It's been snowing. The sideroads are icy. This week is finals. School was closed yesterday due to the weather, and it's pretty likely it will be closed tomorrow. I need to take my frickin unscheduled Civil Procedure sometime, and today was supposed to be the day. And so my epic snow story (my snow stories are always epic, I wonder why?) commences.
I'm from Portland, so I don't really know how to drive in the snow. I have a Volvo X-Country, which supposedly does better than usual in the snow, but I've been too much of a chicken to really try it out. As a result, I'm sitting right now, on a frigid 29-degree Tuesday night, at Tryon Creek Bar and Grill. I'm not supposed to be here. I'm supposed to be sitting in classroom 1 or 4 frantically wracking my brain over Civil Procedure. How did I get here?
This afternoon, having finished my notes by 2:45, I decided I would forgo a winter driving adventure and take the bus to Lewis & Clark. iPod in ears, I left the house, made it a block, and fell smack down on my butt. OK, I'll be more careful from now on. I got the the bus stop, and waited. And waited. The couple waiting with me got impatient and walked off, just as #9 was coming. And that, dear readers, is a harbinger of things to come.
Got off the 9 at 1st and Arthur, as directed. Wandered briefly, then found the correct stop. #43 came in less than 5 minutes. Perfect. All is going well.
The bus winds its way though SW Portland neighborhood I've never seen. Beautiful Victorian homes covered in snow. Hills. Quaint little coffee shops. Things start looking familiar again: I've arrived at my next transfer point: Terwilliger and Taylor's Ferry. I get off the bus and wander around again, this time not so briefly, looking for the next bus stop. I think I've found it, so I park it there for several minutes. I was wrong.
I check my notes against the bus number posted on the stop. Damn! I need 39, and I've been waiting at a 38 stop. Turns out the stop directly across from where I got off is actually the one I need. The one that had lots of buses passing though but I had ignored, thinking it was the wrong stop. Crap!
After some slipping and sliding, I repark it at the correct bus stop. I wait. And wait. And wait. I see a cute little poodle wearing boots; it seems like the boots cause the poodle to high-step. It's starting to get dark. A beautiful, stark winter sunset. Headlights shimmer in reflection off the ice: glass mirrored in glass. Cars start skidding out more often. My toes begin to get numb. I've been at this damn stop for nearly an hour.
I call Alex, hoping he can look up the arrival time for the bus. No answer. I call Bruno, with the same question. No answer. I call Joe. He's driving. My car. If I was less of a chicken, I would have been driving my car, I would have been in the warm bastion of Lewis & Clark Law School, taking my dreaded Civ. Pro exam. But instead, I'm standing on ice in SW Portland with numb toes and no idea of when the next bus will come. (The fried food scents are overcoming me: mmm, I wish I could have a bacon cheeseburger, nachos, something delicious and greasy. I wish the waiter would come by so I could order another hot toddy. Yes, this is an aside.)
I try calling Trimet, but it's a no-go: busy signal. Everyone's calling Trimet. My phone rings. Yes!! It's Bruno, the Trimet king. He looks up my bus, and says that it's coming in 35 minutes, according to Transit Tracker. But now, I curse Transit Tracker.
35 minutes! I will just try walking. I stomp off, nearly falling down again. I look back, maybe a minute later, and there's the goddamn bus. Curse you Transit Tracker!! Maybe I can just walk the rest of the way.
Nope. I reach a downward slope. An ICY downward slope. Pretty sure I'll fall down again if I attempt it. Godf*kda*n it! I turn around and head back to the bus stop. My phone rings again. It's Alex. I tell him my predicament, and promptly melt down. Then my phone cuts out. Melting, melting, melting. I call Alex back. I ask if he can pick me up on his way home. Yes. Alex is the best person in the whole world! I hesitate there at the bus stop for a moment. Should I go to Chez Jose, Starbucks, or Tryon Creek Grill to wait for him? Another guy shows up at the bus stop. He starts asking me when the bus will come, does it go downtown, etc. I tell him yes, it goes downtown, but it will be at least 20 minutes. I guess he notices that I look upset. He says he's going to Starbucks to wait and offers to buy me a coffee. I demur. I finally decide to go to Tryon Creek. Here I am.
I'm typing. It's a dive bar, but I have to say, I actually like it now. The fact that it's the only one near campus lends it a different feeling than a dive bar anywhere else. OK, big imagination time: it's like a bar on tv, like the one the characters on Grey's Anatomy hang out with occasionally after work, only instead of medical students, it's law students. Yes, I know I'm a dork. That's okay. But it really seems like you could be anyone here, and it's okay. I probably look like a total weirdo typing away and drinking a hot toddy while most everyone else has a beer and is watching sports. But really, it's okay. They're playing Modest Mouse and Pearl Jam. A bunch of guys on the other side of the room exclaim "OOHHHH!" every so often because they're playing Wii bowling or something. Did I mention the delicious greasy food? I'm not partaking of any right now, unfortunately, because I have too much crap with me, and I'll have to go to the bathroom first--Alex arrived! I love Alex! I'm buying him a beer.
And I will take my test tomorrow morning at 8. I'll ask Joe to drop me off on his way to work. My toes have defrosted, my head is hot-toddied, and I'm feeling much better now.
The moral of this story: trust your Swedish car. It will probably get you there.
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