(Kind of long. Brace yourself. If you're bored, skip to the photos at the end.)
Last month, on a pleasant August weekend, we arranged ourselves in the family car and headed south. Not too far south, mind you. Just across the nearby border to visit our friends in their recently acquired vacation property.
Despite a looooong delay at the border, we remained in good spirits. Only a tiny bit troubled by the fact that our car decided to just shut itself off at the 70-minute mark in the border line wait. We were packed in like sardines with other happy vacationers at that point and didn't know how we'd actually get out of that pack if the car wouldn't restart. Certainly would not have made any friends among our fellow travelers, nor further endear ourselves to the border guards. But we were able to re-start our aging beast and eventually continued on our merry way.
Admittedly, we became just a wee bit more concerned as we sallied forth and saw many interesting and heretofore unnoticed lights on the dashboard turn on. But then they'd turn off. And others would turn on. And so on.
Out of an abundance of caution, we stopped for no one and nothing along the way, but drove doggedly until we arrived (embarrassingly empty-handed, since we stopped for no one and nothing...) at their lovely cottage in the trees.
Ever more cautious still, we did not drive the car that weekend. Thinking rest would do it good, we ventured forth in our friends' car for the next two days. The kids wanted nothing to do with us anyways so we had plenty of room.
We checked our car the evening before we were leaving and it seemed fine. Clean start. No funny lights. All good.
But you know where this is going, right?
Right.
On Monday morning, we headed north on the I-5. Quick stop at an outlet mall (shoes for the boy, endless search for tequila for the husband), gas her up and go. I had an appointment back at home at 2pm. We had plennnnnty of time.
So you know where this is going, right?
Right.
As we were driving in the fast lane, on the far left-hand side, the car turned itself off. No lights. No sounds. No warnings. Just off... while we were at speed in the left hand lane.
Through a combination of great driving and bull-headedness (those 4-way flashers mean 'Hey nice lady in the Prius, get the heck out of my way' - or words similar to that), the husband manoeuvred our lifeless car across 4 lanes to the right shoulder. We skittered to a stop just before a 2-lane exit off the highway.
Hmmm. What now? The girl helpfully suggests we dial 411 to find a tow truck. The wife (aka Me) knows we're at Belle-something and asks for tow trucks for Bellevue. After a few minutes and about $40 in roaming charges, we have a tow truck company on the line. After a few more minutes (and another $40 in roaming charges) it becomes abundantly clear we are nowhere near Bellevue. Apparently, Bellingham (where we are) is not Bellevue (where we are not). On the upside, the Bellevue tow truck driver has given us the name of the VW dealer in Bellingham so we have somewhere to take our crippled chariot.
We then find a tow truck company in Bellingham. We are assured it will be 20 minutes. Seems not too bad. On the side of a busy highway. Only 20 minutes. We can do that.
So you know where this is going, right?
Right.
"Twenty minutes" is tow truck company code for "Whenever we get there, which will be at least an hour, probably more. But you'll still be grateful, since you'll have been waiting a loooooong time, and will just want to be off the side of whatever godforsaken road you're on". If they were to say all of that, it would be quite a mouthful. So I can see why they say "20 minutes" instead.
At the side of the road of a busy highway, there isn't much to do. There was some discussion about the safest place to stand. NOT in the front of the car (could be taken out by a reckless driver exiting the freeway), NOT beside the car (in case its failure was a precursor to explosion) and certainly NOT down the ravine that was a few feet from the edge of the highway. So we settled on a 2-foot wide strip between the guardrail and the ravine, about 15 feet from the back of the car.
At one point, I noticed (with alarm) that we were huddled quite closely together. I am not really a huddler... even in the most trying of circumstances. I seem to recall telling the girl to 'stand back' because she was too close. Which led to much ridicule. Of me. With caustic comments from my children like: "Okay, mom, I'll just dart across the lanes and hang out in the median - would that be far enough away?" and "Maybe if I fell through the brambles down the ravine into the creek, that would be a better spot to wait?"
Surprisingly, I realized that I was being ridiculous and decided just to chill out instead. In fact, I even let the boy throw his (biodegradable) cup down the ravine, just because he wanted to do it. Complete anarchy for someone who has an overdeveloped sense of justice and propriety. But what the hell. We just needed to get through those '20 minutes'... If I'd had a cup to throw, I would have done it myself.
So we all chilled out. Even when we were stacked like cordwood in the front of the tow truck. Even when it took 4+ hours and chunky credit card receipts to get the car fixed. Even when we were hanging out in a Starbucks in a forlorn little strip mall because we had absolutely nothing else to do. Even when the husband still had to take us out of our way in his search for good tequila when leaving Bellingham in our repaired car (oh wait. I remember now. I was no longer chill at that point.)
Lots of obstacles that could have made for a terrible day. But it wasn't a terrible day at all. It was really kind of fun. With the girl headed off to university, we will get fewer chances to have those experiences, so it's an accomplishment to make those tough days into great days - into 'High-5' days.
(The girl, the car, the sad face. PS - notice how close she is...!)
(The boy, celebrating the hit to his college fund)
(The car. Despite us wishing REAL HARD, it had not turned into an Audi Q5 by the time it came out of the shop).
