A new cast

Update on the broken arm:

With his arm freshly cast, I was to get a certificate from the pediatric outpatient clinic to allow Marcus to fly to Germany for Christmas. A quick call to the clinic, and I could come by and pick one up the afternoon before our departure. Ah, but you and I know that things cannot go as planned. That would be Too Easy.

When the phone rang, I picked up, and my favorite bone-setter, Conor, told me we would have to split the cast to be able to fly. Could we come in and do that the self-same afternoon? Of course we could. Thirty minutes' drive for thirty seconds with a cast saw and the deed was done.

On doctor's orders, our first task on landing in Germany was to get Marcus to an outpatient clinic to get a new cast, as we had had to split his fresh cast for flying. It turns out that cutting it open was an excellent idea, as his arm did swell during the flight, and we did end up loosening it, and rewrapping it--in the parking garage at the supermarket.

My mother-in-law had called ahead to the 14 Nothelfer clinic, which means 14 emergency helpers, which we think is a funny name for a clinic, but what do we know? At any rate, we found our way to the outpatient clinic, where we were told to come back in an hour as the doctor was in surgery. We headed into town, and bummed around the Christmas market, and then headed back.

The doctor, a fast-talking young woman ( you know you're getting older when the doctors are younger than you), asked if we had the doctor's report form Dublin: we did, and I handed the CD to her. She laughed and handed it back to me--we have no computers here, she says. She then looks at the cast, and shakes her head--we don’t make these anymore, they're old-fashioned. She orders up an x-ray, which turns out to be a real x-ray machine, not fluouroscopy (digital, no computer). As we wait for the x-ray technician, we hear a noise. Yup, she's typing up a form on an IBM Selectric. If you don’t know what that is, you're probably too young to be reading this.

The film we walked back down the hall to the doc had an uncanny resemblance to the first picture of his broken arm. She said essentially the same thing as the Irish doctor, but with less Latin, and then looked at the cast again. No, she says, this is plenty stable, she doesn't recommend doing anything more to it. Come back in a week, says she.

We scratched our heads, not sure what to make of it all. I am reminded of my freshman Western Civ prof, spouting, "what is modernity?" Since it was a long weekend, we couldn't do anything about it (or anything else) so we just sat tight. We briefly considered heading to the hardware store and buying a few strips of fiberglass and doing the deed ourselves (watching Alfred try to talk me out of it had a certain entertainment quality). But by Monday, Marcus was hurting mush less, and a call to the old family doctor put our worries to rest.

We can't wait to see what the Irish doctor says when we return with the same cast as last year...

Tagesausflugsmehrzugfahrt

After a week of grandparents and new Christmas toys, the kids were understandably bored. Poor Omama and Opapa are so used to a quiet retiree's house that our two boys wear her out, not to mention the mayhem we bring to their sense of order. It is at this point in every visit that we must fabricate a way to get out of each other's way.

So what do we do for fun around here?

A few years back, Ravensburger Spieleland opened up: the people who bring us those great jigsaw puzzles decided to try the whole Disneyland model applied to the blue-corner brand. The result is a German version of fun park, with a commensurately high ticket price. The first time we were here after its opening, Danny was still in diapers, and the maiden aunts wanted to take our kids there. We said no, earning the title Biggest Party Poopers Ever. But our toddler had been eaten alive by mosquitoes the night before, and it was hot and muggy: an asphalt crush of people was not going to help him stay cool and not scratch. We decided instead to head to the local swimming hole with friends. It had terrific shady spots and muddy banks. We got him wet, covered him in delicious itch-stopping mud, and then sent the men folk to the closest supermarket to get ice cream, which we slurped down greedily because it was melting so quickly.

Two years ago, we hit pay dirt: there was snow on the ground every day for three weeks. We sledded in blizzards, we sledded down the longest hill known to man, the maiden aunts and soon-to-be-uncle-with-the-big-dog took the kids sledding. We built snowmen, and then we sledded some more and had a snowball fight or two. It was perfect fun, and nearly always followed by hot chocolate. No one called us party poopers.

