5am yesterday morning, my trip back home began.  Finally, the airport was within my sight and within hours I would be in a plane, departing from the dry Rocky Mountains of Colorado to the vivacious Northern Coast of California.  My flight from Denver to San Francisco left at eight in the morning.  My seat was by the window; my soft, warm, cuddly blanket perfectly complemented the cold air rotating around the aircraft; no one was seated next to me.  Despite only sleeping for three hours the night before, I looked forward to taking a comfortable nap during the next two hours and twenty minutes .

Sike!

During the whole flight, I could feel a child’s foot constantly kicking at my seat. Kick. Kick. Kick.  And even worse, the family didn’t speak English!  My request s for this spawn of Satan to stop kicking were blocked and drowned out by a barrier of languages.

Sitting peacefully was not an option, let alone being able to sleep.  And unfortunately, a four hour layover followed that flight from hell.

Luckily, I now sit peacefully at home, watching our baby bunny Oliver hop around.  It’s good to be back.

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