Alaska Winter Driving Rules
- All traffic yields to the car spinning out of control, even if it is going in the opposite direction down your lane or through a red light (or both at the same time).
- It is entirely appropriate to turn purple, make rude hand gestures, and yell obscenities when a two-wheel-drive car has trouble moving forward at an intersection. It is their fault for not spending $30,000 on an SUV.
- When the light is yellow, it is your god-given right to drive through it. When the light is red, four more cars are allowed to drive through the intersection (“But, Officer, it was icy; my car couldn’t stop in time”). When the light is green, wait. Four more cars will be going through the other way.
- Neighborhood stop signs are more like yield signs, really. Everyone knows a full stop causes you to lose traction and there is nothing as dangerous as a loss of traction on an icy road.
- Despite the fact that sidewalks are the last thing to be cleared after a major storm and can sometimes be covered under uneven drifts two feet high, you do not have to share the road with anyone dumb enough to be walking around. They should buy an SUV like yours instead.
- If you are stopped at an intersection and the car behind you is clearly sliding on ice, do not under any circumstances move forward to give them a few more feet in which to gain control. If they rear-end you, it will be their fault and you can finally get that dent in your bumper fixed
- When pulling up behind a two-wheel drive car on a steep, icy hill, get as close to its bumper as possible. It’s fabulous fun to watch their eyes go wide when they realize they are going to slide right back into you as soon as they take their foot off the break.
- If your windshield ices over, scrape off only a 1’ diameter circle right in front of you. Your defroster will do the rest of the work, eventually. Anything you can’t see isn’t your problem.
- Carefully smear snow and dirt across your license plates until they are unreadable. Wear a winter cap on your head, sunglasses, dark gloves, and a thick winter coat. Proceed to run as many red lights at intersections as you like. Forget the cameras; they won’t be able to identify you later.
- Make turns at the last minute. Since you are driving an SUV with four-wheel drive, quick stops on ice are a minimal problem. Don’t worry about that little two-wheel-drive car behind you; if it rear ends you, the accident is that driver’s fault.
- If your car begins fishtailing, over-correct it. This will cause your car to swing into the other lane, alarming drivers there. This is a good thing; Alaskan drivers are too complacent in winter and need to be woken up periodically.
- If a car is fishtailing and having difficulty regaining control, honk your horn irritably at it and pass it quickly, using any open lane. If there is an accident, it will be the other driver’s fault for being out of control. (Do not attempt if the driver is actually spinning in circles; see rule #1)
About that Hound, Grey
The simple version: I arrived.
The more dramatic and altogether more interesting version, with much ranting at the gods:
- 8:30 p.m. Thursday
- The porter catches me in a conversation that makes me late for my taxi to the bus station.
- 8:45 p.m.
- Fortunately, the bus is also late, so I make it.
- 11 p.m.
- The ticket agent comes on duty and calls me over to her window, where her printer promptly has a meltdown. Boarding card? No such thing! Ticket agent, instead of handing me off to someone whose printer works, insists it will be fixed “any moment now.”
- 2 a.m.
- Searched by x-ray security.
- 3 a.m.
- Searched by security before boarding the plane. Because, you know, I might have picked up something dangerous in the last hour.
- 4 a.m.
- Flight takes off. I go to sleep. Sounds good to me.
- 11:30 a.m.
- Flight lands. Customs doesn’t even look at me. However, I quickly realize that I am carrying a backpack and my purse, pulling along a trunk on wheels, and lugging an A3 bag full of clothes as well. It’s a little… um… heavy. My hands? They are hurting.
- 1 p.m.
- Catch bus to Port Authority, where the Greyhound station is. Have twelve hours before the 1 a.m. bus leaves. The 1 a.m. bus will get to Relative’s City at 1 p.m.
- 2:30 p.m.
- Arrive Port Authority. Imagine New York Traffic. Now imagine it on midday Friday before the Fourth of July. Now you know why it took an hour and a half to get to the P.A.
- 4:15 p.m.
- After almost two hours of running around to every ticket counter in the Port Authority, I have determined that my Relative’s City does not exist. No, really. It doesn’t. I know there is a 1 a.m. bus going there, but not one employee can even find the name of the city in their computer system. I give up and get ticket to Pittsburgh instead. Pittsburgh bus? Leaves at 4:30. After two hours of dragging my above-mentioned luggage back and forth across Port Authority I’m not sure I can feel my hands any more. Oh. Ever walked around with a laptop and a case of CDs strapped to your back while dragging heavy luggage for two hours? No? Try it. I dare you.
