The phone rings again. (Just like in the last post… get with the program people)
“I can’t get home. There are no trains, no planes… no escape. I am going to have to live at the airport like Tom Hanks.” He is snivelling a bit.. I can hear it.
“Well I will just come get your cute butt then, won’t I!” I am good like that… a problem solver. “Stay where you are, I will be there in a hour and a half – give or take a couple of stops for snacks and such.
Now, under normal circumstances, this would have been no problem, but yesterday, Hurricane Xynthia hit land and blew it all to hell. It was chaos.
“Mama, will you please stop saying that!” She is protesting after I have shouted at the top of my lungs for the 27th time - "Sit tight Daddy, we are comin’ to getcha!'” She also mentioned something about hearing them say on the radio that the Airport was closed to all traffic. I just ignored that bit. I was on a rescue mission – I was going to save my man.
After we had circled the airport FOUR times, I had to admit that Miss Eight was correct. The airport WAS closed… there was no way in. I was being held back from my mission by a mere 2.2km according to ‘Lisa’ our resident know-it-all or TomTom as it said on the box.
What to do? What to do? I know, let’s stop for snacks. A pee would be good around now. Thank goodness for German Service Stations. As we were perusing the selection of fine bottled waters, I could see the airport reflected in the fridge door. I paid the guy behind the counter five bucks to use his mobile phone (because I don’t have one…. I know, only person on the planet without a mobile phone… get over it)
“Um honey, not sure if you know this, but you are locked in. That airport finds you so darn cute, they have decided to keep you! Ok, I know this isn’t funny… and as I have just ordered a low-fat mocchacino, do you think you could jump in a taxi and come to me?”
Sometimes, I scare myself with my own genius.
Once I had all my chicks back under my wing, we headed home. I was starting to come down from my ‘Indiana Jones’ high (or maybe that was the 3 double mocchacinos I drank at the petrol station) – and the full impact of the storm called Xynthia started to hit home. Trees down everywhere, all trains, planes and automobiles cancelled. Massive pileup on the other side of the Autobahn (the side that Miss Eight and I had skipped through a mere hour earlier). It was not pretty.
Nothing like a little rescue mission to get the blood pumping.