Skiing in America

       Loyal readers will recall a blog a few months ago, when I pointed out how nice Americans are. I am, as it turns out, an American, and so I really do like to be nice. I therefore didn't really want to start this blog, because I thought that I might come across as spoiled, ungrateful, complaining, and kind of not-nice. I especially don't want to come across as a ski snob. I'm not even that great a skier. I am not one of those people who schuss down the mountain with neat little turns, my skis perfectly parallel at all times. My family tells me that I am a slow skier, but I prefer to think of myself as "controlled." I think maybe, when people watch me ski, they might think things like, "Well, she might make it to the bottom in one piece." So I am certainly not a ski snob. (I'm not a snob about anything except for jam, and that is my mother's fault for being so talented in the kitchen.) With trepidation, however, I have decided to go ahead with the ski blog. So here are a few important disclaimers to preserve my niceness.

        First of all, whatever I say about skiing in America vs. Europe is purely my impression, based on my experiences and, as they say on Car Talk, unencumbered by the facts. Secondly, my experiences on the ski slopes are pretty limited. Our Christmas ski trip was to the Pocanos. I have never skied in Utah, Colorado, or Montana -- or even New Hampshire or Vermont -- all of which routinely make lists of the best places to ski in the U.S. (not to mention in the world). To be fair, however, most of my European ski experiences were not at world-renowned resorts, either. I have skied a few times in Chamonix, which makes most top-10 lists. Usually, though, we headed to the less ritzy French Jura, which someone might well term the Pocanos of Europe.

Here are our piles of ski clothes, ready for the trip. Skis and poles (and snowboard, as Luc
continually reminds me) are already in the car. There is nothing quite like packing for a ski vacation.

       Things That Were Better in Europe

       Okay, as nice as I want to be, I have to be honest. For a skiing purist, skiing in Europe is better. The snow in the Jura, and of course in the Alps, is real. I never heard of any resort in the Geneva area making snow. I never saw a snow cannon. This is, of course, because the elevation in the Jura is higher than in the Pocanos. At Col de la Faucille, where we usually skied, the telesiege started at 1,330 meters and went up from there. At Jack Frost, the highest point was 2,000 feet. The runs in France were much longer; even at the little resorts we frequented, I felt like it was a good day if I went up and down the hill six or eight times. In the Pocanos, I could do that in an hour. As soon as I felt like I was getting into a good rhythm, the hill was over. Strangely, the lifts seemed slower in Pennsylvania, though. I can't explain that one. I also don't necessarily consider that a drawback, as riding in the lift is a perfect opportunity for a chat with teenaged children or my husband, or for some quiet reflection and enjoying of the scenery. The last major drawback to skiing in the U.S. is the price. At around $40 - $50 per person, per day, we were not at expensive places, but in the Jura, we could ski for around 20 euros each, with kids after the first one free. Even places in the Alps were less than 40 euros a day, which I know is more than $50, but come on, it's the Alps. I did a check of prices at some of the premier resorts in America, and paying $100 for an 8-hour lift ticket wasn't unheard-of. To sum up, it seems that we were paying more for less in the Pocanos.

Skiing on man-made snow didn't seem that different from skiing on the "real" stuff. It did mean that the surrounding landscape wasn't quite as winter wonderland-y, though. That's Luc and Eric in the lift ahead of me.

        The price, I think, has to do with the place of the sport in the culture. In Geneva, the first question one gets asked as an expat is, "How long are you staying?" The next is, "Do you ski?" Everyone in Geneva skis. Babies, Octogenarians, people who live under bridges. With a steady stream of customers, resorts don't have to charge as much. And with the sport so pervasive in society, people won't put up with high prices. Maybe it also has to do with the cost of making snow in the U.S. That gets passed on to the skiers. Perhaps this also explains the relative skill level of skiers in each location. In the Jura, I felt  like the slopes were overrun with people who really didn't know how to ski. They were always falling right in front of me. Not being an incredibly skilled skier myself, I found this disconcerting. In the Pocanos, it seemed like most people on the slopes could ski pretty well. Except for the guy who barreled into me from behind, sending us both flying and earning a stern lecture from my husband (Eric is so nice that the guy probably didn't realize that Eric was being stern with him, but I can tell when my husband is angry). As a side public service announcement, the accident made me very glad that we had adopted the Swiss custom of always wearing ski helmets. But really, other than that guy, most people seemed competent. It's kind of like running in the U.S. versus Switzerland -- in the U.S., everyone runs, and so there are a lot of slow people out there (making me feel more comfortable with my own speed -- or lack of it). In Switzerland, only runners run, so recreational joggers like myself may well find ourselves in last place in a road race. 

