Household on the move November 7 - December 4, 2004 about new wheels, socializing, meeting trolls and achieving first steps

	The wait is over: we must be the only family in the whole block who can fit two cars in a two-car garage. Our neighbors prefer junk.

I had been writing about our less than satisfactory situation with our motor pool; including the fact that everything is only a matter of money. Well, we just achieved sorting out those financial affairs, at least to the point that we were now able to get ourselves a new family pet. Since Tom was born, we kept working out what kind of car we actually wanted -- or more accurately, we kept finding reasons to not want this or that. First, we had eliminated all SUVs on the account of their tipping over. We mildly flirted with the idea of purchasing an eight-seat van -- after all, we fit into our Wagon with all our stuff just barely as we are, and if Tom should acquire a little brother anytime soon, it might mean trouble. Then we tried to imagine the PLACES where we would be going with that van, and came out with nothing. We don't need a really BIG car for shopping trips (with accordingly LARGE gas consumption and DIFFICULT parking) -- and for our trips we want a four wheel drive. Besides performing better on ice, sand and unpaved roads, a 4WD/AWD has another advantage; you typically don't need snow chains. In winter, CalTrans would let you through a mountain pass only if you put your chains on -- or if you have a four wheel drive car. There's nothing appealing in the idea of crawling on the sloshy ground around a van, dealing with a rattling mess. Hence we ended where we had begun, and chose for our stall another Subaru Outback. The only fancy option we got was color -- Sid desired silver.

In the moment we finished computing our budget, all became very simple. One Saturday, we looked up on the web which dealership stocks the model we wanted (silver 2.5 liter non-turbo with manual transmission), called a salesperson that we're coming to get it, and within half hour we sat behind the wheel of a new wagon. we each test drove it around a block, and spent next hour and half doing paperwork, signing and similar detours -- which was Sid's job. Meanwhile, our very happy Tommy devotedly patted cars in the showroom. I think that this might be his idea of paradise -- beautiful shiny cars, prepared for the amusement of His Miniature Majesty.

	Every one in our family thinks about cars.

By noon, we were seated at our celebration lunch at Sono Sushi in Mountain View, having driven there with two wagons. Later we actually managed to park them in our garage side by side, which makes us an exception in our whole blocks, as far as number of garaged cars per square foot. Cecilia got banished out on the street and given to grandmother's disposal, who should hopefully return in the spring and shall be much more mobile and independent with Cecilia.
Now we're still waiting for a regular license plate and we wonder what to put on a customized plate we want, just like our old wagon has. It sports a blue rectangle on each end, with a noticeable word HROCH (Czech word for HIPPO), but what we shall put on the new one, we still don't know.

	Professor, what is your opinion on the theory of big bang?

The greatest of November holidays is Thanksgiving. This year was the first ever we organized a party at our place. Having invited Petra and Adam and Luke gave us courage to roast a turkey. We bought (in American context) a small one -- only twelve pounds, and we asked Martina for a recipe. In the end it became clear that it's no rocket science -- apply salt, pepper, bacon strips and onion, all that place for several hours into the oven -- part time under a tin foil lid to protect the skin from burning. Petra brought sweet potatoes and cranberry sauce, which is needed to prop up the rather bland turkey flavor.

Lately we have been visiting a few times with little Luke, who carefully shielded his most favorite cars from Tom. I was curious to find out how Tom would react to similar intrusion. I was actually afraid that Tom would transform himself into accusingly whimpering tick, but to my surprise all turned well. He even voluntarily ran towards Petra -- so either separation anxiety has left us, or he simply remembers Petra and considers her a friendly aunt. Tom barely registered Luke, once made an attempt to take back his toy, but did not take it to extremes (there were no tears, no blood). The boys even played rolling the scooter back and forth, so I do not depart from hope that they would eventually enjoy each other's company.

	Look, I'm walking with my dad!

Sid had a day off on the Friday after Thanksgiving; we left Tom in clutches of his grandmother and left on our own to ski. Last year's season did not quite work out; we were hoping for better at least this one time. It would be our last chance to get out somewhere without Tom. Driving there takes almost four hours, and to drag the little one along for a return trip (i.e. eight hours in the car) borders on false imprisonment -- on the other hand, we have been pretty much cured of illusions about affordable accommodations in the Sierra (as all hotels basically qualify as "tourist traps").

