Inclement weather being the theme, I’m now sat in my ‘office’ at home in Keswick with the windows rattling and an apocalyptic storm raging outside which has been present since I first stepped back into this country, and is set continue, presumably indefinitely. Spoiler-alert, yes, I made it and with the kids asleep upstairs and my dog at my feet the journey is beginning to seem already, like a distant memory. What it’s like here however, can wait for a future post, as what is pertinent to the conclusion of this story is what it took to get back, so let’s start where we left off: it was snowing.
I’d planned to drive my car over to Eugene to give to Simone’s cousin Billy, with whom our adventure began. He had agreed to sell the vehicle on my behalf, which I’d hoped to avoid mainly because of the hassle for him, but also the unsurity for me, having invested a considerable amount of money in it; money I needed to recover. However, my attempts to sell it had proved fruitless, and having been offered less than 2k on what was a 7k car, I’d decided to hedge my bets with Billy. This would involve a two hour drive to Eugene, over the mountain pass at which point I’d have to bus it back to Bend, meaning I’d lose a day and we’d obviously be car-less from then on in. America is not designed for car-lessness, and bearing in mind what we had to do to exit her, moving out the house etc, this was far from ideal but I saw little other choice.
Spot the car.
The truth was, no one wanted a two-wheel drive car in Bend and the recent whether had confirmed why. The snow was thick on the road, and anyone who had bravely attempted to test drive it had found themselves sliding around like a rally driver, as I had done for the entire winter. The snow was now so bad that the car could not be moved. In fact if it wasn’t parked on the drive I dare say it may not have been found, such was the severity of the recent dump, which was incidentally still dumping.
Our friend Karen (see earlier posts) was therefore tasked with chauffeuring us around in her 4x4 Merc, which was like a tank, and she really did drive it like she’d stolen it. It was a little unnerving at first being passenger to her – mild mannered mother that she was, she drove with inexplicable impatience, at breakneck speeds: drifting corners and ploughing through snow drifts, all the while cursing at other drivers’ apparent incompetence, which to me seemed only to be caution.
The Beverly Hillbillies is a reference that’s old even for me, although I do remember it. It was awful.
When in Rome however, so I decided to get into it and embrace the excitement of her pushing the limits of her car, the value of which she had a total disregard for. The kids obviously thought it was an exciting way to get about, and it was only my wife who seemed genuinely terrified by it, as she adopted a permanent passenger position of holding on with white knuckles to what my father-in-law refers to as the ‘holy shit’ handle that’s bolted to the cars ceiling. Karen even offered to drive us to Seattle to catch the plane, which again seemed well above the call of duty. But true to form we accepted yet another charitable offer which far outweighed any value we could offer anyone as friends, and I was left with the task of working out how we could get all five of us in the car with her, and how I could then strap all the kit to it’s exterior securely enough for a 5 hour journey, mainly through snow. I imagined it to be a reimagining of the opening credits to the Beverly Hill Billies, adjusted for the new millennium.
The removal van booked to collect all our worldly belongings and sell them on was obviously snowed in and unable to come, so we did our best to pack what we were taking and clean around everything. It was important that we left the place spotless as our Landlady, obviously sympathising with our plight, had decided to charge us $3000 to break our lease, which was incidentally the maximum amount she could charge by law; so we could not afford any further disputes with regards to our deposit, which was also at the inflated amount of $3000 to account for us being foreigners and all. There were still three days before we flew so we resignedly accepted the delay, believing there still to be time. The next day they tried again but got stuck at the top of the road and aborted, so true to form they arrived in the eleventh hour, on the day we had to leave making everything as frantic and fraught as we were now used to. We were barely able to say goodbye to anyone, as we were either too rushed, or they were snowed in and I had to simply abandon the car on the side of the road, outside the house. I gave the keys to Karen but in truth I had no idea what was to be done with it. It also had a pretty flat battery, the title deeds had not arrived and the gas light was on. Whomever had to deal with it had a headache coming their way, but there was nothing I could do. We slept at Karen’s and headed off first thing in the morning. I felt like I was metaphorically tossing a match over my shoulder as we ploughed our way out of town that morning.
