I have a theory that if you’re having a good time on your trip, the universe will do everything in its power to make coming home as crappy as possible. Sure, I was looking forward to going back to Los Angeles after four long weeks of hopping around the East coast, but did I have a great time gallivanting in the New York City streets? You bettabelieveit.
As if the post-travel blues weren’t already real enough, I came home to a reality no one wants to deal with at 1AM, after a ridiculously long time traveling for a trip that should’ve been easy and seamless.
Truth be told, you go places, you make new friends, you indulge in new memories, and before you know it, you forgot why you have a home-base to begin with. But eventually, you do go home and you never really know what to expect.
Side-note here: since my midheaven is in Gemini (*cough* someone was brushing up on their astrological natal chart yesterday), I’ll be plagued with wanting both a nomadic life, and a stable one at the same damn time.
One month, several New York nights, and nearly one hundred overpriced coffees later, we finally board the first of two flights back to LAX. Damon and I weren’t in control of the booking, and because of this, a trip that normally takes five hours took almost 10. We took our first silly flight to North Carolina on a rinky dink plane that, as Damon put it, was from 2002 due to the lack in TV screens, and outlets in the seats. An hour and a half later, and we had to kill another hour before getting on the same itsy bitsy plane for four and a half excruciatingly boring hours of flight to Los Angeles.
There we were, 30,000 feet in the air, so bored we decided to buy wine in-flight and do what we seemingly always do – stare at each others’ faces and chit chat. How we still have things to talk about after seven years of talking about basically the same things is still a mystery to both of us.
Also a mystery to me – how a plane in 2017, traveling almost 3,000 miles could not even have those old-school communal TVs to distract its customers from the bore of being airborne. Airbored.
The freakish thunderstorm frighteningly close to the wing distracted me, but sad as it may be, my panic only lasted five minutes, making the other four hours and twenty-five minutes continue on in their sluggish pace.
We left New York at 5PM EST, and had already been in transit for seven hours, making it 12AM EST, 9PM PST at touch-down. As any traveler knows, the more tired you are upon landing, the more difficult it’ll be to get from the airport to your bed.
The law of the fatigued traveler carried out as it normally would.
Baggage claim took about an hour – no signs or announcements, they just took their jolly good ol’ time.
We then order an Uber from LAX around 10:15PM with our luggage in hand, and were forced to wait the 16 minutes the app said it would take for the car to arrive. Somehow those 16 minutes turned to 45, and the driver was nowhere to be found. In fear of canceling, we waited, until I was fed up and called one on my phone that made us wait 9 minutes which actually meant another 15. Damn it.
11:15PM we get in the Uber. Exhausted, hungry, dirty, never knowing which symptom to handle first. We figured ordering food while en route was the smartest thing to do. A painful $15 for chicken and tofu over rice later, at least we had one thing in our favor – our food would most likely meet us at the gate when we arrived home 40 minutes later.
It’s midnight PST, AKA 3AM in New York, and we’re just now pulling up to our apartments. FYI: Here’s what my apartment looked like before I left. Let me tell you, it did not look like this when I returned.
Now, any traveler with a home base knows to expect the creepiest of crawlies upon their return if their apartment has stayed untouched. Since my apartment had been empty for two weeks, I naturally was expecting the works, and ya betta believe I got the works. You know what’s the best part about coming home after a really long time away? Being greeted by roaches at the door.
And you know they tried their absolute best because there were not only two roaches less than a foot away from the door, but there were two and a half roaches. That’s right – just the head of a roach, staring me in the face as I bent over to get Damon’s spare keys shoved under my door.
Disgusting, but after coming from a weekend upstate where I ate an entire fish eye, and beetle larvae, I had a newfound lack of absolute disgust for bugs.
That was until what happened next.
A few steps in and I’m on high alert, tip toeing, and avoiding taking my platform shoes off at all costs – Ima need elevation to perform this inspection.
After a visual scan, here’s what I saw:
- My plants: crispy and dead
- My floors: dirty and grimy
- My espresso machine: lonely and POOPED ON.
The disrespect of seeing mouse shit on my beloved espresso machine unleashed an absolute rage in my heart capable of lighting the night sky. So I stayed awake, with the burning in my chest, determined to make my space mine again.
I didn’t even care that it was now 1AM local time, I pulled out my vacuum cleaner and got to work. Mouse poop, literally everywhere. Under the sink, on the floor, on top of the garbage, in the sink, on my table, etc. It was to be expected, I live on a lower floor, and the minute the rodents realize I’m paying rent without being there, they move in. They’re no fools.
The strange thing is that I hadn’t left food out, and everything was spotless before I left, so it was the sheer emptiness of my apartment that invited them in.
Alongside the crap were a few other dead roaches – relieving because at least they were dead. I cleaned the kitchen enough to lay my head down, but I wasn’t about to lay down without inspecting my bed first.
1:30AM hits, and I slowly walk over to my bed, afraid of what I might find, fully knowing I just might have to whip out my emergency spare sheets I left in the closet in case I’d encounter what I encountered next – that planning doe.
Matter of fact, I couldn’t have planned what I saw next.
Never did I think mice could be Ninjas.
These little nasties somehow CLIMBED my walls, got on my canopy, decided to take a leisurely nap inside of it, and poop enough to sprinkle droppings all over my bed.
Yes ladies and gentlemen, that is mouse shit right next to where I would’ve been snuggling up.
What did I do to deserve so much shit? I’ll never know, but that these little assholes pooped on the wrong person’s pillow, I was positive.
I pulled three corners of my canopy down, at this point I decided to cut my losses and cut down the canopy that had now become the party toilet for this family reunion of mice happening in my apartment.
As I got to the very last corner of the canopy, right where I would’ve been laying my head (had I not decided to take down the canopy and clean), I pulled the cloth that was dangling behind my bed towards me, only to find a massive living roach chillin’ on it.
That roach would of become a broach in my hair had I not cleaned everything before going to sleep.
*Brings out Raid in rage* “You messed with the wrong girl my friend,” as I angrily annihilated and cursed all roaches existence with the massive can of Raid in my hand.
And just like that, I stayed awake for another two hours, basically deep cleaning my tiny apartment that had been taken over by less-than-welcomed guests.
The bathroom was a little less ridiculous, in its own ridiculousness. I go in to find mouse poop on the lid of the toilet – at least homie tried to aim for the right place to take a dookie.
It’s been three days, and I’ve only had the pleasure of wiping out two living roaches, and finding a few more mouse poops, but otherwise, we’re all coexisting just fine.
So there you have it, another crappy travel story to add to the books that’ll have you thinking twice before laying your head on the pillow without inspecting it post-travel.