Winston-Salem Revue Page 3
insignificant existence – the usual psecret psociety paradox. No, bite your tongue; don’t say it. Way too nihilist.
I laughed. “There probably won’t be one again.”
“I wonder how many people have stayed in this room over the years.”
“More than 601, I would bet.”
“What if we are the 60,106th party?”
“Nice palindromic number, princess. But, I don’t think this hotel is over sixty years old. Therefore, that’s less than 22,000 possible parties, even if it was occupied every night, which I’m sure it hasn’t been.”
“How about 016,610, with a zero in front to get palindromic credit?” We’re ridiculous.
“I like it, Monique. Now, where does that gets us?”
“It gets us to here, silly.”
“Are you tired, Monique?”
“Yes.”
“Me, too. Let’s call it a day.”
“I’ll fix the bed.”
Act VI: The reloading.
After indulging in a complimentary continental breakfast, we repacked our luggage and used a cart to get it to our car. The loaded-down cart almost got away from me on the descending ramp. Monique saw the situation and couldn’t stop laughing.
“Parkaar, you looked so funny trying to control that cart.” She laughed some more. “Your arms were stretched way out in front, while you walked so oddly.”
“Well, just some free Sunday morning entertainment for my dear wife. I’m just glad that it didn’t end up in the patio of the Mexican restaurant down there.”
“Oh, yes, that would be horrible.”
I got the car unlocked. We placed the luggage in the back seat, as the hatchback area was full of sporting goods.
Once all loaded-up, we got in our usual seats.
“Well, Monique, would you like to see Salem Lake?”
“Sure! How far away is it?”
“Oh, just ten minutes, maybe nine.” Maybe nine?
Act VII: The Lake.
After crossing a bridge on Linwood Road, we turned right and entered the Salem Lake Trail gravel-and-dirt parking lot, which was packed. It didn’t look like there were any spots left on this pleasantly crisp spring morning. But then, at the end of the lot, an older, white-haired cyclist started waving to us. He motioned for us to come down to him.
I cautiously drove towards him. He pointed to the last vacant spot, which was hidden by his long cargo van, and which was actually the premier spot – the closest one to the start of the 7.07-mile (11.38 km), lake-looping trail.
“That sure was nice of him,” Monique opined.
“Yes, it was,” I replied. “There still are some decent people on this planet.”
Once out of the car, I watched him tune his mountain bike before commencing his ride. “Thanks for cueing us in. Pretty crowded here today.”
“No problem,” he said. “It’s a popular access area on weekends. So, where are you guys from?”
“Charlotte,” Monique chimed. “We’re cyclists, too, but we don’t have our bikes today.”
“My friend and I went riding down there last weekend,” he disclosed.
“I see,” I said. “Well, have a great ride. I’m not sure how far we’ll walk. We won’t be doing the whole loop today.”
“Enjoy,” he said as he clicked his clipless shoes onto the cleated pedals and rode off.
We then began our walk with me toting a black plastic bag of bottled Starbucks coffees. The narrow lake was olive-colored. The sky was cerulean with some cirrus clouds and crossing contrails that made a tic-tac-toe board. X takes middle square.
In just 1,000 feet (305 meters), we had reached a high-voltage line crossing. It was so quiet that you could hear a very slight hum on the lake.
We continued another 1,000 feet to arrive at a wetlands cove. There was a wooden sign that explained the value of wetlands, and how they filter out pollution. Is this where I put that note back in ’95?
I crouched down and looked under the sign.
“What are you looking for, Parkaar?”
“A note that I left here twenty-two years ago, mahal.”
“What did it say?”
“Oh, something droll like ‘Help! I’m trapped in a North Korean lumber yard.’ Something like that.” Oh, boy.
“It’s time to go back.”