That is Lucas under there.

Eric looking cool in mirrored goggles.

       Things That Are Better in America

       So in the Pocanos, we pay more and get less: Shorter runs, less snow, less beautiful scenery. It may sound like there is no upside to American skiing, but don't be so sure. Where we skied in France, hills were -- easiest to most difficult -- green, blue, red, and black. I never went on a black. They scared me. Frankly, even most reds made my heart palpitate. One day, we went to the Alps with friends who were the kind of people who have skied every weekend for decades. I spent the whole day in a cold sweat, failing to keep up. In the Pocanos, though, this was my favorite hill:

There's something to be said for the American "everyone's an expert" philosophy.

           

Of course, if everyone is an expert, then the people who are actually competent have to
be something even more expert.

       Another advantage to the American ski resort is the terrain park, which probably exists in Europe, but which I never saw. Lucas spent a whole day practicing spins and jumps; there were just a lot more options for snowboarders and trick skiers.

Approaching the jump.

This is the only decent picture I got after several tries. It's not easy to capture live-action with a cell-phone camera.

       And even though it's hard to beat the view of frosted treetops poking though the clouds at the top of Mont Rond in the Jura or the sight of Mont Blanc from Saint Gervais, the scenery in the Pocanos was really pretty.

The view from the top of the hill at Big Boulder, looking down on the lake and the town of Lake Harmony, I think.

    Finally, I found it reassuring that there was not a single place at Jack Frost or Big Boulder where a person could ski off the side of the mountain and die. That kind of thing is common in France -- even on green runs.

    I would be lying if I said that I didn't miss skiing in France. We could get up at 8, be on the slopes before 10, and do it again the next weekend. We had endless options for resorts, groups of friends to ski with, and some of the most breathtaking beauty in the world to gaze at as we rode the lifts (some people also enjoy the scenery as they descend the mountain. I, however, am focused on staying upright). For me, though, the best part about skiing is being outside, doing something active, and spending the day with the people I love most. For that, I don't need Kandahar. Mittelweg at Big Boulder in the Pocanos is just fine.

Happy skiers.

I made the kids give me a head start so I could reach the bottom of the hill first and take pictures.

I am embarrassed to tell you how long a head start they had to give me.

Tacky

      So see if this doesn't date me: There was a time in my life when my fondest dream was to have a truly elegant Christmas tree. The kind with white lights and coordinating Victorian ornaments of beige lace and dusty rose silk. That would be the height of class.
      Unfortunately for my dream, but fortunately for my fashion sense, I married Eric. When I suggested that all-white lights -- and perhaps a theme -- might be good for our first tree, he told me that he really wanted colorful lights because they are "more joyful." Who am I to mess with joy?
       Later, I thought maybe we could have really tasteful outdoor decorations. Like evergreen wreaths on each window, big burgundy bows (I had, thankfully, outgrown the pink phase, but was still not ready to embrace red -- so plebeian), and white lights, in understated icicles, perhaps, hanging from the eaves. The guru of Christmas decor, however, again somehow ended up bringing home strings of red, blue, green, and yellow. He was supported in this by the children, who were by then old enough to think that white lights were boring.
       Deep in my soul, I am not a decor person. Thus, the battle for the white lights was hardly a skirmish. Frankly, if someone else was going to hang the lights and help trim the tree, he/they could choose the color scheme. Once it's up, I hardly see it.
      I did notice, however, the lack of Christmas lights in Geneva. The Swiss do not, I think, traditionally use strings of bulbs, white or colorful, and I had a suspicion that the few decorated houses in our Onex neighborhood probably belonged to Americans -- or to the Spanish, who would use any excuse for making things look like a party. (I say that with deepest admiration.) I missed the lights, and looked forward to being back in the land of holiday illumination this year. I was therefore disappointed when it seemed that Baltimore was turning out to be somewhat subdued in its electrical celebration of the season. Our neighborhood has a few enthusiastic homeowners. Two houses down, they even have the very swags of white lights, evergreen, and bows that would have fulfilled by deepest wishes of yore. We did our part, with a display made up of several years' worth of collected decorations -- those that survived the move and the stint in storage, that is. In general, though, Towson is on the subdued -- not to say dark -- end of the spectrum.

The Admiraal contribution to Stevenson Lane's Christmas decor.

