What a mess we have around us. All the gear that we’ve drug across the country is now spread around the floor of our friend’s apartment in Hermosa Beach. With the hazy conviction that comes from drinking the beers always necessary in any move, we’ve jumbled things in to four large piles of rubble sorted by weight and are busily stuffing it in to the check-in bags, trying to keep the weight of each the same.

It’s all zipped up and Dan and Danielle come home to whisk us off to LAX. It’s a very short distance away but with all the world’s hostilities I want to get there at the recommended three hours prior to departure to ensure we make it through any checks for contraband, like shampoo that someone might try to smuggle in its original bottle and delay the whole process.

The line is about four people long and we can see the airplane we’ll be riding on from the street. We get our boarding passes and our luggage checked in. We’re a little over the allowance, but so close we don’t get charged the extra weight, just the third baggage charge for our bikes. Outside I can see Dan and Danielle in a constant embrace, faking a long farewell to keep the cops from making them move the car. With passes in hand we find a hotel with Dan driving and order drinks and some appetizers.

Our theory for comfortable international air travel is simple. Find the best seats available for the plane on SeatGuru, keep drinking throughout the day, and after the first movie pop in an Ambien and say goodbye to consciousness for awhile. This theory is proven well. We have plenty of leg room, the rest rooms are right there, and we spread out in our seats on the last row. I can’t make it through ‘Click’ and Erica is not doing any better with ‘The Devil Wears Prada’ so she fishes out the sleep medicine. Are we landing all ready? Neither of us twitched until the pilot announced landing in New Zealand.