Danny picked up a German train schedule, and said, let's look in here. From the mouths of babes: What could be more fun than spending a cold day riding around trains? We looked at the schedules and saw we could go to Switzerland around Lake Constance (via Austria), or over the lake itself (ferry boat), or both! We figured out the schedule: Sunday morning, departing at 9:07. We had a plan.After breaking our fast to a bright orange sunrise, we arrived at the train station in time to purchase our tickets, only to have the ticket dispenser tell us to buy our ticket at the counter--which didn't open until 9:30. Hmm. And we didn't have a plan B. Alfred knocked on the door of the Fahrdienstleiter (the closest thing to traffic control in the train station), who told us to get on board the 9:07, jump off in Friedrichshafen and grab a regional day ticket (€53 less than the price we found online), then jump back on--we had seven minutes between the time the train would arrive and depart. Once we got there, we found out he had called ahead, so the ticket was ready and waiting for us. We managed with 2 minutes to spare. Our trip ended up taking us via Lindau and Bregenz (talked to some Americans from Dubai who came to escape the warm weather) to St. Gallen, where we bummed around (the library is a UNESCO heritage site and the city is still wearing its Christmas finery) and have a nice lunch (lovely risotto, and a garlic soup I will have to try to replicate), then back via Romanshorn, ferry to Friedrichshafen (we have promised ourselves another trip there for the Zeppelin museum), and returning to Ravensburg in time for supper.

We came back all a bit tired, a bit hungry (sausages and fried potatoes took care of that quickly enough), but tired in a happy way. Supper and jammies, and fall into bed. Not bad for party poopers.

Obstacle course

We realized early on that living in Ireland would make it a relatively simple thing to jet off to see the in-laws for Christmas. Book the flights, reserve a car and a bed on the other end, figure out how to get to the airport. Easy-peasy. And yet, and yet…

Obstacles keep popping up. First, it was the whole visa application. Part of the relocation package from Microsoft was assistance in procuring a long stay visa for me. It certainly sounded useful, a whole lawyer's office taking care of all that bureaucracy. And yet…

The whole European visa section of the Irish Immigration department is in a muddle, as the European courts made a landmark decision pertaining to non-EU spouses (that's me) this summer. Previously denied residency in Ireland unless they (me) were already residing in an EU country, the ruling opened it up. Instant backlog in the visa section, and I just happened along at the right or wrong moment. They gave me a three month visa to complete my application, but since I was traveling in between, I was concerned they would hold my passport, making said travel impossible. No problem, says the lawyer: we'll make certified copies so you'll never be without it. So that's just what I did. And yet…

The lawyers dragged their feet, and dragged their feet, and finally got around to sending the application two weeks ago. A week later, a registered letter arrives (the postman cheerfully says, "I'm sure it's the lottery!") from a bureaucrat who shall remain nameless, requesting a stack of original documents (including letters from the boys' schools that I somehow needed to procure this instant), mailed within 10 days.

We take stock: It's Friday afternoon. Too late to mail it and expect it mailed back before we leave the following Saturday. What's more, I'm due to renew my soon-to-expire registration with the Garda the following Thursday evening, the only day the GNIB fellow in Baltinglass works. Clearly, we need to go to Burg Quay, the hellhole of Irish Immigration, in person.

We have the weekend to steel ourselves (a trip over the hill to Glendalough is perfect--it's really close, still lovely, and we easily find the woolen mill and take care of a present for my mother-in-law that should please her). We plan to drop Danny at Natasha's at the crack of dawn, drop Marcus at school in Dublin, park the car at Microsoft, and take the Luas up to downtown (there's no way we can expect to park there during the Christmas season). The Immigration office opens at 9 am, we aim for 8:30. It's a good plan. And yet…

We forget the axiom that if you do something different to your morning routine, you should add at least 15 minutes. A later start than we would like, the roads are a bit icier than we would like, and so on. We arrive at Burg Quay a bit before nine. There are no lines outside, simply because they opened at 8:30! We finally find the window for us, fooled because it had no line whatsoever (there are 50 people waiting in another line for a number). The fellow behind the glass cheerfully instructs us to drop the documents in the box, and says we'll get them back in two days. When pressed, he says he can't guarantee their return that quickly.

