A DC high-speed bus chase

My youngest daughter and her husband moved to New York last October. Three days after they arrived, she tripped on a step and broke her ankle. “So annoying, I was wearing such a good outfit, Mumma.” They didn’t know anyone. In a boot and on crutches she tackled umpteen flights of stairs in search of permanent housing, avoided crazy people in the street and faced up to taciturn bank and phone-store employees. The unfriendliness of the city upset her more than the pain and inconvenience of the break.

I couldn’t afford to visit then – so when a friend, American Cathy, who’s got a second home near me in Provence, offered to buy flights and organize a trip for me and my daughter to visit her in DC last month, I accepted. Despite the reassuring neoclassicism of the buildings and monuments – whiter in the sunshine than a new set of dental veneers – there’s a frisson of anxiety enveloping the Land of the Free’s capital city. A few of Cathy’s friends have lost high security-level federal jobs. People I met, while acknowledging that change was necessary, were embarrassed by their president and worried what he’d say or do next.

Cathy works 14-hour days and rarely gets out. On the first evening we asked two well-padded men seated at a waterfront restaurant in Georgetown what the food was like. In heavy accents they said it was good. They told us they were Russian and in town for a meeting “with your leader.” Afterwards, noticing Cathy’s clenched jaw, I said: “They look more like the Russian soccer hooligans who rioted before the last England game in Marseille than politicos.” The table behind us was loud. Southern voices. Cathy thought she recognized a congresswoman from Louisiana. We tried to eavesdrop but could hear little above the laughter, which sounded four big drinks down and a bit hysterical.

The following day my daughter and I went to the National Gallery. We both paint professionally and repeatedly got a row from a disembodied voice for standing too close to the pictures. Inspired and culturally sated after three hours of gazing at paintings, we headed to the Old Ebbitt Grill near the White House for a dry martini and a snack. My daughter was, by chance rather than intention, wearing a denim jacket from her student days with a large Looney Tunes logo on the back which she hid with her long red-blond hair. As dry martinis go, this one was perfect; so large it had a horizon.

At the weekend, Cathy took us to her family’s cabin near the Blue Ridge Mountains. It has tripled in size since her childhood, but the living room is original, dating back to the late 1600s. Her schoolfriend Kim, a fun Olivia Newton-John lookalike, came with us. She’s a Democrat but the fact that she and her MAGA boyfriend cooed for an hour to each other on their phones made me hopeful that the antipathy caused by polarized opinion isn’t as universal as it appears. The landscape – rolling hills and a lake – was pure Little House on the Prairie. I skipped about offering everyone coffee and eggs.

The day after we got back, Cathy’s husband ran us into town to catch a bus to New York. As the packed bus pulled out of the station, I realized that in the rush I’d left my ten-year-old laptop on the back seat of the car. Shamefaced, I called Cathy and asked if she could bring it next time she came to France, which was in three weeks’ time, thinking I could perhaps borrow a spare from someone or sell a painting quickly and buy another in the meantime.

Five minutes later her husband called and said he was in pursuit. Nothing I said would dissuade him. There was only one stop between Washington and New York, and that was Baltimore, an hour and a half away. Messages pinged back and forth. “He’s ten minutes behind you. He thinks he can make it.” Then, “Damn it, stuck in traffic – 20 minutes – less than a 50 percent chance.” Followed by, “Traffic clearing. He’s determined!” As the bus drew into the coach park in Baltimore, he was six minutes away. I asked the bus driver if he would wait. “No way. You askin’ too much lady… soon as these passengers are on, I’m closin’ the doors.”

Cathy’s husband was stuck at lights a minute behind. I pleaded. The doors closed and the bus drove off. Defeated, I returned to my seat. Other passengers were by now taking an interest. A safety and promotional video came on. The owner of Peter Pan Bus Lines assured us his staff were true professionals and cared about their passengers. Soon the lights turned red and we again came to a halt. The laptop was six cars behind. I dashed to the front and begged the driver to allow me to run and get it. He sighed: “I’m turning right on to the freeway. I’ll pull over on that lay-by ahead and open the doors when he gets here. Do not leave the bus.” A frantic call ensued as the bus turned the corner but Cathy’s husband got stuck at the lights. He abandoned his car and sprinted over the grassy knoll connecting the two roads. As the doors opened and the laptop was returned to its idiot owner, the entire busload of passengers clapped and cheered.