Tuesday, 19 October 2010

Things That Rumble and Shake in the Night, Doors That Won’t Open, and a Failing Internet (or the Rule of Three)

You know how sometimes nothing seems to go right? Well, that sometimes started last night and hasn’t stopped. Your trampess decided to crawl into bed with her Kindle and read until lights out. Here in the Austrian countryside (once all the cars go to bed), it is very quiet: the cows are in the barn, the goats are tucked up, children are in bed, and so are the farmers. All in all, very peaceful. There was the slight hum of the dishwasher, but your trampess knew that would not be for very long and in any event was not loud enough to keep anyone awake (despite not being a German dishwasher, which would definitely not keep one awake even if in the same room). All of a sudden the WLW started to shake (not good) and a large hum began – a very large hum, the sort of hum that takes over the brain and makes it very difficult to concentrate on even very riveting books. Still, the trampess decided not to panic; the tramp was in the living room and was no doubt doing something important. Several very long and painful minutes later (the humming was very penetrating and the trampess was trying very hard to use all her meditative skill to ignore it), she called out to the tramp – just by way of enquiring whether this would persist for much longer. No answer. Then the slamming of external compartment doors – the tramp was obviously outside dealing with complexities. Best not to appear critical and wait for some explanation – assuming, of course, one would be forthcoming. And no point going outside in one’s pyjamas to find out (not with an external temperature of 2C) and the almost certain likelihood on encountering a grumpy tramp.

The noise (hum was really a very kind word for what had now gone on long enough to give anyone a migraine who was that way inclined – luckily your trampess is not that way inclined) continued and much pacing was heard (well, it is hard to do a lot of pacing in a confined space, but your tramp was doing as much as humanely possible) as well as the door opening and closing with subsequent slamming of outside compartments. Still no word. Finally, the tramp put his head into the bedroom, and the trampess (with perhaps a touch of concern in her voice – always a mistake – she did try to control it) enquired when the misery might end. The tramp made some comment to the tune of the hydraulics adjusting themselves and did I think he was having fun. And then, as an almost throwaway line he said, “This could go on all night,” and disappeared. 45 minutes was bad enough (I had contemplated wrapping myself in a duvet, going to the car and driving to one of the very empty hotels in the village, but that seemed like desertion and behaviour unbecoming a devoted wife, not to mention clearly not in keeping with the vows of for better or for worse, no question which this was) but all night could prove a real challenge., I mean one could run a marathon in less time. Wrapping a pillow around my head seemed a little less extreme than either running into the mountains or repairing to an hotel. After a few minutes of unsuccessful mediation the circuit board sprang to mind. I climbed out of bed, hoping that I had latched on to a solution for stopping the noise, if not curing the problem (11pm put any external help way beyond the pale: German engineering is world class, but German engineers do sleep and no solution would be found from the local Austrian farmers), and went to put it to the tramp, surrounded by manuals and on his computer. I suggested that perhaps if one pulled out the appropriate circuit breaker (after all they are so well labelled if one speaks German, and the tramp is German, so surely he would know which was the appropriate one) then the noise would stop. By this time your trampess was worried not only for the tramps’ good night sleep but the neighbours as well, and believe me no one wants the Austrian police to show up in the night trying to enforce noise abatement legislation (especially if one can do absolutely nothing about it!). The tramp looked up, clearly appreciative of the trampess’s effort to help, and not remotely dismissive of the suggestion, replied in a rather low voice, “I already tried that.” And so the trampess went back to bed, wrapped a pillow around her head and concentrated on pretending she was somewhere else in the universe. Remind me to reread Thomas Aquinas. Miraculously, a few minutes later the noise, as precipitously as it started, abated. As it was well past the trampess’s bedtime, sleep came fast on the heels of silence.

The next morning, the tramp was sitting at his computer when the trampess rose. Clearly the silence was not necessarily the result of the tramp’s intervention. But thinking he looked slightly better than the previous night, your trampess ventured a timid what-was-that-all-about sort of question. The tramp smiled (not one of his joyous, exuberant, whole heart on the face sort of smiles you understand, but a smile nonetheless), and said, “the compressor, I think we have pneumatic problems.” He went on to explain that the WLW periodically self adjusts and balances itself (in order to remain perfectly level – this is a German machine – Vorsprung durch Technik und so weiter – level must mean level, not almost level, or quite level or level enough). This self levelling is, obviously useful and not to be sneered at since it means the interior doesn’t feel like a listing boat even if one is parked on a rocky, uneven field. Naturally, it is a very sophisticated, self-regulating suspension system that can achieve such perfection. Why did it go wrong? Perhaps it was unhappy to be sitting around for so long without exercise. Perhaps it noticed the stakes in the field and tape (electrified no doubt) connecting them, that had gone up the previous day around it, on one side less than a foot away – no doubt indicating that soon the local cows would move from the lower field to the field the tramps have their backside in (a bit like Pooh in Rabbit’s kitchen when he got stuck). Perhaps it didn’t like the thought of cows rubbing their backside on its nice shiny walls. No one knows what is in the mind of a self-adjusting suspension system but it clearly was not a happy SASS. The tramp it seems did not control it so much as listen to it die (at least that is my interpretation of “ich glaube der Kompressor gestorben ist” that was part of a longer conversation with the beloved factory where we stayed so long to make sure everything was under control, so to speak, or so it seemed at the time).

