“Yes, thank you, that is very good advice.”
I typed the winery address into the GPS and then proceeded to pull out of the rental company driveway. I screeched and slammed on the brakes every four feet until I got out onto the street. There was going to be a learning curve. The GPS lady successfully got me over the Golden Gate, but I didn’t get to enjoy one minute of it. Paranoid that I was going to hit a pedestrian or a cyclist or launch myself off the massive bridge, I couldn’t take my eyes off of the car in front of me. Once I was out of the city, I spotted a Wendy’s and pulled off the highway. GPS lady started getting frantic.
“Recalculating. Head North on DuPont for 1.3 miles.”
I did a quick U-turn to get to the other side of the freeway and into the loving arms of a chocolate frosty.
“Recalculating.” Shit. Shut up, lady. I was frantically hitting buttons until I was able to finally silence her. I made a right turn and then another turn immediately into the Wendy’s parking lot and into the drive-thru line. I glanced at the clock. It was three forty. I still had time. I pulled up to the speaker and shouted, “I’ll take a regular French fry and a large chocolate frosty.”
Just then, I heard a very loud, abbreviated siren sound. Whoop.
I looked into my rearview mirror and spotted the source. It was a police officer on a motorcycle. What’s he doing? I sat there waiting for the Wendy’s speaker to confirm my order, and then again, Whoop.
“Ma’am, please pull out of the drive-thru and off to the side.” What’s going on?
I quickly rolled the window all the way down, stuck my head out, and peered around until the policeman was in my view. “Are you talking to me?”
To my absolute horror, he used the speaker again. “Yes, ma’am, I am talking to you. Please pull out of the drive-thru.” Holy shit, I’m being pulled over in a Wendy’s drive-thru.
“Excuse me, Wendy’s people? You need to scratch that last order.”
A few seconds went by and then a young man’s voice came over the speaker. “Yeah, we figured that,” he said before bursting into laughter and cutting the speaker off.
The policeman was very friendly and seemed to find a little humor in the situation as well. Apparently I had made an illegal right turn at a red light just before I pulled into the parking lot. After completely and utterly humiliating me, he let me off with a warning, which was nice, but I still didn’t have a frosty.
Pulling my old Chicago Cubs cap from my bag, I decided that nothing was going to get in the way of my beloved frosty. Going incognito, I made my way through the door. Apparently the cap was not enough because the Justin Timberlake–looking fellow behind the counter could not contain himself.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi, what can I get you?” he said, and then he clapped his hand over his mouth, struggling to hold back a huge amount of laughter and making gagging noises in the back of his throat in the process.
“Can I get an extra-large chocolate frosty please, and make it snappy.”
“Do you still want the fries with that?” There was more laughter and then I heard laughter from the back as well.
“No, thank you.” I paid, grabbed my cup, and hightailed it out of there.
Napa was beautiful in October. The sun was setting, the last long rays piercing through the large eucalyptus trees that lined the road to the winery. I pulled off and took a couple of photos and removed a few layers of clothes. At that point I was wearing very wrinkled black slacks and a blazer, unsuccessfully trying to pull off the sophisticated journalist look. It was warm in Napa compared to Chicago that time of year. I knew I was only a few minutes away, so I took some time to go over my interview questions and then I hopped in the car and drove toward the R. J. Lawson property.
GPS lady notified me that I was approaching my destination. When I got to a point where I needed to turn left into the winery, I stopped and waited for a car that was coming from the opposite direction to pass. That car passed, and then another popped up in the distance, and then another. Finally, I had to take my chances and turn quickly. I did just that, overcorrecting and running the car smack into a truck pulling out of the winery driveway. The airbag deployed rather rudely in my face at the very same moment that I heard crunching metal and felt the force of the collision. I started frantically pushing away the deflating airbag when I spotted a figure outside of the passenger window.
“Are you okay?!” he shouted.
I nodded and a few seconds later he opened my door for me.