these weeks in the odyssey
12.20.99 -- 1.3.00
furna, switzerland

The Office Odyssey Family Christmas Special

Season's greetings and welcome to the Official Office Odyssey Family Christmas Special! Though we don't have Bing Crosby crooning your favorite carols (he's both expensive and dead, a tough combination to overcome with our limited budget and outdated cryogenic facilities here on the Office Odyssey), you can rest assured that we also don't have Kathie Lee, Frank, and the kids fawning over one another in some nancified made for TV holiday sapfest. Phew! What we do have, though, are (cue the band):

Twelve months of travelin', eleven revelers a-revelin' (pictured at right), ten trips to Zurich, nine games of bridge, eight hours of crafts, seven Calvin speeches, six feet of snow -- fiiive bouts of fluuuuuuu....four crashed sleds, three phone plugs, and two laptops...on our Chriiissstmaaas Office Od-y-ssey.

Are you ready? Got your mittens and galoshes on? Stowed your cynical frown someplace cold and damp where it can't get out for the next few minutes? Good! Then let's join hands, make a circle, and maybe if we all listen real hard we can all hear Bing crooning somewhere down inside. The Office Odyssey Family Christmas Special is here! The Office Odyssey Family Christmas Special is here!

I'm dreaaaaaming of a whiiiite Christmaaas....

Christmas this year meant just one thing to us -- the impending arrival of the entire Bohner clan for a holiday miracle of a ten day stay in a rented cabin in the Swiss Alps. Our particular cabin was precariously perched high atop its own personal Alp, looking straight up the Prattigau valley (that's the view pictured at left) to Klosters, some 40 kilometers distant. The town itself was called Furna, a tiny little burg of about 43 (if you count Crazy Gunter the Bus Driver and his three-legged dog, Slouch) party-crazed Swiss, perpetually drunk on kirsch and looking for hot swinging action. Well, so long as sausage-making, cheese-aging, and talking quietly amongst themselves count as "hot swinging action," they were. Also, they were never drunk. Just trying to pump things up a little bit for you there. By the way, if at some point in the remainder of this web page I make reference to being unable to sleep due to the noise of the "Furna Freaks Motorcycle Gang nude-wrestling cows by moonlight," please feel free to revoke my poetic license and write my mom a disapproving email to boot -- I'll have deserved it.

Exiled in Europe as we've been for the last eight months, Kristanne and I couldn't possibly have been prepared for the deluge of Christmas warmth that was heading our way. Oh, to be sure, we'd been eagerly anticipating the oncoming festivities for months, but it was an eagerness born of naivete. An eagerness that knew not what lay in store. An eagerness almost exactly like that felt (we imagine) for the upcoming birth of a child -- you know your life is about to change in some weird and wonderful ways, but you have absolutely no idea how absolutely all-consumingly weird and wonderful it's going to be. Also, we didn't really plan on having to burp and bathe everybody.

Thankfully, despite the notable exceptions of Kristanne's brothers, we were pretty sure everyone would be able to take care of themselves in the burping and bathing departments. In fact, if Kristanne's whispered admonitions were any guide, some of us (okay, me) might be a little too good in the burping department. Hey, as my dear old grandfather used to say, "I like to burp. Also, I like pickled herring on Ritz crackers, washed down with a nice cold Fresca." Grandpa was sort of a curious fellow, now that I think about it.

But enough about Grandpa -- the Bohners are coming! The Bohners are coming! Alas, they were not coming all at once. Oh sure, they were all coming on the same day. It was just that in order to discourage spies, thieves, and the keening hordes of paparazzi that follow their every movement during their stays on the continent (the Bohners are prime tabloid fare over here in Europe), they had secretly arranged to arrive in waves, usually under assumed names, and with cleverly concocted disguises. For example, Kristanne's mom, Rosalie, arrived in full Egyptian period costume with a coterie of carefully selected manservants trailing rose petals behind her Nefertitian gown. Rosalie really understands the subtle dynamics of a well-constructed disguise. For his part, Kristanne's brother Vince decided to propel himself backwards at all times by means only of a Michael Jacksonesque moonwalk. Chuck spoke only in Esperanto, Lisa would periodically (and inexplicably) perform cartwheels in public, and the Koleman Krew of Jen, Jeff, and Libbie (they insisted on that spelling) wore matching Adidas sweatsuits with clocks around their necks, periodically breaking out into improvised raps extolling their abilities to "live large and in charge." This left the two Calvins (they come in small and large sizes), Kristanne, and I to carry the luggage, a task which we were only too happy to perform.

