It’s a sunny noon on Saturday in San Francisco. As I type this, my driver’s license is long gone, most likely sloshing around at the bottom of a steaming, stinking dump truck, marinading in lukewarm garbage juice on the long journey out to Altamont Landfill.
Yesterday afternoon, in my greedy rush to consume an entire very large to-go container of chicken-and-cabbage dumplings in a hotel spa lounge and then quickly dispose of the evidence, I managed to inadvertently chuck my ID into a trashcan.
It is a long, long way gone.
I was able to bribe a security guard into letting me into a Chinatown mai-tai bar without proof of age last night, so I’m still counting this trip as a success.
Tomorrow, in a valiant bid to make it back to Portland sans any brand of government-issued identification, I will do battle with the Transportation Security Administration armed with little more than a few credit cards, a photocopy of my passport photo page and an aging University of Missouri Graduate School ID.
All that, plus my questionable charms, and my mother and my 88-year-old wheelchair-bound grandmother in tow.