T RYING TO GET A TAXI once I’m outside the airport is an even jollier experience than going through customs.
What’s worse is that I totally miscalculated my arrival time, and it’s almost nine at night locally, pitch dark, and bitterly cold. Occasionally, a flake of snow floats past me, and when it’s finally my turn, I show the bloke controlling the taxi queue the address of the cabin I rented.
It takes forever, and I try not to stare as the driver seems to argue with the controller about something. When he walks back towards me, my stomach drops.
“He’s worried the snow will be falling heavier where you’re going, and he has no chains with him. I’ll call one of the drivers who has an SUV, and we’ll get you on your way.”
“Cheers, mate.” I smile nervously, panicking inside about what I’ll do if I can’t get a taxi. I’ll have to wait inside the airport until I’m sober enough to drive and then pick up the rental I’d booked and drive myself.
I step back out of the queue and let the people behind me take the taxi that wouldn’t accept my fare.
Fifteen minutes later, my face, arms, legs, fingers, and toes are numb, and still, there’s no car. I watch warily as the controller once again approaches me.
“Every driver with an SUV is busy. There’s a winter festival happening the next town over to where you wanna get to this weekend and another the weekend after. I’m gonna have to put you in a regular cab and insist that they take you, ma’am. You okay with that?”
I nod, my lips too numb to form words.
THE TAXI DRIVER HATES ME.
I ask if I can sit in the front, as I thought it’d be warmer and I needed to thaw out a little. My boots, ski jacket, hat, scarf, and gloves were no match against the bitter cold. I don’t think anything would have protected me against the minus four-degree night I’d spent almost a half hour standing motionless in.
He shakes his head and motions to the back, so I slide in and listen to him launching my cases into the boot of his car before slamming it closed.
“Do you think you could turn the heating up a bit? It’s proper freezing back here,” I request.
His dark eyes capture mine in the rear-view mirror, and he gives his head a slight nod right before the interior lights go out.
“Address?” he asks, without adjusting the heating.
I show him my phone, displaying the address of the cabin.
He makes a tutting sound, shakes his head, and taps the address into the sat nav before pulling away.
Meanwhile, using the torch app on my phone, I search for the heating controls in the back of the car. I find two small vents but no way to turn up the heat or the flow, so I have to settle for making sure they’re as wide open as possible.
“Is it usually this cold so early in winter? I thought the snow didn’t arrive until January.”
He shrugs. “Usual.”
I nod, not really knowing how else to reply to his one-word answer.
An hour into our journey the car slides on what I assume is ice, and we spin almost one hundred and eighty degrees before the driver manages to right the car and turn us back to face the direction we should be travelling.
His only reaction is a few mumbles to himself in a language I don’t understand, and he doesn’t bother to ask if I’m okay. I hold on tight to the ‘oh shit’ handle above the door—as well as my stomach contents—for the rest of the journey. Despite the cold, I can feel myself sweat, and I’m seriously worried that I might wet myself, or worse, out of fear.
Around forty minutes later, we turn onto a dirt track, which I’m relieved to see has been lit up on either side all the way up to the picture perfect cabin, which is also illuminated.
The snow, which has been falling heavier, has settled. The ground, the driveway, tree line, and the roof of the cabin are all covered in white. With the orange glow of the lanterns lining the drive and the two stagecoach style lights either side of the front door, the scene looks like something from a Christmas card, and I’m suddenly overwhelmed with emotion, wishing that Reggie were here to share the moment with me. Or maybe it’s just that I wish someone were here to share the moment. Anyone. I just wish I wasn’t alone.
I pay the taxi driver, and the only tip I give him is never to eat yellow snow! Despite the sound advice, the arsehole dumps my bags at the bottom of the steps that lead up to the wrap-around porch, which they called a veranda on the website. I bounce them up to the front door one at a time, and once again, I use the torch app on my phone to search for the key coded security box where the front door key should be located.
Despite the light from the porch lamps, my phone, and a couple of lights blazing along the drive, I can’t find it and begin to panic.
It’s beyond cold, I’m almost delirious with lack of sleep, and I’m running on pure adrenalin. I quickly scroll through my emails until I find the one from Alma-May that lists the location of the box, as well as the code. I’d meant to screenshot the details before I left but forgot.
The last thing I want to do is trudge through the snow, but it doesn’t look as though I have a lot of choice. Heaving a sigh, I head back down the steps, and as my foot hits the second one, my boot slides out from underneath me. I land on my arse, hard, my spine scraping down the step immediately behind me. Even though I haven’t hit my head, I see stars and a blinding headache kicks in instantly.
I sit completely still for a few seconds, trying to focus on the snow-covered landscape laid out before me and not the tingling in my nose.
I fail.
The tingling turns to tears, and once again, I begin to cry.
I don’t have the alcohol to blame this time, just lack of sleep and petulance. I’m angry at myself for being a wishy-washy whiny female. That’s not me. It’s not who I am. I was raised by a strong woman to be a strong woman. I’ve gotten too used to always having either Reggie or an assistant with me when I travel. Everything is always planned and arranged by someone else ahead of time. All I do is turn up.
I give myself a few more minutes to cry before the cold starts to seep through my skinny combat-style jeans and into my bum cheeks. Reaching for the handrail, I haul myself back up, careful this time not to go arse over tit down the rest of the steps. I find the box hidden in the corner under the stairs. It takes me two tries before my shaking fingers hit the right buttons and I get the keys, which are thankfully all labelled.
Not giving a shit about germs, or whose hands they may have passed through, I kiss them.
“Please, please let there be enough hot water for a shower.” I stare at the sky and beg to the hot water gods.
Carefully, and very slowly, I make my way back up the stairs to the front door, letting out what sounds like a groan of ecstasy when the key slides into the lock, and the door opens.
All I want is a hot shower and a warm bed. Everything else can wait till morning.
With what is probably my first almost-smile of the day, I step inside the cabin.