After two trips to the airport by Kristanne and a safe arrival by Chuck, Lisa, and Lo-Cal (the smaller and cuter of the two Calvins) in their rental car, we were all happily reunited in our Christmas Headquarters in Furna, ready to put a hurt on the holidays (Note to Self -- change "put a hurt on" to "enjoy" in the final edit. Also, try to reevaluate the solo career of David Lee Roth. He showed a lot of promise during his Van Halen years.). First, though, we all took some time to drink up that amazing moonrise you see pictured at right (reputedly the brightest one in the last 140 years). The Swiss really know how to put on a moonrise.

In this case, "put a hurt on" translates almost exactly to "go to bed immediately and sleep for sixteen hours." Although Chuck, Lisa, and Calvinito were already completely adjusted to the different time zone owing to the whirlwind tour of Switzerland, Austria, and Germany they'd been on for the past week, the rest of the gang looked like they could use some rest. Rosalie's Nefertiti gown was drooping a bit and Vince just couldn't quite get the same oomph into his moonwalk. Also, I'm pretty sure I heard the Koleman Krew attempt to rhyme "maraschino" with "my Christmas El Camino" while checking the clocks hanging around their necks to see if they could go to bed yet. It's never pretty when rap groups start to lose their street credibility.

Probably the best thing about going to sleep in Furna is waking up and seeing what Mother Nature has thrown your way overnight (as you can see from that picture at left). What can you do when faced with the grandeur of nature in all its stark beauty other than marvel at the goodness that is the earth? What can you do other than revel in the sublimity, drink in the magnificence, soak up the majesty? What indeed?

Well, if you're me, you could also eat some dang breakfast. That would be a good start. Unfortunately, to eat breakfast, what you really need is some food, a commodity which we were notably lacking. So, to forestall any angry riots among the assembled celebrators, Kristanne, Chuck, Vince, Jen, Rosalie, and Libbie piled into the Fiat Multipla (pictured in all its snowbound glory at right) to make the mind-boggling trek back down our Alp to the big grocery store in Landquart.

The drive from Furna to the bottom of the valley (and back) is, quite literally, a man-breaker. That's why we needed Kristanne (who is, in fact, a woman) to take it on. Approximately wide enough for a single Honda Civic and two anorexic chickens, the road spirals precipitously straight up the mountain at a pitch guaranteed to give a mountain goat vertigo. Add to this the sheer dropoffs to oblivion, the lack of a shoulder, the two-way traffic consisting almost entirely of Deathwish Swiss careening widely around corners and the aforementioned Crazy Gunter the Bus Driver (in his bus, natch), and you have the recipe for white knuckles, frayed nerves, and a standing appointment at the therapist of your choice. Fortunately, Kristanne can deal with all this with admirable aplomb, even going so far as to turn around in the driver's seat and soothe her passengers with carefully chosen tales of how she "almost bit it on this road" yesterday. Kristanne really knows how to calm people down.

Safely off the mountain, our intrepid shoppers arrived in Landquart only to find that the Multipla's somewhat strange appearance was causing quite a stir. Disbelieving youngsters chased them down the street, craving a second glance at this new bizarro car rolling down their streets. Passing cars slowed and gaped at the Multipla with open-mouthed stares, unable to comprehend such an unlikely vehicle. Passersby gawked, the small-minded taunted, and the avant-garde cheered -- the Multipla had arrived in Landquart!

Of course, upon later reflection, we weren't quite sure whether everyone was unnerved by the Multipla, or by the fact that it takes six Americans stuffed into a car the size of a phone booth to go grocery shopping. And what grocery shopping it was! Quickly, the crew assembled into tactical assault units, the better to sneak up on the unsuspecting fruits and vegetables that lay within (fruits and vegetables can be surprisingly slippery when they need to be). For her part, Kristanne adopted the role of roving technical adviser, moving from one group to the next to dole out German translations where they were needed. Approaching the check-out commander, however a serious error in strategy became evident -- apparently, the teams had neglected to apply the requisite price stickers to their sundry bags o' greens whilst assembling them in the store. This was bad. If there's one thing you don't want to do in Switzerland, it's to go "off system." The Swiss are like a pack of rabid Virgos -- if you don't do things the way they're supposed to be done, you're in for at least a tongue-lashing, if not an outright public humiliation. Faster than you can say "we fear the wrath of Swiss check-out cashiers," Chuck was off at a sprint back to the scales, bags of vegetables draped from his body. One, two, three sprints, and the deed was done, price stickers applied just in the nick of time (the cashier having just finished licking her lips and pulling the public address microphone over to loudly excoriate the "stupid Americans on Aisle Four"). Phew!

