Two and a half round towers

One of the five-star attractions in Ireland is the ancient monastic site of Glendalough, where St Kevin became a hermit. It became so popular that he could no longer stay a hermit and it morphed into a huge monastery. It is easy to see why: it is a stunning spot, two deep lakes in a valley. I would be partial to it even if it weren't less than a half-hour from our doorstep.

Glendalough is also home to a place called the Glendalough Woolen Mills, which is a misnomer: it is in Laragh, not Glendalough proper, and there is no mill here anymore, just oodles of sweaters and the like. We stumbled across it some 12 years ago on our first visit here, and I bought a traditional Aran handknit. It was expensive, but Alfred said, "c'mon, how many times will we be here?" There are still some sweaters from that era there, as the price tags are still in Punt, not Euro. They also have a small selection of traditional yarns--Donegal tweed and Aran, as well as all the leprechaun and Guinness kitsch you could ever want (and if it isn’t, there's another purely kitschy place down the road apiece).

Which is why this past Saturday afternoon, after accordion and tin whistle lessons, we all piled into the Mégane and headed over the hill, into the mists to Glendalough. On our way up the hill, an oncoming car flashed their headlights at us: we stopped, thinking she was going to warn us of an impassable mountain pass (they call them gaps here) or an accident. Nope, neither, just a shepard moving his flock down the road.

Our first stop was the aforementioned mill, since Danny has been wearing his sweater ("Mommy, they call it a jumper here!") day and night, and it is getting both long in the tooth and short in the sleeves. The river by the mill was swollen from the recent rains, and had overrun its banks by a foot or two. But the damp was only mist, so we were confident we could have a quick walk at Glendalough itself afterward. We ducked in, where I bought a kilo of red Donegal tweed--on a single cone, not in balls. It should suffice for two sweaters, er jumpers. We also picked up another cardigan on the request of Alfred's mum, who was delighted with our Christmas offering.

Outside though, the mist had progressed to heavy mist. Undaunted, we trekked over to St Kevin's favorite spot, and poked around. The swollen creek and misty hills made it lovely, but the cold and rain were steaming up the camera lens, so we only spent a half-hour or so getting soaked to the skin before heading home.

Sunday, however, dawned sunny and nearly warm. Leaving Alfred to make pancakes, I took a long walk around the golf course without my coat and gloves, and wasn't the least bit cold. Besides hundreds of snowdrops, there were actually a few golfers, and even some poaching fishermen. Clearly, this was not a day to be wasted on housework.

So once Alfred got back from soccer, we piled in the Mégane (do you see a pattern yet?); this time we headed westward. Toward Old Kilcullen, because the name fascinated us, and because it had a little red notation on the map, "church and round tower." With Alfred behind the wheel, food in the backseat and me reading the map, we actually drove directly to our destination, which turned out to be a ruined church and a half a round tower (the bottom half, natch). There were even the bases of two high crosses, but there's a reason that vernacular homes here are built on the sides of hills rather than the top: it's really windy here. This also explains why the thriving town of (presumably new) Kilcullen is down in the valley, near the river.

Feeling emboldened, we continue westward, through the horse country of County Kildare, toward the city of that name. We pass by the National Stud and the Japanese Garden (closed, no surprise), and then Alfred does a quick u-turn. He's seen a sign for St Brigid's well, and didn't Danny weave St Brigid's crosses for her saint's day, and wasn't that today? Indeed it was, and the well was a delightful refuge of peace and tranquility, with a bubbling well and benches for meditation. It was also well-frequented that day, since Brigid is the patroness of Ireland (often in the shadow of Paddy, I'm afraid) and it was indeed her saint's day.

Legend has it that Brigid was so kind she would always give to people what they needed, much to her parent's chagrin. Young women came to live with her and follow her ways (again, much to her parent's chagrin), and she decided she needed a place to take them all. Happening to run into the king one afternoon, she asked him if he would give her some land. The king laughed, but when she asked for only as much land as her cloak could cover, the king agreed. Each woman took a corner of the cloak and walked away from each other. The cloak stretched and stretched to cover an enormous amount of land, and that is now the Curraugh, today roughly 5,000 acres of mostly natural grassland populated by sheep and racehorses. By the way, the King converted to Christianity after that little episode.

So, on February 1, when Americans are gearing up for a groundhog in a top hat, the Irish are walking the stations of the cross at St Brigid's well, cutting reeds and weaving St Brigid's crosses. Then they head to the pub for a pint in her honor.

