I'm a proponent of an unusual concept in public politeness. I think that one should always default to proper manners and consideration... but... one should always be prepared to eschew those niceties when it is necessary. There are situations when vulgarity, aggressiveness and rudeness can be excellent tools. Indeed, they may end up being your only friends.
I'd like to be able to say that I'm ashamed of my behavior that day in Richmond. I'd like to say that, but I would be lying and I intend to be honest in this forum. I'm proud of what I loudly and firmly said to that woman (a senior citizen no less) in a packed and very public space. It was offensive and inexcusable. Denied excuses, I'll try to explain.
It was a shiny, spring day about five years ago when I discovered that there would be a special appearance of tall ships in Richmond. The festival was unprecedented and would see many large sailing vessels from across the globe cruise past the crowds in Old Steveston at the mouth of the Fraser River. I was torn. The romantic in me imagined a lovely afternoon by the sea with my five-year-old son. We would have lunch and watch the grand old anachronisms float by, banners snapping in the breeze. The realist in me murmured a warning against crowds and lack of parking and organization. "Tut tut", I thought, "Stuff and nonsense, Pip pip and all that rot. The boy should see this." Thus I placed myself into one of the worst cluster-fucks I've ever seen in my entire life.
Time was tight if I wanted to beat the crowds, so I picked up my boy from his half-day of kindergarten and we headed out immediately, snacking en route. I had armed myself with information regarding supplemental parking and buses a few miles from the site. Oh, it was to be a grand, rural adventure in the sunshine! Just we two, in a new place, seeing new things. What a fantastic Dad I would prove to be that day, I thought. Traffic became more and more congested as I drove farther from the main roads.
By the time I approached the vast field full of cars where I was supposed to park, things were downright busy, even though it was still two and a half hours until the ships were were to appear. "No worries," I thought. "This'll be fine. My boy is lucky that his Dad is so organized." I drove into the access road. It was bumper to bumper. After navigating into a scenario that would make a Saturday Costco gauntlet look civilized, I was hailed by a grizzled and beleaguered-looking man wearing a traffic vest. "Five dollars," he said. The old gentleman held out his shaky hand in the blazing sun in the middle of a fallow field nowhere near civilization and said to me, "Cash only. C'mon. Lotsa people here." as he glanced anxiously at the growing line of traffic snaking up behind me.
Normally I have money. I told you that I'm organized. I just didn't have any cash at that moment because I was planning on using the ATM that was sure to be found at a massive special event in a popular tourist area. I was informed that, as I did not have any cash, I would not be entitled to a slice of this lovely farmland in which to park. Grinding my teeth, I inquired as to the quickest way out, thinking of the miles of free parking along the street I'd just left 50-feet behind me. Apparently the only way out was through. I won't bore you with a detailed account of the ups and downs and twists and turns that I explored over the next 15 minutes. Let me just say that it was a route that would have bewildered both Perseus and his bastard Minotaur. The best part was when I passed the kind gentleman on the way out and saw that he could have simply stood to one side and guided me back without sending me on my tour of fifty acres of minivans and subarus.
I used the free parking at the side of the road just next to the entrance of the pseudo-parking lot. "Just a glitch," I told myself as I tried to ignore the growing sense that I should have given it all a miss. I grabbed the day-pack and my boy and we followed the growing crowd to River Road. The information I had downloaded explained that there would be shuttle buses waiting to pick us up. The murmuring realist in me was not surprised when there were none. I stood blinking in the hot sun at the lack of buses, with my boy, who was beginning to wonder why I looked so upset. I swallowed the bile and annoyance and told him that all was well. We ate some fruit leathers and drank bottled water while we talked about how cool those big old sailing ships are. "Sometimes," I explained, "it is worth some hassle to do something fun and see something special."
Half an hour later we were walking along the road, having given up on those mythical buses. I wasn't sure where we were, or how far we had to go, but there were many many cars, bicycles and pedestrians and they were all heading the same direction. It didn't take long for the boy's little legs to get tired. We all know the "Daddy, how much faaaarther?" scenario. Sadly, I had no answer. A nice man on a bike stopped and eyed us both up and down. "You're not going to see the tall ships, are you?" he asked pointedly. "It's at least a half hour walk, you know." The man looked sympathetically at my son. "I mean... at least. Maybe you should take the shuttle-bus?"
The air was still and hot that day. There was no breeze, but I'm a guy who can see which way the wind blows. I will not swim against such a current. We thanked the man, turned around, and headed back to parking acres. I mean, I was done. We were going to go back to East Van where we belonged. I began to re-spin the afternoon for my boy. We'd have some Dairy Queen Lunch. Perhaps we'd go to the library and get some books about ships. By the time we were almost back where we started, God threw me a curveball. A large shuttle-bus called "Steveston Tall Ships" turned a corner, pulled up next to us, and opened it's doors. I could almost hear the angels singing.
Oh yeah, baby! It's nice when things work out. It was all meant to be. I grabbed the boy by the hand an we jumped on in. Standing room only was fine because we were on our way! Twenty sweaty, jostling minutes later we were disgorged into Steveston, just two minnows in an enormous school of foolish fish swimming blindly into a confounding net. That murmuring realist in my head yelled, "I told you so."
In the next post, I am provoked to rudeness beyond redemption. Stay tuned for part 2...
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