workshop

Snowbound

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The blizzard that wasn’t. December 2009. My friends were waiting for me in DC. It was a quick hop; get on the plane if my legs would carry me, although it’s not so much the legs that were the problem as the will. The want was there, but sometimes that’s not enough.

“I can’t take the train?”

“It’s only two days.”

“I don’t want the little plane.”

“It’s a jet.”

“It’s not. I googled it.”

Silence.

“Fine. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

Happy messages appear on my voicemail while I slept.

5 AM comes way too soon. It seems silly to pack the kids just to drop me off, but –

There is practically no one at the airport. It’s 5AM.

I kiss everyone goodbye and they pull away from the curb.

Can’t I change my mind? It’s dark and they say the weather will be bad. How will I even get home tomorrow?

Inside I hand the ticket clerk my papers and she smiles.

“That flight’s cancelled. Three feet of snow.”
I look out the window at the bare ground, the sun coming up and look back to her as if she’s crazy.

“DC. Three feet of snow. Airports are closed.”

“But it never snows in DC.”

She shrugs. “Do you want a refund? You were coming back tomorrow anyway.”

“Sure. A refund is good.”

I call my husband. He hasn’t gotten too far and he comes back. I guess we’ll have breakfast.

I leave messages. Sorry, can’t come. I don’t tell them that I am grateful not to get on a tiny airplane in December to land in the snow.

“Oh, poor Karen. What will you do snowbound with the little ones?”

“Snowbound? No. That’s just DC and Virginia. We have no snow. I’m going shopping.”

My shovel is dry.

I think Virginia got almost if not more than 100 inches of snow that year. Actually, I do know. Because I got every whiny phone call with each flake landing. I think he cried once. Record breaking snow.

I think we broke records here too – for least amount of snow.

Manchester

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Manchester. Last day. The only day it really rained. The hostel is nice enough, but it’s upstairs – third floor – no elevator.

No elevator equals no suitcase; at least as far as I’m concerned. It’s been misty all week, so I left my umbrella in the rental. Of course.

It’s still misting, so it’s not too bad. I have to walk about two blocks to find something for dinner. Piccadilly’s just down there I’m told. Not the circus – that’s in London, but right around the uni.

It’s getting dark and with it comes the rain. It is cold and wet. The kind of wet that soaks through your clothes, through your skin – I imagine my bones rusting. They’re already creaking. I am clearly a tourist. No umbrella.

Little do they know, I always have an umbrella. Just not here.

I wander down the street, the rain slapping me in the face – the hood on my shirt up covering my hair. That’s just for show, though. It’s a jersey knit and I think it’s wetter than the puddles I sidestep.

I slide into a Tesco grabbing a soda and a snack for later – once I’m “home” I can’t go back out. One more night. Had it still been Wales, I wouldn’t want to leave, but Manchester.

Fuck. I hate Manchester. The driving. The roundabouts. The Ring Road. The Ring. The fucking ring. It is a cunting nightmare. That’s no exaggeration. Round and round and round and NO! Dammit! I do not want to go to fucking Leeds! Manchester. MANCHESTER!

I stop a van for hire. Can you get me to Newton St?

Nah. I can get there, but I can’t tell you how.

I burst into tears and I suppress the urge to grab this stranger and cling to him. I half reach out my hand, but stop, wiping away a tear.

He inhales and points to his van. Follow me. I’ll show you where to turn. Thank G-d. Thank you, thank you. I breathe in relief and gratitude that can never be truly expressed. The feeling of holding onto the log or driftwood and then seeing the rescue boat.

It still took two hours because of all the one way streets.

I will never go back there. Never.

At least, I will never drive there again.

I hate Manchester.