Ah, but the danger had not yet passed! Arriving in the grocery store's parking garage, each car is issued a handy little card with a magnetic stripe. This bad boy is your ticket back out of the garage -- once you're ready to leave, you insert it in a little machine, pay the requisite fare for the time you've parked, and then get it back, fully paid and ready to insert in the machine that lifts the gate so you can leave. Great system, right? Very Swiss and all that. However, our clever crew had already noticed that the first half hour of parking was completely free. Having miraculously finished their shopping trip in under the requisite half hour, they ably piloted the Multipla to the exit gate (skipping the validation machine in the process since the parking was to be free), ready to insert their ticket and be gone. O, that things could be so simple! O, that free parking could really be free parking! Alas, it was not to be. No matter how many times the card was inserted and reinserted, the furshlugginer barrier would not rise. Cars began to get in line behind the Multipla, acting impatient in a Swiss way (ie, they refused to make eye contact but otherwise did nothing). The situation was dire -- immediate action was required. Thrusting the car into reverse, Kristanne narrowly avoided collision with the car behind her by driving over the curb and back into the parking lot. Floating like a butterfly and stinging like a bee, Chuck was out of the car and over to the little parking validation machine to insert the card in a flash, only to be told that the parking was indeed free. What the...? Back into the Multipla again to retry the exit gate...would it work? A huge chorus of "Ausfahrt OK!" from the Multipla was the only answer as the gate finally lifted, allowing our noble shoppers to leave the parking garage once and for all. Yea!

Our larder finally fully stocked, we set about doing the things that people do when on vacation in the Swiss Alps -- making snowmen, yodeling, mocking the clothing tastes of others...that sort of thing. Lending a particular urgency to our activity was the weather forecast. Apparently, a no-fooling blizzard was heading our way, due to arrive the next morning. Now, I don't know about you, but blizzards mean only one thing to Chuck -- time to head out into the snow with your eight month old son on your back and teach him what being a man is all about (that's them leaving at left). Time to excavate some snow caves for shelter. Time to gather roots and berries. Time to shoot some game to keep you hale and hearty during the oncoming storm. Time to fell some timber and construct a small helipad in case of emergency medical evacuations. Time to weigh the merits of proscenium arches in classical igloo construction. Time to strip naked, ritually beat your breast with a switch cut from a fir tree, and cry your bawdy song to the thunder gods above. This was exactly the kind of stuff young Calvin needed to learn in order to survive in the modern world. What better time than a blizzard to get him started? Fortunately, Calvin proved to be a quick study and the both of them were soon back inside, sipping on a hot cocoa, snugly waiting for the weather with the rest of us.

And, oh, what weather it was! Great buckets of snow came piling down upon us in waves, enveloping us in a wintry wonderland. Our mascot snowman, ably constructed the day before by Jen and Jeff, was already showing the effects of the weather (as you can see at right), having metamorphosed overnight into a haunting reminder of what was and what would never be again. Well, unless we went ahead and just build another one -- it was, after all, just a snowman. Happily snowbound, we turned to the warmth of the fire and each other to keep us cozy while the flakes kept on falling outside.

Ah, but blizzards have their dangers even indoors. For example, there is the rare but much-feared Bridge Stalker, known to prowl the hallways of the housebound, looking for unsuspecting victims. Known chiefly by it's haunting call -- "Hey, we need a fourth to get a game up! Anybody want to play? Sid? Sid? Sid?" -- there is little you can do to avoid its icy clutches. With a song as enchanting as that of any siren, you soon find yourself trapped between your own personal Scylla and Charybdis (umm, "Libbie and Rosalie"), twisting horribly in their sick web of bridge playing madness. Faster than you can say "my mother told me never to play bridge with strangers," you'll find yourself saying things you'd never say in your normal life. Things like "East bids three hearts and wishes his partner would tell him what to do." Or, "I can take that trick if only I knew what a trick was." Or, "If this is a no trump game, who let The Donald in here?" Like I said, it can get strange fast.

