It
was our Last Christmas in the United States. We gave it our heart, and in
return, it gave us memories rich enough to carry across continents.
From
Boston, we had traveled to Chicago to be with family one final time, before
returning to India for good in just a few days. The move was irreversible, the
tickets booked, the visas ticking toward expiry.
It was meant to be a warm, nostalgic pause before a
major life transition. Chicago, dressed in its festive best, delivered exactly
that: familiar faces, long conversations, late night movies, and the quiet
awareness that a chapter was about to close.
Then winter decided to make its own plans.
----------
The
first warning came on the television on Christmas night.
“BLIZZARD
WARNING. EAST COAST. DON’T TRAVEL. STAY HOME.”
The
looping satellite images, swirling with white and blue, looked eerily
reminiscent of “The Day After Tomorrow”. Except this time, there was no cinema
screen to separate fiction from reality.
The
next morning, on Boxing Day, an alert from the airline confirmed our worst fears;
our flight home had been cancelled.
In
total, almost 6000 flights to East Coast were canceled due to what is now known
as the “Boxing Day Blizzard”. Major airports like JFK, La Guardia, Logan, etc.
were shutdown until further notice.
A
hurried dash to the Chicago O’Hare Airport and a tense conversation at the
ticketing counter revealed a hard truth about the next available flight to
Boston.
“Five
days,” she had said. “Minimum.”
Five
days meant missing an international flight. It meant visas expiring. It meant a
chain reaction with no rewind button.
That’s when the unimaginable idea surfaced.
We
were going to drive one thousand miles.
From
Chicago to Boston.
Non-stop.
----------
It sounded reckless, almost absurd, but when every
other door closes, logic quietly reshapes itself.
Early
in the next morning, while the city was frozen in time, we had driven to
Chicago Midway Airport with a plan that, to this day, didn’t sound real.
The
rental car parking lot looked like a graveyard of sedans, each one dusted with
snow like a final blessing.
We
chose a Honda Civic and approached the counter. The employee barely
looked up before starting her checklist.
“Insurance?”
“Sure. Bumper-to-Bumper.”
“Toll pass?”
“How much?”
“Six dollars a day.”
“OK. Add.”
“GPS?”
“Yes please.”
She paused, glanced at the storm warnings flashing on
the screen behind her, and smiled.
We smiled back. This was one moment where everything
felt non-negotiable.
----------
We
loaded the car, checked the GPS, clipped the toll pass to the windshield, said
final goodbye to family, and then pulled out with a
mindset that said, just keep going.
The
streets were empty, the city subdued, as if Chicago itself was holding its
breath.
Once
we merged onto I-90, the road stretched ahead like a promise, and a threat.
Illinois
passed quietly. Flat land. Clean lanes. The kind of driving that lulls you into
confidence. Indiana followed, equally cooperative, the highway slicing through
winter fields that looked frozen mid-gesture.
The
rhythm set in quickly; steady speed, eyes scanning mirrors, hands locked on the
wheel. Gas stops were military operations; fuel, restroom, back on the road in
under ten minutes. No coffee. No distractions.
Ohio
arrived under a low, grey sky. The traffic thinned further. Somewhere near
Toledo, snow began falling sideways. Not heavy yet, just enough to remind us
that this was not a normal drive.
We
pushed on.
----------
By
the time we crossed into New York, fatigue crept in around the edges. The New
York Thruway was a long, disciplined ribbon of asphalt, flanked by walls of
snow that reflected the headlights back at us.
After
Buffalo, the landscape felt reassuringly familiar. We had been here before, many
times, on trips to Niagara Falls. The exit signs tugged at memory, at comfort,
at the temptation of something known.
For
a moment, a tempting thought surfaced: What would Niagara look like frozen
solid?
Then
the GPS chimed, reminding us of time. Of distance. Of the storm gaining ground.
Neither
did we slow down, nor did we take the exit.
----------
The
first real problem came east of Albany.
The
wind arrived without warning.
One
moment the road was manageable; the next, the car shuddered as if something
massive had slammed into it from the side. Snow lifted off the ground in
violent sheets, erasing the lane markers completely.
The
GPS recalculated, its calm voice absurdly cheerful.
“Continue
on I-90 for one hundred and sixty miles.”
Around
us, vehicles began disappearing. Some exiting, others pulling onto the
shoulder, hazard lights blinking like distress signals. We passed them slowly,
unwilling to stop, afraid that if we did, we wouldn’t start again.
For
the first time, it truly felt like we had driven into the movie.
----------
And then came Massachusetts. Winter was no longer a
backdrop. It had become a full-blown antagonist.
Heavy winds slammed into the car. Snow fell thick and
fast. Visibility dropped to near zero.
Suddenly a wall of white exploded across the windshield, so dense it felt
physical. We tightened the grip and slammed the brakes, heart hammering.
For a few tense moments, it was impossible to see
anything ahead.
Then,
through the chaos, red and blue lights cut the darkness.
Like
an unspoken guardian, a highway patrol vehicle emerged behind us. Angled
slightly across the lane, its lights flashed not in warning, but in guidance.
For several minutes, it guided traffic slowly and steadily through the worst of the storm.
That silent act of protection remains
etched in memory; reassuring, human, and profoundly humbling.
----------
The
storm began to slow down momentarily, giving us a fighting chance to get
through the last miles.
Then
the lights appeared. Boston skyline. Familiar exits.
When
the sign for Boston Logan Airport finally came into view, the feeling was
unreal. We pulled into the rental return area, parked, sat there in silence,
and took a long deep breath.
Our trusted companion chimed one last time.
"You have arrived at your destination."
Seventeen
hours. One thousand miles.
No
accidents. No breakdowns. No turning back.
We
handed over the keys, stepped into the cold, and looked back once at the snow-scarred Honda Civic.
It
had carried us through the worst night of winter.
----------
Some
journeys don’t end when you reach your destination. They stay with you, etched
into muscle memory, into the quiet certainty that when there is no safe choice
left, movement itself becomes survival.
It was a symbolic crossing through snow, uncertainty,
and sheer will; marking the end of our American chapter and the beginning of
another, half a world away.
Some goodbyes don’t happen at airports. They happen on
highways, in the dark, with snowstorms as witnesses.
