Happy New Year with our Archangel Antonio

They say the way you spend your New Years Eve is the way you spend the rest of your year. Nearly two full months later, I’m starting to consider the truth in that….

Traveling is all about discovery. In Denver, we discovered bad drivers every where, all you can eat chicken wings, and people cradling two-foot weed plants in the street.

I baby sat at 5 a.m., EST. By the time we arrive at the airport at 9 a.m. I’m dying and fiending for caffeine. I don’t take any mind or mood altering substances, but given my past with panic attacks on airplanes, I fiddle two emergency Prozac I stole from a dog between my fingers like it’s my precious.

precious

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Our first flight into DC is something along the lines of angelic, thanks to Antonio, our charismatic flight attendant who returned the terror in our eyes with a pitiful smile until we reached cruising altitude and felt safer so much further from the ground. A seasoned pilot who decided to catch a ride chatted nonchalantly across the aisle from us as if the plane was not going to crash, but what does he know?

I’m one thousand percent over it during our flight to Denver. Truth be told, it was really peaceful and relaxing, but it was also four hours long and we didn’t get any pretzels.

Fast forward a few hours and I’m passing out into my flaming-spider-volcano-in-the-Artic sushi roll. I’m Prozac free and totally sober, but it’s been probably a full year since I stayed awake later than 1 a.m., so even think about midnight (2 a.m. EST) at mile high altitude is actually insane. However, giving up now would be like taking a smoke break a mile from the tour de France finish line, and I’m no quitter.

At midnight, we wander through weed smoke and dreadlocks to find ourselves in an SLC Punk themed dive bar, with seats shaped like red flames and a baked DJ who forgot to give a count down. There’s also one of those things where you put your head in the face and take a picture with a wooden body, so naturally, we indulged. Three hours later, eight million drunk teenage girls who use CB’s shoulder as a seat or butt warmer interchangeably, directions from a pleasant mountaineer couple, and a high heeled journey through the ice, we are clinically dead on a pull out trundle bed.

Happy New Year, we’re lame.

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