       We actually have the perfect location for something really big -- half the city uses our road as a cut-through to Target. I suggested a live nativity, but Johanna and I argued over who would get to be Mary (No, I am not old enough to be Elizabeth!), and we didn't know what we would do with the animals come January. Nonetheless, I do think our house expresses a certain amount of Christmas spirit -- of the perhaps tacky, but undeniably joyful, variety.
       The folks in Hampden, however, really know how to embrace Christmas decorating. This neighborhood, located about five miles south of us, produces a light display that they call Miracle on 34th Street. We drove down to see it, and, though it wasn't even a weekend, found ourselves in the middle of a crowd of gawkers. It was worth a look, for sure. Inflatables, yard ornaments, and lights, lights, lights. They even managed to make white lights look garish. My former, elegance-seeking self might have deplored the marked lack of restraint. Classy, Hampden's 34th Street is not.
       Yet, the spirit of fun and festivity in the neighborhood is unmistakable. It's creative. It's loud and exciting. It's joyful. It's the kind of tacky that America does so well, and that is something I love about this country. And I think Eric is right -- the fun is Christmassy. After all, the Star of Bethlehem was probably tastefully lovely, but the shepherds and donkeys were hardly the height of refinement.

Don't miss the hubcap Christmas tree and the bicycle-wheel snowmen.

The whole street from inside the car, taken when I thought we weren't going to be able to find a parking place so we could get out and take pictures. We actually didn't find a spot to park, but Eric kindly drove around the block a few times so I could take some better photos.

More glitz.

People were lined up to go into this house. We probably should have waited our turn as well to see what the draw was. They had the right motivation, anyway.

No need for a theme.

And a nod to the digital age.

I do love that hubcap tree. It's recycling, art, and kitsch all rolled into one.

     

Home Improvement

        It was two days before Thanksgiving. Two days before our house was supposed to be filled with family, delicious smells of turkey and pumpkin pie, and tasteful autumn decorations. Right then, though, our house was filled with tile guys chatting in Spanish, a painter putting the first coat on the kitchen trim, a plumber fixing the leaking refrigerator, and a furnace repair man draining all the radiators. With food shopping, baking, bed-making, and house-prepping to do, I marched around grimly, feather-duster in hand, wiping away tile dust that would be replaced with dropcloth dust the next moment. What is that old line about doing something over and over even though you know it’s futile?

The dining room the day before Thanksgiving.

The kitchen.

The driveway -- not our Thanksgiving company.

Ah, home improvement. Our last project was having the basement painted and retiled. Although it took weeks, we were mostly undisturbed, since the work took place on a floor we didn’t really need. Somehow, I imagined that the kitchen would be the same. I didn’t even consider, until the night before the work was to start, that I probably wouldn’t be able to get to the refrigerator or stove. I should have been wiser; they were both unplugged for the better part of two weeks. I learned three important lessons from this latest project, all of which should have been obvious and are doubtless well-known to all home improvement veterans.

The Time Factor: The actual length of any home-improvement project can be found by multiplying the contractor’s estimate by 9/5 and dividing by the square root of 2. Or, if that math is too much work, just take what the contractor says and add SEVERAL MORE DAYS (weeks, for a long project). Thus, when Juan told me that his guys could certainly finish our kitchen floor a good week before Thanksgiving, I should have known that it would take a miracle to get the project done by the day itself.

The Money Factor: We are blessed with a contractor who has tended, so far, to be both honest and accurate. That does not mean, however, that his estimate of the cost of a project is anything like what we will actually spend. I never considered the extra heating costs when people are going in and out constantly, nor the extra cost in Swiffer and Mr. Clean products for cleaning up afterward. Not to mention the fact that we had to eat out twice a day for a week. (The hospital bills incurred by our poor nutrition over that time are yet to come.)

Both of these factors, however, are negligible compared to lesson number three, which we will call

The Stress Factor: The workers who invaded our house were very nice. They didn’t play loud music, even though I told them it was okay. They didn’t drink our coffee, even though I offered. They didn’t have annoying conversations -- not ones I could understand, anyway. They didn’t track unnecessary dirt on the carpet. They did their work well. But for days on end, they were there, right in the middle of the kitchen. The most stressful part of the stressful situation is that I kept remembering that the whole thing was entirely self-inflicted. Voluntary. One hundred percent my own fault. 

When I lived in Geneva, my friend and I would snark about the American fixation on home ownership and home improvement, and how boring everyone was with all their talk of new carpet and new countertops. Be careful what you snark about. I had not been on American soil for a month before I was in it with the worst of them. What is this obsession with enhancement? 

According to an HGTV poll, 61 percent of Americans would prefer to spend money on their home than on a vacation. The Globe and Mail posits that an infatuation with decorating may reveal self-image problems: People see their homes as an extension of themselves, and it may be easier to control the look of our home than the look of our aging bodies. An article in the Economist suggests that the American dream of home ownership has become a controlling obsession, and that for many people, owning a home may not be the best option.

