As the clock struck April 1st, in the absolute worst April Fool’s joke ever, our power went out around midnight and hadn’t been restored by the time we woke up more than seven hours later. Looking out our bedroom windows, we were greeted by a blindingly white winter wonderland that hadn’t been in the forecast and seemed to just magically appear overnight. We had expected it to rain all night, but that rain turned into wet, slushy snowflakes that fell onto powerlines and trees and then froze, transforming simple tree branches into heavy, ice-laden baseball bats that might knock you, or the power to an entire block, out.
When we realized the power was probably going to be off for a while, we started going over a list of logistical items, one by one. Can we get the garage door open manually? Yes, Paul knows how. How much snow is on the driveway–can we even get out? About eight inches or so; with a half hour of shoveling we should be fine. How long until the pipes freeze, or is it too warm for that? It’s 27˚ right now but sunny, we’ll have to keep an eye on it. Can we turn on the fireplace for some heat? No, the starter is electric. Can we at least make coffee while we try to figure out a plan for the day? Yes, we can light the gas stove with a match and use the old-school kettle I brought from L.A., but we don’t have any pre-ground coffee since I bought Paul a coffee grinder for Christmas, so tea it is.
Rolling out of the warm cocoon of our bed which had become gradually bathed in bright sunlight and immediately remarking on how abnormally cold it was inside, I stooped to grab my phone from our charging station and looked at the current battery level, marked with just a thin red line. Less than 10%. It hadn’t charged at all overnight–the power must have gone out right as we went to sleep. My laptop still had 50%, which was a little better, but still mostly useless with the Wi-Fi down and unable to tether to my nearly dead phone’s hotspot. I used the last of my dying battery to report the outage to the power company online and post a photo to my Instagram story, not knowing where the rest of the day would take us.
It’s easy to forget how over-reliant we are on technology. It’s such an integral part of our daily lives I completely take for granted how lost we are without it. With no Wi-Fi, no heat, no ability to take a shower, several near-dead devices, and a fridge full of only wine and already spoiled food, we determined we were pretty fucked. A neighbor sent us a photo of the powerline pole right outside her house, leaning at a nauseating angle after a tree had fallen on the line several yards back. No wonder, we thought. It might be hours or even days until the power is restored.
With Paul’s fully charged phone we canceled our afternoon plans which were supposed to be at our house, then texted my sister, almost an hour’s drive away, to check on their status. Full power, but a canceled flight for spring break due to all the unexpected snow and delays at the airport. They were supposed to be on their way to San Diego and then Palm Springs that morning, and lost a full two days of their vacation due to the horrible weather. Just what you want to hear after a long, cold winter in Minnesota and you’re dying to just sit by the pool in the sun, eyes closed, feeling the heat soak into your bare skin.
We texted our friends who live in a different part of St. Paul to ask if their power was down. They’re fine, they say. The roads are terrible–a slushy skating rink where there had been bone dry asphalt only 12 hours before–but they own an Airbnb about a mile from us that happens to be empty right now. If we can get there, why don’t we head over to charge our devices and get warm?
Gratefully, we packed a few necessities, let the dog frolic in the fresh snow for a few magical minutes, and safely made it down the driveway; frozen branches hitting the windshield with unusual force, hanging much lower than usual due to the added weight. On the drive, crawling slowly through the slushy streets, we noticed several downed branches with jagged ends that looked as if they had violently split from their trees in the night–I count five in just over a mile.
At our friend’s insistence, we spent the night at their Airbnb catching up on Love is Blind, wondering how long we’d have to wait for the power to be restored while we both tossed and turned a little in an unfamiliar bed. In the morning, we left right away to check on the house like anxious parents before heading over to help a friend with heat paint some damaged walls in her basement. We entered through the back door, leaving the key dangling in the lock, and immediately I could see my breath with every exhale. Our house felt remarkably colder than it did the day before; not at all like the warm, reliable haven I’ve been hiding from the elements in all winter.
After many failed attempts to light it manually, Paul discovered a backup battery hidden inside our fireplace and finally got it running, the bright orange flames springing to life spontaneously after he’d walked away, defeated. Concerned for the 20 or so plants that live on our main level, we dragged them all in front of this precious heat source to get warm, worried they may have gone into shock already. Reluctantly, we left the fire running while we went to salvage any part of our weekend, hoping the heat would radiate through the house enough to protect the pipes.
