Sunday, November 22, 2009

The City

We deplaned and headed out to the passenger pickup area, where I took the opportunity to light-up and stand in the warm sunshine. There was a part of me that couldn't get away from the airport quickly enough, and a part of me that hoped Mom and Sarah wouldn't arrive too soon.

While we waited, my mind turned over our recent email correspondence with Sarah. She divided her time between my hometown of Austin, Texas, and her adopted city of New Orleans. I knew she owned an apartment building in the French Quarter, but had little more information than that about her life in Louisiana. Her emails, though, spoke glowingly of New Orleans and how Paul and I would "love it there."

Her constant cheerleading on behalf of New Orleans puzzled me. Sure, I wanted to visit, but... what WAS the deal? I'm a Texas girl, born and bred, with the requisite burnt-orange blood of a native Austinite. How could anyone who'd lived in Austin even consider throwing their loyalties to another city? It made no sense. Sarah had been a longtime friend of the family, and sometimes-ally sometimes-adversary of Mom's in the game of Austin City zoning and politics. Still, it was kind of her to allow us to spend a week in her downstairs Quarter apartment, and I looked forward to seeing her again.

I heard someone call my name, and looked up to see Paul gesturing toward a vehicle at the curb. Ah, there they were. We hugged hello, loaded in the luggage, and drove out from under the covered passenger pickup area into a beautiful warm day in Louisiana.

We drove east along I-5, from the airport in Metairie toward New Orleans proper. Sarah was an excellent hostess and tour-guide, narrating along the way and describing the area as it was post-Katrina. It was difficult to imagine the scene she painted, the devastation and flooding in sharp contrast with the glorious day we were enjoying. Sarah mentioned, almost casually, that before we left at the end of week she would take us on the "Destruction Tour," and just the mention of it made me uneasy.

As we drove along the highway, the city's downtown skyline appeared like a backdrop to the rather unremarkable foreground of neighborhoods and residential streets on either side of the highway. Other than being beautifully sunny and lush with greenery, the city didn't seem to offer any more or less than any other city. What was all the fuss about? I took a deep breath and wondered what we could possibly find to do for an entire week in this place.

New Orleans and I had met, but we weren't impressed with each other.

Sunday, August 2, 2009

The Flight Out

Traveling, anymore, seems more like a series of waiting in lines than any real progress away from one place and toward another. I moved my wheeled bag along as the line inched toward the ticketing desk. It was slow going, and my bag seemed heaver with each halfhearted nudge.

I slipped my cellphone out of my purse, and gazed at it a few moments, trying to decide whether to call Mom and tell her I'd be arriving alone. Sighing, I replaced the phone in my bag. It could wait... quite possibly even until my arrival in New Orleans.

I watched the other passengers, each performing the same shuffle-nudge-shuffle maneuver, and once again was struck by the resemblance of the shackled condemned, each waiting their turn at the gallows. Wasn't this supposed to be a FUN trip? When, exactly, did the fun part begin?

Abruptly I am elbowed and nearly pushed off-balance. Turning to focus my frustration on whomever had blundered into my personal space, I can't help but smile. "Oh my gawd! Did you find a place to park, or just abandon the car on the road??" Paul smiled back at me, "It's parked... sort of. Someone moved a barrier on the top level, so I followed them in. The car isn't really in a marked spot so much as it's nosed-in to a small snowbank and stuck there."

"That sounds... promising," I said, "do you suppose they'll tow it before we get back?" Paul shrugged. "No way to know. If they do, the lot that didn't honor our reservation can damn well pay the bill." Like so many other aspects of this trip, it was out of our hands, now.

The flight was uneventful, or at least I think it was. I slept the entire time, happy to retreat to a place where it wasn't snowy and there were no slow-moving lines of weary travelers.

I awakened when the plane touch down, bouncing lightly once or twice before coasting smoothly onto the runway. Squinting, looking out the window, I was immediately struck by the bright sunshine and the distinct lack of snow. I grew up in the South, enjoying some of the mildest winters anyplace, but had forgotten just how wonderful it was to see the sun in December.

The moment seemed almost too-perfect, almost scripted. If I'd had any idea how it would change my life, I might've savored it more carefully.

Begin at the Beginning

I've read someplace that each of us has a book inside us. In my case, maybe... not so much. Probably more of a collection of short-stories and therapeutic essays, less entertaining to read than write.

Every story has a beginning, and some stories more than one. The written beginning, then, must simply be wherever you choose to start telling it. With that said, I'll begin this story in December, 2008.