In Europe, lots of people rent. We didn’t mind renting there. It is relaxing to not be ultimately responsible for a place. If the refrigerator is leaking, someone else will take care of fixing it -- and take care of the bill. On the other hand, there is something about investing time, money, and thought into a house that personalizes it. It doesn’t matter if it’s paint on a wall or an entirely new kitchen, the point is that improving a house makes it yours. We can look at this as a shallow and materialistic desire to have more, newer, and fancier stuff, and that may certainly be part of it. On the other hand, isn’t the drive to create and beautify part of what it means to be made in God’s image? 

Thinking so sure makes me feel better about the new kitchen floor.

Cheese, Reusable Bags, and Other Shopping Conundrums

         If I ever publish a memoir of my time in Switzerland, I will call it Seventeen Different Kinds of Emmentaler. In the good old Geneva days, when I did my shopping online, I would type “fromage” into the Migros search engine, and the virtual cheese aisle would display an array of cheese choices to satisfy any palate -- as long as what that palate wanted was Emmentaler. This makes a certain kind of sense, of course, if one realizes that Emmentaler is what in the U.S. we would call Swiss cheese. It’s white and has holes. I have often thought that the entire country of Switzerland actually smells a little bit like Emmental cheese, which is off-putting at first. But one becomes accustomed, even fond.
Lucas and I once went on a hunt for provolone cheese in Geneva. He wanted to re-create his favorite Penn Station sub, which included lettuce, mayonnaise, bacon, and provolone. After an unsuccessful trip to Migros, we decided to visit the outdoor market cheese man, who that day was at the Grand-Lancy market, close to Drew’s school. When we asked him if he had provolone, he responded in an affronted tone, “I have only SWISS cheese.” Indeed. He did introduce us to a delicious cheese, of which I never learned the name. I always identified it by the red and green speckles of herbs in it, and we called it, “that good cheese from the cheese man.”
This past Monday morning, I went shopping at Martin’s, which is one of about 10 grocery stores within a two-mile radius. Martin’s has a typical American cheese aisle, with provolone, along with colby, cheddar, mozzarella, muenster, and more, all available shredded, cubed, in chunks, or in sticks. It also has a gourmet deli cheese section, where one can purchase brie, fresh mozzarella, feta, havarti, edam, jarlsberg, gouda, and -- if one is willing to pay over $10 a pound -- Emmentaler. I didn’t see anything resembling the good cheese from the cheese man, but I’m sure that’s just because I didn’t look hard enough.

I'm sure that if the grocery store doesn't have what you want, they will  order it for you.

Good old Emmentaler

The variety in the typical American grocery store is overwhelming. When I re-started serious grocery shopping this summer, I would wander up and down the aisles, staring in awe at all the different kinds of cereal, corn chips, jelly, and juice. It was sensory overload. I now try to cope (as I’m sure most people do) by finding the brands I like and becoming blind to everything else. This only works if I always shop at the same store, which I don’t. On the upside, every shopping trip is an adventure of discovery, and I never lack for fun, new snacks to try on the kids. Last week it was freeze-dried fruit. Not bad. Of course, in America, fruit of all varieties is perpetually available. In season? What’s “in season”?

The berry selection in November. This was right after I told Drew that I wouldn't be able to buy
 raspberries for his cereal, because they weren't in season. I should have asked him instead if he wanted red or black.

It isn’t only the variety that sets American groceries apart. I never recall the cashiers in Switzerland asking so many questions . . . . Paper or plastic? Cash back? Credit or debit? All on the card? Donate to cancer research? Amount okay? Buy reusable bags? I have more than once hit the red “cancel” button at the end of all those questions, just because I have becomes so used, during the long transactions, to hitting the red “no.” 
In America, food (except Emmentaler) is cheaper and packages are larger than in Switzerland. Also refrigerators are larger (as, often, are families). People here generally drive to the grocery store, rather than walking or taking the bus. All this means that we can buy a lot more at once. This is a good idea, as it encourages meal planning, saving money, and reducing waste. For some reason, however, I am having trouble getting used to the idea of a full cart. I keep flashing back to the bad old Geneva days, before I discovered online grocery shopping. My cart overloaded with food that would feed our family for about three days, I would look frantically for the person with the next-fullest cart and hop into line behind her, hoping the cashier would be used to embarrassing quantities of food by the time she got to me. Of course, in Geneva, one also has to bag one’s own groceries -- a process made much more difficult by having a cartfull, in which, inevitably, my de rigueur reusable bags were buried under several liters of milk and cans of tomatoes.

