I keep meaning to write about our trip over, but can’t quite find the energy. Probably because the trip really went quite smoothly, considering. I mean, my expectations were low. Really low. Somewhere around “survival” level. Which we did, so the trip was a success. But people keep asking, so I better give some details…
Fred Green was our porter at LAX. Our reluctant porter. And he didn’t even know the extent of it when we met. I had confiscated a large cart upon which to load our luggage and Fred had come over to explain that I couldn’t use it. Took me awhile, but he eventually admitted HE could use it, but he worked for tips.
“No problem,” I reply, “I would like to give you money for your help.”
He didn’t look convinced.
Did I have to beg or what?!
About that time, John drove up behind Helen’s station wagon, with our SUV packed to the gills. As bag after bag tumbled out of the two cars, Fred looked stunned.
The logistics of just getting to the airport were a dance. Helen and I went in her station wagon, with limited visibility, and John and the boys followed in our last remaining car, also packed. We dropped off all the luggage at the curb with Fred, then Helen went to park her car, returned, and took ours to airport parking, where its new owner would pick it up. Meanwhile, our family and our 23 bags went to check in.
Yes, that’s right. 23 bags. But don’t worry, we checked 15 and only carried 8 on board. That’s 2 per person. Of course, Luke and Jack aren’t really carrying bags, so in terms of useful arms, that’s 2 bags per arm.
We have a picture of us at the airport, but we’ll have to post it later. We can’t find our camera cord to upload our pics.
$50 later, Fred was a happy guy and we were on our way.
Wait. Line. Wait. Airline Lounge. Wait. Snack. Wait. Get on plane. Luggage won’t fit overhead. Cram into closet. Thankful we’re in B-class. Wait. Take off. Fly. Eat. Drink. Feed Luke. Sleep. Eat. Wait. Land in Amsterdam. Haul all luggage off plane. Walk. Obtain push cart. (Thank goodness.) Walk. Wait. Eat. Wait. Wait. Wait. Make a few work phone calls. Wait. Go check in for connection to Frankfurt.
“Sir, did you check, uh, FIFTEEN bags with us?”
“Yes, we’re moving to Germany.”
“Oh, ok,” she sounds relieved, “we thought there was an error in our system.”
“Maam, you can’t take that push cart any farther – you’ll have to carry all of that.”
My worst nightmare.
Haul. Wait. Fly. Land. Wait. Count. Yep, all here. 4 Carpenters, 23 bags, 5796 miles. Tired. Ask gentleman with worker-man vest if he speaks English.
“Nein.”
OK. Here goes.
“Ich habe dreiundzwanzig uh, “bags.””
I point to the mound o’ baggage which includes one harried-looking husband, one 4-year old glued to a portable DVD player, and a sleeping (thank goodness) infant. Plus our 23 bags.
“Haben Sie gross um, “cart”?” I look hopeful as I butcher his mother tongue.
“Ja” he says. And then makes the sign for money, “gelb.”
Ah yes, cha ching.
He and John go across the room, pick up a phone, and soon two strapping young men with a double cart that looks like the cage on the animal crackers box appear. For a mere €50 they will help us with our bags.
Name your price, dudes.
The guy at the Hertz counter looks amused by our luggage. I request a “really gross” van, with GPS. GPS is key.
Less than an hour later, we’d loaded up the Mercedes touring van and were on our way to Bad Homburg. For the first time, I realize that I only have a couple of bottles of formula left for Lukey and I’m not producing much milk anymore. We’ve got to find food for him, as well as pick up some staples because our furnished apartment has no consumables in it.
Although we’ve leased a house, we can’t take possession until April 1, so we’re in temporary housing until then. Well, actually until we move into a hotel for two nights, then into the “permanent” house.
I call our relocation specialist, Inge Jaeger. She is scheduled to meet us at the apartment at 8pm, which gives us a bit of time to shop before the stores close at 8. It’s 7pm.
