Last night, on the last leg of our return flight from Philadelphia, I was lucky enough to have the most amazing flying experience I’ve had in years. We were on Southwest – the plane was almost completely empty, and each passenger had his or her own row. We left Phoenix (our connecting airport) exactly on time and were clearly going to arrive in SFO early. We knew that it was warm in the Bay, and that we’d be getting off the plane into a mild 60-degree night. Everyone was mellow and cheerful. They gave us crackers.
Then, for whatever reason, our landing approach had us coming into the bay area from the east, straight over the Bay Bridge, with a crystal-clear view of the entirety of San Francisco out our windows, sweeping down the length of the city before turning south at the water. It looked exactly like this:
I could basically see my house from the plane. Each tower of downtown was clear as could be; we could make out every road in Golden Gate Park, see the lights of the Sunset and the dark of the Pacific, watch the rise and fall of the hills out from Twin Peaks to the water.
It’s good to be home.