Part of the process of packing up around a nearly 3-year-old involves discovering things that had shifted to the backs of shelves. One item of particular interest has been a series of Polish DVDs given to us by our cousin Kasia (in Karakow). I think they're originally Czech (but my Polish is not good enough to give you a definitive on that: it is just that Praha figures in the credits) and come from the late 70s. The animation is simple and compelling to children.
In short they're lovely, if just a little strange. There is, for instance, a rabbid piggy bank spilling money while both carting off the heroin and being chased by a bear in one. I suspect there may be some underlying Communist Party message in the stories that I'm just not picking up on. Or, possibly, I am picking up on. Either way, they're a hit with Anna.
The unintended consequence is that she has suddenly begun speaking Polish (or, maybe Czech). "Jabba, jagga un gadda." seems to be what she's saying. Of course, none of us--including Anna (I think)--have a clue what she's saying. She could very well be commenting on the greedy, pig capitalists of the West. It would be timely in todays economic climate.
Smiling at this latest of parenting revelations, mum asked her if she was speaking Polish. "No," Anna explained: "I'm speaking French." Stupid parents.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
The glass is definitely half full
With Eurostar failing to be a star and our need to leave the country, we booked our ferry tickets to Oostend, Belgium late on Friday night. I grabbed the tube across London to Paddington, caught a many-stop train to Reading and walked quickly across the river to grab our car... to drive right back into the centre of London. As I waited in traffic at Trafalgar Square at 1am, I could wonder about the rashness that had led me to this epic 5 hour car-pick-up as the BBC announced the chunnel had been reopened and services were to resume at 6am. In other words: our train to Paris was on.
Only, we now had our car in London, had booked a ferry to Belgium, cancelled our hotel in Paris and booked another in Brugge. There was simply no going back. Besides, I was excited about the hotel I had found on the internet. I had found a standard room in a 4 star hotel in the very centre of Brugge for only 40 euros more than our basic Hotel Ibis in Paris... and, since the ferry was an incredible 150 euros cheaper than our Eurostar tickets, the indulgence seemed worth it.
The next morning, we were up early and in the car. Getting out of London can be an adventure, so we left some time. Of course, with two days of lorries backed up on the motorways, I anticipated chaos. But, as it turns out, very few use the Ramsgate to Oostend crossing... which was very good for us. We arrived with lots of time, which, while not stressful, meant entertaining kids in a parking lot. We did a lot of jumping "over" puddles and off of metal barriers amongst the lorries. Possibly not ideal. The ferry was nearly an hour late leaving, which started to wear on my jangled nerves and patience. Still, once on the ferry, I was somewhat relieved to discover a real soft-play area of small kids. Anna played hard and met some friends. Caleb watched. Mum napped. I drifted into a state of delirium from tired. Four hours later, at about 5pm, we arrived in Belgium.
We drove to the hotel. Only, I had not had the foresight to bring our map of Europe nor did I both to look up the hotel online to get a sense of where it might be in Brugge. Driving blind, I eventually phoned the hotel after being stuck in traffic for ages with both Caleb and Anna at the end of their willingness to travel. They guided us in through the maze of cobbled streets. There was no traffic in the town, but it moved slowly, as their are more horse-drawn carriages than cars. We eventually pulled into the carpark of Hotel de Tuilerieën, which was through an arch, down a cobbled lane only marginally wider than our car and then through another, gated arch. Instantly, I realised we were not like the others at this hotel. First we had kids. Second, we were not driving a Porsche. Or an Aston Martin. Or a Ferrari. Indeed, we didn't even have a Beemer or a Merc. Unsurprisingly, the valet parked our Toyota in another lot nearby.
