They tell me San Diego is gorgeous, and I’ll have to take their word for it, because on my recent work conference I only saw glimpses of America’s Finest City. I was there for the 2009 IACUC Conference and I tried really hard to keep my head down and network as little as possible. I knew I would be the youngest, least experienced attendee, and I tried to play that information pretty close to the vest. DenisLiam and I made some motions about a visit, but it turns out LA to SD isn’t as quick of a dash as I’d hoped. Instead, I spent most of my non-conference hours on the patio soaking up the dying sun, or sitting in my hotel room watching basketball.

Two of the three nights, I was able to navigate dinner successfully and alone, but after one especially long day of seminars and Q&As, I was approached by two women who politely asked if they could join me at my smallish table. I tried to keep them talking as much as possible, but eventually the inevitable question came up. The effort required to explain what I do for a living and simultaneously sound intelligent is gargantuan. Promotion-worthy, honestly. Sally and Colleen were delightful, intelligent women, but mine is not an industry full of young, progressive, alternative-work-environment post-grads, and we struggled to find any common ground between the 20 years that separated us. Thank God for basketball.

The conference was relatively painless and soon enough I was back on the plane to Louisville. I hate flying, but I love to sit in airports. It’s a shame that the FAA requires boarding passes to hang around in the departure gates, because the human drama occurring every second is thick and captivating. In San Diego, there’s a little alcove carved out in a hallway, full of rocking chairs that face a giant window and the rising sun. How awesome is that? A lot awesome. I encountered a group of 5th grade boys on their way to a national chess tournament, a non-native English speaker with a small, crying child strapped to his chest who wandered from gate to gate repeating “Corpus Christi? Corpus Christi?” with so much patience and desperation that I wanted to give him my seat—shit, my home. Sadly, I was not going to Corpus Christi. Or, perhaps, not sadly. For had I not been on the flight back to Louisville, I might have missed the text message that my middle-seat neighbor received just before take-off, as she was getting ready to turn off her phone: “I dont think u & I r going to work out. too much diffrnt. dont feel that way nemore. sorry.” I’d like to tell you that she was a teenager and bawled the whole way home, but the lady was at least 30 and took it like a champ. Texted back something to the effect of “shit, dude. call u l8r. still love u. xoxo” and sat in silence for the rest of the awkward trip.

Good times.