We were crammed in like sardines, and I’d tied so much stuff to the cars exterior that as soon as we got on the motorway straps started rattling, too loud to ignore, and stuff started to shift around up there. We had to keep pulling over to readjust things and I was beside myself with stress, the fear of something important flying off the roof and landing on a busy motorway was virtually freaking me out. I was also uncomfortable, and my feet were wet.
But after stopping for yet more fried chicken, and I say that without irony as I can’t get enough of it we braved the snow, then rain, then eventually a bright respite as we pulled in to our EconoLodge in Seattle. Karen choked slightly at the apparent roughness of the surrounding area, which to be fair did look a bit Hell’s kitchen, (the New York suburb famed for gang warfare, not the reality TV show) but I explained that since the booking of the accommodation was left to me, I had naturally gone for the cheapest hotel in Seattle, and that she need not worry as my family were by now used to this scenario, and competent at communicating with gang members and drug addicts alike.
The promotional pictures of the EconoLodge in Seattle did well to hide it’s questionable surroundings.
The hotel owner, at least that’s what he told us he was, was a huge Sikh man who immediately rejoiced at hearing our accents. He was from Wigan, and was a bouncer in a club there prior to his getting into the EconoLodge business. He was like a giant Labrador, enthusiastically emptying our luggage from the car whilst incessantly talking about his life and exploits, and when we couldn’t get into the roof box after trying for about 30 seconds, he confidently announced that he would ‘bust the lock,’ at which point all around became concerned.
Luckily Libby diverted his attention by smashing one of the two bottles of IPA I had saved for the evening on the hotel reception floor. We apologised to the staff, selfied with Karen and after a strange evening in which the hotel manager offered me a beer, and when I accepted went to the off licence and bought me a can of white wine mixed with cranberry juice, and, in a separate incident Simone was offered PCP, we settled in for a family Simpsons marathon on hotel cable and all seemed right with the world.
The flight the following morning was even better than the first. We’d been upgraded to Premium Economy, which had the exact amount of barely distinguishable upgrades to stir my children into a frenzy (a free glass of orange juice given to them on boarding was enough to do it), and we were charged nothing for our extra luggage: all 14 bags. The staff were equally, if not more helpful and the food gave me less wind, which was good for everyone else. In the absence of any Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson movies (to be fair; Skyscraper was available, but I just couldn’t rouse myself), I opted for the David Attenborough ‘Dynasty’ documentary about chimps. It was thoroughly depressing, and seemed to suggest that chimps were vile, violent, vengeful creatures that like to bite each others fingers off, which in turn made me feel better about sitting in a transatlantic jet eating a tiny packet of pretzels, whilst a lifetime’s worth of carbon dioxide was spewed from the planes exhausts. Those chimps were evil.
Most Cumbrians have been caught out at Ings for speeding. It’s like a rite of passage.
And the UK welcomed us back with a massive Storm. The man at the hire car place expressed concerns about the amount of luggage we had, and our ability therein to fit in the people carrier I had ordered, and insisted I upgrade to a van. I threw my credit card at him and loaded up like a zombie in a rainy, car park apocalypse and we headed North. It took all the concentration I had to stay to the left side of the white lines (that’s a Deacon Blue reference) but the weather was horrendous. As we finally aquaplaned passed the sign saying ‘Cumbria’, we cheered and started playing loud songs that we could all sing to, and as a final act of humiliation I sensed the familiar flash of the speed camera at Ings, near Kendal and our arrival home was sealed with a speeding fine. A fitting end to it all.
And here I am, and the rain that started when we landed continues. I’m surrounded by boxes like I’ve just moved in but we made it, and yes, Baxter is fine. As I predicted, I have little money and no car and a variety of loose ends to tie up in America which I have so far determinedly ignored. Our intention is to return in a few months time but whether that will happen and how is yet to be configured; but for the moment we are safely wrapped with the invisible blanket of the NHS, the girls are back in their underfunded schools and we’re back in a house that doesn’t email us requesting $2000 at the beginning of every month; a few things I can enjoy, at least until the rain stops, if it ever does.