Inspired, we headed into Kildare town, where we immediately find St Brigid's Cathedral, a small 13th century stone church that fell into ruin, and was rebuilt and consecrated in 1896. A choir is inside practicing for the saint's day mass (and they sound terrific), so we walk around the grounds. And there, in the corner of the churchyard is yet another round tower, this one complete.

The weather by now is chilly and grey, and the weather pundits are predicting snow for Monday and Tuesday. Alfred needs to pack and get ready for his trip to Brno. After a warm supper, Danny and I sit down and weave four crosses: one for us, and one for each of our neighbors. The crosses are green now, but will turn yellow and brown when they dry.

Calm and storms

And so we were enjoying the craic in the pub last night, when I realized that we were supposed to be over in Dunlavin, playing with the West Wicklow "orchestra" -- all seven of them. But the warmth from the fire was a good counter to the wind lashing outside, and besides, by the time we got home to get instruments and trekked over the hills to Dunlavin, it would be almost over.

But I am getting ahead of myself. Let's start at the beginning. Sort of.

As I write, the wind is howling around the house, whistling into the windows. My jeans are soaked through just from walking from the car to the back door carrying my veggie box from one of the famer-parents at school. It has been windy for two nights, though the addition of torrential rain only started yesterday afternoon. Since we spent a similar Sunday afternoon with a tub of caulking and some good music, our house is less drafty, but still "breathes": our landlord says, "but how can it be drafty? Those are triple glazed windows!" Indeed they are, but if they don’t shut properly, they won't be able to keep this wind out. I'm not sure even German windows are up to the task.

The stormy weather comes on the heels of a stormy week. Not weather wise, no, in fact, we had sunshine and the first snowdrops are poking up their delightful heads. I actually got a chance to escape fro the turmoil and stress and do a bit of tidying up in the garden, making room for the bulbs to do their thing.

And despite of the wind, things are calming down again. After a week without broadband, using the mobile dial up, the landlady lit a fire under the Omnitel fellows, and our network magically came back up. Two hours later, it cut out again, but then it restored itself right about the time we decided to give up and go to bed. It's been fine since (touch wood).

Seamus the plasterer from the property management company arrived on Monday morning with a box of white powder and the requisite collection of spackling knives. Danny, home "sick" from school, was entertained for at least half and hour. I sent his cheery self to school the next day (Danny, not Seamus). Seamus said he'll be back next week with a bit of paint. I'm not sure if I dare hope, but perhaps his company is atypical.

The situation at Marcus' school resolved itself with a chat with a harried German teacher called Frau Baum (Mrs. Tree), who has to try to force feed 19th century German literature to 8th graders. She was responsive to our request to not leave behind Marcus just because he's a temporary student. There's still the history teacher, whom our son fondly characterizes as "psychopathic." Maybe I'll deal with her once I figure out how to counter the Catholic science teacher's lesson on birth control.

By far the most stressful area, though, has been at Alfred's workplace. While Redmond is reeling from the behemoth's announcement of job cuts (since eclipsed by Boeing and Starbucks), Ireland has felt its share of the pain. Redundancies, as they are called here, were voluntary, and it was a long week for everyone, wondering if enough volunteers were going to step up. In the end, nine people applied, eight were needed; Alfred was spared the difficult task of 'volunteering' one of his reports, whose wife is expecting in May. There is an upside to this process: managers were able to have very frank talks with employees about just what role they played; employees were asked to really evaluate whether they wanted to be there. Every one of the volunteers was looking for a way out, and Microsoft provided it. They are all going off as a team this afternoon to celebrate. I fully expect Alfred to miss supper, but bet he'll be back in time for soccer, assuming the wind doesn't blow their ball away.

Of course, all this has meant long hours for Alfred, and he managed to leave Marcus waiting for half an hour yesterday evening. I was settled at our neighbor's kitchen table, catching up on their doings (major changes: she will take the kids to France for the remainder of the school year to prepare them for the move to a French-speaking secondary school here; her husband passed his driving test; the baby's been sick, but is learning to talk), when my phone rang and Marcus vented. I did mention that the torrential rains joined the gale-force winds yesterday afternoon? And that teenage pride prevents him from doing anything as commonsensical as wearing a coat?

