360 Degrees Longitude (11 page)

We had left our tandems in storage at Zermatt's train station. Still unable to use her crutches due to her sprained wrist, and now with no wheelchair, Katrina was perched on my shoulders just like when she was three years old. We watched the train slowly depart, leaving us in this strange new place. September announced that she was going to look for information about accommodations, then disappeared.

My gaze turned from our massive pile of bicycle panniers scattered about my feet to Jordan. I said, “Well. Now what happens?”

Jordan looked up at me with a complete lack of comprehension. “You're silly, Dad.”

I lifted Katrina off my shoulders, sat her down on a bench, then turned to Jordan and said, “I'm not silly. I'm tired and could use an ice cream cone.” I pointed to a small convenience store. “Go over there and get me an ice cream cone, and when you're done with that, see if there's a tourist office and find us a hostel.”

“Dad. I never know when to take you seriously.”

With some relief I spotted an ATM in the distance. One problem solved.

We were refugees from the high prices of Western Europe. We had briefly considered the offers to stay at friends' homes during Katrina's convalescence but decided to head for Eastern Europe where we believed living indoors would be affordable. Camping in our current state was simply out of the question.

While I was negotiating with Jordan for an ice cream cone, September was perusing the bulletin board at the train station. She returned with a small piece of paper she'd found posted there. “This was the only thing I could read,” she explained, handing me the flyer. “Hostel Skippy offers free pickup from the train station.”

“I like the name. Sounds like a winner.” After our ice cream issue was resolved, September pulled out the cell phone that had been faithfully serving us since London and dialed the number printed on the flyer.

“It reminds me of the Burrow,” Jordan commented as we approached the hostel.

I was having the same thought. Hostel Skippy was on the banks of the Vltava River and appeared to be held together by paranormal means; one good exorcism and the entire structure would dissolve. Of course you knew that the Burrow is Ron Weasley's house. If you didn't, ask a kid to explain.

Skippy, the Rastafarian half-Cuban, half-Czech matron of the hostel, greeted us at the door. She was a walking, talking TMI telling anyone waaaay more about herself than polite conversation would dictate. We stepped into the entry when suddenly, with no provocation, she proceeded to tell us her life story and how she came to be matron of the hostel that bears her name.

“I bought this place for 800 U.S. dollars ten years ago when it was in shambles,” she explained. “I did all the repairs myself.”

I glanced at the rope holding up the front door frame and made a mental note that building inspectors are underappreciated.

In the microcosm of our nuclear family, Katrina and Jordan are … well “nuclear” is a good adjective. But to the casual observer they are reserved, perhaps even shy children. Katrina began to attract adults who wanted to hear how her leg came to be encased in plaster, and she had to confront her injury without pretending it away. For Katrina, this was more difficult than the broken leg. In a matter of just a few weeks this matured her from a little girl who avoided eye contact into a young lady who could look adults in the eye when speaking to them. Skippy was simply the first person to help Katrina through that transition.

“What happened to you!?” Skippy asked when she saw me carrying Katrina.

Katrina pretended to be invisible.

“She was rock climbing and the rope snapped,” I said after an awkward silence. “Not only did she break her leg, but her wrist is sprained.”

“You are lucky you just broke your leg!” Skippy exclaimed. “Did you bite your tongue, too? I bit my tongue once. Fell off a ladder and needed stitches, then couldn't talk for a week. Do you want to see the scar?” Skippy stuck her tongue out and simultaneously tried to give more details about her injury.

Katrina started giggling. I couldn't imagine Skippy not being able to talk. I needed to change the subject before she started showing us any more scars. “I was hoping,” I interjected, “that you could help us find a wheelchair we could use while we're here.”

“A wheelchair will not be of much use in Cesky Krumlov,” Skippy explained. “The town is a maze of cobblestone streets built on hills with long flights of stone steps.”

We discovered there was a lot more to Skippy than her scar and that she essentially built her hostel herself, albeit with the help she received from the spirits that lived with her right there in the hostel. She was a capable and resourceful woman, but I still went to bed each night praying I wouldn't wake up in the Vltava River.

• • •

Just as it had taken time to develop a routine when we were cycling, it was going to take time to adjust our routine to Katrina's limited mobility. This meant a hundred little things and one big thing: I started participating more when school was in session.

I had big hopes for school results over the year. In public school, both Katrina and Jordan had approached mathematics with the same enthusiasm they would have for cleaning hair out of a floor drain. I
loved
math and science as a kid. When teaching my children, my infectious enthusiasm was going to bubble over in class and before long they would be receiving grants from the National Academy of Sciences and having sweet dreams of partial differential equations.

I hit our little school like a gigantic belly flop.

The following Saturday while I was talking on the phone with my mother a half a world away, I complained about the children's lack of academic focus. “This shouldn't surprise you. You used to have a bite of dinner and then run around the kitchen table before you sat down for another bite.” I thought I heard the faint hint of a snicker on the other end of the phone.

“My point is you couldn't sit still either,” she continued. “Remember what your junior high English teacher told you.”

That was really hitting below the belt. I have a selective memory for a reason; it is much more convenient than electroshock therapy. I may have done well in math and science, but I once had an English teacher who told me, “The only reason I'm giving you as high as a D minus is so that I will never have you in class again.”

I was keener to teach Katrina than Jordan. Not only could Jordan not sit still, he was plowing through blatant memorization of the times tables. Katrina, on the other hand, was learning algebra, a “real” subject that applied to everything from cake recipes to Newton's Third Law of Motion.

