I took a shared shuttle into Park City from Salt Lake City airport last night. Myself and two women, two guys. Steady rain in SLC became moderately heavy snow once we got into the Wasatch mountains. We dropped the women off in Kimball Junction (five miles from Park City) and then one of the guys near the main Park City ski resort. The last guy had to get dropped off on Lowell Avenue, a small, hilly street with a view of the city.
The driver, an older guy with no GPS, was cruising along looking for the number, which was 190 or something like that. “We’re gettin’ there,” he said as we nudged along with the snowstorm coming down like Jack London. “Is that…? What is that…178?…looked like 178…gotta be right up there…184…where’s 190? Somewhere. This must be it here.”
The driver got out and started checking doors and mailboxes. I GPS’ed the address on my iPhone and the red and blue dots were converged. We were there, all right, even if the number wasn’t immediately visible. I turned to the guy, who was sitting in his seat, and said “190 Lowell…that’s the address?” Yeah, he said, “but I don’t wanna be standing here all alone with my bags if we can’t find it.”
I said nothing, but I was thinking to myself what a little candy-ass this guy was. First, he doesn’t try to find the condo number himself — he waits for the driver to do it while he sits safe and warm inside the van. Second, there was no logical indication that we weren’t right on top of 190 Lowell — the map, the GPS and the driver’s experience said we were there. But this little guy, a Brit, wouldn’t budge until the driver had found “190” painted or mounted on something. What would Jeremiah Johnson say? Where was this guy’s spirit of adventure of discovery? Real men get out of the van and find the number themselves.