The fateful day finally arrived. Paul took time off from work to take us, along with Jan and one of her friend, Sandra, to the airport to see us off. We were flying a U.S. airline as far as Los Angeles; from there it was Philippine Air Lines the rest of the way. We got to the airport in plenty of time, and didn't have any trouble getting our tickets in hand, or our baggage checked through. Kelly and I both kept a carry-on, though, with a couple changes of clothes in it – while I expected our luggage to arrive with us, it wasn't something I was willing to bet money on. Paul and the rest kept us company as we made our way toward the gate – even going through the security checkpoint with us so they could stay with us as long as possible. Jan and Sandra were both terribly jealous of Kelly getting to go with me; Kelly was both frightened and excited at the prospect: her biggest adventure to that point had been when her parents had taken her on vacation to Canada one summer, when she was still a child.

Finally, it was time: Paul and the others gave us a final hug and kiss (okay, Paul only kissed Kelly) before watching us head down the jet way to our plane. As the plane backed up, we could see them watching us through the big terminal windows. We waved, and they saw us well enough to wave back before we lost sight of them.

The flight to L.A. was pretty typical. Granted, in First Class we got a little better treatment than the thundering heard in Coach. But really, at 30,000 feet and 400 miles an hour, what can you do? Things improved somewhat after our two-hour layover in L.A., and we boarded the flight to Manila, via Hawaii and Hong Kong. Once airborne, the flight attendants (all young, female, and cute as could be) quickly began pampering us. When one of them brought us our drinks, I thanked her in Tagalog, the 'common language' of the Philippines – it being slightly more common than English, and a definite improvement over the multitude of local dialects.