After the fiasco surrounding finding the rental car center at SFO, it was a relief to get in the car and head south on the 101 (why is it that interstates in CA are preceded by "the"? at home, interstate 95 is just referred to as 95 and does not need to be prefixed with an article). There is always a sense of coming home when I arrive in the Bay area, although I only lived there for 5 months many years ago. The air has a distinctive scent - eucalyptus, mixed with something else. Some day I will live here again.

When I made the single night reservation at a hotel fairly close to the airport, I included a note that we would be arriving late - between midnight and 1:00 AM. I received a confirmation message, but no notification that the hotel essentially shuts down overnight. The security guard was surly, probably because we had interrupted his reading of Goethe, although he didn't actually say a word to us. It was all in the grimace, the tightening of the shoulders, and the barest of nods toward the reception desk. The desk clerk was apparently asleep (there's that SLEEPING excuse again), and was equally uncommunicative. Because there was no bell staff on duty, we commandeered a bell cart and left it abandoned in the hallway, a small thumbing of the nose at the French snobbery that permeates the hotel. When we left the next day and the morning desk clerk (far cheerier than the sullen night clerk) asked if we could possibly have used two Internet connections (each having been charged to our bill), I didn't waver when I told him that no, that couldn't be possible, since we had been in the room less than 12 hours. And the knowledge that both my husband and I had logged on from separate computers didn't cause me any guilt at all.

So why did I choose this hotel, when there are dozens in the area? I've stayed there before numerous times and have been presented with the same charming attitudes, the slight sniff and looking-down-the-nose that only the French have mastered, so I knew what was likely. They do, however, have beds that are superior to Westin's Heavenly Beds (TM), and breakfast pastries that are sublime, along with French pressed coffee that is rich and slightly gritty and has a stick-to-your-ribs robustness that stays with you all day (more caffeine than Jolt cola, I believe). Food and bed outweigh churlish behavior any time.

Movies: The Bourne Supremacy. Inferior to the first installment in every way (and Franka Potente is killed off in the first few minutes!). The first half of the movie was marred by a couple behind us providing a running commentary on the movie, a veritable shot-by-shot, moment-by-moment narration:
Man: "535. What do you think that means?"
Woman: "It's the room number."
Man: "But does it mean something?"
Woman: "It could. It could."
Man: "What else have we seen her in?"
Woman: "I think she was in that thing we saw on HBO."
Me: "SHUT THE FUCK UP OR I WILL COME BACK THERE AND STUFF YOUR TASTELESS, DRY POPCORN DOWN YOUR THROATS! ARE YOU SO DELUSIONAL THAT YOU THINK YOU'RE IN YOUR OWN LIVING ROOM?! NOW SHUT UP AND WATCH THIS BAD, BAD MOVIE!"
Ok, so I just hissed and glared, but that's what I wanted to say. They eventually ran out of steam and stopped talking, but not before they had earned several more stares and a desire to fling a few well-aimed M&Ms at their noses. This morning as I was eating breakfast, I looked across the lobby and spied a woman staring at me and pointing, gesturing to her husband that the nasty shrew from the theater was staying at their hotel. They pointedly did not sit down and eat. Which is just as well because I'm sure that an almond from the granola would have been just as effective as a green M&M.