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.