As the sun was disappearing and the temperature began to drop in response, we drove back over to the house, hopeful that an entire afternoon away might have lent the energy company enough time to fix the downed powerline. Still no change. Our house, which typically exudes a warm energy that several of our friends have described on separate occasions as relaxing, felt cold and unfamiliar. With our plants pulled away from the walls, it felt almost as if we had just moved in, recalling the kind of half-empty state that accompanies early phases of nesting in a new space. We reluctantly turned the fireplace off and decide to return Monday morning and hope for the best.
Moments after arriving back at our friend’s Airbnb, keying in the four digits I’ve memorized that allow us inside, I get a notification on my phone from our alarm system saying it’s back online. Paul tried opening our front door with his phone, and to our surprise, the icon turns from red to green. After restoring the borrowed space back to how we found it, packing up our clothes, food, and devices in bags now much too small for the amount of things we’ve somehow accumulated over the last 30+ hours, we cautiously drove back home, afraid it might be yet another April Fool’s joke; simply a glitch in the system.
We pulled into the driveway and were greeted by the familiar string lights hung from our upstairs balcony, bright and inviting. This time the garage door opened immediately upon our command, the warm glow from inside bathing us with relief.
Entering our house for the third time that day, I walked to the kitchen, and the lights sprang to life from my touch. Nearly 48 hours had passed, and life had suddenly, unexpectedly blinked back to normal. I could feel the house already warming on its way back to a cozy 70 degrees, a blissful indoor temperature our house has effortlessly maintained all winter long, despite nighttime outdoor temperatures hovering near the point where Celsius and Farenheit meet in agreement, a staggering 40 degrees below zero.
As we settled back in with a glass of wine and a movie, it occurred to us that this type of small disaster could, and probably would, happen again. Though technology has made so many parts of life easier, more convenient, and even appealing, when it backfires, we feel lost. I was struck by the realization that more reliance on things wholly outside of our control–like the simple existence of electricity, which powers such a large portion of our lives–isn’t always the better option. Take it all away, and at least we still had each other.
What’s Up This Week
The best thing I read this week was “I Went on a Package Trip For Millennials Who Travel Alone. Help Me.” by Caity Weaver for The New York Times Magazine. I think this article is behind a paywall, but I used a gift link so it should work? LMK if not. This essay was a delight to me because it’s longer than pretty much anything I’ve ever written and it’s laugh-out-loud funny at points; I definitely guffawed a few times. It’s about a ple-planned, guided trip the author went on to Morocco with 12 other Type-A Millennial women with the ultimate goal to “relax” and make friends, and how it was the most exhausting trip she’s ever been on.
But I contend that every member of our group, to some degree — to a very high degree — exhibited many of the traits designated Type A. I believe this because a vacation experience like the one Flash Pack offers — which promises a detailed itinerary, strict schedule, mandatory fun, controlled explosions of joy and defined periods of prearranged “free time” — is unlikely to attract a person who does not exhibit these tendencies, and also because by the end of the trip we had all memorized one another’s food allergies and were pre-emptively checking with waitstaff about them on one another’s behalf. (Vyas said that “stereotyping our customers as ‘Type A’” would be “a gross overgeneralization.”)
This kind of highly structured, ultra action packed trip with strangers doesn’t really appeal to me (maybe just a tiny bit), so I took this test and determined that I am type “A-ish,” which feels right, lol–I’ve always thought I was a combo of type A and B?
I’m unhealthily obsessed with the kitchen in this Austin bungalow by Avery Cox Design. I stumbled across it looking for real examples of Inchyra Blue by Farrow & Ball in action. The rest of the house is stunning too, but the jewel tones of the kitchen are just jaw-droppingly beautiful to me. The pops of orange and hot pink against a rich blue backdrop make me visually salivate. I am now thinking of painting our office this color instead of green…
The song I’ve had on repeat this week is “Not Strong Enough” by boygenius, the trio made up of Phoebe Bridgers, Lucy Dacus, and Julien Baker. Their new album, the record, is very good for what it is. I’m still digesting it, but “Not Strong Enough” is absolutely fantastic to listen to while you’re in the car with your hands sticking up through the sun roof, and the album’s slow closer, “Letter To An Old Poet,” includes some lyrics that made me spontaneously sob on command.
That’s it! I hope you’re having a great week so far.
K bye,
Kelly
P.S. In last week’s issue I said I was going to do a Chat thread for paid subscribers over the weekend, but then with the power outage of it all I just didn’t have the mental energy, haha. Going for a re-do this weekend!
I say this with love and this sounds like a bad experience, but this is not what I'm here for. Long essays devoid of anything other than complaining honestly really misses the mark for me. I hope you'll think about what your readership reads for, and speaking for myself only, it really isn't this kind of thing.
Wow, that house!! Thanks for sharing!