My trip home was lovely. By 3am PDT on Wednesday I had been up for almost 48 hours, with a cumulative 5 hours of sleep in the interim. Totally worth it. The rest of the week was spent lazing around, eating lots of red meat (thanks Mom!), shopping, and being silly with the fam.
As if to make up for my previous experience, my flight home on Sunday went swimmingly. I had a window seat, the movie was enjoyable, I had brought plenty of snacks, and we landed a half hour early. I had booked a seat on a SuperShuttle to take me home, since we were originally supposed to land at 10:30pm. And given my track record with air travel, I wanted an alternative to the 2+ hour subway ride home that wasn't a $60 cab ride.
My driver, a small Senegalese man, picked up myself and another passenger at our gate. Though we spent the next half hour driving from terminal to terminal picking up 8 more people (four of whom spoke animated French with the driver), I thought that as long as I was home by midnight, it would be worth it.
And then we hit the Van Wyck. They say nobody's ever beaten the Van Wyck, but our driver came as close as anyone ever has. He was weaving across lanes, swerving out to the shoulder to bypass lanes of traffic. He was cutting around cars turning onto off-ramps, and veering back into traffic mere inches in front of another car's bumper. My fellow passengers gasped and clutched their seat belts as tightly as possible. The French guy next to me was swearing under his breath and documenting everything on his camcorder. I can only hope the video is now somewhere on YouTube.
Being the farthest uptown, I was the last passenger dropped off. We pulled up to my building at 12:03am. Touché, SuperShuttle.