“You know, there's a reason you're a rocket scientist and not an elementary school teacher,” September said, pulling me aside after a particularly dismal morning of school. “You lost Katrina with that rock example.”

“The relationship of kinetic and potential energy is a straightforward application of algebra. What's wrong with that?”

“Listen,” replied September, “a lot of Katrina's friends still play with Barbies. If you want a real-world application of algebra that she can relate to, you need to stick with, say, how many cans of cat food you need for a litter of ten kittens.”

With my help, Katrina liked math even less than when we'd left California, if such a thing was possible. “You help Jordan with his times tables,” September told me one day, “and I will help Katrina with the Pythagorean theorem.”

It wasn't long before I was banned from teaching Jordan as well, after a class we held in a small park.

“All I said was that seven times eight is the same as eight times seven.” I stood my ground—as the teacher, I didn't want to get expelled from school. “And then he started throwing things at me.”

“It isn't what you said, it's what you where doing when you said it. I understand that Jordan wants to swing from a branch, but you shouldn't. You're setting a bad example. You can't imitate a monkey and hope to get anywhere.” September was folding her arms across her chest and looking at me sternly.

I don't think the kids dreamed of partial differential equations once.

• • •

We had started taking P-Days in England roughly once a week so we could get caught up on various mundane tasks, such as laundry, but also to take a break from sightseeing and to recharge our batteries. Our first full day in Cesky Krumlov turned out to be a P-Day and we didn't get very far past Hostel Skippy's; on day two it was time to see what this new place was all about.

Cesky Krumlov is a UNESCO World Heritage site and rich with lots of sights to see. The castle, situated high on a hill, was built in the thirteenth century overlooking the Vltava River. The walled center of the city is full of quaint stone buildings that time has preserved from the 15th and 16th centuries. Walking down the narrow cobblestone paths with Katrina perched high on my shoulders made me feel as if I were indeed living in a long-ago century … except that there was an Internet café on every street corner. And due to its location in a former Eastern Bloc country, everything was incredibly cheap. But—true to the Eastern Bloc stereotype—by the looks on people's faces walking down the street, everyone looked miserable, as if they'd all recently had root canals and expected another one wasn't far off.

We climbed up a long hill to visit the castle in town. The castle had hundreds of stairs and the ceiling was low enough that I couldn't carry Katrina on my shoulders inside. Defeated, we milled about the castle courtyard looking as though
we
recently had root canals.

This was a low point. We were barred from doing the things we love and had come to do: cycling, hiking, swimming. We were even barred from the things that we merely tolerated: sightseeing at an old castle. Later, back at the hostel, we sat on the rear porch overlooking the Vltava River and watched people in canoes attempt to go over the locks. At least half the attempts resulted in the canoe capsizing. It lifted my spirits somewhat to watch people get thrown into the chilly water.

“Let's do that!” September was speaking, but I was wondering if one of the spirits that possessed the hostel had found a new host.

“You're joking, right? Katrina can't get her cast wet. Have you observed the capsize rate going over the locks?”

“Well, yes I have, but you're just noticing the canoes. Watch the rubber rafts. Not one has tipped over.”

There were probably ten canoes for every raft, but she had a point.

“All we have to do is get a big garbage bag and wrap her cast in it. Worst case, she gets her cast wet and we get a new one.”

Next thing I knew we were at a rafting outfitter in town. I was anticipating a release form of some kind that I would have to sign—you know, the standard legalese mumbo jumbo stating that if I die, my descendants waive the rights to sue or haunt the outfitter from beyond the grave. Instead, the nice person who was helping me smiled and handed me a bottle.

“What's this?” I asked. The man who was helping me spoke exactly three words of English: “Hi” and “Monica Lewinsky.” Actually, “Lewinsky” is Polish, so make that two words of English, but he knew more English than I knew Czech. Context is everything, so asking “What's this?” while holding up the bottle was sufficient to frame the question.

“Grog,” he grunted.

I didn't think I needed “grog” to captain the raft, so I tried to give it back. The man looked affronted, so I slipped it into my pocket.

He led us to the water where we would shove off, but I wanted life jackets, if not for all of us, at least for Katrina, who couldn't swim with her cast. I made the universal sign-language symbol of a person drowning and then pantomimed someone putting on a jacket. The man looked perplexed. Had no one ever requested a life vest before? After a few earnest pantomiming motions he disappeared from view.
Since about the time we'd met the Harley-riding Frenchmen, I had been taking a mental inventory of differences we found in people and cultures. I wondered if the U.S. Coast Guard had ever considered The Grog Approach to boating preparedness.

 

Jordan's Journal, July 23

Today we went river rafting. Katrina wore a plastic garbage bag over her cast. We went down a small waterfall and rapids. We got soaked. On one canoe there was a person who was standing up and singing “I drank too much and now I'm drunk and I sound like an idiot.” He sang it in Czech, so we just had to guess what he was saying
.

There were so many people plying the waters of the river—for the afternoon or even for the week—it was clearly the thing to do in the area. The four of us were the only sober people on the river. Everyone else was stinking drunk and clearly enjoying themselves way more than they should have been. It was an interesting glimpse behind all those root-canal grimaces that greeted us around town. A little grog and the next thing you knew folks were trying to dance in a canoe. People must have been confused as to why we were sober because
many
made friendly gestures to give us as much booze as we wanted.