I found myself awake far too early this morning, could feel I wouldn't be falling back asleep anytime soon and surrendered. Levered myself to my feet, shuffled around the house in bleary fashion, drawing shades. Brilliant sunlight filled the living space, easing the chill that had settled in overnight. A glance at the thermometer outside a dining room window explained the chill -- nighttime temperatures had fallen well below freezing, were hovering down around 20 when I pulled myself out of bed. Hard frost covered lawn still in shadow, a chilly breeze blew.
May 7, northern Vermont. Where the daffodils have only started coming up within the last week. (At least here on my hilltop outpost.)
Still, all that sunshine promised a beautiful day. I cranked up the caffeine dispenser, began the a.m. slog toward consciousness. And found myself thinking about the visit to Edinburgh, three short weeks ago now, where cold weather also hovered about, despite Easter, despite spring sunlight.
Edinburgh was in my thoughts yesterday as well, me remembering two strange passages.
The first: during the long, long drive north, after crossing the border into Scotland, afternoon slowly giving way to early evening. D. at the wheel, doing his impression of Michael Schumacher, northern countryside billowing by.
We'd been going for five hours or more by then, had made two pit stops, the trip easy, anxiety-free once we'd gotten off major roads onto country two-lanes (apart from the growing possibility that we'd find ourselves driving eternally, signs along the highways promising Edinburgh lay ahead though the city, for some diabolical reason, remained off in the distance, never drawing near).
Conversation came and went, CD's provided good music, towns and countryside provided excellent visuals. Apart from seeming to get no closer to our destination, all was well. Until D. mentioned that we'd need to stop for gas soon. Something about his tone of voice prompted me to ask how soon. Very soon, he replied. Very, very soon. I took a quick glance at the gas gauge, saw the needle pointing at that little gas pump down at the bottom. We figured we had maybe thirty miles before the Honda began running on vapors, figured hopefully that we'd pass through a town before too long, could get a fill-up there. And indeed, a few miles up the road, a town materialized. A small town, with a gas station along the main drag. Closed. Same with the next town, several miles along. One gas station. Closed. The highway continued on through rolling countryside of spectacular beauty, towns few and far between, all, for some reason, without an open gas station. (And yet there were cars about -- what the hell did their owners do to keep them going?)
Beginning to feel the real possibility of finding ourselves stranded out in the middle of beautiful Scottish nowhere, I suggested that D. pull in at the next commercial establishment we passed, whatever it turned out to be, to ask where a source of gasoline might be found. A handsome pub/b&b hove into view, we pulled off, I headed straight inside. Found myself in a comfortable-looking space where a friendly, attractive barmaid heard the concern in my question, told us we'd find a station three or four miles down the road. A sigh of relief from me, followed by a sincere thank-you. Returned to the car, we headed off, figuring we probably had enough gas to take us the distance we needed to go.
Three miles passed. Four miles. No towns, no gas station. We saw a small mobile home/RV park down a side road, D. said a place like that might have fuel. We drove by, staring off in that direction, debating a fast u-turn. But kept going. And finally, as the Honda mounted the crest of a hill, we saw what looked like a restaurant/service station a mile or so ahead. Along a stretch of highway lined with stands of fir trees, the light from the lowering sun cutting through them, the air feeling cool and clear, almost alpine. We pulled in, saw other cars under a canopy gassing up, I thought I heard a collective releasing of breath from the three of us.
The second: In August, 2001, I rendezvoused with a sizeable, congenially motley group of adventurers in London for a Saturday of wandering backstreets, snooping around whatever caught our attention, stopping frequently for food-liquid refreshment. The participants included a broad assortment of folks, from various locations in the U.K., the States, Canada. A combination of personalities that produced good energy and abundant conversation. Fun.
Among those in attendance was a woman named Charlie. Young, redheaded, barefoot. At that time in her life living out a free-spirit, hippyish kind of existence. A good person who struck me as being, in some ways, genuinely young -- tender, as yet untested by life. Accurate or not -- I only spent, after all, a few hours in her company -- that was my impression.
Never saw her again, don't think she ever came up in post-event talk or hobnobbing with other participants.
So.
Three weekends ago in Edinburgh. Standing in an ancient passageway off the Royal Mile, a kind of hybrid alley/pedestrian way that cut through an enormous city block, its entrance fronting on the Royal Mile, its first ten or twelve feet narrow, high-ceilinged, an ancient pedestrian tunnel that opened out into the space between buildings, the walkway continuing on downhill, disappearing off into the distance.
D. and I stood there enjoying the vista and the feel of the passageway, talking, lapsing into tourist-style photo-taking mode.
A moment or two later -- us still hanging about, talking -- a woman holding a young child brushed by, moving quickly, her expression and overall energy suggesting someone not looking for interaction. Charlie. Feeling like a distinctly different version of the person I met in London several years back, looking like an Edinburgh resident, not a visitor. Her face registered, I followed with my gaze, taking in her vibe, thinking briefly about saying hello then letting it go, everything about her in that moment suggesting that a greeting would be unwelcome, an intrusion. I mentioned all this to D., then turned and watched Charlie's form diminish and disappear.
One more moment in time, come and gone.
España, te echo de menos.
rws 11:51 AM [+]
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