Saturday, Sept. 25

We woke up and got to the airport by 9:30 a.m. for our 11:20 flight. We were flying Southwest, so it was important to get there early. It was my first experience with the airline and its strange boarding policies.

The first 30 passengers to check in at the gate are also the first 30 to board the plane. We were given boarding passes that showed only a bold black number. This would be great, if those who take the pass as we board actually looked at the number and/or had the guts to tell someone with the number 100 that they had to wait, as was the case with the lady in front of me.

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Not like it mattered, anyway, since the flight was originating from Baltimore, so all the good seats (emergency exit, first ten rows, etc.) were taken. Scott and I plopped down way in the back where we could find two seats together. I took the aisle while Scott was in the middle, next to a nice old lady who was traveling with her hubby and a couple of friends. Much to our early dismay, two women were in front of us with two little girls, both of whom were either crying or talking loudly. Scott and I exchanged knowing glances of "oh, crap, what have we gotten ourselves into," but thank the Lord above neither girl made a peep during our entire time in the air.

There is no meal on the flight, despite the fact that it lasted smack dab through lunchtime. No, Southwest is like the Geo Metro of airlines: cheap, no frills and little room for comfort. The flight attendants don't even give you the entire can of soda! Seriously, does it save that much just to give me those extra four ounces of Diet Coke?

We did receive honey-roasted peanuts, and tore into as if we'd been on a stranded boat in the ocean for a week. Then there's a snack pack of assorted goodies: four crackers, fromage/cheese, sausage-like-jerky product and an apple cinnamon granola bar. Me, Scott and Jenn had a slice of pizza at the airport, so I ate only the sausage-like food and my peanuts, which really are good. Scott had trouble opening such a complicated wrapper, but me, no problem. Just tear in the middle with your front teeth and rip down the right side with my Schwarzeneggar-strong hands.

As with all flights out west, we were required to fly over the Grand Canyon, which is that colorful hole in the ground, so all the passengers could gawk. It is not as impressive overhead as on the ground, but is still a work of art. We also made a pass over Hoover Dam, but from the wrong side so all we saw was the lake, which was really blue, and looked great for a swim.

Scott's recollections Part 1: Our plane had a short layover in Las Vegas. I was able to pull a couple of levers on the slot machine. And we watched the US getting beat by Europe in the Ryder Cup. This was Saturday. Then we finally made it to San Diego. We rented a car and drove over to the hotel where we just relaxed and rested.

Our flight arrived in Las Vegas 20 minutes ahead of schedule, approximately 1:10 p.m. local time, to change planes during an hour-long layover. After checking in for our final jaunt to San Diego, we headed for the slot machines that overpopulate the airport. But flying over the city, and being in the airport reminded me of how much I loved the city when I visited last August with Dad, Danielle and her cousin Nick. It is a gorgeous town, and I fell in love with the desert and the blue skies, blocked by rocky peaks that rise abruptly in the horizon. Absolutely stunning, and someplace I could definitely live, or at least retire after a successful career at CNN.

Not in the mood to lose a lot of money, I plopped only $1.75 in the slots, won the same amount, then lost again in ten seconds. Scott, having never been to Vegas, only wanted to be able to say he had gambled in the city, and took an enormous risk with the three quarters in his pocket. "Scott," I called him, because that's his name, "do you want to take such a risk with your future?" He assured me he knew the risks, then blew all 75 cents in less than a minute. Dang this city, ready to empty your pockets with every ding-a-ling of those vile slot machines. At least he can say he "let it ride" in Vegas!

While in the airport we had Subway for lunch, then watched the American golfers embarrass themselves in the Ryder Cup (Much more on that in Sunday's installment). At least I saw that Alabama was leading Arkansas, 14-10, in the second quarter (the Crimson Tide would stay ahead and end up the victors).

