Because our hosts lived a good half hour away from their farm shed/organic chocolate factory, we were at the mercy of their cars twice a day, 3 days a week. The magnificent specifics of these vehicles are as follows:
1.)Our hostess' car had panels of different colors and looked quite like a botched face lift. The pulls on the handles were missing, so to open the sliding side doors, we had to basically pinch the tiny bit of remaining grip between 2 fingers and pull with all our might. Though station wagon sized, there was only one passenger seat, so 2 out of the 3 of the wwoofers generally laid down for a pretty comfy nap in the back on the ride home, nestled among boxes of chocolates on good days and bags of trash on the bad ones. Tragically, on one of the trash days, I was rudely awoken from a much deserved nap after a 9 hour day of factory work when a bag of rubbish fell directly onto my face, much to the rest of the car's delight.
2.)The aforementioned white van (see post #1), which also had just one other conventional seat as the back had been crafted as homemade camper. The other places to sit were a mini PortaPotty (Jessamyn's fave spot) and our host's wheelchair. This had a tendency to not only tip over with every turn, but, even with the wheels locked, would somehow manage to slide back and forth, unfailingly smashing into and breaking the ankles of whomever had the loo seat. Not helping matters was our host's amusement with our plight (during one ride, Jessamyn nearly had the contents of the toilet sloshed out all over her) and often the smoothness of the ride had to do with how benevolent he was feeling that particular day. The pleasure he was taking in our seatbelt-less, tossed-about-the-back-of-the-van-tragedy (in combination with his sinisterly silly laugh), necessitated serious hours of discussion about which comic villian he reminded us of. Her combination of Dr. Evil and the Count from Sesame St. is not quite perfect, but as close as we've come so far.
3.)The Piece of Shit was ironically, but somehow not surprisingly, the most luxurious car of all. With more than enough seats and functioning seatbelts to go around and no major missing pieces, I never quite caught what made this car the only one deserving of an actual (and disparaging) name. It was never (as I first understood it to be), "Man, we need to start looking for a new car, that thing's a piece of shit," but rather, "'Are you going in the van or the Piece of Shit to pick up groceries?' 'Well, the van's got more space, but the Piece of Shit needs petrol, so I guess I'll take it.'"
In current, but equally as harrowing news, I drove a backwards car on the left side of the road for the first time today! Although it was easier than I expected, if I'm going to get advanced about this, I'm going to need to stop turning on the windshield wipers every time I want to change lanes.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Sometimes your surrogate grandmother turns out to be a kitten killer.
For now, let's call her "Gertie." Something tells me that she's not the blog reading type of modern girl, but one never knows. Apparently there are lots of things I didn't know about Gertie.
Imagine, if you will, a lovely, lovely older lady who, after a lifetime of dairy farming, chooses to work part time in a small chocolate factory. Formerly a yogurt and cheese shop, she's stayed through the change of ownership and chosen to keep active by learning all about the variety of delicious goods that have been made in this unassuming little farm shed for a bit over a decade now. Incredibly efficient, she kindly chides you when you don't keep up with her experienced pace and then launches into a tangentially related 20 minute story about her life (only a small portion of which you catch, seeing how the Kiwi grandma accent is the hardest of all dialects to understand). When lunchtime rolls around, she sits, not in a chair at the picnic table like those half or one quarter her age, but rather on a tree stump which, with her already petite stature, puts her a good head or 2 shorter than everyone else at the table. Pretty good candidate for vacation grandmother surrogate, right? That's what I thought. But, unfortunately, Gertie had some skeletons in her closet. Like, real ones. Of the baby cat variety.
One of the most intriguing characters in our new home was the cat known as Huscheli Wuscheli. Wuscheli being Swiss German for disheveled hair and something good to snuggle (I'm pretty sure I've got that right); Huscheli Wuscheli the First being our host's childhood teddy bear. Born without a tail but with fluffy brown fur on his hind legs and a frolicsome nature, he resembles nothing more than a dancing circus bear in knickers. But not that sad.
What IS sad was the fate of his sister. Our hosts were telling us H. Wuscheli's story over dinner one night and I guess that whatever caused him to be born tailless also gave him digestive issues. And when it was discovered that his sister was a bit worse off in both areas (tail and digestion), where did they send her? Not to the vet, but to Gertie. Who was, our hosts assured us as Jessamyn and I sat there in horror, among her many talents, an accomplished baby animal killer. Needless to say, I'm back in the market for a Kiwi grandma who I can trust around small creatures.
Imagine, if you will, a lovely, lovely older lady who, after a lifetime of dairy farming, chooses to work part time in a small chocolate factory. Formerly a yogurt and cheese shop, she's stayed through the change of ownership and chosen to keep active by learning all about the variety of delicious goods that have been made in this unassuming little farm shed for a bit over a decade now. Incredibly efficient, she kindly chides you when you don't keep up with her experienced pace and then launches into a tangentially related 20 minute story about her life (only a small portion of which you catch, seeing how the Kiwi grandma accent is the hardest of all dialects to understand). When lunchtime rolls around, she sits, not in a chair at the picnic table like those half or one quarter her age, but rather on a tree stump which, with her already petite stature, puts her a good head or 2 shorter than everyone else at the table. Pretty good candidate for vacation grandmother surrogate, right? That's what I thought. But, unfortunately, Gertie had some skeletons in her closet. Like, real ones. Of the baby cat variety.
One of the most intriguing characters in our new home was the cat known as Huscheli Wuscheli. Wuscheli being Swiss German for disheveled hair and something good to snuggle (I'm pretty sure I've got that right); Huscheli Wuscheli the First being our host's childhood teddy bear. Born without a tail but with fluffy brown fur on his hind legs and a frolicsome nature, he resembles nothing more than a dancing circus bear in knickers. But not that sad.
What IS sad was the fate of his sister. Our hosts were telling us H. Wuscheli's story over dinner one night and I guess that whatever caused him to be born tailless also gave him digestive issues. And when it was discovered that his sister was a bit worse off in both areas (tail and digestion), where did they send her? Not to the vet, but to Gertie. Who was, our hosts assured us as Jessamyn and I sat there in horror, among her many talents, an accomplished baby animal killer. Needless to say, I'm back in the market for a Kiwi grandma who I can trust around small creatures.
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