It’s 6:45 on the morning of Christmas Eve. A mere 36 hours into my marriage, my cute Volkswagen Beetle has shuddered to a halt on the side of Interstate 70. We are in the wasteland that is Kansas—some 135 miles from civilization—and the air outside the car is a biting 12°F.
Welcome to my honeymoon!
The word honeymoon tends to evoke images of golden sand, plush hotel rooms, and lots of “fun.” Instead, after calling a tow truck, Alec ventures into the snow to relieve himself: I burrow further into the blanket we nearly abandoned in Utah out of excitement for warmer days in the South. Narrowly avoiding a public indecency charge, Alec sees a state trooper pull up behind the car. We find refuge in the trooper’s toasty truck while waiting for assistance.
It’s not too long before the tow truck arrives, driven by a scruffy young man who calls himself J.W. A few hours later—including a painfully long ride with our toothless towing technician—we’ve dropped the Beetle in Hays, Kansas and hit the road once again in a rental car.
This may not be the picture-perfect honeymoon, but—some muttered cursing aside—we have finally made it to Franklin, and we look forward to sharing a delicious Christmas ham later today.
Farewell to my beloved bug, Tinkerbell.