In which we regret living far from an airport, and enjoy our last salad and pizza
The next place I move is going to be closer to an airport. In order to make our 8 a.m flight to New York (the first stop on our journey; living in the middle of the country means we can't make it to JFK in time for the 6:30 p.m. flight to Casablanca), we had to leave our house in Fort Collins, Colorado, at 4:30 a.m. to get to my brother- and sister-in-law's house by 6:00 a.m. Well worth the extra time in order to save about $200 in parking fees at DIA. We stormed Nathan and Paola's house like a swat team in order to get Nathan moving to drive us to the airport in time.
The flights were fairly uneventful, although we spent some quality time parked on the runway in Chicago waiting for the winds to settle down in New York. It was a good opportunity to get started on my Moroccan transit knitting project. Good thing we waited too, if the turbulence we experienced trying to land at JFK was an improvement. Dan and I both had our heads down trying to keep our lunches down when we hit the runway. After all, lunch was likely the last paramecium-free salad I would get for almost three weeks. How I would long for crunchy, raw vegetables after a week or so of solid tajines.
We were spending the night at the apartment of my other sister-in-law and her fiance (Suzzy and Blake) in Queens, and it turned out to be quite the slumber party. Even though Suzzy and Blake were out of town, the apartment was packed with Dan and I, Chop and Nat, and Dan's father, who happened to be in New York for business. So we kicked the trip off with a mini party of New York pizza (fabulous), leaving the house beer-free in a shameful bit of poor houseguestship.