Those bags, interestingly, are the only thing that is smaller in the American grocery store. I have had more than one clerk in Giant, Safeway, or Martin’s comment on the large bags into which I ask them to pack my groceries. Why, in the country where people are buying more food and carrying it a shorter distance, would the bags be smaller? This is perhaps not on the level of the 10-hot-dog, 8-bun conundrum that has baffled the thoughtful for decades, but it’s a mystery that’s been puzzling me.

Unintended Consequences

       Since there was no youth group for the high schoolers, we spent part of Sunday evening watching a video on ethics. A segment of the discussion centered on the fact that while it is wrong to do evil so that good may result, it is sometimes necessary to do good, knowing that there may be unintended evil consequences. I'm not sure that the fact that Drew will be nearly 18 before he gets his drivers license is evil (he might disagree), but it certainly was unintended as a consequence of our time overseas.  This situation would be much worse if we had moved to Nebraska, where 13-year-olds can get permits to operate off-road vehicles, and 14-year-olds can be driving the roads with an adult. Maryland’s age requirements for driving are some of the strictest in the nation, meaning that it isn’t all that unusual for a high school junior not to have a license. Of course, in Nebraska, the cutoff PSAT score for a National Merit Scholarship (2013) was 207, whereas in Maryland, it’s 219. So it’s not all roses around here.

Besides late driving, another advantage of living in Maryland is that we are close to Washington, D.C. This is helpful when trying to remedy another unintended consequence of the Admiraal European Adventure, which is the fact that our kids visited capital cities in England, France, Belgium, Italy, Netherlands, and Norway before they set foot in their own nation’s capital. On Friday, it was time to put matters right -- for Lucas anyway, his older siblings being too occupied with their scholarly pursuits to accompany us.

It’s only about 50 miles to the center of D.C. from our house. I had been warned, however, that Friday afternoon traffic could make our return trip last close to three hours. So we decided that it was time to conquer the East Coast train system, which is nowhere near as comprehensive and convenient as the one in Europe, but is, at the same time, much better than the one in the Midwest. I bought our tickets online, and was informed that if I didn’t show up on the train, my reservation would be cancelled and my money held for me in an account for future Amtrak use, a policy that seemed much more forgiving and friendly than that employed by CFF/SBB in Switzerland. Baltimore’s Penn Station is only 8 miles from our house, but to take public transportation was going to require more than an hour, so we decided to park the car near the station. This took about 30 minutes, which reminded us of driving in Europe. The drive from our house to the train station is one of my favorites, despite the slowness, as it takes us down Saint Paul Street (which the GPS insists on calling Street Paul Street). This boulevard is home to what have to be some of Baltimore’s most gracious and lovely homes, in addition to two university campuses and lots of overhanging trees -- way better than the (perhaps) quicker trip down I-83.

Delivering the donuts outside Penn Station. That is something we didn't see much of in Switzerland.

Baltimore's Penn Station

I had read online complaints about Penn Station being dirty and ill-equipped with restaurants, but it seemed clean and warm to me, the bathrooms did not require us to deposit a coin of any denomination to enter, and there was a Dunkin Donuts. I don’t know what else people are looking for. The train was a little bouncier than the Swiss models and we missed the mountain scenery, but within 40 minutes, we were at D.C.’s Union Station, in walking distance of some of the most famous monuments and museums on the continent. 

Proof that I am not neglecting the civic education of at least one child.

We started with the Air and Space Museum, which, like all Smithsonian museums, has free admission. We saw a real piece of the moon, the real Wright Brothers 1903 flyer, the real Spirit of St. Louis, and some real unmanned military craft. What Luc liked best, though, was the flight simulators (not free, by the way). I opted out when I saw that, though the flying is simulated, the spinning round and round is not. He, however, is saving his mowing money so he can make himself good and sick when we bring the rest of the family to D.C. The cafeteria in the Air and Space Museum is operated by McDonalds, which provided another highlight. 

After lunch, I asked Luc if he would rather visit the artwork in the National Gallery or take the long walk to see D.C.’s major monuments. When told he would be able to walk on the grass, he opted for the monuments. It’s about 2 miles from the Capitol Building, on one end of the National Mall, to the Lincoln Memorial, on the other. We saw the Washington Monument (shrouded in scaffolding to repair earthquake damage, but still impressive), the World War II Memorial, the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, and the Lincoln Memorial.  I had been to D.C. as a teenager, but didn’t remember much of our visit. I was probably looking for cute boys, not national landmarks. What struck me this time about Washington, after having visited several other country’s capitals, was all the space. This was clearly a city that had been planned from the beginning, rather than one that grew up over centuries and eventually ended up becoming the capital. 

