STATESIDE DRAMAS

Well, the first hiccup occurred within seconds of my arriving in San Francisco. I breezed through customs and immigration, and I guess not having any check-in baggage helped a lot, as did the free courtesy bus to my hotel. It was only after I checked in and got to my room that I realized I didn't have my digital camera. I'd had a nice double seat all to myself by an emergency exit (read - loads of lovely leg room!) on the flight from Auckland, and at the suggestion of a helpful stewardess to put my bag on the seat beside me so nobody would come and sit there, I did that, and covered everything with a blanket once I'd popped a sleeping tablet, and then I snuggled down for some sleep. Five hours later I awoke to find that owing to a passenger elsewhere on the plane taking ill, a different stewardess had seated someone next to me while I was asleep, and had moved my stuff off the seat and onto the floor about 6 feet away from me, including my in-flight bag, which was open. As that was the place most people stand while waiting for the loo, I can only assume that some opportunist saw the camera and decided to help themselves to it. Its the only explanation, because the cleaning crew said that nothing had been left on the plane. As this trip is heavily reliant on photography, I couldn't go any further without a camera, so after several frustrating trips to and from the airport trying unsuccessfully to locate even ONE Air New Zealand staff member, I made no progress (because nobody anywhere was willing to accept responsibility for moving my stuff while I was asleep to a loctation where ANY unscrupulous person could go through it while all around were sleeping). I decided to cut my losses, ignored that horrible sick feeling I had in the pit of my stomach, and reminded myself that travel insurance is there for traumatic occurrences such as this. I went into the city, and bought a new camera. I could have done without the stress, the cost, the disappointment, and the frustration at not being able to get anyone at the airport to talk or listen to me, but I did spent twenty minutes talking to an incredibly helpful SFPD Officer called Martin Scanlan (thanks for being there, big guy!). While downtown I also had problems with an incredibly strong invisible hand that dragged me kicking and screaming (not that anyone noticed) into a shoe store. Once in there, I was forced, by the invisible gun pointed at my back, to buy a pair of amazing killer heel shoes. Lord forgive me, for I am weak, but they were only forty dollars, and retail therapy is a truly awesome thing at times.
I feel much better now. Once I've found a post office, I'll feel amazing!!!