The Unbearable Lateness of Being

We can't seem to leave the house on time no matter how hard we try or how much we set our minds to that purpose. We set double alarm clocks the night before a trip or flight, we pack and ready our baggage days before we are to leave, we say good-bye to friends and family and warn neighbors that we are leaving at dawn, yet...and yet, the day we are to leave we are running around looking for glasses, a camera, tickets, sundry indispensable articles of clothing, addresses of the place we are to stay, and just about anything else that will set us so far off schedule that we arrive at the airport with minutes to spare, or leave the house and head for the highway midst a crowd or equally late risers.

Let's say we want to go to a movie at our favorite movie house, The Royal in Biarritz, and the movie starts at, say, 9:15. Around eight o'clock I say,

"We'd better leave early because this is a popular film and there's bound to be a crowd."

"Oh, yes, but we've plenty of time," says my wife looking at her watch.

We watch the news (the snooze in my private terminology)and that brings us up to 8:30 PM.

"We should leave in about 15 minutes," I say calmly, "so we can park the car and get good seats, our favorite ones."

"Yes, yes," says my wife, "fifteen minutes, OK, we've plenty of time."

Now it is a quarter to nine.

"OK, let's go," I say.

"Yes, yes, I'll just put on some make-up."

Now it is five minutes to nine.

"Come on, let's go," I say with a note of urgency.

We leave the house, shut the shutters, lock the door and then I remember: I left my wallet. So, I open the door.

"What's the matter?" asks my wife.

"I forgot my wallet," I say.

"Ah, and I forgot my glasses."

I run around looking for my wallet, which is not in its "usual" place, and my wife runs around looking for her glasses, which she is sure she left "right here".

Now it is five minutes after nine.

"Here is my damned wallet," I announce finding that article in the fruit bowl. "Who the hell put it there?"

"But, I can't find my glasses," cries my wife.

"Could your glasses by these?" I say pointing at a pair of glasses hanging from the neckline of her blouse.

Now it is ten minutes past nine. We get in the car and rush off. We tear down the avenue toward downtown Biarritz. Luckily there little traffic at that hour but, of course, every traffic light changes to red as we reach it. There is not a single pedestrian or car at the crossroads but the city of Biarritz deems it necessary for traffic lights to have three minute cycles in traffic lights in spite of the fact that it is the dead of winter and no one is about after seven in the evening.

I drop my wife off at the door of the movie theater and shout, "You get the tickets; I will park the car."

I head for the car park that is half a block away and after finding a space is the highest part of the thing, and in the tightest of spaces, I run for the exit and then toward Le Royal.

My wife is waiting for me and I say, "Let's go inside."

"No, wait. We have to buy the tickets."

"What do you mean? That's whey I let you off here, and..."

"I had no money."

"Augh!" I scream and give the ticket booth lady a twenty euro bill. The lady looks at us with a condescending face. She has seen us repeat this scene so many times she has become cynical about it.

"Salle 2," she says shaking her head.

We rush into the number two theater to find just three other people in there but the credits are already on. We go directly to our favorite seats, one of which juts out of the isle so I can spread my legs in comfort.

The film starts and my wife says, "You see, we had plenty of time."

We find so many ways of getting into trouble and being late wherever we are in the world. Firstly, you could find us, when we are on a trip, by the objects we leave behind in hotel rooms, airport lounges, buses, and sundry places. Trying to retrieve these left-behind objects usually makes us late for whatever mode of transportation we are taking, or whatever schedule we are supposed to follow.

Once we were in Scotland, and after a visit to friends, we took a bus to Aberdeen where we were to rent a car and go off to the West Highlands. The bus ride itself was uneventful but when we got off at the airport, where we were to rent the car, my wife asked,

"Where is your hat?"

I had left not only my hat (hundred euro Stetson that was a Christmas gift from my wife) but a bag with all of my painting material--watercolor box, brushes, drawing pencils, watercolor paper block, etc.--on the bus. As that vehicle pulled away, I ran after it shouting and banging on its side. The driver (and I swear I saw him smirk) paid no attention and rapidly pulled away.

"We have to go back to the bus terminal," said my wife, "and ask if the things have been turned in by the bus driver."

We rented the car, and in spite of the weird right hand driving, we got back to the Aberdeen bus terminal.

"I hope we won't loose much time on this," I said, "because we have to be in the chambre d'hote we rented by six o'clock, and we have a long drive ahead of us."

At the bus terminal, the Aberdeen locals who work at the bus terminal lived up to their reputation of hostility and rudeness. It is an ugly enough city, and charmless to the core, but I think it is more so by the bad tempered attitude of its people--at least the ones that we had contact with in this misadventure.

"No, no one has turned in anything like you describe," said the scowling Scotsman. "You will have to wait for the bus to come back here to ask the driver."

"When does it come back?"

"Look at the schedule," said the helpful ruffian whose ratty blue tie and white shirt seemed to have given him the power of discontent and incivility as bad as any bad tempered civil servant.

We looked at the schedule and figured out that the bus would be back at one thirty.

"That´s three hours from now," I protested. But, my wife was adamant. "We will wait for it."

We went and had a bad lunch of cold sausages and mushy mash potatoes, drowned with beer to lessen the greasy taste.

At one fifteen we were there, like parents waiting for a son that was coming home from the war, looking anxiously for the bus to appear. When it finally came, it was empty and the bus driver was not the same one that had driven us to the airport. This driver was a woman and an ugly woman to boot.

"Excuse me," ventured my wife, "we were on this bus this morning and my husband left his drawing kit and a hat on this bus. Did anyone by any chance turn it in?"

"Oooh, if you left anythin'" said the robust maiden, "you'se best forget it. Hardly anyone turns in anythin'" She walked away. We, nevertheless, went into the bus and looked around. Sure enough, nothing was to be found.

Disappointed, and very angry at having lost so much time for nothing, we got in our car and drove out of that cold, unfriendly city, Aberdeen,

Of course, we were late getting to our destination. The room we had rented at the Chambre d'hote was in a tiny village on the edge of a beautiful lock. Fortunately, the lady that ran the place had figured that we were tourist and had kept the room for us.

The people in the West Highlands more than made up for the ruffians of Aberdeen. We went to a pub in the near-by village of Plockton. It was a night to remember because it was local Celtic music night, as played by local musicians. The pub was full of colorful people who were primed with plenty of beer and Scottish whiskey. But, that is another story and I will tell that in another blog.

P.S. My apologies to Milan Kundera for paraphrasing the title of his wonderful novel.

Tomorrow: Hijinks in the Highlands.