Ange went in. It turned out that some miscommunication between her and I resulted in us failing to disclose to the hotel that we were coming with children. It turned out the room we had booked was unsuitable for children. The people at the hotel were lovely though. Indeed, they were brilliant. Entirely befitting of a place like de Tuilerieën, they suggested an alternative room, in which we would be much more comfortable. We were. It was, quite honestly, the nicest hotel room I've ever been in. It was in a 15th century building, with antique tiles on the floors. The exposed wooden beams. The fireplace. The bathroom was larger than our lounge at home. It was heaven after the past day of travel.
We lingered for a bit to enjoy the room and then went out for dinner. We ended up in a small courtyard, which was having an opera that night. Dinner was nice, the beer excellent. Despite the beauty of the square, we were all keen to get back to our hotel, which was so nice itself. When we rocked up, the bar was empty and we had it to ourselves. 20 foot high ceilings. 16 foot windows. Marble fireplace. Chandeliers. It was incredible. Anna's hot chocolate--the highlight of the whole weekend for her--came on a tray. She drank, ate (the biscuit and whipped cream) and played for nearly half an hour with it.
It wasn't until the next morning that I asked Ange how much more the room was than the original booking. "I didn't ask..." she remarked. Almost flippantly. Hmmm. I couldn't help but feel like I would have asked if put in the same situation. She continued, "... we needed a place to stay!" The logic was infallible, if not entirely reassuring. The hotel amazing. The experience lovely. And yet I felt a pang of terror. I went to reception. While waiting behind someone who was checking out, I noticed the price list. It read something like this:
Standard rooms: 135-220 euros
Superior rooms: 240-375 euros
Executive rooms: 350-580 euros
Suits: 500-900 euros
Our room was definitely superior. I don't think an executive would have been out of place in it. And, there was a strong argument that it constituted a suit. The pang of terror returned as I approached the desk.
"You're here to check out?" the lady asked. She was as lovely as everyone who worked there. I said "Yes, thank you." In my mind, however, there was the swift calculations of how much money I actually had in my account. Then the self-negotiation: "Okay, it was an amazing place. Great service. Let's put a price on that: 200. No, I could go higher. Is it 300? Maybe 250." This quickly descended into the top number I could stomach without crying in front of the lady. I'm not sure I actually arrived at that number, but I think it was in the 400 region. Then, she announced the price to me with a friendly smile. Did she just say 1275? "Excuse me?" I asked with a calmness far more assured than might otherwise be expected for the only person in the hotel who had rocked up in a sub-compact. No. Thank God, she did not say 1275. 175. And, that included the taxes, parking, drinks and booking fee.
I'm not sure if she actually saw the relief cross my face. I could have hugged her. Or, at very least, the lady who had been working the night before who had given us the most amazing room in Brugge for the cost of a basic room. I was nearly euphoric the parking the car was a mere 25 euros (20 quid).
So, with a spring in my step, we hit Brugge. Crepes on the canal. A ride in the horse-drawn buggy was Anna's request. Admiring the shops. And just generally soaking up the atmosphere. No, it wasn't Paris. Yes, the trip was epic. But really, it could not have been a nicer couple of days in a more beautiful place...
Only, we now had our car in London, had booked a ferry to Belgium, cancelled our hotel in Paris and booked another in Brugge. There was simply no going back. Besides, I was excited about the hotel I had found on the internet. I had found a standard room in a 4 star hotel in the very centre of Brugge for only 40 euros more than our basic Hotel Ibis in Paris... and, since the ferry was an incredible 150 euros cheaper than our Eurostar tickets, the indulgence seemed worth it.
The next morning, we were up early and in the car. Getting out of London can be an adventure, so we left some time. Of course, with two days of lorries backed up on the motorways, I anticipated chaos. But, as it turns out, very few use the Ramsgate to Oostend crossing... which was very good for us. We arrived with lots of time, which, while not stressful, meant entertaining kids in a parking lot. We did a lot of jumping "over" puddles and off of metal barriers amongst the lorries. Possibly not ideal. The ferry was nearly an hour late leaving, which started to wear on my jangled nerves and patience. Still, once on the ferry, I was somewhat relieved to discover a real soft-play area of small kids. Anna played hard and met some friends. Caleb watched. Mum napped. I drifted into a state of delirium from tired. Four hours later, at about 5pm, we arrived in Belgium.