Unfortunately for me, everyone else was either busy digging paths to the snow caves Chuck and Calvin built yesterday or else it was their turn in the rousing game of Pass The Virus we'd all been playing since our arrival. I'd just finished that game yesterday and was still shaky but almost back on to solid foods. In other words, easy prey for the Bridge Stalkers. Still, I have to admit that the Bridge Stalkers pale in comparison to the other danger faced by the blizzard-bound -- the Craftmongers.

Craftmongers -- the very word strikes fear into the heart of everyone who ever limped their way through elementary school art class, eating paste and wondering why there were never any left-handed scissors (which is to say, me). Sneaky-dangerous, they prey on the unsuspecting, sidling up to you while you're gazing out at a view like that one at left and whispering in your ear, "Hey, you wanna make a papier-mache Santa Claus? I've got some old newspaper right here. C'mon...everybody's doing it. You do want to be cool, don't you?" You can usually recognize Craftmongers by the bulging bags they typically carry, stuffed with all manner of beads, sealing wax, wire, popsicle sticks, yarn, and lots and lots of Elmer's Glue. You can also recognize them if they look anything at all like my mother-in-law, Rosalie, a wonderful person but also a card-carrying member of the Den Of Craftmongers (official insignia, a macramed upraised fist crocheted onto a gingham teapot cozy).

Now, I really don't mind crafts all that much -- it's just that I could not possibly be worse at them. Adding to my discomfort, of course, is the fact that all the Bohners (and Colemans) are ridiculously good at them. So, while I labored away constructing what would eventually be a lump of yarn, Libbie went ahead and did a microscopically accurate rendition of The Last Supper entirely in multicolored bits of toothpicks that I'm sure would sell at Sotheby's for upwards of $100,000. Meanwhile, using beads and wire, Rosalie constructed a scale replica of Notre Dame, Vince sculpted Rodin's Thinker using only belly button lint and stray hairs from his moustache, and Lisa erected a working model of London's Big Ben clock tower made entirely from Q-tips and a single jar of baby food. Kristanne was left to console me as I took up residence in a corner of the room, slowly banging my head against the wall and chanting, "I suck, I suck, I suck," over and over again. I tried to sell this as "performance art, which is kind of crafty," but no one was buying it. Never do crafts with talented people, I tell you.

Of course, craft making and bridge playing can only entertain you for so long before you have to pull out the big gun, the heavy hitter, the boss with the hot sauce, my main man, the Calvinator (pictured at right). Fresh from his pre-blizzard man-building exercises with his dad, young Calvin was pumped, primed, and ready to entertain. And, oh, did he never disappoint! For an eight month old baby, Calvin has an amazing repertoire of dance moves, an incredible capacity for physical comedy, and a real way with the ladies. He's also got a pure instinct for show-biz, working the crowd into a frenzy of adulation before leaving them wanting more (usually using the ole dirty diaper excuse). Refreshingly, Calvin also has a real political bent to his performances, something you don't typically see in someone so young. More than once, Calvin used his platform to deliver timely orations calling for an end to hostilities in Chechnya or free elections in Indonesia. Well, either that, or he had gas. We weren't really sure.

We were all pretty much happy and content to sit around and watch Calvin for hours at a time, but since the Calvin Broadcast System (CBS) could only be in effect for eight to twelve hours a day (even wonderbabies, after all, do need their rest), that left the rest of us to figure out what the heck to do with the rest of the time. Since I'd pretty much already ruined bridge and crafts for everyone else with my earlier histrionics, we decided to move on to something less challenging -- games. No one else really seemed to want to play my game idea (full contact speed tiddlywinks), so we decided to opt for something more cerebral -- "Celebrity," a sort of combination of Taboo and Charades wherein you try to guess the celebrity your teammates are describing, either with words or actions. Things were going pretty well for me in the first two rounds (where you describe the celebrity with words) -- no major gaffes, only a few swear words dropped accidentally -- but then we got to the "Charade" round, where you have to act out the celebrity whose name you draw from a hat. By this time, everyone knows the celebrities that will be drawn (since we've already done exactly the same celebrities in the first two rounds), meaning theoretically that your charade will not need to be spot on in order for your teammates to guess correctly. That's the theory, anyway. The practice turned out to be somewhat different when I drew Stephen Hawking, the world famous wheelchair physicist who types with his tongue. Naturally enough, I began to mimic being in a wheelchair and typing with my tongue, thinking all along that my teammates would quickly divine my brilliant charade and we'd be on to the next one, right? Wrong. My teammates seemed to be convinced that I was not Stephen Hawking, world famous physicist, but was in fact, John Holmes, world famous porn star. It's probably a good clue that your charades need a little work when your teammates are mistaking your physicists for porn stars.

