Flakiness

F and I did the most romantic thing this morning. Last week, I parked my car in Niagara Falls, ON and walked across the rainbow bridge, where he met me with the bike and we zoomed home. The zoom was real life -- poetic perfection in intention, a little bumpiness in the execution, mostly to do with cramming a LOT into one day and then misjudging how early restaurants in rochester close. But it was incredibly sweet to walk across an international frontier and be greeted by my lover.

We had a sweet productive weekend, more riding, some good food, lots of work, if not quite enough. And this morning, he drove me back to the bridge. Walked me to the turnstile, kissed me sweetly and full. I floated across the bridge a little dreamily, trying to ignore everything I need to do this week before we leave for Scotland on Saturday.

But I *did* pause to take a picture -- the falls were gorgeous, the sky was blue, the sun was out, blah blah. I was so delighted to be strolling and not part of the tailback of cars.

I found my car in the parking garage, put my bags in, and then thought I'd go to starbucks for one more coffee and a pee. Accomplished those, negotiated sweetly wit the parking attendant, who was incredulous that I admitted to parking for more than 3 days even though I didn't have my ticket. He undercharged me, I drove away.

And then, well onto the QEW, the phone rang. Mysterious 601 area code. I almost ignored it, but picked it up. Could barely hear. "Catherine, it's Mr. sfdkasflj your passport."

!

Apparently, I'd dropped it somewhere on the sidewalk (outside starbucks? outside immigration?) He found it near the duty free, I guess. I'd been sensible enough to put my sister's phone # in the "in case of emergency" space; the fates shone that she was actually home from Italy and actually HOME.

Mr. 601 area code called me back to tell me he'd left the passport at the Hard Rock Café. Ironically, the site of F's and my first "date" -- the first time we met in person, "halfway." Nearly a year ago, now.

Panicked and over-caffeinated, I circled back, parked again, fetched the precious document from Jeremy or Carlos or whatever his name was, who insisted I show him i.d. "That IS my i.d," I pointed out. I had to produce a visa. Got the passport. Navigated the parking guy who just waved me out, eyes narrowing at seeing the smartcar for the second time in half an hour.

Drove home, busy busy busy... and realized that I hadn't managed to actually take a successful picture of the Falls either Thursday or today. More flakiness.

Oh well, everyone knows what the Falls look like. Add in some dreamy romance and a little preoccupation, and that was me. And now, a HELL of a lot of relief at not having to find out what the hell the "emergency passport" routine is in the boondoggle that is the Canadian Passport Office right now.