I dug up some old photos last night from my first trip to San Francisco. I was sixteen. A friend and I went to visit my aunt and uncle, and the trip was my first time away from home without my parents (for more than a weekend). It was my first time to the west coast. The flights were the longest I’d been on. (On our way back, we got bumped up to first class–long story–and that would be the first, and apparently only, time I’d fly first class.)
Here, photographic evidence I was ever that young:
Oh, and to put things into perspective? I can’t remember exact dates, but age-wise, I figure Jesse and I started dating within a year of this trip. We were babies.