Eventually, though, the blizzard broke and we were all ready to go outside and play in the snow. Fresh-fallen snow has the most amazing ability to turn everyone into little kids, eager to flop down in the nearest snowbank and wriggle like an ecstatic fish. We were no exception, filing out of the house and into the whiteness, fish-flopping, and just generally having a grand ole time. Happily, the cabin also came equipped with several sleds. This, I knew I could do. Ever since I was a kid, I've been able to sit on my butt and slide -- it just sort of comes naturally to me. Some people even call me a butt-sliding prodigy (though usually not to my face). So, after some test runs down the mildish embankment to the side of our cabin, I was ready to take on...the Beast. Below our cabin stretched a precipitous decline of knee-knocking proportions, ready for the claiming. Having already demonstrated my ability to fall off the sled, slam it into snowbanks, and narrowly miss trees, I was ready for the Big Boy. Steeling my courage, I steadfastly took my seat, gave a bloodcurdling cry of "Peace Through Strength!" (Cold War slogans really get my bravery up), and headed for death or glory. Alas, it was neither. After enjoying the first twenty or thirty feet of my descent (all two seconds of it), I promptly fell off the sled, only to watch it continue without me. And continue. And continue. Despite my ill-fated attempts to run down the hill after the sled (each of which ended with memorable faceplants), the sled hurtled on unabated, looking for all the world like it would not stop before it got back to Zurich. Uh-oh. This is bad. Fortunately, after about a quarter mile, the sled managed to find the one tree preventing it from going over a cliff and into never-never land, preserving at least the illusion that I could conceivably retrieve it should I have an oxygen supply, the energy, and a Sherpa named Tenzing Norgay.

Alas, though I had none of these commodities, Jeff came to my rescue, clad in snowshoes and looking for all the world like Jean-Claude Killy as he serenely glissaded down the slope, retrieved the sled, and towed it back to my sorry arms with an admonition to, "Stay off the big stuff, hot shot." No worries there, my man -- I'm sticking to the road from now on (as you can see in that picture at right). Even the road, however, was not without its dangers...especially when you're sharing it with Kristanne "Poleax" Heaton. Kristanne is apparently well-trained in the art of sled-racing. Though you can't see it in that picture, the main reason I'm about four feet behind her is because of a well-placed elbow she delivered to my solar plexus while our sleds were trading paint on the straightaway. By the way, not to worry about that car you see gaining on us in that picture at right -- Kristanne stared it down with an icy glare and then dispatched it down the cliff with a well-placed hip bump. Sled-racing can be a ruthless pursuit with the Bohners.

Ah, but the ruthlessness doesn't end on the slopes when it comes to the Bohner clan! You can probably imagine that there are a few things that Kristanne and I have missed from the States during our travels over here. For example, Kristanne misses Noxema, Blistex, and that cute guy who does the weather on Channel 4. As for me, I mainly just miss one thing -- Tim's Cascade Style Cajun Potato Chips. Even though there are very few Cajuns living in the Cascade mountains, that does not detract one iota from the everloving flavor packed into every single one of these chips. I'm not the only one who loves these chips either -- after we introduced Kristanne's father, Calvin, to them during one of his stays in the Northwest, he became a convert, too. Unfortunately, you can't really get them outside Washington, Oregon, and Northern California...unless you order them through the mail. As a surprise Christmas gift, Kristanne and I arranged to have a case (twenty bags) of ragin' cajun goodness delivered fresh to their door in Washington D.C. Through some shipping oddity, the good folks at Tim's mistakenly sent Calvin two cases of chips, leaving him with something of a surplus (forty bags of chips is a lot even for a dedicated snacker). So, unbeknownst to me, Calvin and Rosalie managed to bring an entire case of Tim's chips with them all the way to Switzerland. This made for some interesting conversations at Swiss Customs, wherein Calvin had to aver that the case did, in fact, contain nothing other than potato chips. This bit of odd information caused the Customs official to privately explain to Calvin that, "You know, sir, the Swiss do make excellent potato chips." Yeah, right...whatever. These are Cajuns, man!

