One of my best traveling stories, one you’ve probably already heard, involved a 40-mile bike ride through southern England to watch a play. That wasn’t the good part, though. The good part was waiting until the police did their last patrol through the park across the street from the theater, then sneaking in, finding a quiet place under some trees and setting up tents. Except, we could only get one tent up, and it was designed for one person, and there were three of us. (Or was this the bad part?)
We didn’t sleep much, but nor did we get out of the tent and walk around. So it was a complete surprise when we got up in the morning and found inches—inches!—of snow on the ground. In southern England! In April! When we hadn’t seen a single snowflake all winter!
So what is it about mild climes and green grassy landscapes that get bad spring snowfalls? The Willamette Valley woke up to half a foot of snow yesterday, and let me tell you, no one here owns a shovel. By 9 it had turned to rain, and the tree branches started coming down. There lies in the collective memory of this town a mythical blizzard to which this storm cannot compare, but it’s still the worst snowfall in 75 years and it sure is messy out there.
Please, let no one in Michigan comment on this post to gloat about your 80-degrees days all this week. Speak not of your thunderstorms, your beach trips, or your patio grill-outs. I’m headed south for break next week, to San Francisco. It’s supposed to rain, and I think I’ll stay in a hostel.