I arrived at the Burbank Airport a little before noon. I woke up at 5am to take the earliest flight out, rode Seattle’s new Link light rail, and just barely made it to the airport in time to go through security, get a latte, and be the second-to-last person to board the plane. FYI everyone: Link’s got some kinks.
When Pablo came to pick me up, the first words out of his mouth were, “Ayeee! Flaquita!” I hadn’t thought much of it, but when I returned to Seattle, everyone was asking about my weight loss. It makes sense that Pablo would be surprised too, not having seen me in a few months. During our ride back to Glendale, I regaled him with the saga of my life in the best Spanish I could muster. Intermittently, I found myself without the proper words and ended up taking the long way through the conversation, apologizing for it after getting my point across. Whenever I do this, Pablo reminds me, “Tu hablas español,” matter-of-factly. I am going to miss that.
At Frank’s shop, my car was in a million pieces. I smiled and said, “Told you I was coming!” We talked for a bit and I went to get coffee, mentally preparing to spend the night somewhere nearby. I kind of knew it wouldn’t be ready when I got there, but I was sick of changing my plans. I spent a large chunk of last year partway between LA and Seattle, accessible to both but effective in neither, so it was time to do some leaning. I spent most of the day chugging coffee and overseeing the work on my car.
By the end of the day, I was feeling pretty useless. I could see everyone working double-duty, but I couldn’t do anything. I helped Frank clean up and close the shop for the night, and he asked me if I was sick. I said I was just tired, and then he attempted to delicately broach the subject of weight loss. It felt odd explaining to him that this is how much I’m supposed to weigh while still digesting a huge chicken lunch/dinner from Dinah’s.