Twenty bags of chips is a lot of chips, but as the days of our stay in Furna dwindled down, so too did our chip supply until that one fateful day when only a single bag remained. One red and white striped totem to American snack food ingenuity. One last bit of flavor to savor. This is where the vaunted Bohner ruthlessness came into play. Having already caught Calvin surreptitiously trying to make off with the last bag during the middle of the night (he claimed he was sleepwalking), we decided to have it out with one another once and for all in a no-holds-barred Cajun Tug (pictured at right). Unfortunately for me, Kristanne's conflicted loyalties came into play and while I was in the midst of a tricky thumb tickle designed to gain me ultimate victory, she distracted me with a carefully placed, "Honey, did I mention that I've been corresponding with that cute weatherman on Channel 4?", enabling Calvin to take the upper hand and snatch the Cajuns from the jaws of defeat. Grrr. Well, at least he shared them...what a guy!

Too soon, our holiday was winding down. As fast as they had come, so did they begin to leave, the Koleman Krew, Vince, Chuck, Lisa, and Calvin The Younger all heading back off to their respective homes, each with our thoughts and good wishes. Christmas had been amazing -- why couldn't they stay forever? Also, why couldn't they have done the dishes before they left? Questions to ponder, indeed. The answer, in case you're wondering, was supplied by Kristanne and boils down to something like the following -- "Because they cooked all the meals and did all the cleaning for your lazy, snow-sliding butt the entire time they were here. Now get in there and scrub before I tell everyone about that lump of yarn you called a craft last week." Kristanne has a real knack for seeing the heart of a question sometimes.

So, scrub we did (as you can see at left), preparing the house for a fast-approaching new millennium. Where once there were eleven, we were now four (Kristanne, Rosalie, Big Calvin The Chip Grabber, and me), but that was soon to change -- reinforcements were on their way in the form of Kristanne's best friend JoAnn and her boyfriend, Chris, arriving the next day in Zurich to ring in the New Year, Swiss style (which is to say, with much melted cheese and slightly raised voices).

Kristanne and JoAnn have been best friends since high school and even though they don't get to see her as much as they'd like (JoAnn lives in Houston), they still manage to revert completely to giddy high school form each and every time they see each other. It's actually a bit frightening. Still, after five years with this phenomenon, I felt that I was prepared -- it was Chris I was worried about, embarking on his first childlike encounter with the full-fledged mania that is a JoAnn-Kristanne reunion.

Fortunately, the Swiss authorities were prepared for just such an occasion. Having learned their lesson on the Strangeness of Bohners with the whole Tim's Chips importation incident, they enforced a mandatory 25 minute no-contact period wherein JoAnn and Kristanne were forced to acclimate to one another's presence through a soundproof glass wall (pictured at right). Though this did nothing to slow their conversation (each of them talking a mile a minute through the glass and showing every sign of being able to understand the others lip motions), it did at least forestall the mandatory ten minute rolling hug they typically do upon being reunited. After assurances from both parties that they were "calm enough to handle this now, thanks," the border guards finally let JoAnn out of her glass cage and everyone was able so squeak giddily for awhile. It was great to see JoAnn -- unbelievably, it had already been more than a year since we'd last seen her when she was maid of honor at our wedding. Still, there was no time for airport hijinks -- we had to get back up to Furna and get ready to ring in the new year.

A new year! A new millennium! Enjoying each others company, we sat around and talked about what it would bring, what we'd done, and how great is was to be together, on top of an Alp, watching the Swiss set off their fireworks in a valley below. Champagne flowed (as it tends to do) and hugs were exchanged when the ball finally dropped...welcome to the new year!

And then there were four...Rosalie and Calvin, the new millennium freshly under their belt caught an early morning flight the next day back to Washington D.C. Thanks to their generosity and kindness, the whole thing had come off just great...miraculously, a group of eleven folks from all over the states managed to get safely over to our remote Swiss Alp, celebrate the holidays and get back in style. It was an unforgettable time for us, one we'll always treasure. Thanks everybody!

Happy Holidays to everyone out there in Odyssey-land! We apologize for the long delay between updates...things have been crazy! Be sure to check back in a few days as we try to make sense of our epic journey through southern Spain with JoAnn and Chris and eventually back up the coast to our new home in Tarragona! See you next time!

Last Week's Front Page Picture

Just another scenic shot from the wintry paradise of Furna, Switzerland.