We drove to the hotel. Only, I had not had the foresight to bring our map of Europe nor did I both to look up the hotel online to get a sense of where it might be in Brugge. Driving blind, I eventually phoned the hotel after being stuck in traffic for ages with both Caleb and Anna at the end of their willingness to travel. They guided us in through the maze of cobbled streets. There was no traffic in the town, but it moved slowly, as their are more horse-drawn carriages than cars. We eventually pulled into the carpark of Hotel de Tuilerieën, which was through an arch, down a cobbled lane only marginally wider than our car and then through another, gated arch. Instantly, I realised we were not like the others at this hotel. First we had kids. Second, we were not driving a Porsche. Or an Aston Martin. Or a Ferrari. Indeed, we didn't even have a Beemer or a Merc. Unsurprisingly, the valet parked our Toyota in another lot nearby.
Ange went in. It turned out that some miscommunication between her and I resulted in us failing to disclose to the hotel that we were coming with children. It turned out the room we had booked was unsuitable for children. The people at the hotel were lovely though. Indeed, they were brilliant. Entirely befitting of a place like de Tuilerieën, they suggested an alternative room, in which we would be much more comfortable. We were. It was, quite honestly, the nicest hotel room I've ever been in. It was in a 15th century building, with antique tiles on the floors. The exposed wooden beams. The fireplace. The bathroom was larger than our lounge at home. It was heaven after the past day of travel.We lingered for a bit to enjoy the room and then went out for dinner. We ended up in a small courtyard, which was having an opera that night. Dinner was nice, the beer excellent. Despite the beauty of the square, we were all keen to get back to our hotel, which was so nice itself. When we rocked up, the bar was empty and we had it to ourselves. 20 foot high ceilings. 16 foot windows. Marble fireplace. Chandeliers. It was incredible. Anna's hot chocolate--the highlight of the whole weekend for her--came on a tray. She drank, ate (the biscuit and whipped cream) and played for nearly half an hour with it.
It wasn't until the next morning that I asked Ange how much more the room was than the original booking. "I didn't ask..." she remarked. Almost flippantly. Hmmm. I couldn't help but feel like I would have asked if put in the same situation. She continued, "... we needed a place to stay!" The logic was infallible, if not entirely reassuring. The hotel amazing. The experience lovely. And yet I felt a pang of terror. I went to reception. While waiting behind someone who was checking out, I noticed the price list. It read something like this:
Standard rooms: 135-220 euros
Superior rooms: 240-375 euros
Executive rooms: 350-580 euros
Suits: 500-900 euros
Our room was definitely superior. I don't think an executive would have been out of place in it. And, there was a strong argument that it constituted a suit. The pang of terror returned as I approached the desk.
"You're here to check out?" the lady asked. She was as lovely as everyone who worked there. I said "Yes, thank you." In my mind, however, there was the swift calculations of how much money I actually had in my account. Then the self-negotiation: "Okay, it was an amazing place. Great service. Let's put a price on that: 200. No, I could go higher. Is it 300? Maybe 250." This quickly descended into the top number I could stomach without crying in front of the lady. I'm not sure I actually arrived at that number, but I think it was in the 400 region. Then, she announced the price to me with a friendly smile. Did she just say 1275? "Excuse me?" I asked with a calmness far more assured than might otherwise be expected for the only person in the hotel who had rocked up in a sub-compact. No. Thank God, she did not say 1275. 175. And, that included the taxes, parking, drinks and booking fee.
I'm not sure if she actually saw the relief cross my face. I could have hugged her. Or, at very least, the lady who had been working the night before who had given us the most amazing room in Brugge for the cost of a basic room. I was nearly euphoric the parking the car was a mere 25 euros (20 quid).