- 4:30 p.m.
- Bus line to Pittsburgh is six million miles long and the noon bus to Newark is sitting in the bus slot. Do you think this looks promising? I sure don’t.
- 5:30 p.m.
- Bus to Pittsburgh begins to load. I am next in line to get on and the driver arbitrarily denies boarding to anyone who isn’t going to Newark. Um… yeah.
- 5:45 p.m.
- All of us denied boarding on the previous bus are put on an express bus to Philadelphia, where we will be allowed to board the bus we were just told we couldn’t board. Look, don’t ask me. I don’t make the rules. I just stand in lines for hours and sweat.
- Hours later
- Arrive at Philly. I know you thought the holiday traffic out of NYC got better as the day went on, but you were wrong. More standing in a line that has more people on it than could fit in a single bus, all of whom desperately want to go to Pittsburgh and a good 1/3 of whom are currently pissed off at being chased of their bus for no apparent reason. Good job, Greyhound.
- An hour and a half later
- Watch the original bus we should have been on arrive, board the first 1/3 of the line—none of whom were in NYC in the first place—and leave. I’ll let you fill in the curses.
- Half an hour later:
- Second bus arrives followed closely by a third bus to get us out of there. Smart Greyhound people; they thought to bring on extra buses.
- Fifteen minutes later
- Bus begins to pull away from the station, then pulls back in. Oh yes. The bus is broken. No, I am not kidding you. If looks could kill, I probably would be locked up in a cell right now for murders committed years ago, but assuming I got off those charges, the driver would have been vaporized into nothingness by the collective hate of a bus full of NYC people who have just been delayed one too many times.
- Hours later
- Harrisburg. Uneventful, if only because there is nothing left that can go wrong.
- Hours later
- Food stop. Not uneventful, because the “20 minute” break turns into 40 minutes when a certain Crazy Man orders Burger King right at 20 minutes and apparently orders enough to feed Rwanda. I would have left his ass sitting in the restaurant, but the driver is nicer than me.
- Hours later
- Arrive Pittsburgh. It is now roughly 4 a.m. For those of you keeping score at home, I’ve now been traveling for almost 32 hours. At 4 a.m., there is no way my relatives can pick me up. Guess who will be spending the next several hours at the Pittsburgh bus station?
Mmm hmmm.
Remember the crazy guy? Over the next two hours he told me at least 6 billion times how pretty I was, tried to get my phone number, and insisted he didn’t mean anything when he asked me how “pure” I was. This would be the point where I finally shook him off and got away from him, if you’re wondering.
Also, it helped that he finally caught his connection and left the station.
Hours later… the relatives arrived. For those keeping track at home, we are now at 36 hours of travel. You figure out where I slept; I’m not sure I remember.
Several hours later still, arrive at relatives’ house.
Cambridge, England to Western Pennsylvania, in 40 hours or less. Go Greyhound!
Twelve hours after that, the pain of dragging the suitcases everywhere diminishes enough that I can log on to the computer to check email.
London Zoo
If I were already sleep deprived because I got caught up in a pretty decent novel all night, we all know I would not decide, at 8 a.m., that I really, really had to go to the zoo today. Because that would mean, on the train ride home, I might fall asleep and miss my stop and end up in, say, Edinburgh, with the conductor singing “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.” It would be awful. The singing, not Edinburgh.
But if I did go to London, I would end up at the zoo around noon, after wasting a couple hours running around getting tickets at the Tate Britain. [Note to self: I have officially ripped of MMM’s blog style, and she is going to hurt me for it. Plus, she is better at it. Do something else.]
Ah… so. Have you been to the London Zoo? They’ve painted green lines that lead you all around in a predetermined path. They promise this path will let you see “everything.” I abandoned that by paw print #3.
But paw print #1 was the giraffes. I love giraffes. I could watch giraffes all day. In fact, I watched these giraffes for 45 minutes trying to get a shot of Evil Giraffe. Ever see the Eddie Izzard clip where he goes on about “I am an evil giraffe. I will eat all the leaves off the tree so no other giraffe can have them”? I met that giraffe. He was very “I know you have the camera, and I’m going to make faces at you right up until you put that thing to your face. And then I’m going to stop and stare head-on at you, with my head all backlit by the window, so that all you’ll get is a shadow and no face when you do take the picture. And as soon as you drop the camera, I will make a face at you. We can repeat this as long as you want, because I have all fucking day, mate.” Apparently, he was an Australian giraffe.
