Parking in the populated regions of the PNW is a nightmare. Actually, I’ll retract that statement and replace it with, parking within 50 miles of your 5 a.m. delivery inside most of the city limits is a nightmare. You can plan all you want, I really don’t want to hear it about the planning any more – the fact is, there are more trucks than spaces and you can plan until your underwear falls off and it doesn’t make for more parking spaces.
It was not the lack of planning that required us to park for the night on the periphery of the delivery lot in Tacoma, Wash., it was the lack of available spaces. George knew we would have trouble, so he called ahead and got permission to park on a strip of asphalt about 12 feet wide, between the gated yard and the road. We were lucky to get the spot we did — it was relatively safe and at least had the benefit of lighting from inside the gates we were parked outside of. It did not, however, include toilet facilities.
Because we knew ahead of time we weren’t going to have a toilet all night, we stopped and ate dinner, used the restroom, and did all the things we needed running water to do. He got parked and all snug beside the delivery, even got a couple of channels on the television. We had been relaxing approximately 4.2 seconds when the active yogurt cultures I made a point to eat with my healthy dinner of raw spinach and lean ham on flat bread decided to become extremely active. So active, in fact, they caused the spinach to mutiny and seek an immediate way out of my body.
“Oh no.”
“What? What’s wrong?”
“My tummy doesn’t feel so great.”
“Aw babe, really?! I asked you if you had to go when we stopped.”
