Earl Grey and porridge made from the leftover grains of the IPA I brewed last night. Om nom nom!

It’s a roundabout path I took — Bay Area to the Midwest to Los Angeles. I had to take a car, a stinking bus, and about a dozen escalators, but I finally made it through security at this stinking airport and am now in an airport bar that, despite its sticky floor, has nice cold Blue Moon on tap served with thick, juicy wedges of California navel oranges. That almost compensates for the fact that my flight is delayed by half an hour. That’s thirty more minutes between me and home.

I miss my man. I miss my cat. I miss my bed. I don’t know how people manage to have jobs that require frequent travel. I love being places, but man I hate getting there. I hate suitcases and hotel rooms, and I dislike that my usual diet of chips and salsa has to go out the window in favor of civilized cuisine that requires utensils and compliments on the chef’s presentation.

At least it was a beautiful day in LA. It always is. The 405 was even pretty clear for a summer day, and the freeway exits whizzed past — Sepulveda, Santa Monica, Venice. Someday I’ll get back down here, hopefully to stay. There’s a lot of great places to shack up, especially in California. But this is home. It always will be.