Meanwhile, Drugged Giraffe just stared at a fence post like she had never seen anything quite so fascinating in her entire life. 45 minutes she did this. I don’t think she blinked. Whatever she was on, I want some.
And in the corner, old but cute giraffe did the greatest poses, very much along the lines of “Why won’t you photograph me? I’ll do anything!” But how can cute giraffe compare to evil giraffe? It can’t.
Then I went on to pawprint #2, which was boring and I forgot what it was, which is why I quit at pawprint #3. The rest of the zoo visit went like this:
Gorillas
Gorilla 1: I am so depressed, I am just going to lie in my bed/nest and curl up like a little kid and hope no one will take pictures of me so I can get some sleep.
People Watching: Click! Flash! Click Click!
Gorilla 2: My roommate is such a complete drag and never plays anything with me. I’m going to sulk on top of this box. You think it will make a good picture, but really I’ll blend into the background. I totally planned this.
Bathouse
Fruit Bat: I am evil fruit bat. I will eat all the bananas. In fact, I am currently wrapped around three of them, and I will out-stare anyone who attempts to take them from me. While I am staring at you, do you want to think about the fact that I have my claws dug into two of these bananas and I am molesting the third in unspeakable ways? I didn’t think so. These are mine! Move along!
Me: Do you know Evil Giraffe, by any chance?
Lions
We have found the perfect spot where everyone can see us but no one can take good pictures of us. Yawn. Nap.
Penguins
Inexplicably, there is a giant porcupine in the penguin exhibit. Yes, the water was all gone. Yes, there was dirt in it. Yes, the exhibit was still labeled as “penguins.” I don’t get it either.
Elephants
Despite there being huge posters of the brand new baby elephant everywhere, it turns out the elephants and zebras are hanging out at some safari park elsewhere. Bastards. I wanted to hang out with the elephants.
Tigers
First, if you should happen to, say, find yourself in front of the tiger exhibit when no one else is around and find the tiger is more than willing to freaking pose for you —- and I mean, stand there with one paw up like it’s stalking you and stare right at you while you adjust your camera —- a group of six-year-olds will show up right when you try to take the shot and scare the photogenic tiger away. I guarantee it.
However, Tiger 2 did kindly lie on its very photogenic perch in a regal “I could bite your head off if I wanted, but I’m not in the mood right now” manner and stared at me while I took its photo. Both tigers were very “Hell yes you should take our pictures. We are the shit. In fact, you should take a close-up. Come on in here, yo.”
I think they enjoyed playing with that six-year-old I tossed them.
Camels
I think camels are naturally stoned.
Giant Monitor Lizard
I see you, fucker. [This was a mutual statement, if you’re wondering.]
And then I left the zoo, as you do, thinking I had seen everything there was to see despite thumbing my nose at the green paw prints and walked back through Regent’s Park to get to the tube. And saw, from outside the zoo, ostriches. Ostriches! They weren’t in the zoo while I was there!
Ostriches: Yeah, well, you didn’t walk past the bug house.
Me: No shit.
Ostriches: It’s hardly our fault.
Me: You aren’t worth visiting if I have to look at a spider bigger than my hand.
Ostriches: If you’re going to be like that, we’ll hide our heads in the sand.
Me: And?
Ostriches: ...
We would have continued this scintillating conversation, but all of a sudden my knees, hips, and ankles mutinied and informed the rest of my body that they were seceding. My elbow, rebel sympathist that it is, also hurt for no apparent reason.
Which led to an interesting debate between my brain and imploding body: with an hour to go before I could get into the Monet exhibit, I could either go get lunch for myself or I could go to Borders and buy a book for the train ride home. My ankles promptly promised to do things that I’m sure are anatomically impossible, especially with respect to my own body, if I did not sit down promptly.
I force-marched myself to Regent Street, checked out the Apple store, grabbed a book from a handy book store, and even managed to find some lunch. I ate that in front of the Tate when, inexplicably, the Tube was running on time so I arrived at the museum earlier than I planned.
The Monet exhibit? I have no words. Fucking awesome. Even if Impression, Sunrise wasn’t there.
The train ride home? I did indeed stay awake. And it was long enough that my various striking joints agreed to get together long enough to haul me back to my apartment, although they may mutiny again when they discover there will be no bubble bath.