The rooster’s hoarse crows were sounding desperate and none of us knew what to do.
There are a lot of things you expect to hear when packed into an airplane, but a rooster crowing isn’t one of them.
On Valentine’s Day I boarded a flight to San Francisco to attend the San Francisco Writer’s Conference, a three-day event filled with classes, workshops, literary agents, publishers and hundreds of authors.
I was seated next to a young mother and her adorable 2 1/2-year-old son.
“Did you hear that?” she asked, as we settled in, awaiting takeoff. “It’s a rooster!”
Barely awake, I put down my book and listened. Sure enough a faint cock-a-doodle-do echoed throughout the cabin.
“It must be someone’s phone,” I replied.
But the crowing continued and grew more frantic as the minutes passed.
“I hope they’re not serving chicken sandwiches,” said a lady across the aisle. “That’s taking farm-to-table a little too far!”
We tittered but the crowing continued as the engines revved.
“It’s probably someone’s emotional support rooster,” announced the gentleman behind me.
Alas, we’ll never know, because once we fastened our seat belts and were airborne, the crowing ceased.
“If he’s in the cargo hold, his nuggets are frozen solid,” I said.
“Nuggets? Want nuggets!” the toddler next to me demanded.
Thankfully, he was satisfied with the Goldfish crackers his mother gave him.
It was my first visit to the Bay area, and I was delighted to leave Spokane’s frigid February and arrive in a city with temperatures in the balmy 50s.
Due to flight delays, I had to hit the ground running to make it to my first workshop. I checked into my hotel in the Embarcadero, directly across from the iconic Ferry building, and gathered my credentials.
“Hi Cindy, Happy Valentine’s Day,” said a stranger in the lobby.
“Er. Thank you,” I replied.
“Hey, Cindy! How are you today?” another gentleman asked, moments later.
These people are so friendly, I thought, but how do they know me?
Then I looked down at the credentials hanging from a lanyard around my neck, my first name written in super-sized font. Apparently, my fame had not preceded me.
I wasn’t the only one. I’d noticed the attendees had white nametags, and the volunteers had orange ones. In the elevator I asked a fellow sporting an orange nametag if he was helping at the conference.
“I’m presenting,” he said.
Turns out it was Mark Coker, founder of Smashwords, the leading distributor of indie ebooks.
After several classes, I had just enough time to dash across the street to pick up a sandwich for dinner.
“Ma’am where’s your jacket? It’s freezing!” the concerned doorman asked, as I scouted nearby restaurants.
“It’s 53 degrees!” I replied. “When I left Spokane it was 17! This is tropical!”
He shook his head, huddled in his heavy overcoat.
“At least take an umbrella,” he said, offering one from the hotel’s stash.
The umbrella was necessary that night, but I never used one again – not even during a sunrise photography walk, sponsored by the Writer’s Workshop.
That’s right. I may be notoriously anti-morning, but I saw the sun rise from a pier near the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge. I wasn’t about to pass up a chance to explore the area with a professional photographer as a guide.
However, the morning got off to a rocky start when I discovered my hotel room had only decaf coffee. Thankfully, by the time I’d returned the front desk had sent up a stash of the real thing.
But the coffee didn’t prevent my next elevator faux pas.
“Are you here for the writer’s conference?” I asked a fellow, as we descended to the meeting rooms.
“No, I’m here for a conference on thinking,” he replied.
“Writers think, too,” I said. And then I silently vowed to stop speaking to strangers on elevators.
Speaking of mornings, I took comfort in the words of keynote speaker Jane Friedman. “With a little self-awareness you can compete with morning people,” she said.
I knew she was one of my tribe even before that because she shared a photo of a kitty she frequently cat-sits. I quickly got out my phone and shared a photo of Thor with my tablemate, which prompted the other writers at the table to share pictures of their own cats.
It must be hard to be taken seriously as an author if you don’t have a cat.
Sunday morning I watched the sun rise over the bay and listened to the clang of the cable car as it rounded the corner in front of the hotel. I drank in the view of palm trees and the waterfront. It was time to fly home to the land of snow and ice.
I was tired and I missed my family, but Tony Bennett and I now have something in common. I. too, left my heart in San Francisco.