After the bus ride from hell (and really, when is it heaven when you travel in cramped public transportation with a bunch of whining infants and crotchety old men that reek of piss?) I arrive in San Jose. Ah, wonderful San Jose, one of the oldest cities in California and still searching for an identity. I've known people from all over the Bay Area to say they're "from San Francisco", but never as far south as Morgan Hill. Daly City, Richmond, even Atherton I can understand, but when you're from the eighth largest city in the country and still have to identify with SF, your town has problems...
So after nine hours, I'm sitting in the depot, trying to call Chris, who the previous evening told me he'd be in. Only after an hour of dialing and wondering if I ended up in Costa Rica do I get a response, thankfully affirming that I'm in the right San Jose. Within the hour, I'm picked up and entrenched in the suburbs of the city.