Archive for April 7th, 2006
To make a long and unbearably boring story short, I am a couple of steps closer to getting the car registered in Canada. For those remotely interested in hearing about it, click the “read more” link… { continue reading… }
Exactly one week ago Frank, Ellen, Milan, Lisa, and I biked to Achelse Kluis, a monastery in Belgium. Almost five years ago, David made this same trip with the family by bicycle. He spoke about it often.
I tried to imagine what David was thinking as I biked along the same paths.
My trip to Europe was more of an emotional journey than a physical one, despite all the rushing around. There are many stories to tell about my experiences, from putting together a memorial presentation for my friend’s son in Hamburg, to meeting the family in Soerendonk who made David feel at home on his first (and last) trip overseas, to sitting outside a cafe on Old Compton Street in London with my friend George after his audition. For someone who dislikes goodbyes, I sure said a lot of them. The hugs were longer, the partings were sadder.
I believe the most powerful communication is non-verbal, which is why it was important for me to make the trip, and why it’s going to take me a while to try and write about it.
In other news, my Form 2 from the Registrar of Imported Vehicles just arrived by e-mail, so it’s time to get that taken care of. The list includes the following requirements to conform to Canadian Motor Vehicle Safety Standards:
- infant restraint kit
- daytime running lights
- French SRS Maintenance label if it is equipped with an airbag that requires periodic maintenance
- recall documentation (I have that)
- air bag equipped vehicles required to have functioning air bags at time of inspection.
I don’t know how they’d check air bags without deploying them — aren’t they meant to deploy only once?
Mister Hugh showing — in his own unbridled way — how excited he is that I’m back after two and a half weeks.
I was informed by his sitter that Hugh wasn’t interested in his treats, or wet food (which is what his daily pill is mixed into), or the litterbox.
Litterbox? What litterbox?
Poor Sitter just could not keep up with the vomit, or what came out the other end. Hugh took his displeasure and spread it around.
Plagued with a case of the guilts, I brought back the most strikingly sumptuous-looking bottle of vodka one can buy at Heathrow’s expansive duty-free emporium to give to the Poor Sitter, and took him for a meal. Hopefully the experience hasn’t turned him off cats forever!
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