Fond farewell

What a sad place our little hotel was this morning, as all the other families dragged their bags to their cars, trying to get an early start on the trip home.  We felt a little odd, being one of only a handful of families who were staying behind.  As the newbs started to trickle in and learn the rope, we old salts looked on sagely from our corner of the dining room.

We especially felt like we were overstaying our welcome when we discovered, yesterday, that we'd listed this morning as our check-out time on our reservation.  Indeed, we probably should have left and given the kids a day at home to get settled before school, but we decided to stay on: we already had our train reservations and were unsure as to how to change them. And I am completely loathed to leave this magical place where all my meals are served, my laundry washed, my children cared for and entertained, and my room cleaned.  Kicking and screaming, it'll be, tomorrow. Unfortunately, our spacious room had been promised to another family, so we had to pack our bags a day early and move to a smaller space.

It was especially sad for the kids to say goodbye to their little friends.  The boys left them a postcard and asked them to keep in touch and visit and stay with them. When Ella saw that, she ran to her room and pulled out two of her KinderEggs (which, as you may remember, rank just below her stuffed turtles in terms of preciousness) and wrote George's and Lucas's names on them, asking that I put them in the mail.  Blinking through tears, she mounted a campaign to travel to Prague.

The hotel effectively empty, the kids just wanted to run around and enjoy the novelty of having all of the toys to themselves, so Dennis and I curled up in our dining room banquette and enjoyed a few coffees and a card game.  Every once in a while one of the kids would dash by, Joey most frequently, as he likes to help me mix my coffee.  "I want cooking," he says, and carefully empties the little pitcher of cream and sugars and then unceremoniously plunks in the biscotti, watching fondly as I frantically fish the cookie out before it dissolves completely.  It's our little thing.

As Dennis and I sat there, I mused that this must be what retirement homes are like.  Everyone shuffles down for their three meals and the odd activity in their slippers (for they're every bit as fanatic about shoes here as they are in the kids' schools), and everyone is familiar, in a hazy sort of way.  If I can only find a home where I can get ein großes Bier each night and the occasional pumpkin-seed-crusted schnitzel, I think I'll enjoy my golden years very much.

Fueled by many tiny, strong, crumb-laden coffees, Dennis and I mustered the energy to take the kids outside for fresh air and one last zip down that line.

And after lunch we took the boys out for a little sledding.  Ella seemed physically and emotionally spent, and chose to hide away in her bunk with her comic books. Dennis and Alex hadn't gotten a chance to play on the sled hill, and Joey and I were eager to show them the fun.  The boys were as cute as brothers could be.







 

When we got back, our re-energized Ella claimed she was going into art-withdrawal ("What I wouldn't give for a single sheet of white paper or one little piece of tape!") and Dennis and I were looking for an excuse to avoid swimming and, thereby, to avoid washing three little blond heads, so I bought the kids each a little kit of playmais, little starchy puffs that stick together when you dampen them. 

It would have been the perfect toy except that now we have a dozen tiny, fragile, water-soluble statues that the kids hope to take home safely. Ah well.  With our bags mostly packed, we have time for one last little challenge.