Dodge Caliber. Somebody was not thinking about toting anything around when they designed this car, and i think that they hadn't really considered even driving it around since the rear-view mirror took up the entire view of what little you could see from the front windshield. You could see where you'd been and what was behind you but, by George, you were not gonna see where you were going. And really, its just a car, who needs to see where they are going?
We smashed, pushed, re-arranged 5 times, squished our luggage into the "trunk" and the back seat and got into the front and meditated for a moment on how the heck we were going to be able to pick up Becky and Seth and all their luggage the next day. We came up with a solution: put their luggage inside on our laps and tie them to the roof. Satisfied, we lurched off in the direction of our friend's home, also known as Casa de Brocks.
