We’re going south on La Brea when Becky lets me know she’s getting carsick. I tell Sam, and BOOM – within four seconds, top, he’s swerved into the center turn lane, signaled, crossed three northbound lanes, come to a stop in an apartment complex driveway, hopped out and opened Becky’s door. I’ll just chalk up his actions to exceptional customer service, though I’m sure the strong desire to protect the interior of his car played a large part.
Out of a (small) sense of propriety, I’ll avoid going into detail about what happens next. Suffice to say that several of our commemorative napkins from the Disney Soda Fountain were sacrificed. Sorry, DisneyMom.
We’re back on the road before too long, with Becky in the front passenger seat and her window down. The cool night air really seems to help her, and I can tell she’s feeling better when her sense of humor starts to return, as she says she feels sorry for whoever stumbles across what was left on the sidewalk at that apartment complex.
Sam dismissively counters, “Eh, it’s better than the blood they usually find in that neighborhood.” Lovely.
We’re soon back at the Huntley, tiredly thanking Sam and handing over our voucher for his services. One quick elevator ride later and we’re back in our nice, comfortable, quiet room.
Looking back, in addition to the madness and loudness of Hollywood, since arriving in L.A. we’ve eaten pizza, caramel apple candy corn, chili, an ice cream sundae, and buttered popcorn, then we shook it up in a high-speed mountain-road blender. It’s not a wonder that Becky got carsick, it’s a wonder that I didn’t.
It’s after 11 now – past 1 a.m. Central. We do the bare minimum to change, set alarms, and fall down on the bed. Neither of us takes long to go to sleep.