Home sweet… wait, where?

I vaguely remember what my bed looks and feels like. Vaguely.

…

Okay, fine, it’s only been a couple days, but it’s waiting for me at home and won’t be seeing me for at least another night.

A friend of mine got hired to paint some indoor murals at The Nordic Inn, a bed and breakfast in Crosby, MN. It could be considered a suburb of the Twin Cities if your definition of “suburb” includes “small towns that are three hours away when you ignore the speed limit.” Because my friend was working there, he convinced the owner to let me come visit for a couple nights. For those of you who enjoy Renaissance Faires or Viking history, I highly recommend you visit. As long as you’re willing to leave your shoes at the door.

You pull on a chain outside that blows a big horn inside the inn, announcing your arrival. Steinarr, the owner, comes to the door and asks for the password—give him the right one and he lets you inside for a little Viking immersion, so to speak. Put on some Viking sandals, cash in your dollar bills for wooden Kroner and scope out all of the weapons hanging around throughout the building. (In another month or two, you’ll be able to scope out some pretty sweet murals, too.) I should warn you that he enjoys telling a lot of jokes, some of which might be offensive, but you might think that having his Great Dane plop down on the couch next to you is offensive, too.

I drove up there on Friday night, came back on Sunday, didn’t get enough sleep that night, then drove to work this morning knowing that the weather was going to get ugly. It was a 30-minute drive and wet snow was spattering the windshield almost the entire time. It wasn’t long after I arrived when one of the supervisors gave everyone a list of schools that were closing at 10:30. Later, there was a list of schools closing at noon and 12:30.

It was above freezing today, so by the time we got out of work, there was a lot of wet slush in the parking lot and it was still snowing. And it’s not supposed to stop until tomorrow morning. Driving home would have been icky enough with all the wet slush on the road, but with more stuff coming down that’ll have plenty of time to freeze tonight… I didn’t want to have to drive back here in the morning and maybe get here without losing traction on the ice, spinning around and crashing into the median.

Consequently, I’m sitting at a table in a nearby hotel—two miles away sounds a lot better than 30—and wondering whether my bed misses me. Don’t worry, bed, this is only happening once. It doesn’t mean anything. I still love you. Really.