So, with a spring in my step, we hit Brugge. Crepes on the canal. A ride in the horse-drawn buggy was Anna's request. Admiring the shops. And just generally soaking up the atmosphere. No, it wasn't Paris. Yes, the trip was epic. But really, it could not have been a nicer couple of days in a more beautiful place...
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Belgium the new France?
After the chaos of the past days on Eurostar, we've abandoned plans to go to Paris. We've found a ferry to Belgium and we're off to Flanders. No Eiffel Tower, but good coffee and great scenery await in Brugge... which will never be the new Paris, but should be a laugh.
So, off to the ferry. Mmmmm, ferries.
So, off to the ferry. Mmmmm, ferries.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Signs
As if I needed final confirmation that our gallavant around Europe is not as straight-forward in real life as it was in my dreams, our plans to go to Paris for the weekend are quickly coming unravelled. Indeed, it seems like getting over to France is tougher for us than for others. Last time we went--back in the spring--we were undone by a massive, freak spring wind-storm. Let me be the first to assure you that 13 hours on a ferry, bobbing up and down like a bath-toy in the English channel (with a 2 year old to entertain while you fight to keep from being sick) is unpleasant at best.
This weekend, we decided to avoid the ferries... to many things can un-stick a ferry trip. Striking ferry workers. Striking fishermen blockading ferry workers. Striking border patrol (it is France, after all). Bad weather. Etc.
This time, we took chance out of the equation and went with Eurostar. Heck, according to their website, 92% of their trains run on time and they're never cancelled. Well, almost never. Today, the chunnel was closed. Freak fire in the chunnel itself. We leave tomorrow on the first train... at least, in theory. Just in case you want the background, check out the BBC website story.
Especially as we're travelling with Anna and Caleb, I particularly like the last part of the story... the part titled, "Travel Chaos."
Good grief. Check back for the next blog, which I can only hope isn't titled 10 Hours of Child Minding in an International Train Foyer...
This weekend, we decided to avoid the ferries... to many things can un-stick a ferry trip. Striking ferry workers. Striking fishermen blockading ferry workers. Striking border patrol (it is France, after all). Bad weather. Etc.
This time, we took chance out of the equation and went with Eurostar. Heck, according to their website, 92% of their trains run on time and they're never cancelled. Well, almost never. Today, the chunnel was closed. Freak fire in the chunnel itself. We leave tomorrow on the first train... at least, in theory. Just in case you want the background, check out the BBC website story.
Especially as we're travelling with Anna and Caleb, I particularly like the last part of the story... the part titled, "Travel Chaos."
Good grief. Check back for the next blog, which I can only hope isn't titled 10 Hours of Child Minding in an International Train Foyer...
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
Where do I start?
Sadly, months of bad blogging mean that I almost don't know where to start. I could start with the birth of Caleb, as that's where I left off. But who really wants to hear birthing stories? If you're about to have a baby, it isn't particularly inspiring. If you've had a baby, you likely aren't interested in dredging up the details. If you're in no mind to think about having babies, it is all the wierd, shocking and graphic details of someone else's problem. So, I won't start there.
Rather, I will start with my first day alone with Anna and Caleb. The day of reckoning where my kids outnumber me and I am without teammate Ange. This day came 3 weeks after Caleb's birth. Angela, despite having gone through the graphic details I have left out above, was heading back in to her school to attend an 'Old Girls Day.' Armed with 25 ounces of expressed milk, 4 sterilized bottles and invaluable experience of bringing up Anna, I was charged up for 7 hours of quality Saturday time with Anna and Caleb.