Sitting adjacent to us in the seats at the gate was a newlywed couple. I overheard a couple of people who were talking to them, and learned they were married earlier that day, and were returning home on our flight. The couple was still dressed in their wedding garb; she in a white dress that reminded me of Stacy's the week before with a beaded torso and flows out from the waist, except this lady's was strapless. He was wearing black pants (normal) and a shirt that was shiny and looked like a disco ball (not normal, but cool nonetheless). Cute couple, he a pretty-boy California dude with magically styled hair, and she of Hispanic descent with fine black hair down to her waist that I wanted to reach out and stroke.

While waiting in line at the gate, Scott and I were behind an old couple that gave me reason to chuckle. The woman kept rambling on and on about this and that, such as how she wouldn't miss the "puke pink" color that permeates the Vegas airport. He kept looking around elsewhere, pretend-nodding and he must have mumbled "uh-huh" and "hmmm" a dozen times, obviously used to her ramblings.

Off to San Diego we go! Scott now hogs the window seat, and I burrow in the center next to a guy that reminded me of Diego on the NBC sitcom "Jesse," not that I have ever watched it, but if I did it would only be to stare at Christina Applegate. Anyway, uneventful flight. But, being that I have always had bad allergies and asthma on top of it, I was feeling less-than-stellar. Having slept on the couch the night before, there was plenty of time for Reagan's hair and dander to find its way down my nose or mouth and make my sinuses go berserk.

I tell ya, flying with sinuses that are working overtime is not a pleasant experience. I didn't complain nor did I let it bother me since I have been used to the experience my entire life, but it is something I will remember about this trip. My ears didn't recover for a few hours, and I went through an entire pack of travel tissues on the way to San Diego. It was still a problem a week later so it may be that the weather change has affected me more than anything else has.

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	The Marriott where we stayed Sun.-Wed. is on the marina, just above the Hwy 75 bridge. The Hampton Inn where we stayed Sat. night is further north and inland in the Old Town district, near the Mission Hills section shown on this map.

All four of our bags arrived in San Diego, which is always a relief, ever since my golf clubs went to Hawaii when I went to El Paso ten years ago. We hopped on a shuttle to Budget Rental and picked up our mid-size Ford Contour. It wasn't a bad little car, with plenty of room. But, apparently the car had absolutely no acceleration because Scott said so at least five times every time we drove somewhere. But, we only had the car through Monday because we had a decent weekend deal, which turned out to be more than anticipated ($80 instead of $50 for insurance crap).

To the Hampton Inn, where Scott's friend Eric had manipulated it so that Scott was now an employee of PROMUS, and thus entitled to a discount. Thus, we slept in a room for $30 that usually costs $80. In a Faustian sort of way, we will be indebted to Eric for years to come. By this time we were cranky and jet-lagged, so we watched college football and Scott took a nap. Dinner was at Denny's next door.

As Scott slept I took in some San Diego news. Being nice, I will only say that I am less than impressed. The anchors were sans personality, the sets bland, and the graphics were anything but sleek or flashy, which is noticeably boring in today's glossy news environment.

Don't be mistaken that I didn't do my research; I watched every station's news at least once while I was there, and only one looked like it belonged in the No. 26 market in the country. In comparison, Atlanta is the 10th largest market, Nashville is No. 30, Memphis ranks 43rd and Louisville is the 48th largest. Not surprisingly, New York, Los Angeles and Chicago are one, two and three, respectively.

Three of the four meteorologists I watched were senior citizen men, with only one weatherbabe. And these weren't even interesting old guys. One kept his left hand in his pocket while attempting to pinpoint every little dot on the map (a big no-no); another wore a white suit and must have a great secret recipe for chicken, while another kept tapping the blue screen with a pen.

The anchors had absolutely no rapport, failing badly at witty banter that ended with awkward silences and a shrug. It hurt to watch. The reporters were a little better, but many looked as if they still belonged in Odessa, Texas, market No. 151. The sets took me back to 1980 when they consisted of nothing but a high desk, a sign of the station logo and a background that resembles an impressionistic painting. The ABC affiliate, KGTV Channel 10, was the only station that remotely resembled a 1999 news presentation.