Here in northwest WA state, the snow began falling around the 15th of the month. It was a spectacular snowfall, with huge lacy flakes that combined their singular beauty into a collective anonymity blanketing the area. Since this area doesn't typically get such heavy snowfalls, we were unprepared in nearly every way.

We re-learned which of our neighbors weren't speaking to us, and which of them had 4-wheel drive and were willing to lend it to facilitate our occasional escape attempt. Neighborhood children created makeshift sleds and sleighs, constructed snowmen of epic size and detail, participated in snowball fights and, finally, learned to loathe the phrase, "Go outside and play in the snow!" The days passed, and the snow continued to fall.

After ten days or so, housebound and working from home, I was prepared to send up a flare in the hopes that passing aliens might want me for abduction or random probing-- anything to get OUT. Alas, even the aliens didn't want to visit the area, and so it's probably just as well I didn't have any flares. The kids became stir-crazy, my co-workers were dim memories supported by ghostly voices on my cell-phone, and still... the snow fell.

At the two-week point, the kids were returned (very slowly and carefully) to their Mother's house, and Paul and I watched the weather on the news and out the window, wondering whether we'd be able to make the drive to Seattle and board a plane for a week's visit to New Orleans. The tickets had been a gift from my Mom, and the trip seemed increasingly less likely yet infinitely more desirable.

The network news was all gloom and doom with regards to the weather, and had some interesting side-stories about travellers stranded at SeaTac airport, and potential travellers missing the few successful outbound flights because there was noplace left to park their cars. We held our breath, crossed our fingers, and made reservations at a Park-n-Ride lot near the airport for the appropriate day and time.

On our scheduled departure date, we greeted the day at 4:00 a.m. After ensuring the car could be safely navigated out of the icy driveway, we loaded our bags into it, poured fresh hot coffee into insulated mugs, and set out for the 70-mile drive to the airport. The drive south on Interstate 5 was long, slow, and treacherous. For all that, it was surprisingly light traffic, and I wondered whether everyone else had just given up trying to go anywhere.

At 6:00 a.m. we arrived at the Park-n-Ride lot, right on time, and breathed a mutual sigh of relief. Good thing we'd had the foresight to make the reservation, what with the airport parking situation and all... Paul left the warm car idling and went inside to present our information to the attendant.

Paul returned to the car in record time, but... what was this? He was breathing hard, his lips pressed together so tightly they were a single white line; his hands gripped the steering wheel like vises, every few moments uncurling again before returning to their death-grip on the wheel. Either he'd just seen a ghost, or he was angrier than any human being I'd ever seen.

We sat in the car for what seemed like forever, though it was probably closer to two or three minutes. I was unwilling to break the silence and unleash whatever fury he was struggling so hard to contain. Finally, he turned to me, the words clipped, furious... barely recognizable through his clenched jaw and lips. "They're full."

I thought I'd misunderstood him. "I'm sorry, what? Did you say they're... full?" He nodded vigorously.

"But... how can that be? We had a paid reservation!"

The response that followed was as profane as it was passionate; the upshot being that the lot was indeed full, having overbooked, and we needed to apply for a refund via their website. It was 6:15 a.m., and we were due to be standing in a line of ticketed passengers in 45 minutes.

A quick pass of every other parking facility between that one and the airport revealed the same situation. I couldn't reasonably compare it to Mary and Joseph and "no room at the inn," but certainly there was NO parking to be had and time was against us. We proceeded to the airport parking garage with all the enthusiasm of the condemned to the gallows.

Once there, we realized that even a little hope was a whole lot too much. The parking garage was a nightmare of cars parked with panicked desperation; some cars angled so sharply into end-spaces that many aisles were sealed on both ends, and "No Parking" signs completely obscured by the vehicles that paid them no heed.

It came to me that perhaps the great M.C Escher had endured a similarly surreal experience, and that it really was, after all, the only way to explain his "Relativity" piece. Around and around we went, the circular garages connected, yet each as hopelessly packed full as the one before it. It is 6:45 a.m.

We pull alongside one of the elevator banks in the garage, and Paul takes my hand, speaking softly, now. "Get your suitcase and your ticket and head on to the gate for checkin. If I can park the car, I'll meet you there. If not, I'll see you in a week." I tried to argue, knowing it was a waste of time and energy. He's made up his mind that at least one of us will make the trip, and Mom's gesture won't be completely wasted.

I shuffle onto the elevator, tears springing to my eyes, and take my place in the check-in line.