On the way back to the train station from the Lincoln Memorial, we took a small detour to see the White House, as well as something labeled “Mile Zero” on our map. Mile Zero turned out to be the point from which the distance to D.C. from everywhere else in the country is measured, which was a pretty interesting discovery. The crowd surrounding the marker, however, was more interested in the goings-on on the White House lawn. They said, it appeared, and we’re going with it because it’s a good story -- that the tall man we saw running around with the dogs was President Obama himself. If so, I’m glad he got out to enjoy the beautiful day. There did seem something a little off about all the people -- us included -- being so smitten with seeing the president (maybe) from a distance and behind a fence. After all, we pride ourselves on not being royalty-mad like those crazy Brits. I remember reading last year that John Adams shopped for his own groceries when he was president.  Not that it’s Obama’s fault if he doesn’t swing by Giant on his way home from work. He’d cause a riot. And if that’s a little sad (since the President is supposed to be a citizen like any other), it is also just  the way it is. Brittany Spears would have the same problem.

I haven't figured out how to zoom without making things blurry, so this is as good as it gets. The tiny little dot might be President Obama. At least you can see that the White House is, as Lucas commented, "a white house."

Customer Service

        I was slightly annoyed after I waited at home all Saturday morning for the water heater repair man to show up, only to have him tell me that he couldn't do anything with the water heater, because it was powered by oil. I told him that I was pretty sure that I had communicated that fact on American Home Shield online form, which included the words, "In order for our technicians to resolve the problem in an efficient and timely manner, please provide as much information as possible." He said, "They never tell us anything."
        I was slightly more annoyed Thursday, when the day that I had been told I would need to wait for an oil water heater fixer to appear had turned into five.
        By the following Saturday, I was annoyed enough that Eric had to tell me to speak nicely to the repair man on the phone who said, "What? An oil water heater?" Of course, 4 hours later, Eric was struggling to control his tone of voice when he was told that, oops, no one was on the way, but someone would be soon.
        When the oil water heater repair man left, with our check for $75, which we paid for the privilege of hearing him tell us that he didn't know what was wrong with the heater and it probably wasn't covered anyway, both of us were feeling the stress. We tried to laugh it off.
         The laughter was a bit forced this week, when I stayed home all morning to meet the plumber, who, for another $75 check, was happy to tell us that he couldn't fix our toilet and a replacement wasn't covered by American Home Shield.
         That same day, I spent an hour on the telephone with Hewlitt Packard. We purchased our printer about a year ago in Switzerland. Last week, the ink started getting low, so I went to Target to stock up. I couldn't find the right numbered cartridge, but found one that looked the same. When I took the cartridge home, it fit in the printer. But when I tried to print, the printer display told me that the cartridge was incompatible. Being a resourceful type, I searched the problem online, and found that even though the cartridges are EXACTLY THE SAME, HP puts some sort of secret code on them so that the printer and cartridge must come from the same country. In our increasingly multicultural world, this seems a bit jingoist on the part of HP, but whatever. Happily, an online "HP Expert," reported that all I needed to do was contact HP for a free regionalization reset. Two, one-hour phone sessions later, the HP representative was delighted to tell me that, though a regionalization reset would not work on my printer (for reasons he was unable or unwilling to explain), HP would be happy to "upgrade" the printer . . . if I sent the Swiss one to them at my expense and payed a small upgrade fee. I asked if this would cost more than just going to the store and buying a new printer. He said that it probably would. At this point, I said thank you very much and hung up.
         The most annoying part of that whole annoying week was that I couldn't figure out what it all meant. If there is anything I hate, it is an inconvenience without a lesson. Then last night, I was self-medicating by reading G.K. Chesterton's The Innocence of Father Brown. In the short story, "The Queer Feet," I found the explanation. Chesterton writes:

In the heart of a plutocracy tradesmen become cunning enough to be more fastidious than their customers. They positively create difficulties so that their wealthy and weary clients may spend money and diplomacy in overcoming them. If there were a fashionable hotel in London which no man could enter who was under six foot, society would meekly make up parties of six-foot men to dine in it.

       We went to the aquarium on Saturday, and the best part was watching the dolphin show, wherin the trainers lead the beautiful animals through a series of jumps and tricks that everyone seems to enjoy. I hope American Home Shield and Hewlitt Packard got similar joy from our contortions to make their systems work. But at some point, even we become weary of jumping through hoops.