As it turned out, this Saturday in early May turned out to be summer. Nearly all of it, in fact. The weather this summer has been wet and cool. For everyone not from Vancouver: just like Vancouver. For everyone from Vancouver, it wasn't anything like Vancouver would normally be, if not for it having been the wettest 11 weeks in the last century. On this day, all that mattered was that it was warm. Even hot. Spying my opportunity, I took advantage of Ange not being part of the shopping equation (and therefore veto-ing ridiculous, frivolous purchases), I immediately piled the kids into the car and drove directly to Toys'R'Us. I found the cheapest possible wading pool, confirmed its suitability with Anna (it got the okay because Tigger and Pooh were on the side), and bought the tiny pool. Ange hadn't been gone 45 minutes and I was back in the garden with Anna filling the pool with water. Within 90 minutes of Ange being gone, we had a full pool, Anna lathered in sun screen, towels strewn across the garden, Caleb sleeping contently in the moses basket in the shade, and I was kicking back my second cup of coffee.
The day went well. Caleb basically ate all day, cleaning off the 25 ounces of expressed milk before rejecting my offers of formula out of hand. Anna was in and out of the pool, but the overwhelmingly most enjoyable game actually involved removing the water from the pool onto the garden decking. The pool supposedly held 240 L of water. Though not efficiently, Anna must have managed to remove about 200 L of water by the end of the day. It's funny what entertains, but I was in no position to complain. I think Ange was a little surprised to come home to a beach party and certainly questioned the pool investment. But in the end, it has to be one of the most enjoyable days I've had since arriving.
The British Social Season
Part of being a foreigner is that you try a whole lot harder than the locals. Case and point: Angela Dudek. Ange caught on to the fact the most of the British aristocratic prestige events now allow a few commoners entry as lip-service to the end of classism in the UK. Well, they may have got more than they bargained for this summer. Ange discovered that Johnny-commoner can, in almost all instances, put their name in a lottery to get a ticket to these special events. So, we were entered for everything. And hooray! We managed to get excellent tickets to Wimbledon on the final day. Not at Centre Court, but the atmosphere was gold and it was a fantastic day at he All England Tennis Club. We also attended the Queen's Garden Party at Buckingham Palace. That's a blog in itself. We got ourselves down to Henley for the Regatta. And then, as a bonus, we got tickets to Wembley to see England play football (soccer) and I got to go to Twickenham to see England play the Barbarians in rugby. That's all very English for us colonists!
Rather, I will start with my first day alone with Anna and Caleb. The day of reckoning where my kids outnumber me and I am without teammate Ange. This day came 3 weeks after Caleb's birth. Angela, despite having gone through the graphic details I have left out above, was heading back in to her school to attend an 'Old Girls Day.' Armed with 25 ounces of expressed milk, 4 sterilized bottles and invaluable experience of bringing up Anna, I was charged up for 7 hours of quality Saturday time with Anna and Caleb.
As it turned out, this Saturday in early May turned out to be summer. Nearly all of it, in fact. The weather this summer has been wet and cool. For everyone not from Vancouver: just like Vancouver. For everyone from Vancouver, it wasn't anything like Vancouver would normally be, if not for it having been the wettest 11 weeks in the last century. On this day, all that mattered was that it was warm. Even hot. Spying my opportunity, I took advantage of Ange not being part of the shopping equation (and therefore veto-ing ridiculous, frivolous purchases), I immediately piled the kids into the car and drove directly to Toys'R'Us. I found the cheapest possible wading pool, confirmed its suitability with Anna (it got the okay because Tigger and Pooh were on the side), and bought the tiny pool. Ange hadn't been gone 45 minutes and I was back in the garden with Anna filling the pool with water. Within 90 minutes of Ange being gone, we had a full pool, Anna lathered in sun screen, towels strewn across the garden, Caleb sleeping contently in the moses basket in the shade, and I was kicking back my second cup of coffee.
