Travel Log 2005

In August, Chris and I commenced penning a new chapter in our lives – relocating to Washington, D.C. Although we left the towering peaks of Utah unsure of our future, based on miracles which led us here, the move was definitely meant to be.

That’s not to say our will, faith and sanity were not tested to the very nucleus. By mid-July we had no jobs, no apartment, no information about “safe” parts of town and no idea what we were getting ourselves into. We spent sleepless nights wondering how we would pay rent, let alone afford a moving truck to transport our junk to an as-yet-undecided location across the country.

We were stressed out.

Thanks to a fortuitous Cancun trip and good friends (who didn’t know they would become our friends at the time), we made it. And we landed jobs and we found an apartment, and we learned to stay away from Anacostia and we lived happily ever after.

Ok, that’s the fairy tale ending. But the story before “happily ever after” is a good one. Below are the highlights:

Pre-travel acts of the Divine:

Cancun
a. I never win anything.
b. I never enter drawings at work events.
c. Event organizers encouraged me to enter the drawing at a hotel grand opening. First prize: 4 days/nights in Cancun courtesy of a local travel agency.
d. I won.
e. Because of personnel changes at the travel agency, we couldn’t schedule our trip.
f. I lost it. After a teary night of stress and overall frustration, we decided a pre-move trip to D.C. was imperative.
g. I asked the agency to change the tickets.
h. They did--no questions asked. Plus, they gave us the cash allocated for hotel stays.
i. Chris scheduled a trip to D.C. (I scheduled a trip home in October for my mom’s birthday).

Patent Law
a. After passing the patent bar in early summer, Chris flooded his resume to any and all D.C. patent firms. (He worked as a chemical engineer for a medical device company but never for a law firm).
b. A friend moving from D.C. passed Chris’ resume to a partner at the firm he was leaving.
c. According to the partner, the firm had no openings.
d. Chris received an e-mail from another partner at the firm.
e. The firm needed a “chemical guy.”
f. The partner interviewed Chris over the phone.
g. Chris planned a trip to D.C. with his Cancun ticket.
h. The firm wined and dined Chris.
i. Chris got a job.

The Apartment
a. Renting a one-bedroom closet-sized apartment in/around D.C. costs more than my parent’s mortgage.
b. Finding an apartment online is ineffective and frightening (never read apartment building reviews – yikes).
c. I insisted on an in-unit washer and dryer.
d. Chris spent 24 nearly sleepless hours traipsing across D.C. in search of an apartment.
e. There was no other way.
f. I trusted Chris.
g. Chris had one shot; a bad decision meant he had to live with the consequences (me).
h. Chris found an apartment – Hotel Wickstrom was born.

D.C. PR
a. I hate job searching.
b. Before arriving with all my belongings in August, I'd never been to D.C.
c. Through amazing people who helped me even though I was a complete stranger, I found a job opening.
d. I applied.
e. They called for an interview.
f. I spent a painful hour on the phone answering spit fire questions off the cuff.
g. I felt like an idiot. I gave up.
h. The Association called me back and set up another interview.
i. I high-tailed it to D.C. (see trip overview below)
j. Upon arriving, I had an interview. They asked me why I should be hired in spite of my lack of experience.
k. I have no idea what I said.
l. I got the job.

Travel Log -- DAY 0

For your hard work…you get a big fat nothing

I strongly dislike moving. It’s such a pain to pack up everything you own. And I get easily distracted by old letters, pictures, random books, shoes and generally anything to hinder my packing progress. Plus, moving across country=serious packing.

Somehow we managed. But less than 24 hours before our cleaning check, the apartment was in shambles. With most of our belongings in the moving truck, we were left bed-less, light-less, food-less and in disarray. At 9 p.m. we made the inspired decision to rent a hotel room. I admit it was weird to stay in a hotel around the corner from our apartment, but it provided a place to rest our heads in preparation for days and days of driving.

I think we are paranoid when it comes to getting rental deposits back. Armed with a pizza, caffeine, a few hours of sleep at the hotel (2 to be exact) and a militia of cleaning products, we tackled every square inch of the apartment. I even scrubbed the walls and every base board in the 700 square feet of our living quarters.

By 11 a.m. the next day we were finished. We called the leasing office for a walk-through and bit our nails as the guy checked our place.

The funniest thing he said: “Wow, you even filled the holes. That would have cost you $30.”

When he had seen enough, he congratulated us, saying in all of his cleaning inspections, he'd never seen a cleaner apartment. He said it looked better than it ever had.

All I could think was, “We stayed up ALL night for a gold star? Great.”

