I had not given much thought to how much attuned I had
become to my relaxed suburban life here in the picturesque city of White Bear
Lake until today. It has been less than a year, and I seem to have flushed every
bit of the traffic of my home country and the din associated with it out of my
system – the results of which have borne hilarious outcomes, in the least.
Its tax time of the year, and therefore, a visit to the
nearby capital city of St Paul was called for. Even the little one was not
spared for the paperwork lest the taxman thinks otherwise and, therefore, was
made to tag along with us in the subzero weather. Which he did quite happily, as
oblivious as us to the state of our minds.
Those who have kept up with their geography will
know that St Paul is the capital of the State of Minnesota and one half of the
Twin Cities. Needless to add, the traffic is a lot busier on the narrower
streets of St Paul, in stark comparison to the much wider and quieter roads of
White Bear Lake. Right from difficult parking places to busy intersections, St
Paul threw in enough challenges to its less enlightened evening visitors –
namely us.
When we did manage to find a spot right next to where the
snow had been plowed to a mountain and climbed out of the comfort of our blessed four
wheels to our quickly-getting-miserable two legs, we transformed into our
pea-brained alter personas. I would like to blame our jaywalking judgments to
the high chilly winds that literally froze large parts of our grey matter, but
I know that is not the whole truth.
One intersection, and we would have been saved. Yet it took
a mammoth minute to wait for the lights to turn in our favor. For a moment we
were tempted to make a run for it amidst the traffic and yet, we knew we could
not. At last the lights changed, and we made a beeline for the other side, the
cold winds prompting us to make it faster, the little one doing the best he
could with all the know-how of his three young years.
Finally we were there – inside the warmth of sanity. And
just when I had thought it had all been fun, the little one exclaimed, “Where’s
my shoe, Mummy?”
We both reeled at the impact of the question and the sight
of one tiny socked foot. The husband recovered his wits faster than I did. “He
was holding your hand!” Of course, darling, I agreed.
Therefore, I went back retracing my steps looking for the all important almost lost shoe unsure of where it had gone missing. Before long I spotted it, right
in the middle of the road, waiting to fly in the air anytime as several wheels
threatened to run over it. I stood there counting the seconds which had never
seemed longer hoping against hope to retrieve the piece of leather before it
died another premature death.
A shoe in the middle of a busy intersection in St Paul – I
am sure it isn’t a common sight, and for the first time I thanked the weather
for being harsh enough to not let too many people see it. Too my chagrin,
however, there were a couple, and I knew exactly what their thoughts were at
that time.
I managed to retrieve the shoe at the first chance and in
the same state that it was almost lost, but not without feeling every bit like
the jaywalkers that I once found immensely amusing.
Long Live The Almost Lost Shoe!
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