Cracks

The funny thing about stress is that you often don't realize just how tense you are about something until some time afterwards - Well, at least I do not. Emily and I spent the duration of my parents' visit on high intensity alert, a state of constant watchfulness and wariness, trying to always stay one step ahead of any problems that might arise to spoil their holidays. My consciousness was a lot like our home videocamera movements, always jerking hard from one item to the next like a gnat on too much sugar - Keeping one eye out for pickpockets, tramps, and other accosters, another eye on potential travel stumbling blocks (strikes, gas, vehicle malfunctions, etc), a third eye on planning our spending and eating schedules so we could actually find food on an American timetable (We usually eat dinner at 6 instead of the European 9-10pm), a fourth eye on our surroundings, and, well... that's a lot of eyes! On top of this, some portion of my brain had to spend time processing an amusingly endless stream of questions. I've just finished assembling our DVD video of our travels, and it is particularly funny in that half of my parents' recorded dialog is, "What is..?", "How did they..?", "Where do we..?", "How is the..?", "What do we do with..?", and, "Why is this..?"

About five or six days into their visit, we are at Chateau Suscinio, and the first stress cracks show. We found our way here OK, Emily driving and me navigating our crinkled French roadmap, and we pull into the parking area under a bleak grey sky with the huge stone castle squatting on the horizon. Everyone exits and starts the trot in, when Emily realizes she's locked the keys in the car. It takes a second for this to sink in - Emily never does this, never, in normal circumstances, but there they are, taunting us from the steering wheel ignition and seeming to jeer, "See? See? See how easily your day can be wrecked?"

Because it isn't like locking your keys in the car back home...

My brain is still feeling numb to the potential enormity of the problem as small bits of data start to sprinkle in, as if from the grey clouds above. How will we explain to the staff that we've locked our keys in the car, in French? I know "voiture" but not "lock" or any variation thereof.
Lots of pantomime looms. It is two days before Christmas and we are the only visitors in the lot. Even if we can explain our situation, will there be a locksmith available, and not on holiday? How long will it take to locate someone who can help, and can they locate someone who can help?

In my mind's eye, I see the arrival of a locksmith like the electrician that our friend Lesley once described to us. Her house was half-wired, and the electrician had promised to finish the essential work on the weekend, even though it would be the day after a holiday. He did indeed arrive, so drunk he could barely stand, and after he'd vanished into the back room with a large power drill for a few minutes, she heard a loud crash. What she found was a ragged hole in the wall, and the electrician lying on his back, fallen over his own toolbox, feet in the air, gripping his running power drill in both hands at his portly middle - bit augering at the ceiling - and the man in a state of catatonic alcoholic delerium. In a blurry fast-forward of images, I see us there, waiting for three hours before anyone arrives, our precious vacation day ruined, only to end up with our window broken by the local "handyman" in clumsy attempts to jimmy the lock... riding home with freezing wind in our faces, the car unusable in the Brittany rain, and unfixable for the Christmas weekend.

Eegah.

My parents have walked on ahead and are blissfully unaware of this, as Emily and I stare at the car in dumb horror, both slowly realizing that the crushing "Thing Gone Wrong" that we've been trying to protect my parents from has indeed happened. Emily wonders, out of jittery curiosity, if the hatchback is open - We have been using it a lot for bags and luggage. This is one of those hopeless hopes that you think of to put off the inevitable collision with reality just one second longer, akin to, "Hey, maybe if I look away and look back, the keys will not actually be there in the ignition". We always lock the hatch. Emily pushes the button and it pops open freely, left unlocked for who knows how long.

It takes us a good two seconds to mentally process this new input.

I feel, ridiculously, unfazed - The reality of having to wrestle with key retrieval hadn't even sunken in yet, so the reality of being surprise-saved seems totally casual. Emily, by contrast, stares for a moment in blinking shock and then bursts into tears, sobbing on my shoulder after the crisis is averted. I know I have been stressed for the past several days, but so has she, and apparently this has just blown an emotional tension safety valve. Thirty seconds of intense crying ensue, after which she floats away in a giddy state of endorphine hilarity, emanating relief like grinning sunshine.

After walking halfway to the castle and realizing we aren't with them, my parents come back in time to see us taking the hatchback cover and seats down to enable anal entry into the car for key retrieval. Arriving after the fact, they have blissfully missed the trauma and only have to experience the annoyance of waiting an extra five minutes before we can all go see the big landmark. Emily and I look at each other, more conscious than ever of the level of secret tension we share in trying to ensure my parents have a Perfect Christmas in France.