On Saturday Michael and I went on an adventure to pick
Matt up from Union Station in Washington D.C. Matt was taking a Mega Bus from
UNC Charlotte where he attends school, to D.C. the closest bus stop to South
Central PA.
Michael and I were delayed in our leaving because his
dad had mysteriously disappeared with the car we were going to take for the
trip down. We were scheduled to leave at noon and around 11:30 Bob said, he
was going to take the car to get gas at a nearby gas station. Forty-five
minutes later he had yet to return, I was starting to get antsy and Kathy,
Bob's wife was getting nervous that Bob was hurt. We called his phone
several times receiving no answer. Finally, I decided to look outside and
to my glee saw that he was in the driveway adding oil to the Pacifica. Auto
maintenance completed, Michael and I embarked on the journey. We spend
the first hour or so of the trip in silence, listening to the new Alter Bridge
CD. Myles Kennedy and Mark Tremonti are both beautiful men. Mmm mmmm!!
About an hour after leaving I got a text from Matt
that said, “This bus sucks goat scrots." It pleased me to see that he
was having a nice ride. Mike and I made excellent time to D.C. gaining back
all of the time we had lost with the late start. When we were approaching the Capital Building our GPS started to
freak out. It would reroute without a moment’s
notice and Michael had to pull off several high velocity hairpin reverse 180
degree descending K-turns in the midst of 4 lanes of moving traffic. Incidentally, this is also the name of Shaun
Whites new snowboarding trick, but trust me it is significantly more difficult
to maneuver in a Pacifica.
Mustering all of my geographic might aka reading road signs,
I was able to direct us the remaining several blocks without the help of Siri
and her tomfoolery. We had Union Station
in our sights when a strange thing started to happen. It was as if an invisible
force was pulling us into the Union Station parking garage, which was not where
we wanted to go. We tried to break away from this invisible force, heaven knows
we tried, but we could not shake its grasp and we found ourselves being ushered
through a ticket lane which presented us with a parking voucher that stated it
would charge us $8 an hour to park.
Michael was not pleased and determined not to pay $8, he sped through
garage to the exit, inserted the ticket into the machine and to his great
delight (and my disappointment) the gate opened without making him pay. About the same time, I got a text from Matt
that said his bus was running 30 minutes late.
Michael and I decided that we would drive around to see if we could find
another place to park that would not cost as much as $8. Exiting the garage we took a right and drove
for several blocks before taking another right we were driving down a back
street when we passed an establishment whose name proclaimed it to be Martin’s
Market. Beneath the name they proudly declared
that they sold beer 24/7. This opposed
to 24/6 or 12/7. Martin’s had seen
better days. Its windows were boarded
and there was spray paint covering many of the walls. There may or may not, but definitely was a
roach infestation and I am certain the rats had taken up residence as well. Fortunately,
this had not deterred the management and Martins displayed an open sign hanging
crookedly in the door. Michael shuttered
and said, “That is not a market.”
Driving on we took several more turns before coming to the
intersection in front of Union Station, this time from the East instead of the
North. Again a strange thing happened
and we found ourselves being corralled towards the parking lot, I saw Michael
struggling with the wheel, but he wasn’t strong enough and up the ramp towards
the parking lot we went. This time,
right before the entrance we noticed a sign that promised an auxiliary exit
back on to Columbus Circle if we turned left instead of right. Seeing a glimmer of hope Michael hung a Louie
and we proceeded down a ramp which dumped us out on the southwest side of Union
Station. We decided to regroup and
create a game plan before driving into folly again.
We drove down Louisiana Avenue and decided that this time we
would check to see if there were any parking meters open as we were driving
past and if that were to fail (it failed), we would try to pull into the
dropoff/pickup lane located in front of Union Station where we would sit with
our blinkers flashing until Matt called us saying he had arrived at which time
we could attempt a drive-by pickup (this also failed. <--foreshadowing is cool). We circled the block so we were heading
Northeast on Louisiana Avenue on direct path to Union Station, we struck out on
finding any parking spots so Michael worked his way into the left lane with
finesse and we was able to navigate into the dropoff/pickup lane without
getting sucked into parking garage lane.
Things were going as planned.
Almost all of the pickup spots were filled but ahead in the distance we
saw an open spot like a beacon atop a light house signaling safe harbor. Michael guided the nose of the Pacifica
towards the spot, and then…disaster struck.
The spot was not an oasis after all but a trap. It was a handicapped spot. Veering left we sailed passed the spot and
were forced to turn left at the light. A
dark chill came over the Pacifica, Michael and I sat dumbfounded as the ramp to
the parking garage loomed before us with outstretched arms. There was nothing we could do, so we ascended
the ramp of death yet again.
It was at this point that I realized we were dealing with an
anomaly. Like something out a Doctor Who
episode, the Union Station Parking Garage was not of this world. I turned to Michael and explained to him that
we might as well just pay the $8 (by “We” I mean He) and be done with it. Michael agreed, but I could tell paying the $8
went against the very fiber of his being.
Map Recreating Path
Michael and I took to Find Parking
When getting out of the Pacifica I received another text from
Matt informing us that he was still 20 minutes away. We decided to head into Union Station to see
if we could locate a bathroom. Once inside
I was immediately impressed with the architecture. The rounded ceilings were
inset with an Empire State molding that transported ones imagination back to
the turn of the 19th century.
Many of the floors were covered in a mosaic of blue tiles and the
stairways looked as if they had been removed from Gatsby’s estate. Union Station contained one other 19th
century throwback: the glaring shortage of BATHROOMS!!! Union Station has 3 levels, is longer than a football field, and I have
concluded it to have the lowest bathroom to square foot ratio of any enclosed
structure in the western hemisphere. We walked
the entire length and found nothing. Went to a different floor and found
nothing. Not even a woman’s bathroom
(for Michael to use) or a sign directing us in the right direction. Finally, just as my resolve was about to
falter we stumbled upon a men’s restroom.
Out of blind luck or divine intervention I do not know, but what I do
know is that it couldn't have come soon enough.
Union Station Architecture
Freshly pampered Michael and I decided to go back to the bus
deck to wait for Matt. Stepping off the
escalator we made for the Greyhound Station when out of the corner of my eye I caught
glimpse of a lanky homeless man walking my way.
It was Matt, we had found him at last.
Back in the car we set our sights on our second destination of the day;
Anita’s Southwestern Restaurant in Leesburg, VA. Our infatuation with Anita’s goes way back
and is primarily a result of their Mexican style breakfasts. We make several pilgrimages to Anita’s each
year to rejuvenate the soul and clog the artery. On our way to Anita’s we went through 2 separate
toll booths of which Matt and I made Michael pay. The first booth was only $1.75 but Michael
got us stuck in a coins only lane and we were about a nickel shy of being in a
very tight spot. The next booth had a $5.10
fee. Again, I got to see a small part of
Michael’s soul wither away, but this time Matt was able to enjoy it with
me. Michael’s spirits were lifted a bit
when we passed Dulles International Airport.
He assured Matt and I that every pilot is “Ice Cold” for being able to
land a plane. From there on just about
every sentence was ruined by Michael interrupting us by whispering “Ice Cold”
under his breath.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sean: How was the
ride up?
Matt: Man, it
took forever, it was goat Sc--.
Michael: Dudes,
Ice Cold!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In about 40 minutes we reached Anita’s and all was right
with the world. I can remember ordering
and then picking up a golden corn chip. So delicate. So pure. Dipping it into a zesty salsa medley and
drifting off into a Mexican induced food-coma.
Lanky Homeless Man
My Last Sight Before the Food-Coma Hit
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