        This weekend, Drew leaned how to install a toilet.
        And our new printer is an Epson.

That's a Sport?

The youngest of my children has been a surprise since T-9 months, when I found out he was on the way. Sometimes, the surprise is one I could do without -- like the time when he was 7 or 8, and he called 911 to scare his sister -- then ran away when the police actually showed up at the door. Sometimes, the surprise is a happy one -- like the time he won the 4th grade spelling bee, or the time I returned from an interminable afternoon at the DMV to find he had baked a banana cream pie. Sometimes, the surprise is just a surprise -- like when he demonstrated his ability to say the entire Greek alphabet. He can always be trusted, however, to pursue the quirky, the offbeat, the unusual. So, it probably shouldn’t be a surprise to me that when I told him he had to participate in a sport, the one he chose was . . . surprising. One that I hadn’t even realized was a sport.

As it turns out, climbing is indeed a sport, with teams, practices, meets, and even seasons. Providentially for Luc’s career, our new home is within 5 miles of one of the most established climbing gyms in the East. Luc’s first competition was on Saturday, and so he and I left the house at the unspeakable (for him) hour of 7:30 a.m. to drive to the appropriately named Rockville. For the uninitiated, it may come as a surprise that there were no actual rocks involved. The climbing walls are indoors and covered with colorful, man-made projections that made me feel like I had dropped into a cartoon alien world.

I expected to see a dancing bunny advertising Froot Loops at any minute.

Mostly spectators, waiting for the climbing to begin.

For Lucas, the importance of topping a wall was completely erased by the importance of hanging out with his buddies. 

  It’s autumn, which means that it is bouldering season. Bouldering, for those who, like me, are unfamiliar with the sport, is climbing without ropes. It involves not only a great deal of strength, but also technical skill and experience.

Luc working on a wall. He was supposed to use only the orange holds. The older climbers could use only the green. Picture trying to reach the top that way. I actually saw several boys achieve that feat (see below).

See the green hold on the top right? That's the one he has to touch with both hands.

        The walls are not terribly high -- although the mats underneath are definitely necessary -- but they are usually tilted in what seems to me to be the wrong direction for climbing ease. Saturday’s competition had three levels based on age, and for each group, there were 7 or 8 routes, called “problems.” Competitors had four hours to try as many problems as they could. They received points for reaching the top and also for something called “bonus holds,” which I still don’t understand. Each climber could try a wall as many times as he wanted. 

Don't they realize that if they tilted the walls the other way, bouldering would be much easier?

Some of the routes, particularly for the oldest group, seemed simply impossible. The strength and grace of some of these older (16 - 18-year-old) climbers was impressive and flat-out fun to watch. But what was most surprising about the competition was how difficult it was. The most common sound heard in the gyn was the “thwack” of climbers hitting the mats as they fell off the wall. My unprofessional estimate is that about 10 percent of attempted climbs resulted in success. Some walls, I never saw anyone top, and many kids didn't top a single wall. I gained a new respect for kids who want to participate in a sport where victory is so elusive and so painfully won. I may bemoan the digital generation for its short attention span and addiction to immediate reward, but none of that was evident in Rockville last Saturday.

The sound of climbers slapping the mat was matched by the sight -- and smell -- of the chalk they use to keep their hands from slipping. 

Luc did finally reach the top of this wall.  Of course, I had put away the camera by that time,
so this shot will have to do.

The Nice American

         Americans are really nice.

         I am trying to focus on the good things about living where I do, and this is one of the big ones. When I went to the pharmacy yesterday, I got a big smile and a seemingly sincere, "How are you doing today?" from the young woman behind the counter. She laughed with the pharmacist when the noise of the register tape made her jump, and she told the aged, hunched woman behind me how nice she looked today. Far from being an isolated incident, I can almost count on a pleasant exchange with someone every time I leave the house. The grocery store cashier complements my choice of snack bar, the man at Toyota runs out to see if I need help with my plates, the school secretary answers my questions cheerfully. This kind of friendliness is not a worldwide phenomenon. I notice and appreciate it now in a way I did not before.

