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.
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