I’m in a plane headed east, bound for Minneapolis. We’re over the real flyover states now. Out my window, it’s pitch black mountains with tiny pockets of orange streetlights (and, oddly, one light that seems to be a campfire). I’d guess I’m over Wyoming. Probably an hour ago, I saw lights that got gradually denser and stopped on a curved border. I figure that was Salt Lake City. I stood on that shore six months ago while driving to California.

The Bay Area has, actually, been depressing lately. It’s been cloudy, rainy, and muggy. After sitting down after dragging my luggage over to the cab this afternoon, I realized I was covered in sweat.

I had a big, medium, and small suitcase, plus a laptop bag. The big suitcase was filled with laundry. The small one had my winter coat and food. The medium one was absolutely empty. I plan to fill it with clothes and things to bring back. I'm slowly moving all of my stuff to California, one suitcase at a time.

Climbing out of the clouds and into the sunlight on the ascent was a pleasant break. We headed out over the Rockies, and the tops of the mountains occasionally poked through the blanket of clouds—like an aerial portrait of Caribbean islands with the ocean swapped for giant cotton swabs.

I think the weather has also helped fuel a bit of an antisocial funk for me. Of course, when I’m like that, people tend to think I need cheering up and they hound to come along places. Not a good idea. Inevitably, if I get dragged along somewhere, I’m grumpy and the experience ends up being bad for everyone.

I like to go do things by myself. In the last week, I’ve gone to three different theatres to see Narnia, Brokeback Mountain, and Good Night, and Good Luck, all alone. I’m thinking of taking a solo vacation somewhere next year.

Anyway, back to the weather. Unfortunately, what I was looking forward to in Wisconsin—bitter cold—has apparently subsided. It’s now 39 and freezing rain, ruining all the snowmobile trails. Ask a Wisconsinite—they’d much prefer the temperature be ten degrees below freezing than ten above. Below freezing, there’s snow. The landscape is snow covered and pretty. The ground is hard. Above freezing, things melt. There’s mud and puddles, and everything seems cold and wet.

About the trip—again, it’s December 23rd on a plane bound for Minneapolis. There’s a conspicuous number of Norwegian-looking flower children, with funky blond hairstyles and hip, fashionable clothing. I’m assuming they’re flying back home for Christmas. I picture them with their significantly less hip parents attending Lutheran church services tomorrow night.