Now when the tramp stays up late, the dining room table is not always, how shall I put it, quite as tidy as the way the trampess left it. Sometimes, the tramp will have snacks and forget about plates (well, they do mean that the dishwasher gets used more frequently and the tramp is on a campaign to improve – ie lengthen the time between washing cycles – it is not the trampess’s view that making the cloth placemats dirty is a way to save water since the washing machine probably uses even more , but when the trampess is not around . . . ).

It clearly was one of those nights when extra nourishment came in the form of knaeckerbrot without the benefit of a plate underneath. Obviously the tramp had had a hard night so the trampess just removed the placemat and went to the door to shake the crumbs for the little birds that can often be seen in the morning before the cats start stalking. But the door wouldn’t open. The door always opens from the inside unless the mechanical bolt is thrown in addition to the electronic locking device. The bolt was not thrown. Your trampess tried again. She tried pressing the button on the handle – this turned on the red light signalling the electronic lock was on. She tried again to open the door. Dear reader, the door stayed shut. She turned to the tramp and explained she couldn’t open the door. The tramp’s eyes rolled, but he came over. He tried. The door did not move. Not only was the Kompressor gestorben, the tramps were trapped in their own home. There is only one door, and the windows are very high off the ground. Luckily, the trampess pointed out, the tramps had gone food shopping yesterday so they could survive for several days until help came. In addition, in extremis, the trampess could be lowered through a window and escape (the daily uphill hikes had paid off in that respect) which would at least mean food could be purchased and passed in at a later date should it come to that. And after all getting back in would surely be easier. Also, it did occur to the trampess that perhaps, just perhaps, the keys, used on the outside, might open the door. After breakfast (never begin difficult tasks on an empty stomach), the key theory was tried (the trampess did not have to prove her agility in exiting through the window – the neighbour was called and the keys tossed down – Rapunzel did come to mind though), but the door remained shut. The lock seemed to be as stubborn as the compressor.

In the meantime, between phone calls, and sitting at our respective computers, the tramp looked at me with a pained expression and asked if I was online. Full signal I said confidently but offered to confirm by opening an article in yesterday’s NYTimes. Ha! And Ha! again - total abject failure with the usual cryptic note saying that the server had not been found (how do you lose a server? This is one of the 21st C’s greatest mysteries). Luckily, restarting the wifi and then restarting my computer – thrice (!) did finally result in a successful connection. But to be locked indoors, unable to move (I mean literally unable to drive), with no communication via the internet, and with less than a week before departure (and two days of driving to get to the airport) could make even the most optimistic trampess feel just a touch of pessimism.

By this time, the tramp’s iPhone (which inconveniently cuts off conversations after it thinks he has talked long enough) and been engaged in numerous calls to the WLW’s home base. The neighbour’s tool kit was passed through the window. The tramp, luckily very skilled with all manner of tools (summers spent on the factory floor as a boy), set to work dismantling the door handle – while talking on the phone in very technical German (at this point your trampess was well beyond her comprehension level and eavesdropping ceased). Still the door remained shut. Finally the neighbour was called back – could she please bang against the door (I think, but I am not sure, this was to help eject pins in the handle). No luck. Then finally a cool draft – I turned around and the tramp was triumphant. The door handle was something else again – cover removed, wires dangling, pins on the steps (would I lose another night’s sleep having to do guard duty?). The trampess was asked to go outside and shut the door – with force. Usually, the trampess is asked not to use so much force on doors so this wasa pleasant change from the norm - until I realised I might be locked out – who knows for how long! (Had I put on a fleece? Was it 3C? was I crazy??). I could hear the tramp babbling away on the phone inside, possibly on another very long conversation. But at least the sun was coming out – and I knew the neighbour would give me shelter if necessary, possibly even a coffee. Life was beginning to look almost rosy: the noise hadn’t gone on all night, the tramps were back on the internet, the door was unlocked (perhaps permanently), and clearly, pessimism is unacceptable on a sunny day in the Alps. Besides, it is well known that problems come in threes (though why it should be so is less well known) and clearly the tramps had had their three. The next report will be triumphant I am sure.

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