And so it was that we found ourselves in our favorite pub (Blessington has three, though only one serves food, and it is darn good food), snuggled in front of the fire. And we are no longer tourists here: the waitress recognizes us, calling my husband "himself" (the Irish equivalent of "dearie") and we find we are actually acquainted with a few folks around us.

Alfred was deep in conversation with one of his fellow tin whistle classmates, discussing how to play a roll. My guess is that she's around eight or nine years old, and thinks it's funny that a grown man is in her class. Every now and then, she can't hold it in and giggles. I recognize her mother, who has a 17-year old and a toddler at the table as well, from cello lessons on Saturday; we chat too. She is kind enough to suggest that both my son and husband might be interested in another class in another small town, one where they actually learn to read music. Danny hovers around, Marcus pretends he doesn't know us.

I note as we are bundling up to brave the elements that there is a second lower pane of glass inside the pub window, and realize it is there to protect us from the wind that invariably whistles in around the main window frame. So that's what those are for!

I have not yet booked all the flights and hotels (and riads) for the spring trips, but should get to it over the weekend. The American embassy has not yet received my passport, so things might get interesting. But am grateful that things have calmed down and we can complete our year here.

Megalithic

Dear Mom,

We are in the midst of a very stressful week; it seems every day has brought another big item to think/worry about: I got home Monday from three days in Miami, and tried to sleep off my jetlag in one night. I did 11 hours, and feel like I could have done more. Then Tuesday, our Internet connection went down (again!) right after the inauguration. We missed the parade, but at least we got to see the main event.

Wednesday I spent half a day getting my Internet dongle working--it took a trip into town to reload the card. It's up, but it's considerably slower than our primary connection, so we're back to not being able to make phone calls again. Then Marcus cam home with a message from his German teacher: the teacher has assumed we didn't want a parent-teacher conference, because he wasn't going to be there next year. As if this were a "throwaway year" for our kids!

The following day was the Microsoft announcement. Things are being done on a voluntary basis here, with every employee being asked to consider whether they would like to take advantage of a very generous severance package (seven weeks pay per year instead of the one in the US). If the numbers are as good as they sound, it is tempting. But we have school enrollment packages for Marcus and Danny on the table, and are trying to figure out whether we could manage that without work. It's quite a bit of pressure to make that kind of decision in one week! Throw in a bit of rumbling from the nonprofits I volunteer for, and I'm ready for a vacation.

Vacation. Oh, yes, there's also the whole story with getting our passports in order to go to Morocco for our anniversary: turns out Alfred's needed renewing before we go (they want it valid for 6 months, he has 4 left on it), so he spend nearly a full day at the embassy (missing the announcement broadcast from Redmond in the process-NOT the day to be out of the office, you say?); I needed extra pages in mine (down to two blank ones), and about a half-hour after I sent off the right forms and my passport, I realized I had forgotten to send it registered post. [Insert forehead slap here.] Guess we should take out travel insurance--as well as actually booking some plane tickets and a place to stay!

Friday I had my first violin (actually fiddle) lesson in ages. A definite high point, but it exhausted me. In a good way!

As you can tell, I'm feeling overwhelmed. We still have some outstanding issues from moving here as well--the tax people seem to have lost our form, so we're paying emergency tax (42%), which means we're constantly short on cash. Did I tell you the electric bill was €780 for two months? That's about $400/mo. just to heat the place and take hot showers. And those were the relatively warm months of October & November...

Love,

C

***

So, what do you do after a week like that? I suppose I could have buckled down and made lists and had deep discussions with my spouse, and for about half a day, that's what we did. Then we decided to take a vacation. Lucky for us, we don't have to get in a plane to go somewhere exotic--we live here! So, we piled into the Megane, and tooled on south.

The neat thing about Irish maps (inaccuracy aside), is that they have little red notations on them for places of interest. Lacking a cohesive plan, we revert to our time-honored method of entertainment: we search for a high concentration of red writing on the map within an easy drive. Look, we say, there's a stone circle, and we've never been to Donard.

Now, we know from experience that things on the map are often completely overgrown and invisible to all but a trained archaeologist, access might be completely blocked by large bulls snorting, or the heavens may open up and pour, leaving us reading from the guidebook while wiping circular peepholes in the car's steamed-up windows. But today, the gods (or the little people) were with us.

