Taking a breath at the end of week 1

It's been a week since I arrived here in Australia. It's been a busy week, getting settled and things organized with my life here. Half the time I feel like I never left and I completely and utterly belong here, but the other half of the time I feel like a bumbling, awkward idiot who can't seem to say or do the right thing. But, at least I'm a bumbling awkward idiot in Australia.

But, I think the worst of it is starting to clear, or at least I am starting to feel like I am keeping my head above the water. Things are starting to fall into place with my current project, and by the end of the week it will all be sorted out. There is still much, much more to be done, but it's a start.

It was an eventful trip, and I plan to regale you all with glorious tales of my 15 hour flight from LA to Melbourne, but first I'll share what happened when I went through security at LAX.

Background: I had just finished the 6 hour flight from Philly. I got 2 hours of sleep the night before. Earlier that day I finished moving out of my apartment, which I stupidly decided to do by myself, so it took me MUCH longer than I thought it would and consequently I didn't finish as much school work as I wanted to before I left. By the time I arrived at LAX I was worrying about the work I didn't complete, processing the short goodbye I had with my apartment, hungry, and tired.

I was not a happy person when I got to the international terminal of LAX. I was even more unhappy when I went through security the first time and realized that there were no decent places to get any sort of real food once you passed through security. There were NO restaurants near the gates. The logic behind this airport design eludes me. Seriously, LAX, what the fuck?

So, anyway, I go through security, and then back out again to a restaurant so I can get my blood sugar back to the level of a living human being. I ate and was feeling marginally better when I went back to the security line. When I got to the ID checkpoint, I handed my passport to the security guy, he looked at it, and then at me, and he said, "Where are your wings?"

"Excuse me?" I said, not understanding what he said.

"Where are your wings?" He repeated.

"What?" I said, now worrying that there is some new form I needed with my visa or something.

"Your wings," he replied, "With that smile, you must be an angel."

Cheesy, yes. And I am sure that he says that to many a weary lady traveler, but it was exactly what I needed to snap me out of my sleep-deprived stress-induced funk.