Your car is waiting, sir

Your car has arrived.

Traci and Quinn have made the arduous journey to Göteborg, Sweden, travelling premium on SAS courtesy of the Volvo Overseas Delivery program. After some makeshift grub a three-course meal at Norda Bar & Grill, roughing it a comfortable night's sleep at the Clarion Hotel Post, and a proper Scandinavian breakfast, also courtesy of the Volvo Corporation, Traci and Quinn have picked up our ride straight off the factory floor.

Odometer reading: 00000.

It'll take more to rub that shine and new-car smell out than their 4-hour drive from Göteborg to Hokksund, though over the next 18 days we'll do our damndest. At the moment, nonetheless, I'm afraid to even touch her. Which is a problem, because somehow all our crap has to get crammed into and strapped onto this gleaming monument to Swedish perfectionism. Do we really need to start loading her up yet?

“What are we waiting for? Let's go!”

The baby is ready to go, of course, because this baby is always ready for adventure, but she'll have to sleep on it. We'll all sleep on it. The trip starts tomorrow morning. I've done the provisions, stocking up on victuals and sundry at the Obs! in Krokstadelva the day before: The cooler is now filled with everything from skinkeost and Danish-style salami to instant coffee and mustard (because this is Norway and a pølse — hot dog — situation could develop at any moment).

We've done our careful measuring and rationing of precious space at home. We are prepared. What could possibly go wrong? We'll load the car in the morning. It'll be fine. We'll be on the road by nine.

He said, confidently.

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