On our journey to snow we kept passing signs announcing increasing elevation, yet we still found ourselves in a pleasant, sunshine-filled forest with a warm carpet of pine needles on the ground. According to the internet, Kirkwood was open and almost fully operational, though we began to doubt that we find any snow at all. Fortunately the slopes of this skiing center reach up above seven thousand feet and face north, thus snow was miraculously there. In the end we were nicely surprised how comfortable our skiing turned out -- on a hard base was a layer of soft powder -- neither sticky, nor deadly fast -- simply just right.

	A view from Kirkwood's Solitude lift

Alas, before we could get on the slope, we were bound to undergo a tiresome hassle with ski rental, since one of Sid's skis missed a piece of binding. We had the privilege to wait in a line at rental trolls. In reward he was riding parabolic skis. I don't like them myself, for I am a skiing tourist. Such one differentiates from a skiing sports(wo)man by arriving at the slope until (s)he wakes up; (s)he won't suffer a mental anguish if (s)he does not get to ride up in the first early morning lift seat; (s)he welcomes every mild congestion at the bottom of the lift for this offers chance to loosen one's binding, sort out poles, and eventually unhurriedly sit down on the lift seat. On the way up, a skiing tourist chats with other liftees, takes pictures of the landscape, enjoys the view, drinks, stretches cramped legs, blows into handkerchief and longs for a pot of tea (or optionally rum). At the top of the slope, a skiing tourist bends down with much grunting and tightens up his/her boots, has another drink while appreciating the landscape, takes some more pictures, chats with other tourists, puts on gloves, sorts out poles, and after a while lets him/herself down with more or less symmetrical turns into the first quarter of the slope, where (s)he bemoans that his/her legs are aching, and masks his/her resting with more picture taking or landscape appreciating. Having rested enough the skiing tourist declares that (s)he is getting the hang of this skiing now, and lowers him/herself by another quarter of the slope, etc.
A skiing sports(wo)man gets up at four a.m., to be there when the first morning lift seat moves (or earlier yet, in case the lift operator could be corrupted into letting him/her ride before actually opening), subsequently enjoys being the first one making a ski mark on a freshly groomed surface. There is no time to notice any landscape; as far as the skiing sports(wo)man is concerned, it needs not to be there at all. (S)he neither drinks nor eats, any delay between individual fast downhill runs seems simply unacceptable.
For a sports(wo)man, parabolic skis are a blessing -- they ride fast and effective. For a skiing tourist, a blessing materializes in the form of old straight planks. They don't haste anywhere, and their user can maintain his/her dignified and orderly pace, as well as rigid lavatory pose, which (s)he had learned in his/her mandatory skiing class in junior high.
However, Sid liked his new skis -- and now I'm confused -- it has become one of our very few discords in our marriage. I hope it does not mean that he should drag me out of bed at four a.m. anytime soon.

	Here's your typical skiing tourist

I would also like to mention trolls here. Those of you reading Pratchett surely know that trolls' brains function improves with lower temperature. I can only concur -- most trolls employed by Kirkwood were actually capable of forming simple sentence, although we did not encounter any rapid mental processes. Well, it was around freezing, which is not too cold as such, so it did not make them move much. Right on my first way up on the lift, my water bottle fell out -- it lay exactly in the spot where the seat rushes up into the air, i.e. about three steps from nearest lift operator, in the area where regular mortals have no admittance. During our three subsequent rides we tried to explain to the lift people that we would appreciate them handing us this bottle of water. Let me point out again that all it would take for the troll, was making three steps, grabbing the bottle, and handing it to us. Two times we got back a vacant gaze; once he responded (in the moment we were already airborne over the first third of the slope): "b-o-t-t-l-e-??? with w-a-t-e-r-???" On our fourth ride on the lift, another troll shift had taken over and our water was no longer laying in the snow. We gave up and bought exactly the same bottle at a thousand percent surcharge (i.e. for $2) at a stall.

	First steps

Thoroughly outed and frost wind weathered, we gladly returned to our cozy, warm home. Sid claimed that we would find grandmother on the brink of sanity after a whole day with Tom, I in turn worried about the fate of our abandoned, certainly suffering baby. Neither of these ideas came close to truth. Tommy behaved normally, there were no heart-breaking scenes of mother's returning. Granny fell in her bed at about the same time as above mentioned junior, but she seemed quite alright.

Having left Tommy with grandmother may have had yet another positive effect -- right the next day he made about eight unsupported steps. Before he used to stumble with two or three random steps between pieces of furniture or parents, but this was a regular walk with a clear intent. Since then Tom demands to walk -- three walks a day are bare minimum. While granny was his only victim, it did not seem so harsh, but now her departure has not diminished his demands. Does walking 100 miles around the block count as cross-country?

Copyright © 2004-2005 by Carol & Sid Paral. All rights reserved.