We loaded into the truck, bid adieu to Utah and were off.

Travel Log -- DAY 1

Denver danger

After staying the night in Denver at my grandparent’s house (I honestly don’t remember much of the trip as I was focused on the interior of my eyelids while Chris motored through Utah and Colorado), we gathered our over-night gear and prepared for another day of travel. My parents traveled from the mountains to see us off. My dad was as teary as the day I got married. It was very sad to leave my family, but I was honestly too tired to cry.

We had a heart-wrenching farewell (you’d think we were dying), and left to make one stop before hitting the road.**

**On an important side note, since we decided to move to D.C. my dad said things like, “You’re moving to the murder capital of the U.S.” and “You’re going to get mugged then murdered.” He’s not a rain cloud, he’s just a poor sport. I know he wants us to pursue our dreams, but he’d prefer our dreams be closer to Colorado. Plus, he was very grumpy about not visiting Utah as often to go to his favorite restaurant – Café Rio. The place is delicious – who can blame the guy?

We pulled up to a gas station with our overloaded Penske (car in tow) to the closest pump by the store. The station sits on the corner of two somewhat busy intersecting roads. And I should preface what you’re about to hear with a disclaimer: my grandparents live in an upscale, safe, quiet, nice and mild Denver suburb away from the city and all things criminal (at least most).

Chris and I exited the truck and were chatting near our gas tank as it filled (and our wallet emptied). I heard sirens. I looked in the general direction of the sound, which increased in volume as it approached, and figured it was probably fire trucks (based on the whole safe neighborhood thing). The sirens became screaming loud and I suddenly spotted a speeding car leading the pack of flashing lights.

Before I knew what was happening, the car made a sharp turn into the gas station. I remember very weird details about the following sequence of events: the car was a metallic lavender Nissan Maxima (probably a ’98 or so) with a few missing hubcaps. The guy had dark hair and he looked injured by the way he was driving with one hand. His window was rolled down. And his eyes – totally freaky.

He sped within 10 feet of where we were standing, through the center section of pumps, and looped back the way he came. His tires screeched and I’m not kidding when I say his eyes were crazy – he looked like he would take any steps necessary to ditch the law. As he drove towards us, I kept saying, “Chris,” “Chris,” “Chris, what do I do?” I found myself huddling behind one of the gas pumps between me and the maniac, trying to hide. I didn’t want him to shoot me. Chris was pretty much frozen. Not what we expected on a routine gas/treats run.

Finally the outlaw made it back out to the road, and sped away trailed by at least 40 speeding cops/fire trucks, etc. Everyone at the gas station was in shock. It sounds cliché, but the whole incident seemed like slow motion, although it was over less than a minute after it began, and my life did, to some degree, flash before my eyes.

We hit the road and I think I cried. When we made it to the Interstate, I called and relayed the entire story to my parents and grandparents – with an “I-told-you-we’re-not-going-to-die-in-D.C.-we-nearly-died-in-Denver” jab for my dad.

After watching the evening news, my family reported the high speed chase resulted from a domestic dispute between the vehicular maniac and his girlfriend. Said maniac led the cops on a 45-mile chase which ended with him shooting and killing a cop, and a cop shooting and injuring him.

Whew!

Travel Log -- NIGHT 1

What’s your hourly rate?

We spent most of the day driving through Kansas. I actually thought Kansas was pretty, in a nothing-to-see-but-wide-open-spaces-and-an-occasional-tree sort of way. During the trip, we listened to this, which caused me to doze off numerous times and forced Chris to listen alone or re-listen when I woke up again. We also played phone tag with my former college roommate who lives in Missouri. The plan was to meet in Kansas City upon our arrival and hang out (which sounds great in theory, but we neglected to factor into the scenario road fatigue and general travel weariness).

The friend graciously offered to find us a hotel room (although because of spotty service, the decision cost us $15 in roaming charges on our cell phone). We needed something close to the Interstate to accommodate our truckfull of junk and would be arriving late at night.

We pulled into the outskirts of Kansas City at about midnight. “Hotel America” had a full parking lot, but thanks to the efforts of our friend, they were holding us a room. If I wasn’t so sick of driving all day, I might have sensed red flags at this establishment. But our friends helped us find it and they were from the area and I was grateful for their efforts.

We entered the lobby, which was clouded with smoke and looked to be a product of the 1972 design era. After paying $60 (+ tax) through a thick pane of bullet-proof glass, we headed to our room. This was our first time seeing said friend in a few years, not to mention our first meeting of her husband. Unfortunately long hours of traveling does nothing for one’s physical appearance.