We figured we'd aim for the Dwyer-MacAllister cottage, so we took a likely turnoff, signposted by the Office of Public Works, affectionately known hereinafter as the OPW. About halfway to where we think the turnoff is, we stop and ask for directions, for this is part of the experience. Alfred has a nice chat with the fellow pumping petrol outside the general store, and tells us we must turn back, for we have passed the stone circle.

We find it, the Castleruddery stone circle, a fine double henge (you'll have to look it up if you don't know what that is), easily accessed through a farmer's field. There are the requisite gnarly-rooted trees around it, and even an old farm equipment in the corner of the field. The boys have a field day with the sheets of ice on the trough.

The sign for the circle states that there is an old motte and bailey around the corner, and we can see it from where we stand. We pile back in the car to see if we can get to it, but it appears to be in a farmer's fenced field, though there is a stile and an OPW sign. We park, and the farmer comes out to chat. Hilda is putting in the last of the tulip bulbs, her husband is at the market, that's where I recognize the name (18 acres of organic veggies!); they're open for sales on Thursday and Friday, yes they know our son's school, and do have a walk through the field to the motte, the bull is in another field right now. Her kids put down their chickens and guide us through the maze of trees to the top of the motte, which gives a lovely view of the River Slaney below, swollen with the rains this week. We marvel at how lovely a childhood, to have not only pet chickens, but a real castle in your backyard.

Two for two, we wend our way through the vale to the cottage, where Mr Dwyer gallantly drew fire so Mr MacAllister could escape the English troops. The cottage is whitewashed, thatched and completely closed--until June. No matter, it has been a lovely day and the kids have fun going through the side gates--we joke that they are designed to keep the fat tourists out, as they could never squeeze through.

We figured we were tempting fate (and the weather gods) to try much more, so we meandered home via back roads, and took St Kevin's path (squeezing under a fallen power line was fun) up through Hollywood and home, where our neighbor Tommy is just arriving home as well. Two neighbors outdoors at the same time means time for a chat, and we leave edified with his incredible regional knowledge. Seems he not only grew up around here, but he worked on the map, the one with the little red writing. He ducks indoors and hands us an old volume that enumerates most of the monuments on the Emerald Isle. I add a hunt for a copy in the bookstore to my list.

I greet this week a bit more rested, better able to deal with what comes my way. Danny is home with sniffles, and the plasterer is set to come by to fix the hole the the plumber left.

Adventures in foreign plumbing, part two

I am just back from Florida and would love to be able to regale you with tales of tropical adventures. Alas, I was stuck indoors in meetings, in yet another hotel that looks and feels predictably like any other chain hotel, so can only regale you about things like component management and inter-rater reliability and such.

That is not to say that there have not been any adventures, just to say that they weren't in Florida. I understand that most people leave their place of residence to have adventures; here, our place of residence is our adventure, and we go other places to get bored.

And so it was, as I gazed past my fellow board members at yachts gliding past, that Alfred and the boys were playing in the snow. It was only a dusting (not even enough to make a snowball to through at my brother, grumbles Marcus). But it was awfully pretty, if you can make this place look any lovelier than it already is.




Of course, to make it snow, it has to be cold. So, while I was escaping the hotel in my shirtsleeves and wishing I had thought to bring sunglasses or a hat, the boys were back inside, warming up with cocoa (put more Green & Black's on the shopping list), and taking hot showers. Ah plumbing, you say, another adventure? But of course!

When we first moved in, I noted a chase in the dining room that had telltale blistered paint. It looked, I said to our landlady, like something had leaked. Yes, said she, but it's all dry now, so I wouldn't worry. Neither of us registered that the house had been empty for months. Every few weeks, and with increasing incidence, we have noticed a wee puddle on the floor. But the wall was dry. We could never determine its origin, so just mopped it up. Like model tenants, we let our landlord know. Eddie the plumber has been out a few times, but he too could find no etymology for the puddle.

Apparently, if three people take hot showers, and one of them (who shall remain nameless and the shortest in the family, at least for a few years) takes a really long one, it's enough to make the origins of the puddle obvious. Yes, the chase, now soggy, slopes downward to the door frame, with its own blistered paint, and drips down the inside of the door. Puddle appears, husband opens door, gets dripped on.


Repairs are progressing in atypical Irish fashion: Yesterday, five minutes after I got home from Florida, a new fellow stopped by, ran the shower for four minutes (if he thinks that's a long shower, he clearly has no teenagers), and proclaimed that there was no leak. I suggested that perhaps another few minutes of shower might help, and pointed out the peeling paint. Upstairs he went again, and at exactly the one-minute mark, the deluge began. This was also the point that I discovered that the pan Alfred had put under the leak had a leak of its own. On the bottom.