By the time we arrive in Bad Homburg, it’s about 7:20. 40 minutes left to buy formula. John drops me off at Karstadt, a large department store that also sells groceries. I pick up some strawberries (erdbeeren) on my way to the baby food aisle. But I can’t find the baby food aisle. I approach the lady behind the cheese counter. (I love this country – the cheese counters are magnificent.)
“Sprechen Sie English?”
“Nein.”
OK, here goes.
“Haben Sie milch fur bebe?”
She looks puzzled.
“Essen.” (to eat)
“Nein.”
No baby food.
Eek. They don’t sell baby food at the grocery stores? How do babies eat?
I call Inge. By this time, it’s 7:35. She suggests Rewe, the market with more expat (that means more expensive) food. I run down the block (in the freezing wind with no coat) looking for the entrance. Immediately I ask for help.
“Sprechen Sie..”
“Nein.”
(I have REALLY got to learn German fast.)“Milch fur bebe.”
She doesn’t know, so goes to ask. We snake our way through the store.
Nope, no baby food.
It’s 7:50.
I start to panic. Calmly.
What if I can’t feed my Lukey Luke?? It never occurred to me that I was moving to a country that didn’t feed their young.
I call Lynda, my boss’ wife, who has a little girl 2 months younger than Luke. Peter answers the phone and informs me that Lynda MAKES all their baby food.
But of course.
But then Lynda gets on the phone, like an angel from above, and tells me to go to Rossmann drug store, and proceeds to look it up online and gives me the address. I love this woman.
Calling Inge on the way, I run to Rossmann with 5 minutes to spare. I ask about milch. Aisle 65. I run. Then, I stop.
The aisle is full of baby formula, but not a single brand I recognize. And, it’s ALL in German. I call Inge.
“Come quick. They’re about to close and I can’t read the packages!”
A minute later, Inge arrives and sets about translating until the salesgirl tells us they’re closing. (At least, I assume that’s what she said. Couldn’t understand a word of it.) I grab a box of every formula with an “8” on it (for 8 months old) plus one jar of baby food (Spaghetti Bolognese) and head to the front. Figured I’d figure it out when I got home.
To the apartment we went, met John and the boys, then proceeded to lug our 23 bags up umpteen tiny stairs to our temporary apartment. What a relief to finally arrive.
Inge left us with a fresh baguette, some really stinky, but yummy (“lecker”) cheese and a bottle of red wine. Once we got the boys to bed, we indulged in the wine, then turned in. I had an 8am meeting the next day.
We were finally in Frankfurt.
P.S. Once I got home and studied the boxes of formula, I discovered I’d purchased one banana- and one fruit-flavored formula, as well as one box of just “regular” milk-flavored formula. Who knew formula came in flavors?!!
Showing posts with label Travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Travel. Show all posts
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Monday, March 10, 2008
Stressed? Me? Nah...
10 March 2008
Days away from boyz: 10
Weight gained from too many Danish pastries: 2 kg
Hours of sleep during previous night: 6
I woke up with a rash all over my body.
This is not the first time this has happened. Last spring, while very pregnant with Luke, I had a rash over most of my body for months. Had to go to a special doctor to get non-toxic salve.
Head to the shower.
Last night over dinner, my colleague, Apostolis, leaned over the table and said, “Have you noticed anything about this hotel?”
I took a sly sideways glance around the lobby, saw no KGB, and replied, “not sure – what do you mean?”
Well, apparently, the Scandic Sydhavnen (pronounced soodt • hoonen…well, close anyway) hotel in Copenhagen is an environmentally friendly hotel and everything in it is a natural substance. Apostolis whipped out his room key to reinforce the fact that even the room keys were slimline wooden cards. The shower gel was rumored to be recycled rubber or something. Granted, it is the first hotel room I’ve ever seen with hardwood floors.
Itch. The bathroom is sort of cool – one big room with no tub or shower – just a shower head in one corner with a curtain you can pull around a track on the ceiling. Scratch. Turn water on. Itch. Pull curtain. Hey, where did the light go? It was like I was suddenly in a cave. Like I’m really going to pick up a razor in that light? Twitch.
