Now it's over a week in the past and I'm over it.

Short version. (I know, it looks long. Trust me, this is the short version.)

I arrived at the airport in Denver, double-checked my itinerary, and realized I'd been reading the landing time as my flight's departure time all day. (Not the first time I've done that.) Got on the flight with only a minor kerfluffle, made it to Ventura and then the hotel--realized that not only was I at the wrong hotel, I had no actual memory of ever knowing what hotel I was supposed to be at. In fact, standing there in the lobby of the M*rr**tt, I would have given even odds on my being in the wrong town.

Because M*rr**tt people rock the rockingest, the fabulously nice desk guy not only didn't mock me, he gave me a key to the hotel's business center so I could check the gathering's website and figure out where I was supposed to be. And then he called me a second cab to take me the mile or so down the road (no sidewalk, or I'd have just walked) to the place I should have been all along.

The weekend itself was uneventful, adventure-wise, with the tsunami from Chile's earthquake turning into a no-show, the food being plentiful, and my friends being fabulous, but my trip back was similarly adventurous.

A shuttle company I had not paid called me--they had my cell # and my flight info--to confirm my ride back to LAX. In spite of a moment of panic--clearly my brain is not to be trusted and the fact that I couldn't remember booking that shuttle wasn't proof I hadn't done it--I held firm to my printed itinerary and refused to compromise. The right shuttle--the one I'd already paid--showed up and did have me on the pick-up list.

I was peacefully watching the scenery whizz by the highway, double-checking my itinerary to confirm that I'd have a comfortable two hours to spare when I got to the airport, when my cell phone rang. Un*ted's automated system calling me to say my flight had canceled and they'd rebooked me on one three hours later.

Having no choice, I stayed on the shuttle heading to the airport. Once there, it turned out that the Un*ted terminal was under construction--a state of affairs that seems to have been going on for so long that they no longer felt it necessary to have informational signs redirecting travelers to the gates--but eventually I fought my way through to the goblin castle* of security, confirmed my 6:15 reservations, got put on standby for the 4:15 and 5:15 flights, and staggered to the nearest Starbucks.

You'd think that with three to five hours of excess time on my hands I'd have at least gotten a meal, wouldn't you? I did buy a sandwich from one place but the bread turned out to be rather tough--not stale, just overly chewy, possibly as a result of having been kept in a cooler--so I wound up picking the meat and cheese out of the middle of it.

They got me on the 4:15, but it was close--I'd wandered away from the gate to call the R.C. and complain about it all and only coincidentally wandered back in time to hear them yelling at me to come and get a seat.

These adventures aren't the onset of early dementia. I feel it's necessary to keep repeating that. I think most of the problem is that I used to travel so much that I got rather careless about it. I mean, as long as you print out your itineraries and have a list of relevant phone numbers, you're good. There's no need to obsess over the cab situation in a strange town--when you get there, it will be what it is. I think I took that whole mentality just a bit too far this time.

But I had fun!

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* Gratuitous Labyrinth reference.