Alfred gives him a Paddington-like hard stare, and the fellow takes our stack of papers and disappears, presumably upstairs, for 20 minutes. He returns, papers randomly shuffled, and tells us we're sorted. We're pleasantly surprised at how easy this was, and buy ourselves a congratulatory hot chocolate at Butler's, and I hope on the bus back to Blessington. Plenty of time to get ready for our trip. And yet…

It seems that every class in spitting distance of Dublin spends an hour or two at the RDS skating rink in the weeks leading up to Christmas, coming away with a free bottle of diet 7up and a fuzzy green Santa hat. Danny brought his home a couple of weeks ago (yes, we chucked the soda); all three eighth grades from Marcus' school were up this Tuesday.

In one of those parenting moments where everything seemed to fall into place, Alfred was to pick up Marcus directly from the RDS skating rink in Dublin at five in the evening, and head down to a communal supper with our neighbors in Baltyboys. There was just no other evening between now and our departure for Germany, so Tuesday it was, even if Alfred and Marcus might be a bit late. And yet...

Alfred has always been a creative parker, but as he gets older, he's more nervous about it. So, parked illegally in front of the skating rink for fifteen minutes, he was shifting from ticked off to actually worried when Marcus failed to appear and didn't pick up his phone. He did the only logical thing, which was to call me so I could be worried too. My mind did the whole worst-case scenario well-known to every mother. I reached Marcus in the first aid room of the skating rink, and his first words were, "Hi Mom, I think I broke my wrist."

Dinner was later than late, though delicious and thoroughly enjoyable (chicken pot pie, parsnip and turnip puree, lemon tart and pumpkin pie for dessert). Conversation was punctuated by both American families speculating how the urgent medical system might work in Ireland. In the end, we called an Irish friend, who told us to go directly up to Tallaght to the A&E (Accident and Emergency) there. And yet…

A quick look online revealed that the Tallaght hospital has one of the worst waiting times in the country, with a good 30% of arrivals waiting over 24 hours to be seen. We decided to seek advice closer to home and looked online to find the closest GP. Yes, there are three doctors in Blessington. Two share an office and were quick to respond. Could we be there in 15 minutes? I said yes, dropped Danny at the neighbors (are you noticing a pattern?) to hitch a ride to school, and raced into town. Well, tried to race, but the roads were a bit icy, so we were ten minutes late.

The kindly doctor looked at it, said what we already knew ("we should take a x-ray") and wrote a magic letter. His fee was €50, but the letter meant we would save the €100 entry fee to the A&E, plus we would move to the front of the line. What's more, he explained, you should go to the pediatric A&E, where there is little or no wait.

We were incredibly fortunate (or we are using a huge amount of karma) to be in and out in just over an hour, with an x-ray (fractured left radius), a temporary plaster cast (red), and an appointment to get a full cast the next day. And yet…


The doctor in the pediatric fracture clinic looks at the x-ray (come to think of it, is this the first doc to look at his x-ray?), says it's borderline for surgery--but if we do a molded cast we can avoid resetting the bone. I ask about flying in two days, since the nurse had mentioned a split cast for flying. Oh, says he, if we do that, we'll have to perform surgery. Molded cast it is (Marcus chose white, the better to show the autographs). As he molds the cast onto a brave Marcus' wrist (hey, broken bones hurt), the tech mentions that we should check with the airline to see what they require.

The Ryanair website reveals that we need a medical certificate. A call back to the clinic reveals that they leave for the day at 3. Call back tomorrow.

My appointment with the Garda in Baltinglass goes without a hitch: instead of a six-month visa pending approval of my application, the fellow, with whom I share a surname, stamps my passport for five years. I'm set! And yet...

With less than 24 hours before we are to depart, I place a call to the fracture clinic: they can generate a medical certificate, if we can pick it up before 5. A call to Alfred confirms he can get it on his way home. It's down to the wire, but we can see the finish line.