Wait. What was that?
Twitch. You got to be kidding me. My right eye was twitching. Itch. I reach for the infamous recycled shower gel/shampoo. Squeeze. Nothing. Scratch. Come on. I need soap. Squeeze. Nothing. Fine. I’ll use the sink soap. Unfortunately, my environmentally friendly hotel had banned all plastic containers and packaging, so the soap was in dispensers attached to the walls. I had to traipse across the bathroom each time I needed soap for my hair and body. By the time I finished, it looked like Fireman Jack had visited.
What, no lotion? Oh yeah, packaging.
Itch. Scratch. Twitch.
Me, stressed?! Nah...
Sunday, March 9, 2008
It's the weight koncept, stupid!
9 Mar 2008
Days away from boyz: 8
Weight gained from too much schnitzel: 2 kg
Hours of sleep during previous night: 5
Up too early for a Sunday, but have to fly to Copenhagen. Shower. Pump. Makeup. Dress. Pack. Struggle with luggage down to check out.
Traveling without Luke while breastfeeding is such an ordeal. In addition to my suitcase, briefcase and purse, I also feature a bright red duffel bag on wheels, containing a hard-sided cooler filled with two thermal bags of blue ice blocks and whatever liquid gold I’ve produced during the trip. Oh yes, and my Pump in Style portable pump. (I’m not kidding – that’s what they named it. Were THEY kidding?!)
To the car. Haul in the luggage. Drive. Arrive. Give back rental car. Walk. Walk. Walk. Uh oh, escalator, no elevator. Five bags. Escalator. Uh oh. After a leap and a prayer, plus some superb balancing skills, I manage to wedge myself and my luggage onto the escalator. Whew, made it. Walk. Walk. Walk. Looking for counter 278. Arrive and approach.
Young guy behind the counter, seems friendly enough. Yes, I’m checking luggage – um, I look like a pack mule – did he really need to ask? Can barely hoist the bags on the belt. He tags them. And then stops.
“Are you the weight concept or the peace concept?” he asks.
“Excuse me?”
“Did they explain the weight concept or the peace concept?”
Did he mean “wait” concept? Everything takes forever here, but no one ever bothered to acknowledge it, so he must mean weight. And I’m all for peace, believe me.
“Ah, you’re the weight concept.”
I knew he wasn’t talking about MY weight, but my mind flitted to the large meat and potatoes meals I’d been eating since arrival.
“Yes, it is the weight concept.” He repeats.
“I don’t know the concepts. No one talked to me about the concepts.” I confess.
“The weight concept. You are the weight concept.”
“Right, but what is the concept?”
“The weight concept.”
“ Right. So, are you saying my luggage weighs too much?” I ask. (C’mon, I’ve got a plane to catch!)
“It’s the weight concept. You will have to pay more.” And then he continues. “You were the peace concept when you left the States, so you could only have 2 pieces (ahhh, the PIECE concept) but now that you’re an American traveling in Europe (I'm not kidding - he said this. An "American traveling in Europe", like if I was Indonesian I'd be ok...) you are the weight concept. You can only have 20kg and you have, um, 33kg.” He politely and efficiently points to the scale on the counter.
“Fine,” I say, “what do I owe you?” as I whip out my credit card and place it onto the counter.
At this point, we spend about 5 minutes as he shows me the different screens with my name on them and the concepts, as if to prove that he's not making this up. I've never had an airline employee share quite so much of their computer terminal with me...
“Is the difference between 22 and 33, 11?” he asks.
“Yes,” I reply. (where did the 22 come from????)
“Oh. I calculated this based on 9. Wait a moment. Yes, you owe €110.”
(egad! That’s a lot!! And clearly I didn't get the sharpest crayon in the box here...)
“Fine. I've got to catch a plane. Here you go.” I push my card closer to him.
“No,” he says incredulously. "You must go to counter 137-139 to pay."
I look at him in disbelief.
“Do I have to take my luggage?” I moan.
