It's been a hell of a week. After schmoozing with family in Michigan at my cousin's graduation party, I hauled ass up to Portland, Oregon to check the city out and apply for an apprenticeship with the electircian's union. I got into town around noon and spent a few hours gawking around the (beautiful!) downtown. Then I called my cousin Duncan who lives there and let him know I was in town; he promptly took it upon himself to show me around. I spent the next couple days getting the best first impression a person can get of a city. I met a constant string of warm, interesting people and saw a lot of really cool places. Every experience reinforced the idea that this was a place I could be at home in. In what could only be called serendipity, I told Duncan that I was in town to apply to the union, and he immediately introduced me to his neighbor Niki, a member of IATSE and her husband Paul, a member of IBEW, the union I was in town to apply for. In fact, Paul used to be on the apprenticeship selection committee. I spent an enjoyable evening talking shop with them and getting loads of really good advice and drinking my cousin's really good home-brewed beer. (Come to think of it, I spent a lot of time drinking really good beer...) I met Duncan's son, a ten year old ball of energy and curiosity named Tristan. Friday morning, I went in to the Union hall to apply for the apprenticeship, only to realize that they wouldn't accept an application without a high school transcript, which I did not have. I got lucky; my high school registrar was in that day and agreed to fax in a copy. I will send that woman flowers. Everything else went off without a hitch.
Except for today. I was hauling ass down I-5 on my way back home when one of my tires blew out on the freeway. I managed to bring the car to a halt in the meridian without hitting anything else. (I got lucky- the meridian was composed of oleander bushes, not concrete.) As a came to a grinding halt, I saw one of my rear tires bouncing down the road ahead of me - the force of the stop sheared it clean off. I then called AAA and spent an enjoyable couple of hours talking to state troopers and helping the two truck mechanic get my car out of the meridian and into the nearest shop. The first part was the hardest - it took two trucks to get my van out of the bushed and onto a flatbed. When we got the van to the shop, the first thing the mechanic said when he saw it was "That must've been fun!" I conceded that it was for about five seconds. The mechanic was really friendly and no bullshit, which I appreciated. Right now, I'm sitting in my parent's house in Oakland. Sometime next week, I'll get a ride back up to Orland to pick up the van and pay the nice mechanic five to fifteen hundred dollars, depending on how screwed up the axle and steering are. As disasters go, this one was decidedly minor. I'm thankful for that.
I wish ever week was this interesting.