So self conscious and all, we headed up a rusty outside staircase to our hotel room. Upon entering the room, a general musty odor filled our nostrils. Even though my feet were filthy from wearing flip flops, I decided I would not be removing my shoes as the carpet had several mysterious dark spots and appeared to harbor unknown critters and diseases. The two beds were covered in tacky floral hotel comforters, faded and pilled. We unloaded our overnight gear and commenced small talk with the friends, though I’m sure our greasy appearance and lethargic conversation did nothing to make a good impression.

After a few hours the friends departed, leaving us alone. In the room. I got brave and used the toilet (NO, I did not remove my shoes and YES, I sort of hovered). Then, entirely destitute of energy, I headed to the bed. As we peeled back a layer of the frightening bed coverings, we noticed a large cigarette hole in the blanket. Good thing we were really tired and there were no alternate hotel rooms left in town. We slithered under the sheets, still wearing the day’s clothes (I wanted as many layers as possible between me and the bed) and tried to fall asleep to the dull sound of a TV in an adjoining room.

We awoke at 10 a.m. to find the parking lot completely devoid of cars. Clearly this was a rent-by-the-hour kind of establishment.

I quickly brushed my teeth (whether mentally or otherwise, the water tasted stale), forced my contacts into my eyes, barely looked in the mirror and shoved my belongings into a bag. We rushed out of the room as if staying a moment longer would have brought the plague or leprosy or some other disfiguring illness (which I’m not entirely convinced was not an irrational thought).

Travel Log -- DAY 2

Nothing but sweet, sweet Illinois on the horizon

We spent most of the next morning trying to cheer ourselves up—and itching with disgust from our previous night’s stay. We blazed through the mid-West and I developed a stiff back because my seat wouldn’t recline when I tried to sleep. Chris and I also became thoroughly annoyed with the outrageousness and general unbelievability of our audiobook (not that we expected a Pulitzer Prize effort, but for Heaven’s sake, don’t offend our logical sensibilities!).

Because of the truck, we were limited in our ability to eat anything more than fast food at convenient-to-the-highway truck stops. One of the low points in our dining experiences happened somewhere in Missouri. I thought it would be a great idea to eat pizza at a truck stop Sbarro. Problem: the pizza tasted like it was fried in the oil they use for Chinese food. It took two bites before I was overwhelmed with utter disgust. To this day I cannot even consider eating Sbarro pizza, not to mention visiting/eating at truck stops (the New Jersey Turnpike is painful for me).

The highlight of Day 2 was listening to this cd as we sped through Illinois. It was truly inspiring. And the Jesus statue. That was cool too. I’m just sad we missed this.

Travel Log -- NIGHT 2

You can stay here if you swear not to tell anyone

By the end of Day 2 we didn’t know where we would stop. One thing we did know for certain: it didn’t matter how much the hotel cost as long as it was nice; I’m not even talking Holiday Inn nice. We were going for broke – I needed a shower. And I was sick of wearing my flip flops indoors.

I think we were in Ohio when we finally decided to call it a night. We spotted a Hampton Inn from the Interstate and lumbered through town to the hotel. It was after 11 p.m. by the time we were face to face with the front desk personnel. We asked for a room and were disappointed to hear the only availability was a smoking room. They allowed us to check it out before deciding and we did, but one whiff and we were gagging. Clearly this wasn’t going to work.

Maybe it was our ragged appearance or maybe the lady thought my husband was hot and could be convinced to hang out with her based on my looks – for some reason she took pity on us. She had one room left. It was a handicap-access room. Not only that, she could give it to us for a deal (I can’t exactly recall her rationale for helping us – again, it probably goes back to my hot husband). So for $80 (the room originally sold for $170/night), the spacious first-floor handicap-access room was ours. I can’t remember being so happy about a hotel room. Yes, the bed was slightly smaller, but who cares! The sheets were clean, the furniture new, the bathroom gigantic (handicapped, remember) and I was in heaven.

In the morning we dined on pastries and orange juice from the hotel’s free continental breakfast (what luxury!). We took leisurely showers and I even changed from the same clothes I’d worn the entire trip. Ok, maybe I only changed my shirt, but that’s beside the point.

I waited in the truck while Chris checked out. Though I had a peaceful night’s rest, I became increasingly annoyed at the length of time it took Chris to check out. Don’t you just hand them the key?

