It's alive/Happy new year!

To the right of my driveway, by where the Fića is parked, is a twenty-foot (or more) pine tree that loves to shed needles. These needles are so abundant that this tree's days are numbered.

But while it's still here, we figured that we could make some use of it; this tree is therefore also this year's Christmas tree, which was convenient since last week, we received a thirty-eight-year-old four-wheeled present that perfectly matches in proportion.

First blood

Every car enthusiast at some point becomes curious enough to start to work on his car(s) himself. Tooling around on your own car is practically a rite of passage, after which you gain a better understanding of what cars are and how they eat and breathe, so to speak.

Your new-found mechanical knowledge also leads you to better evaluate different cars and thus form a stronger, better-informed opinion.

Inevitably, though, the 'mechanic's companion' shows up: just as you will sooner or later start messing with the spark plugs (for instance), you will – sooner or later – inadvertently leave a bit of biological tissue somewhere on your beloved chariot.

Now it's official

After clearing customs and the shipline this past Friday, I arranged a trucker to come by the port, pick up the container, and take it to their warehouse, where we would unpack it (!). The port is never open on weekends, and Monday was a holiday...so today it was.

We arrived at the warehouse this morning and met up with my contact at the main office. He told us that there was a lineup at the port and it would take longer than expected to get to the container.

No matter...there was a Starbucks nearby.

Developments, part VII

Lucky seven (VII), it seems. I say that because the car is here.

Yes, you read that right. My Fića has finally arrived.

The picture you see above are the car's spare tires inside its container. There will be more news soon, after I take care of what's left of the import process. Keep an eye on the blog.

Or if you like, the car has a case of seasickness and jetlag, so it needs to rest...

The embargo still goes for now, though.

Review: 2010 Volkswagen City Golf

As far as my real estate knowledge takes me, it is next to impossible to find a townhouse that is not part of a complex. To preserve the uniformity of these house clusters, every complex is governed by a 'strata,' which coordinates (read: decides on) at least every aspect of the exterior appearance of every residing unit.

When it comes time to renovate the complex, the strata evaluates the weight of the porcelain swine-look-a-like that has eaten all of the members’ monthly fees and subsequently decides how good of a company they can hire to swap out the insulation, re-blacken the roofs, and apply new plastic boards onto the outside of every unit.

Not only do I happen to live in such a complex, but also my group of houses has taken the big step and asked some people with white vans to give the place a once-over. By the looks of things, though, my complex’s pig wasn’t quite fat enough. Allow me to elaborate…

Developments, part VI

In Serbian tradition, when a baby is first brought home, a red string is tied around his wrist which protects the little guy from bad luck and bad people.

Alternatively, a red ribbon is tied on the top of the baby's crib so that when people with an evil eye enter the room, they first spot the ribbon, which absorbs their malevolent gaze before it has a chance to get to the baby.

Many people laugh at all this, citing it as useless superstition, but somehow all babies end up having either red strings or ribbons...