Thanks to my uncanny ability to sleep on planes, I don't really remember the flight to Georgia; just getting up ridiculously early to travel to the airport, waking up once in midair to eat my lunch, and then touching down on the other side of the country. I was worried about finding the car that had come to collect me. The car solved this problem by containing Michael Whelan, who waved enthusiastically when he spotted me. Many hugs were had.
I ate dinner with the guests and staff, retreated to my room, watched Glee, wrote, and slept. Friday morning, a very sweet lady named Michelle drove me to breakfast (since my West Coast clock had kept me in bed until the end of East Coast breakfast hours). In the car, she said, "You smell nice. What's your perfume?"
"Old Roswell Cemetery," I said.
It's a funny world.
The con marched on from there. I met awesome people (John Hartness and Delilah Dawson and Alex Bledsoe, oh my). I spent time with people I already knew and adored (Patty and Deborah and Andy and Michael and Audrey and Indigo, hooray). I talked on panels, sang karaoke, critiqued new writers, and bought cupcakes for half the convention. And then I went back to the airport, and came home.
I love my life sometimes. Anything that lets me spend a beautiful weekend in the Georgia summer can't be entirely bad.