Moving to Galveston

The COVID pandemic was in full force in January, 2021, the year we moved to Galveston. I wanted to make the move without stopping, avoiding any chance encounters with pandemic germs. However, driving 9-1/2 hours in one day was impossible as I was responsible for my husband, Bill, a cat named Felix who hates to travel, and a dog named Oreo who thinks travel is simply an adventure for discovering new sniffs. 

 

So, we spent two nights in hotels: the night of the move in Tulsa and again south of Dallas. Each night, before bringing my menagerie into our hotel room, I bombarded it with a high powered, disinfectant spray. I sprayed everywhere: doorknobs, drawer pulls, sinks, toilet, tv remote, clock, even the bedspreads. Nothing escaped.

“I’m paranoid,” I decided as I wondered who slept here last. Did they wear masks? Did they use hand sanitizer?  What if they had COVID?

Bill and I were both in our 70s, overweight, and had high blood pressure. In other words, we were high risks. There were no vaccines for this disease and masks were scarce. My brother had made us cloth ones to get us through until masks were available to buy. So that was something.

Bathrooms breaks and meal stops were also a problem, at least for Bill and the animals. If it was only me, it would be no problem. I don’t drink and I don’t pee - at least not very often. But between Oreo and Bill, it was mandatory to stop every two to four hours.

I insisted on taking wipes into restrooms to scrub down the toilet seats, door knobs, and sink faucets. Buying food at restaurants was another issue.  Are COVID germs hiding inside that cheeseburger just waiting to invade our digestive systems? Did the cook wear a mask? Wash his hands? Come in sick? It even crossed my mind that a deranged server might be waiting for the chance to give me COVID by spitting on my Chicken Fried Steak. 

Neither of us got Covid on the trip down, but to this day I’m particular about germs when I travel. 

Oreo with Covid hairdo and Felix looking out window in our AirB&B

We arrived in Galveston just at sundown; it was light enough to see the buildings but not very easy to see the street signs. I knew the island wasn’t very big, so I was sure I could find our B&B without much trouble.

The streets in Galveston are numbered chronologically one way and alphabetically the other.

Unfortunately, the address to our B&B wasn’t any help: 16422 R-1/2*. Is Rosenberg Street the same as R Street? What does 1/2 mean? “For Pete’s sake,” I thought, “Who makes up these street names?” Just then, I noticed a sign saying “P Street.” 

“We must be getting close,” I said. I turned left on P, drove another block and turned left again, hoping to spot a house number close to 16422.

About that time, a police cruiser came up from behind and began flashing its lights at me. I pulled over. 

“Oh damn. Now what have I done?” I wondered, reviewing the past few miles in my head. Did I speed? Go through a stop sign? A red light?

The cops got out and walked up to my car, one on each side. The one on the driver’s side motioned for me to roll down my window. 

“Do you know why we stopped you,” he asked.

“No, I don’t,” I said. “Sorry.”

“You drove down a one-way street the wrong way.” 

“Oh my god!” I said. “I didn’t realize it. I’m so sorry.” I struggled to hold back the tears welling at the bottom of my eyes.

“You barely missed a car and almost caused an accident,” he continued. 

“I am so sorry,” I repeated, unable to hold tears now flowing down my face. How could I miss seeing a car coming at me on the one-way street? Am I blind? The driver must have been furious! OMG, I could’ve been shot! What a terrible way to start our new life on this island.

“Where are you heading,” the cop asked?

“I’m looking for our B&B,” I said and gave him the address.

He patiently explained how to get there. My mind was not fully engaged because I was mentally counting up the cost of the ticket I was surely going to get and how it would affect my insurance payments.

“I’m not going to give you a ticket,” he said and then patiently explained that O and P street were one way streets running the length of the east island. I later found out the locals used these streets to get from one end of town to the other when tourists are in town. 

“Thank you,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief. 

I could see the police watching as I pulled out and continued on my way. I carefully looked for one-way signs, stop signs, and red lights. We finally arrived at the B&B and discovered it was a garage apartment behind a house, only accessible via a skinny, gravel-covered, trash-can-lined alley. No wonder I got lost. 

I pulled into the gate, parked the car, and stared up at the apartment. It was located up a flight of steep, open-air, wooden stairs. Bill is legally blind, has Alzheimer’s, and uses a walker to get around. How are we going to navigate this setup?

I sucked in a big breath, phoned the landlord, and informed him we had arrived. There was nothing I could do about the stairs right now. I might as well get on with it.

Grabbing the disinfectant, I said, “Don’t get out of the car. I’ll be back to get you in a minute.” 

I retrieved the key from our landlord, climbed to the top of the stairs, unlocked the door, and thought, “It’s going to be a really long ten days waiting for our furniture to arrive.”

*Address changed to protect the landlord!