Christmas parties

It happens every December, the overscheduled weekend. You would think that being far from home would mean we would be invited to fewer parties, and indeed we were. It's just that both of them were on the same weekend.

The Irish Translators and Interpreters Association, a congenial bunch, hosted a wine and mince pie reception in the elegantly Georgian Irish Writer's Centre on Parnell Square in Dublin on Friday evening. Since Alfred and Marcus were already in Dublin, Danny and I took an afternoon bus up to Dublin to meet up for supper before the ITIA gathering. We arrived downtown just as the sun was setting, the blue sky turning a deep blue that set off the Christmas lights perfectly. (We also learned that Happy Christmas in Irish is "Nollaig shona duit.")


After meeting up at St Stepehen's Green, we walked up to a little restaurant called the Farm (across the street from the bookstore of Ulysses fame, Hodges Figgis), where we indulged in some very yummy local cider and organic hamburgers (Alfred had the shepherd's pie). From there, we ducked into said dangerous palace of words for sale, and mozied our way up Grafton and O'Connell streets, to Parnell Square.

Halfway up O'Connell Street, right before the GPO, is Butler's Chocolate Café. There's a reason we join the line that snakes out the door. Mmm, yummy, thick, soy cocoa. Neighbor's son Joshua assures me that their chocolate milkshakes bring the same level of chocolate goodness to the Irish summer. The lights outside their door had little chaser lights that rained down on you, as well as dazzling wreaths:


The wine reception was almost a let down, a quick glass of Spanish red and a few mince pies went into Marcus, a short chat with a few faces I recognized. Then we headed down to the tram and Alfred's car, and zipped down over the hills to tuck into nice warm beds.

Saturday dawned clear and even colder, with everything a bit slippery-icy. We did the morning run; Danny to investigate accordeon lessons in Hollywood, Marcus over to Dunlavin for cello lessons--this time with an older fellow with whom he really clicked. I think we may have found a teacher for him!


After lunch, we piled into the Scénic and tootled into Blessington to do our recycling. Yup, a purple garbage truck is in Blessington for two hours every other week. And that's how we recycle. Kind of embarrasing how many pizza boxes we had accumulated in four weeks (we missed one Saturday).


We took our books back to the library, and took a walk in the chill to find St. Patrick's well. It was featured in the town's walking tour brochure, but it's hard to believe it was the source of water for the whole town at some point. Someone has wadded up a crisp bag in the hole, but I don't think that's the reason it was a mere trickle.

A stop by the video store (called Gogglebox, for some unknown reason), and the supermarket, and we had all we needed for a great evening out: noodles, ice cream, and a DVD (Polar Express). We got the boys fed and jammied, parked them in front of the screen, put on our nice duds, and headed up to Croake Park in Dublin for the Microsoft Ireland Christmas party.

After following cryptic directions to a car park and not finding it, we found a parking spot on the street a block from the front door. We slipped our way (cement is much more slippery than mud or even gravel) to the party, where we did our best to mingle with people we didn't know.

Dinner was a sit-down affair, with some of the most inept catering we've ever witnessed ("It's not undercooked, madame, risotto is supposed to be served al dente..."), but entertainment consisted of a band with dancing girls--flown in from Scotland, that hotbed of campy entertainment. We also got to blow through 40,000 euros of play money. Alfred picked up the table decoration dice as party favors for the boys.

Along about 12:30, we decided we had milked it for all it was worth, but then we managed to run into the woman whose maternity leave is making this entire adventure possible, so we didn't get home until 2:30. It felt good to be where there were stars and peace, especially after loud music and staggering drunks (both at the party and in the streets).

Of the next days' headache I shall write nothing, you've been there before. We made a quick outing to Russborough House ("The Loveliest House in Ireland"), which just happens to be a couple of miles away (closer as the crow flies, but there's the matter of the lake between us). Yes, that's my muddy car parked in the front yard.


They were hosting an art fest and farmer's market there: I'm not sure which one this booth belonged to, but the orange chocolate fudge ("Man of Aran Fudge" is a commanding name, don't you agree?) was a lovely cap to a lovely weekend.