Well, apparently this fellow was only a brilliant diagnostician, so he mopped up a bit, suggested a saucepan for under the drip, and said someone else would come out tomorrow. Considering the post takes a week to deliver express mail, I resigned myself to three-minute showers for the foreseeable future. Marcus was none too happy about this development, but Danny sees it as a way to avoid bathing.

So, imagine my surprise when a tradesman appeared up at 9:30 this morning on the dot, and very capably cut a perfect hole in the wall, found and fixed the problem, cleaned up, and left at 10:08. He says that someone will be by to patch the plaster in the days to come, but I don't care. I can take long, hot showers now.

It is very cold and windy today, and Met tells us to expect wintry showers, possibly with a "significant accumulations of snow." The adventure continues!

Freezing

At some point during our time in Germany, I looked at the weather report and sighed. There was no way I was going to be able to remove my longies for at least a week. The bad news is that the weather pundits were right, and temperatures stayed well below freezing for our last week there; the good news was that we did get some snow.

It took some machinations, though: Two years ago, a friend mentioned to Danny that you needed to wear your jammies inside out to make it snow. Danny immediately tried it, and damned if it didn’t snow. When we got to Germany that year, he wore them every night, and it snowed every day. Magic, and it worked.

Fast forward to this year. Icy cold, Danny (and Marcus, who still has just a bit of little kid in him, or maybe he just likes snow) wore their jammies inside out. Did it snow? You bet! The boys wore their jammies inside out for a week, and two feet piled up. At our doorstep in Redmond. But in Germany? Nothing. Nada. Nichts.

I called a friend back home and told her what was going on, and wasn’t it funny? No, she said, make them stop! So we made a deal: her whole family turned their jammies inside out. It did the trick, and we had fluffy flakes for the rest of our Swabian sojourn.

The cold weather did make for some interesting talk at the dinner table. Papa reminisced (Germans like to do this anyway, and weather is a popular subject) about the year that Lake Constance froze over. He and a toddler Alfred (I’ll give you a moment to relish that image) walked out onto the lake. You can find pictures on the Web, and they’re not alone, in fact, many people drove out onto the ice. The year, for the record, was 1963. That was the year that the isles got 2 feet of snow, and the Thames froze over.

So, here we were, looking forward to returning to Ireland, to a TV-free house where kids could make noise and messes, and the mercury stayed in a reasonable zone. I had fantasies about wearing only two layers, and the pilot announced that Dublin was enjoying a balmy 3 degrees (Celsius). So imagine our surprise, then, when we came over the crest of the hill to see the Blessington Lakes, right where we left them, but frozen. And not just a little bit—all the way across. We all gasped, and then the boys started jumping up and down, “this is soooo cool!”

Of course, this being Ireland, when I turned onto our road, I was tractored (that’s expat for ‘a tractor doing 10 km/h pulled in front of me, and there’s no way I can pass on this @#$! horse track.’). Marcus intelligently suggested that our time might be better spent chucking rocks onto the lake rather than staring at a John Deere fender, and so we did.

A warm—relatively speaking—wind blew in last night, and by this afternoon, the lake had mostly thawed. They say that in 1963, the ice and snow didn’t melt until March. We feel lucky to have seen this extraordinary event, even if it did mean we didn’t get to wash the longies.

Look, a Zeppelin!

During one of our many visits to Alfred’s home town, we were out on the sunny terrace of a typical Swabian restaurant, enjoying our respective plates of Käsespätzle. Alfred had finished gobbling his up, and was coveting Danny’s plate. Ever the opportunist, he glanced skyward and shouted, “Look, a Zeppelin!” Kid erstwhile distracted, he managed to score a few forkfuls before he ever knew what hit him.

Now, the reason this nefarious plot works is that there really was a Zeppelin overhead. You see, said dirigibles are still made in Friedrichshafen, just a couple dozen kilometers away, on Lake Constance. It’s actually a relatively common experience to see one floating overhead. What’s more, there is an entire museum devoted to the subject right on the waterfront, across the street from the train station.

What’s that you say, an interesting museum? A train ride? Sounds like a way to get out of town for the day in an agreeable sort of way. “Papa,” says Marcus, “doesn’t your friend Wolfgang work at the fire station at the Friedrichshafen airport? And doesn’t the train go right past?” “Train?” perks up Danny, “did someone say train?”