The day went well. Caleb basically ate all day, cleaning off the 25 ounces of expressed milk before rejecting my offers of formula out of hand. Anna was in and out of the pool, but the overwhelmingly most enjoyable game actually involved removing the water from the pool onto the garden decking. The pool supposedly held 240 L of water. Though not efficiently, Anna must have managed to remove about 200 L of water by the end of the day. It's funny what entertains, but I was in no position to complain. I think Ange was a little surprised to come home to a beach party and certainly questioned the pool investment. But in the end, it has to be one of the most enjoyable days I've had since arriving.The British Social Season
Part of being a foreigner is that you try a whole lot harder than the locals. Case and point: Angela Dudek. Ange caught on to the fact the most of the British aristocratic prestige events now allow a few commoners entry as lip-service to the end of classism in the UK. Well, they may have got more than they bargained for this summer. Ange discovered that Johnny-commoner can, in almost all instances, put their name in a lottery to get a ticket to these special events. So, we were entered for everything. And hooray! We managed to get excellent tickets to Wimbledon on the final day. Not at Centre Court, but the atmosphere was gold and it was a fantastic day at he All England Tennis Club. We also attended the Queen's Garden Party at Buckingham Palace. That's a blog in itself. We got ourselves down to Henley for the Regatta. And then, as a bonus, we got tickets to Wembley to see England play football (soccer) and I got to go to Twickenham to see England play the Barbarians in rugby. That's all very English for us colonists!
The big decision
In what can only be described as one of the toughest decisions we've faced in years, Ange and I took a long hard look at our situation here in the UK. We've got family and friends here. Anna is in a great nursery. We've got good jobs. But...
The big but.
The big but landed us with, at least, looking at jobs back in Canada. And, we found them. Very good jobs, in fact. The only thing is: they're in Vancouver. Now those who know me, know that I don't love Vancouver. Besides having a shocking hockey team, the city does my head in. The traffic is appalling. The cost of housing is stupid. The weather is rubbish.
However, and most importantly, we have family and friends in the immediate vicinity. Indeed, we two set of grandparents and some of our oldest and closest friends in the city. We have good jobs. Hell, we have bank accounts set up in Canada and don't need to worry about visas to live there. It's a giant decision to go back to Canada. It's just as big a decision to choose Vancouver over Calgary. But we've made it because of the people. And, quite honestly, we're super excited to be around these people.
When it comes to Vancouver, people can talk about skiing and sailing in the same day: pants because no one ever does it. They can talk about the Olympics: at least we can stop talking about Expo. They can talk about the weather: oh, how we'll discuss the rain. It doesn't make any difference. You can see ancient castles and cathedrals in Reading. They have the Reading Festival every year. The weather is reliably as wet, overcast and temperate as Vancouver. Critically, we've only got a couple of really close friends here. Our friends and family are just too far away for regular visits. We're excited to come to Vancouver because of the people (just as we'll be sad to say goodbye to our friends and family here in the UK and how disappointed we are that our friends in Calgary won't be closer).
An couple of examples of the sort of thing that will have us sad to leave:
International moves
So, we prepare for another international move with an infant. This time we can throw in a toddler for good measure. We're expecting to arrive in Vancouver some time in mid October, giving us about 4 weeks to organise the move and shut down everything here. We've got to sell two cars (anyone know someone interested in a 2003 Toyota Corolla?), ship our belongings, cancel dozens of services, maximise our English Heritage passes, see family in Norfolk, London and Dorset, see friends in London and Southampton, pack our things, buy our tickets home, and finish up at our jobs.
In usual Fitch-Dudek fashion, we'll throw in a couple of twists to make it truly interesting. Ange and Anna's visa runs out on 19 September. So, we've got to leave the country to have them re-enter on a different visa: chuck in a trip to Paris for the weekend to facilitate that. Caleb was born here and we have our church community. Let's kick in a baptism at our church (happily, finalized today) for the 28th of September. Then, because I want to, we're heading off to France for the first two weeks of October to have a holiday. You know, relax, kick back and soak in European culture, coffee and wine.
So, there you go. Check back soon. I promise that in amongst the chaos, there's bound to be a story or two to tell.
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