That would have been easy. But here’s what happened: When Chris went to check out, the desk person (someone besides the lady on duty during the previous night shift) had no record of our stay. She checked her computer, fumbled with papers and nothing. Unfortunately, since we paid for our entire trip with cash, Chris had no credit card receipt. In fact, he didn’t have any receipt (which might be because he paid in cash and saw no need for saving it, but he has no recollection of ever receiving one). The front desk lady kept asking how we got into the room. Chris pointed to the key – duh. “How did you get the key?” “We’re moving, we have all of our stuff in a truck, we needed a place to stay, we paid for a room, the lady making googley eyes at me gave us a deal, etc., etc., etc.”

The lady made Chris write down his cell phone number so they could call if there were any problems. I would have liked to receive that phone call, “Um, Hi, this is the Hampton Inn of Nowhere, Ohio. You stayed here recently and we have absolutely no record of your stay. We just wanted to call and confirm this.”

Chris: “Sorry, I think you have the wrong number.”

Travel Log -- DAY 3

Happy Anniversary, I got this frosty just for you

It might sound like we had no fun on this cross-country adventure. But that’s not true. It was actually a blast to be cooped up in a car, surveying the goodness of God’s creation as we traveled. Yes, there were ups and downs, but overall it was a great time to be alive.

By the time we hit the outskirts of D.C, though, we were pretty beat. That’s not to say I wasn’t in awe of my new home. Chris was too, but he’d been there before. For me, this was brand new. I was overwhelmed with the lush green trees blocking our view of anything past the roadway. And my skin felt increasingly hydrated as we made our way to the east coast.

We arrived at our BFF (John and Holly)’s house and were greeted by her parents, who were watching Trevan while they celebrated their third anniversary. Wait, if they’re celebrating, doesn’t that mean… Yep. It was OUR third anniversary, too (we were married within one day of each other). With a little help, we unhooked our car and set out to investigate our new homeland. Unfortunately, it was night and Chris had no idea where he was going. When he realized we needed gas, we were in Southeast D.C. and I was scared. I thought we’d be shot (apparently I think that a lot).

Fearing for our safety, we headed back. On the way, though, we bought frostys with the yummy butterfinger mix-ins. A very high class, if not grumpy, anniversary was had by all.


So we made it and now we live here. Thus the reason we (I) now blog. And why you’re reading this. I’m sure there will be many more adventures to report in the future. For now, this closes the chapter on how we got to D.C. Wonder what will happen when/if we move away…

Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 8

Do you hear that?

It’s the sound of silence; deep, penetrating silence.

Not that you’d hear a pin drop. No one is talking, true. But there’s a constant throbbing rumble interspersed with metal-on-metal clashes, causing your dental work to throb like fingernails screeching down a chalkboard.

Other than that it’s quiet. I don’t exactly know why or how this happens. Considering the amount of traffic on the Metro lines any given day, it’s perplexing that a crowd of people so large can be so mute.

I must have missed the day the Metro powers that be knighted all riders and armed them with the Rules & Regulations Procedural Booklet. Fortunately I have extracted the pertinent information based on the qualitative research of my observational analysis (see, I do remember something from college). There are more rules, to be sure, but here are the important ones:

Rule 1: Don’t talk (pretty self-explanatory).
Rule 2: Don’t acknowledge the other human beings around you (see Rule 3 for additional information).
Rule 3: Avoid eye contact at all costs (read the three words on the train’s only sign over and over if you have to, but NEVER look at anyone. If you must, quickly divert your eyes when they notice your gaze. Act like nothing ever happened. See Rule 2 for additional information).
Rule 4: All devices that make sounds must be stowed in their silent position (unless you have a cool ring tone).

Among the obedient throngs there are sly rule breakers. Their disobedience is sneaky, covert. They do, however, have a distinguishing hallmark which is small, skinny and electronic in nature. If you can spot it, those passengers transform into robots tangled in wires. Their eyes are cold and glassy. Their head bobs to the side automatically.

They seem lost on planet…Mariah? Wait, did I just hear Mariah Carey? Hold on a second…let me consult my rules booklet. Nope, no exceptions for Mariah. My eyes move from their fixed carpet-burning position to the source of the sound. Then I spot it. Not Mariah, but a robot passenger. I see the small, skinny, electronic-in-nature clue and follow it to the white ear buds. Then I notice other passengers glancing up in the direction of the rules violator. Snears and loud sighs commence.

But it does no good. Planet Mariah is very noisy and the robot can’t hear the other passengers. The same is not true, though, because everyone else can hear all the lyrics to “We Belong Together.”

I need to find out the hotline number to report rule breakers. Maybe next time I’m on the train I’ll ask someone. Oh, wait…