In 2018, Nate was six-seven. Some of my readers will appreciate what I did there. Others, it’s too late for you.
During the NBA finals, he’s acutely aware of Kevin Durant. But he’s calling him Kevinder Ant. And so begins our obsession with Kevinders. Later that year we watch All or Nothing: Manchester City. A couple of brilliant weighted passes and I fall hopelessly in love with a new Kevinder. Kevinder Bruyne.
So now we pretty much call all the Kevins, Kevinder. And speaking of Kevinders… the boys chose Home Alone for a pre-Christmas movie night. Plus all the Prep & Landings of course. Then the day after Christmas, we threw two duffels in the Audi and set out on a highly anticipated trip to Paris, just like the McCallisters.
We get to the SLO airport and it’s smooth sailing. No one in line. Breeze through security except for Jacob’s wisdom tooth mouthwash. Which I sincerely appreciate given the grief they gave me for my carry-on candles at Thanksgiving. We clear the bomb residue test and take a leisurely stroll to the gates.
It’s time to board and there’s no plane. It’s time to take-off and there’s no plane. The app changes and it says the flight is now five hours to SFO. Maybe the plane’s taking 101. It gets weird. No one is confident the plane will arrive, or leave, or when. Jairo helps me request my luggage. I make him look me dead in the eye. He swears he’ll get it to the front if we exit back through security. He knows I know his name.
We have exactly three hours to get to SFO. I speed walk my way back to the car and pull it up as the boys reclaim our luggage. I floor it.
We have a plan to park in short term parking and so does the rest of the world. We drive up and up, floor after floor, with everyone. We have twenty minutes to get our luggage checked. On the way back down, I pull over in the garage on a random floor and toss the boys out with their passports. Get the bags checked and get to the gate. I wave them in the general direction of the international terminal and drive back into the fray. The parking garage dumps me into a new parking garage and a guy tells me it will be $4 to escape. Thankfully the attendant has the good sense to give me a pass and I find myself under the maze of SFO. Two lots and counting.
Google sends me to the east bay. I’m kidding. Ish. I see a long term parking sign and a bunch of porta potties and I pull in. I’m dying. My phone is ringing. I can’t talk. I’m under duress. On my way back to the car, a man stops me and tells me I’m in an Uber/Lyft lot and I’ll be towed. Lot three.
I head back out and follow the next sign to long-term parking. The lady tells me it’s full. She hands me a map. Lot four.
I flip a bitch and go back down the road, veering to the left toward a big Lot D sign. Lot five. All the shuttles advertise ‘Employees Only.’ I start questioning if I have my passport. A lady jumps off the shuttle and asks if I’m coming. I guess I am.
We make a big loop back from the East Bay. The boys text me they’re at the gate with everyone. I’m infinitely proud that at sixteen and fourteen, they’ve navigated this life pop quiz with ease. Meanwhile I’m living my own personal version of Home Alone, running through the airport to catch a flight to Paris.
The guy at security tells me I’m special. Yeah, five parking lots later, that’s been established. I fly through security and pull up to the gate as they’re boarding. We’re all here.
Finally, I sink into my window seat, quietly traumatized and hopped-up on garage fumes.
I have a weird feeling I can’t shake.
Did I forget something?
The garage door?
I don’t have a garage.
That’s not it.
And I bolt upright and yell, “Kevinder!”
I didn’t… but I should have.