Storms and… stuff

I thought I was going to die. Seriously.

I’ve stressed all summer that this is a huge, ancient house (however the adjectives used to describe these traits seem to grow in exuberance each entry). I’m mentioned the Mistral and other terrible storms to which we all look forward in anxious anticipation – a mixture of complete terror and overwhelming excitement. Staying in this house forces one to respect the awesome power of nature.

I had a fresh reminder of this last night.

It seems like the world was suddenly being pounded upon by a thick waterfall, complete with the noise of roaring rapids and water hitting water. The thunder rolled in angrily from the sea, bellowing so loudly I could feel the walls shake. It crackled and popped, screamed so loudly my ears ached. Tequila was absolutely flipping out, terrified.

Personally, it was the silent predator of the storm that scared me most…The lightening was so bright, so intense, so frequent it seemed that there were hundreds of fluorescent lights (reminiscent of those lining the creepy halls of old, broken down mental institutions) surrounding the house, flickering angrily. I felt like my tiny, third floor room had transformed and I was now living within a bug lamp. Lightening is a terrible force not to be reckoned with.

Grandma and I had just spoken of the time that lightening shot through the shuttered green window in the master bedroom, crossed above the bed while they lie awake in it, and made dramatic contact with the wall outlet, sending sparks of fire into the air. Electricity exploded the phone into millions of tiny pieces later to be discovered all around the house and warped the laptop into a curved bit of metal. Trauma and terrific stories resulted. Creating this visual in my head as the storm lingered above the roof last night, I really thought I was going to die.

I had forgotten to shut my green shudders, giving me an all-to-clear view of the storm outside. I was near to it (three floors above the ground in a house already perched on top of a mountain) and the lightening was far too close for comfort. I sat in my bed, trying desperately to stay calm and comfort the dog, staring out the window. I considered opening the glass to shut the shudders – but did I really want to stick my head and arms out of the metal-rimmed hole in all that rain just so I didn’t have to see it? Yea, not really.

Grandma’s story kept playing over and over in my head. I looked beside my pillow and there was an outlet – I had visions of lightening shooting through the window and striking that point. So I moved. Quickly. I curled up on the floor with Tequila and Harry Potter, reading it’s imaginative pages by flashlight.

But I kept thinking of the damage lightening had done when it struck this house last time. My laptop was all the way downstairs. I should save it. I got up and slowly opened my door. Insert scream here. Every window and door in the whole house was open allowing the terrifying noises of the storm to pour in. It sounded like it would outside when I opened my door. So I shut it quickly. It’s just a laptop…

(As it turns out, Tequila and I were not the only one scared by the storm, thinking of the last time lighting struck. Grandma and Papa sat sleepless in bed, not daring to move an inch, comforted only by one thought: lightening doesn’t strike the same place twice.)

Between the orage and the terrified dog, I didn’t sleep more than two hours. The alarmed bellowed far too soon and I cringed listening to the dreaded noise. It was so safe and warm under the covers, snuggled so comfortably with my puppy and content to drift back into beautiful dreams. But I dragged my sorry ass out of bed bright an early to make it back to work for 8am. It sucked. Work was terribly busy, I was all by myself, and the storm continued to rage all morning. Not to mention I still haven’t been paid. And the day just kept getting better…

I finished late, almost 2pm. Sheets of rain were still falling without signs of stopping though the dramatic lightening shows had ceased. I took my 11€ of tips and went to pay my enormous parking ticket (I hate paying the ridiculous fees of parking in St. Tropez, but there was no way I was taking my scooter in that weather). Apparently the machine didn’t want my money. No matter how many times I tried, it rejected my change. I pressed the little red button to summon someone for help. No one came. “He’s probably too busy jerkin off…” I mumbled to myself, frustrated. Silly me.

I tried and tried again, searched the lot for someone with bills instead of change, and returned – unsuccessful – the machine. I put in the ticket. It asked for 10,10€. I put in the correct amount of coins. It spit them back out. Desperate times call for desperate measures so I pushed the button again and again and again. Finally the voice of a young man came from the speakers, demanding to know my problem. I explained and he asked me to come to his office. I walked out of the little building where you pay the ticket and crossed the lot to the office where he opened the door, clearly perturbed. He screamed angrily in French. “I don’t know what your problem is. The machine is working properly; people are coming and going without issues. Don’t use so much change. Use bills. I’m too busy to change for you.” Sure enough, his fly was open.

I’m not lying.

So I found a 5€ bill and paid the remainder with my tips, got in my car, and left.

It was an odd day.