Rain capes and wrong doors

I woke up this afternoon, just in time for the thunderstorm.

Had to drive all night last night. But I had enough warning to take precautions. Didn't fall asleep once. Saved that for this morning.

This time of year, in daylight, I've gradually lost some of my shame when it comes to idling while I sleep. Good thing, too. As it is, I woke up just as the sky went dark and the air got cool enough to let me shut off the engine. Minutes later the bottom fell out of the sky.

And then nature called.

And nature, of course, could only be answered in that building across the parking lot.

Before I started this trip, I went by a local army surplus store. My army poncho was starting to feel damp on the inside, and I thought I'd get another one if the price was right. Instead I found one of those “manager's special” shelves where they put the oddball stuff they run across somewhere for almost nothing and then sell for “real cheap.” In this case, they had Swiss Army surplus “ponchos.”

Only these were Europeans. Which meant the “poncho” was actually a cloak.

I like cloaks. One of my favorite cold-weather items is another surplus-special—a Yugoslavian Army ski-trooper's cloak, solid wool and heavy enough to make you think you're wearing armor. My biggest problem with it is that Atlanta's seldom cold enough to justify wearing it.

This rain cape would be useful a lot more of the time. And it was five bucks. I got one. And now it was time to test it.

It passed. It was waterproof,* it didn't get in the way much, and you could toss it back with a nice dramatic flourish when you stepped in the door. Swiss camo looks just different enough that you can claim it's a fashion statement. And getting back in the truck is actually easier.

I don't like raincoats, as a rule. They're too much trouble to put on and take off in a tight space. Ponchos are better for that, I've found; but they are still kind of clumsy climbing in. But a cloak is open in the front, not the sides. That same flourish that looks dramatic coming into the room can clear the front of the cloak and let you grab the handles to climb—while your back is still dry. And when you get up to the seat, you flip one snap and finish taking it off in one motion. You still have to find a place to let it drip, but nothing's perfect.

I think I'll have to get a couple more of these, while they're still in the bargain bin.

* * *

Went back to sleep for a while. Then nature called again. Not quite so loud this time, but then it wasn't raining. So I slowly crossed the parking lot, turned to the right, and went through a familiar-looking door. For some reason I no longer recall, I decided to wash my hands first.

Good call.

Just as I was pulling out the paper towels, a lady walked into the room. My first reaction was “Doesn't the cleaning crew knock?” Then I noticed she was as confused as I was. Just as she started to ask me a question, I looked around and noticed something missing.

In just about any large men's bathroom, there are, ah, certain items of furniture lining one or more walls.

Not this time.

I left with as much dignity as haste allowed.

- - - - -
*Don't say “of course.” I've had one poncho where the plastic simply didn't get applied to a strip about two inches wide, the whole length of the garment Ripstop nylon is not waterproof by itself. My left shoulder was not appreciative...