When I was about 8 years old, my mom decided she wanted our family to venture into the city to have a nice dinner and see the grandiose Christmas decorations San Francisco had to offer. We lived about forty miles away in the suburbs so we didn’t usually spend the night in the city, but she decided to go all out and get us a hotel room right in Union Square. In true eight year old fashion, I was in a bratty mood and for whatever reason wasn’t having fun. I didn’t like having to walk up the hills, I didn’t like our dinner at Sear’s Fine Food, and I was mad at my dad for not giving every homeless person on the street money. And to top it all off, our hotel room was way too small for my eight-year-old taste. To make the night go from bad to worse, Conor and I were sharing a bed in the hotel and he would not stop squirming around. I was screaming at him, so my dad was fed up and swapped beds with me. Conor wouldn’t stop flip flopping and even my dad couldn’t sleep in the same bed as him. In the end, my mom and Conor slept in the same bed and I was with my dad. Unfortunately, my mom’s fun Christmas adventure to the city was a bust and she sure never planned that event again. Luckily, my aunt moved to the city and we were able to enjoy Christmas in the city when I was an older, more appreciative kid.