And so it was that we found ourselves once more on the 9:07 to Friedrichshafen, with a quick connection to the harbor spur. It was bitterly cold, and the detrius of new year’s celebrations, confetti and champagne bottles and exploded fireworks, floated in the harbor.

But the museum, we can report, is Very Cool. There is old stuff from the Graf von Zeppelin himself, together with nerdy explanations of aerodynamics, or why the big thing flies. But the best bit is a 33-meter reconstruction of a section of the Hindenburg itself suspended on the ceiling, so you have to climb up the passenger ladder to get in and you can look down out the windows. We spent plenty of time meandering, and the boys had a good time.

Next up was the 13:01 train to the airport, where we met up with Alfred’s childhood buddy (Alfred Sr. still keeps some of his hives on Wolfgang’s father’s farm), for a tour of the new fire station, part of the expansion for this still comfortably small airport. The last time we were here, Marcus must have been about five years old, and we got to the non-passenger area by ducking through the baggage hatch behind the lone check in counter. There are now three counters, and we had to pass through a couple of coded doors to get to the new Panther fire rig.

I’m hoping Marcus understood more than we did; I can only tell you that the rigs are big and red. The coolest thing in my mind is the quick start button on the side: you press it, the truck starts (with blue lights blinking but no siren), and the garage door opens. I admit that could be useful on mornings when I’m late to drive carpool. Especially the lights.

And remember, if you ever hear one of us shout, “Look, a Zeppelin!” you’d better cover your plate.

St. Sylvester

If anybody ever comes up with software that can handle family logistics (a developer father friend said it couldn’t be done), the author will probably be German. For example, take the holiday food shopping:

Wednesday: Christmas eve, so stores close at 1 p.m.; Thursday and Friday, Christmas and St Stephen's day, stores closed; Saturday, market day, but stores close at 1 p.m.; Sunday, closed; Monday & Tuesday, stores open all day, closing at 6 p.m.; Wednesday, closing at 1; Thursday (New Years), closed; Friday, open; Saturday, closing at 1; Sunday, closed; Monday, open; Tuesday (Epiphany), closed…

If you can follow that, you're halfway there. First up, figure out which days are open, and how many days of food you need to get, first figuring out how many people will be in the house, and what they eat (Anke, cheese, no meat; Papa, no meal without meat) so you can sketch out a menu. Then make a list, realize you can't get to three stores in the time allotted, remake the menu and make the list again. Gather ever shopping bag known to man, make sure you have cash (no one takes debit cards here), and try to find a parking place.

We go into town, and fill the car to the brim, and get everything back to the homestead. My mother-in-law has a usually empty fridge in the basement for just these occasions, and we fill it to the brim. Except for the fireworks, which go next to the fridge. I am particularly attracted to a German-made box of "Tischbomben" - table bombs! Sounds like just the thing to follow raclette and chocolate fondue.

The 31st is the day we have all chosen to descend on the family home (our apartment is spoken for over the new year changeover), and it dawns cold and rimey. The frost is spiky, coating everything, and we cant resist a walk on the farm before we schlep everything over. The boys do their best to break the ice on the frozen duck pond, but their rocks just bounce and slide on the surface.

Aunties arrive, boxes of even more food are squeezed into whatever corner allows. We pull a mattress out of the attic for Danny, eliminating any leftover floor space that might have been used for playing, until we realize we can stack the mattresses during the day.

After supper and dessert (items lost in the fondue cost the loser a verse of an Irish song), one auntie goes out for some fresh air (and I suspect a cigarette and peace and quiet). She reports that there is a mixture of rain and snow falling, and it's only an hour until the new year. By the time we have watched most of a video of this summer's 50th wedding anniversary, it is time to bundle up to go outside with fireworks and champagne.

There is snow falling, and plenty on the ground--finally! Empty champagne bottles are useful for holding roman candles, and the fluffy flakes make for a perfect background for the country-wide street party. No one wants to go in, which explains why our kids are sledding down Federburg Straße at one in the morning. We finally call everyone in, and fall into bed. By the time we are awake in the morning, we tune in to Space Needle fireworks ringing in the new year back home.

The day will be full of snow-filled activities: shoveling snow, sledding, snowball fights. But no shopping.

Happy new year!