        That said, let's move on to the day's main topic. As I said, I am working on appreciating my location. This does not come naturally since, as it turns out, Baltimore is neither Geneva nor Cincinnati, which are at least two of the places ahead of it on the list of Places I Want to Be Right Now. In this spirit of aspirational appreciation, I decided that it was Time for an Adventure. So after dropping Luc and Jo at Co-op last Monday, I set off to see what Central Maryland had to offer.
        Being a mildly goal-oriented kind of person, I had previously googled "vintage furniture Westminster." Our Realtor, who has been the good fairy behind both our home and all our home improvements, had further suggested that I should find some antiques to furnish the living room. So I obediently set out for the Westminster Antique Mall. The Co-op is about an hour from our house, in what, after living in Baltimore County, seemed like the barren countryside of Carroll County. I drove through rolling green hills, past red barns and white farmhouses, under a clear sky of the blue that only autumn brings. When I reached the Antique Mall, it was closed.

Closed, but with a promising look.

       Happily, this was because it was only 9 in the morning. I decided to push the envelope of adventure by visiting the nearest grocery store while I waited for the mall to open at 10. Unhappily for adventure, but happily for efficiency, the nearest grocery was a chain that has become familiar to me in recent weeks.

I highly recommend Giant. Good private-label, veggie sticks, Jones Soda . . . .

            After a successful (measured by the fact that all the groceries fit into the bags I brought) shopping expedition, I took care of answering some phone calls, setting up an orthodontist appointment, and scheduling time for Drew to drive with the instructor.  
   

The mobile office.

       I returned to the Antique Mall, finding it open this time. I am not a seasoned antique shopper. We've always been more the kind of people who wait around for someone to give us furniture. Since we don't really know anyone in Baltimore -- with or without furniture -- that didn't seem like a viable option. Plus, at 42, it's probably time for us to stop behaving like college students and buy our own stuff.  Anyway, I could get into antique shopping. Being at the Antique Mall was kind of like being at my Grandma Emy's, Aunt Nancy's, and Aunt Betty's houses -- all at the same time. I had no idea about the quality or value of anything I was looking at, but I was charmed nonetheless.

What do you think about this for the living room?

How about these? The tables, not the glassware, of course.

        I didn't end up buying anything, being unable to make decisions about anything but groceries or textbooks without other family members weighing in. Plus, now I have a great excuse to go back next week. I traveled back to the church where the Co-op meets through the center of Westminster, which is as homey a country town as I could ask for. I ate a bagel at a place called Sam's, which was right on the main street. The lady tending the counter asked me to help her thread her needle (which I did), and shared her parking woes. A man came in and asked her to sponsor a softball team. She agreed and went back to her hand-towel sewing. She warned me not to put any salt on my sandwich, because the chicken salad was already salty. I felt like a regular.

Sam's

        I made it back to Co-op in time to be the English helper and the art helper (guess which one I'm better at). Maryland is not Geneva. It's not Cincinnati either. And my adventure was hardly earth-shattering -- I didn't even buy a teaspoon. But for that morning, I was content to be where I was.

Driving in Baltimore

       This is the view out my window as I drive on I-695 around Baltimore. 

Don't worry. Johanna took this picture. All my hands were on the wheel.

       This is my speedometer.

I'm not telling who took this picture.

       Comparing these two pictures, you wouldn't think that cars would be whizzing past me on every side, would you? 

        Loyal readers will recall that my favorite thing about Geneva was the public transportation. Our one car mostly sat in the garage. If the kids wanted to go somewhere, they took the tram. My groceries arrived at my door.

Life has changed a bit since we returned to the US. This is my new best friend and constant companion.

At least it's a pretty color, right?

And this is what I spend a lot of time looking at.

Yes. They all have their brake lights on. Always.

I am sure that there are worse roads in the world that I-695. It’s just that I have never driven on one. The speed limit may be 55 mph, but everyone is either going 75 mph or at a complete standstill. And we switch from one speed to the other without warning. Combined with the every-half-mile merges, five other interstates shooting off and joining up, and ubiquitous construction, it is no surprise that there’s been an accident on this interstate almost every time I’ve driven on it. Which is far more frequently than I could ever ask or imagine. The accidents don’t do much to regularize the traffic flow, although they do provide ample opportunity for spontaneous prayer. Which is better than spontaneous cursing.

Our neighbor, who is a Baltimore native, told us that when he took driver’s ed, the instructor told the class to always drive 8 miles over the speed limit. Apparently to avoid being run over from behind. We’re not in Geneva anymore, Toto. And not in the Midwest, either. Gone are the friendly farmers in pickup trucks who wave other cars on in front of them and regard the speed limit as an upper, rather than a lower limit. 

My (least) favorite road sign sends me into panic every time I see it. Tell me, how am I supposed to drive in a mature and responsible fashion with this kind of instruction?

In Indiana, they'd tell you to get ready to start thinking about merging pretty soon. Right after you finish your donut. Here, this is the first warning they give.

If the other drivers are any indication, the answer is, I’m not.