Taking Shelter with Egg Rolls
I started thinking about this issue in mid-April, while taking shelter from tornadoes and golf-ball-size hail in the conference room of my East Madison, WI hotel. Earlier in the day, I was working from my room and trying hard to ignore the bouquet of Severe Weather Alert notifications stacking up on my phone. At around 5:30pm, a symphony of air raid sirens, emergency broadcast signals, and giddy newscasters heralded the arrival of the apocalypse (by time and county).
I recall abandoning my laptop and grabbing my keys, wallet and camera bag before sprinting past an older woman in the hallway. She was struggling to escape (via elevator, from the 3rd floor) due to a very large cooler she had in tow. I also recall thinking that if after 70 years on earth you haven't learned to ditch your cooler while evacuating a natural disaster, well, you've had a very good run and best of luck to you.
As it turns out, three flights of stairs are plenty to employ every type of anti-anxiety technique known to Man and AI. I focused on my breathing, stabilized my core and knees, recalled Buddhist teachings on how to deal with suffering and focus on the present, affirmed that I am basically a good person who deserves a long life with most of his limbs intact, conjured my wife's calm and supportive voice, remembered that I had paid my mortgage this month, and reminded my bladder that a lower-level bathroom is a good place to shelter.
The first floor hallway was empty when I arrived. Around the corner, in the spacious lounge of this extended stay hotel, a group of utility workers in matching hoodies slouched around a few tables, getting buzzed on complimentary beer while watching a large-screen TV.
The hotel manager, a middle-aged mother of two children, a cat, and an expanding radius of fatalistic energy, made half-hearted efforts to shoo the other guests away from the larger windows and towards an interior conference room. A few folks shuffled as directed after securing plates of egg rolls and other appetizers. Opposite the lounge, a few smokers stood just outside the hotel entrance, staring at the darkening sky while taking drags like they were paying off old library fines. I remember one man in particular, a beer and cigarette dangling in one hand while other held an iPhone at waist-height to video record the now egg-size hail smash through windshields in the parking lot.
I briefly pondered the nobility of sacrificing my life to get the perfect tornado shot with my new, medium format Hasselblad camera ("think of the detail and contrast I could capture with this wide-angle lens and 100 megapixels!"). I even considered whether it was ethical (or at least wildly meta) to photograph an idiot drinking and smoking while video recording a tornado. Does it make a statement about the hopelessness of our species? Could I bracket the shot ("and yes...with this camera I can bracket shots!") to catch this fellow as he's pulled upwards, a vortex ripping the six-pack from his nicotine stained fingers and the realization dawning across his features ("which would look amazing in B&W, btw") that he's about to meet his Makers Mark in a heavenly cocktail shaker?
There is a natural instinct to "follow the heard" in the face of an existential threat, and I calmly returned my attention to the lounge. I was still thinking about this natural instinct when I realized that I was now at the buffet adding a second egg roll to my plate, and starting to drift towards the tap of summer IPA ("it could run dry at any moment!"). Fortified for the impending disaster, camera bag safely slung across my shoulder (so that the sweet and sour dipping sauce wouldn't gum up the zippers), I too shuffled with resignation towards the dull conference room as directed.
Hotel staff were sheepishly rolling a few thin mattresses into a far corner of the room to make space for chairs, folding tables and guests. I do not know who was sleeping on these mattresses prior to our arrival, or why, as they did not appear to be part of any survival plan. I did take a spot at one of the tables, and washed down my hors d'oeuvres with a surprisingly good IPA while watching people quietly filter into the room.
Pockets of strangers started getting acquainted when the aforementioned older woman, with cooler still in tow, burst into the room as if she had just arrived in Boca Raton. I noticed that she wore a pink Palm Springs T-shirt and aviator shades that both brightened the florescent-lit room and protected her eyes from the artificial glare.
"DON'T WORRY!!" she announced to the gathering tribes in Conference Room - Mendota. She then opened the cooler and held aloft a magnum (1.5L) of vodka like it was the Presentation of Simba from The Lion King...before refilling her own 30oz Yeti tumbler.
Ok...maybe I was wrong. Perhaps this tribal elder was simply wise about the BYOB policy of most storm shelters, and thought it her duty to protect the psychological calm and well-being of her younger, less experienced flock. Then I watched her tip the bottom of that Yeti towards the florescent sun before toddling towards the far end of the table. This extended stay hotel was clearly just a waypoint on a personal spirit quest. But once seated, she did make good on her implied promise and she shared her (good) spirits with a few other guests who thought to bring a plastic cup.
Having spent over 30 years in Boston, I immediately focused on floor lint to avoid any eye contact and all conversation. However, this was Wisconsin, and before my facial expression shifted entirely towards "Do Not Disturb," an older woman seated with her husband on my left leaned forward and made an introduction.
I learned that a fire had recently destroyed most of their home, including her library of Classical history and his collection of radio (vacuum) tubes. She left a PhD. program in the 70's to focus on raising their children and dairy cows, while he worked as an electrical engineer for companies from Milwaukee to Chicago. She often spoke for him, or to clarify his heavily accented and mumbling speaking voice. And she spoke with much love and tenderness about her much older husband, who I also learned had taken shelter with his family during WWII.
I nodded with academic empathy (I've only evaded natural disasters), and began to wonder what the sound of air raid sirens and the cocoon of sheltering might be conjuring for this gentleman. And then he mentioned, chuckling, that his family took shelter from Allied bombers, that apparently dropped unused munitions across the Hungarian countryside on their flight back to base. His family was Catholic, and fled the Nazis through Hungry and France to eventually settle in Boston and then Chicago. His father had been a public works engineer for most of his working life, and settled the family outside Milwaukee. The man (I didn't quite catch his name) didn't seem to really miss his vacuum tubes, and was more excited that the hotel had an accommodating pet policy for their larger dog.
After about 30 minutes the Hotel Manager entered the conference room and blandly announced that the Tornado Warning had been lifted and we were free to return to our rooms (my phone confirmed that only Flash Flood, Tornado Watch, Severe Thunderstorm, and Severe Hail warnings remained in effect).
The tribe of Conference Room - Mendota quickly dispersed into the hallway. The utility workers filtered back into the lounge from outside, shaking their heads and muttering words like "wrecked" and "call dispatch." The sky was free of hail, tornadoes, locust or any other plague, and so I sprinted out to survey my rental car. It was indeed wrecked (windows smashed and it basically looked like I had driven through an asteroid field) along with many of the other parked vehicles.
Returning to the lounge, I sat down at one of the small work areas intended for the travelling laptop crowd. And as I was mentally reviewing the steps for filing an insurance claim, I noticed that both of my cameras remained safely tucked away. I hadn't taken a single photo of the afternoon's excitement.
For a fleeting moment I wondered if I had missed an opportunity or three. In retrospect, this stormy afternoon was only 30 minutes of an April full of photographic adventure. And I think that longer form prose is still the best way to capture certain images, and tell a special story.
