Here in Hanover, it’s become cool – indeed almost cold. We’ve raked several tons of leaves over the cliff that marks the boundary of Bedlam Abode, the Martin Family Estate in the mountains of Upper New England. In a break with recent tradition, I spent most of the last few weeks in the United States.

About the end of last winter, we began to make plans for another (gasp!) home renovation project. Nazy wanted to upgrade the look and feel of the Martin Family Chateau so that it would reflect the old-world charm and mystique that we’d come to appreciate after our stay in Europe. She wanted to upgrade the upstairs that had been impervious to previous improvement projects. Naturally, Mother Nature (and Father Time) intervened.

Reality shoved grand dreams out the way. As winter approached, we elected to acquire a functional furnace. When sooty (brittle) bricks began breaking from the chimney (and falling into the fireplace), an expert evaluation mandated rapid repair. Melika, sliding over the slippery sandblasted surface of the garage, simply suggested swift replacement of an obviously leaking heating oil tank. Things got worse when the heating oil delivery truck got tangled up in the jungle canopy fashioned by everlasting evergreens elaborately enveloping everything in the driveway. Then, in a break with tradition, previous work to redirect the mountain spring that had been discharging into the garage was deemed successful. The mountain brook bypassed the garage and meandered into the basement – where it overloaded the dehumidifier. There, subterranean moisture evaporated turning hardwood floors soggy. The part that didn’t evaporate seeped into cracks and crevices in the granite outcropping that formed the foundation of the estate. The granite decayed, exposing an iron outcropping that dripped into the well. Clear well water turned red and iron fillings slipped through the (flawed) defenses of the family filtration device – lodging instead in the valves of the washing machine and dishwasher. So, we’ve replaced the oil tank, installed a new heater, fixed the chimney, installed a moisture barrier in the basement, acquired a new water filter and hacked a path to the garage. The expen$es ballooned, but the house looks no different.

Needless to say, Nazy and I were not happy with the developments.

“At least”, I said, as we considered our options in the (previously) renovated kitchen. “We’ve got granite countertops and Spanish tile flooring. This room will last forever.”

Then I dropped my Coca-Cola. Bending down to clean up the mess, I noticed that the Spanish tiles in the far corner of the room had sunk – pulling away from the oak cabinets topped with heavy granite. The room may last forever, but the weight of the granite and tile warped the foundation. So the room won’t remain useful forever. We’re going to jack up the corner of the house. Given the way things are going, we expect the house to slide over the cliff onto Hemlock Street. (Alternatively, we may simply drink the hemlock.)

Nazy, ever cheerful, decided to attack another minor problem. The bathroom vents upstairs had stopped venting. Neighbors suggested that lint was clogging the outlet. It wasn’t lint – it was a wasp nest: a large wasp nest – full of hibernating wasps.

HINT

It is not a good idea to wake hibernating wasps.

Back at Syracuse, Darius, Mr. Spontaneity, missed all the excitement. Instead, he prepared to depart on a trip to Venezuela. His destination was chosen after an extensive search. He called American Airlines.

“What’s the cheapest intercontinental flight that you have?”

“Caracas, Venezuela.”

“Sounds good to me, I’ll take it.”

“The tickets are non-refundable, sir.”

“So what? I’ll only want a refund if I change my mind.”

Thus, in midst of exams, Thanksgiving holidays and snowstorms in Syracuse, Darius will be visiting South America. While we applauded Darius’ spirit of adventure, we were somewhat dismayed to discover that he hadn’t clearly thought through the ramifications of spending four days in Venezuela. In turn, he was shocked when we suggested that his choice of destination was related to the fact that no one else in the family had been to Venezuela.

Luckily, Nazy has a friend with family in Venezuela. (Nazy has a friend everywhere.) Even more amazingly, this family owns several hotels in Caracas and on the beach. The wonders of international Email (and telephone) have come to our aid. Darius will have a place to stay. Moreover, his (non-existent) Spanish skills won’t be put to a strong test.

My own recent international adventures in Norway are coming to a close. Kværner has a new CEO who doesn’t like spending money. Moreover, the work that had been defined is now complete. Things have turned around. They’ve stopped screaming and they don’t want to sue us anymore. In fact, they volunteered to be a reference site during my last visit. Normally, I’d be happy to leave on a high note, but I had planned one more trip for (purely) business reasons. (I’m 458 miles from Gold Elite Frequent Flyer status and I have some Christmas shopping that I want to finish.)

With Norway closed for the winter, I swallowed hard and scheduled a trip to Houston. I wasn’t thrilled about the prospect. The last time I was in Houston, the city was in the midst of a smoke alert. (Mexico was on fire and the smoke was drifting into Texas.) There were no such problems this time. The local traffic alert told the story:

“…flash flood watches in all counties in the listening area. The freeways are flooded at the normal places, so take the standard precautions.”

Applying the rudder pedals to my rented amphibian, I floated into the local Marriott. As expected, the rain had driven the bugs (actually spiders) inside. More impressively, my fourth floor hotel room was flooded. (Horizontal rain had been pushed by gale force winds through the weather seal.) I just love Houston.

Melika is getting ready to apply to a whole snoot full of colleges. I don’t think she’s got a favorite yet (but, it won’t be in Houston). I also know that she doesn’t know what she wants to study. It will be an interesting winter. She’s also working and continues to take great joy in dashing around in the Talon. In spite of her clear intellect, she continues to believe that the Talon is ‘her’ car. The following exchange was indicative of the situation:

“You want me to use the van?”

“Yes, Melika. Your Mom and I are going..”

“But, I want to ‘hang out’ at the FoodStop after work.”

“I know. Take VAN-GO.”

“You want me to ‘hang out’ in the van?”

“No. You can ‘hang out’ at the FoodStop. Just park the van.”

“You want me to drive to the FoodStop - in the van? That’s not fair.”

“Fine, Melika. We’ll park the Talon at the FoodStop. You can lean against it and pretend you drove it. Park the van at the bank and walk.”

“Walk? You want me to walk? It’s just so unfair. The van is not cool.”

“But we’re cool, Melika. That’s why we’re going to take the Talon.”

“You don’t have to be cool… I mean, the van is ‘cool’ for old far – eh old folks.”

“Bad choice of words, Melika. Have fun with VAN-GO.”

“But..”

Nazy and I had a cool evening.