Therese is feeling dispirited and overwhelmed today by the administrative tree trunks that keep falling in our path. This time it's the utility company getting our address wrong, requiring yet another call, letter, or e-mail which will be ignored along with all the others Therese has written to banks, real estate agents, internet "providers", contractors (the last tenant left us a water-logged floor), and civil authorities since our arrival. Yesterday it was the Austrian police having no clue where in Salzburg I could get fingerprints taken, which the Canadian police need in order to run a criminal-record check on me, which the Austrian authorities need in order to complete my visa application. Round and round we go.
I'm in a funk today, too. Therese is at the university, and I can't think of anything to do with the kids. The play room -- spotless as of last night -- is a junk heap after just two waking hours. Cornelia has a cold. The dishes are piled high. The kids are still not dressed and generally look like orphans. Living abroad is not just a year-long romantic get-away. It is hard work at times, some days full of thrills, some days are like watching the lawn grow, just like at any other stage of life.
After a tedious morning of moping (and mopping), I finally get out of the house with Bettina and Vanessa on our way to Mt. Gaisberg. I have Bettina to thank for the idea; she saw my screen background and said, "That's Gaisberg! Daddy, can we go there today?" Why, yes we can! Two points for the four-year-old!
The blue sky and jolly moods of my two mini-companions infuse me with new energy. The view from the mountain peak never gets old; it's spectacular every time. The girls take in a gasp when a hang glider suddenly swooshes over us, not 30 feet over our heads.
Looking over the valley, Vanessa realizes out loud that the horizon is not a fixed place; it looks different to each person at each height. I just love these synaptic moments in my children. They make the vagaries of fatherhood all worth it, hair knots and all. And there are more moments to come on this trip! Waiting for our return-bus to push off, the kids are gagging on the smoke of the bus driver who's having one before taking the wheel. Why do people smoke, Daddy? Insert loving, fatherly explanation of nicotine, pleasure synapses and addiction, and the tragic cautionary tale of their grandfather who smoked at 17 already and whose life was cut short as a result. Is that why everyone was crying at the funeral, Daddy? How I love them both.
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