“No, it’s tagged and will go to the plane. (He had me at “no.”) But you won’t have a boarding pass until you pay. You must go to the counter where they handle the money. Just walk back to the first hall, go left, then look for the B, where you go right but keep to the left.” And then, with a smile:
“It’s really quite simple!”
Right.
Days away from boyz: 8
Weight gained from too much schnitzel: 2 kg
Hours of sleep during previous night: 5
Up too early for a Sunday, but have to fly to Copenhagen. Shower. Pump. Makeup. Dress. Pack. Struggle with luggage down to check out.
Traveling without Luke while breastfeeding is such an ordeal. In addition to my suitcase, briefcase and purse, I also feature a bright red duffel bag on wheels, containing a hard-sided cooler filled with two thermal bags of blue ice blocks and whatever liquid gold I’ve produced during the trip. Oh yes, and my Pump in Style portable pump. (I’m not kidding – that’s what they named it. Were THEY kidding?!)
To the car. Haul in the luggage. Drive. Arrive. Give back rental car. Walk. Walk. Walk. Uh oh, escalator, no elevator. Five bags. Escalator. Uh oh. After a leap and a prayer, plus some superb balancing skills, I manage to wedge myself and my luggage onto the escalator. Whew, made it. Walk. Walk. Walk. Looking for counter 278. Arrive and approach.
Young guy behind the counter, seems friendly enough. Yes, I’m checking luggage – um, I look like a pack mule – did he really need to ask? Can barely hoist the bags on the belt. He tags them. And then stops.
“Are you the weight concept or the peace concept?” he asks.
“Excuse me?”
“Did they explain the weight concept or the peace concept?”
Did he mean “wait” concept? Everything takes forever here, but no one ever bothered to acknowledge it, so he must mean weight. And I’m all for peace, believe me.
“Ah, you’re the weight concept.”
I knew he wasn’t talking about MY weight, but my mind flitted to the large meat and potatoes meals I’d been eating since arrival.
“Yes, it is the weight concept.” He repeats.
“I don’t know the concepts. No one talked to me about the concepts.” I confess.
“The weight concept. You are the weight concept.”
“Right, but what is the concept?”
“The weight concept.”
“ Right. So, are you saying my luggage weighs too much?” I ask. (C’mon, I’ve got a plane to catch!)
“It’s the weight concept. You will have to pay more.” And then he continues. “You were the peace concept when you left the States, so you could only have 2 pieces (ahhh, the PIECE concept) but now that you’re an American traveling in Europe (I'm not kidding - he said this. An "American traveling in Europe", like if I was Indonesian I'd be ok...) you are the weight concept. You can only have 20kg and you have, um, 33kg.” He politely and efficiently points to the scale on the counter.
“Fine,” I say, “what do I owe you?” as I whip out my credit card and place it onto the counter.
At this point, we spend about 5 minutes as he shows me the different screens with my name on them and the concepts, as if to prove that he's not making this up. I've never had an airline employee share quite so much of their computer terminal with me...
“Is the difference between 22 and 33, 11?” he asks.
“Yes,” I reply. (where did the 22 come from????)
“Oh. I calculated this based on 9. Wait a moment. Yes, you owe €110.”
(egad! That’s a lot!! And clearly I didn't get the sharpest crayon in the box here...)
“Fine. I've got to catch a plane. Here you go.” I push my card closer to him.
“No,” he says incredulously. "You must go to counter 137-139 to pay."
I look at him in disbelief.
“Do I have to take my luggage?” I moan.
“No, it’s tagged and will go to the plane. (He had me at “no.”) But you won’t have a boarding pass until you pay. You must go to the counter where they handle the money. Just walk back to the first hall, go left, then look for the B, where you go right but keep to the left.” And then, with a smile:
“It’s really quite simple!”
Right.
Here come the polizei!
7 March 2008
Days away from boyz: 6
Weight gained from too much dairy: 1.5 kg
Hours of sleep during previous night: 4.5
Early morning Amsterdam. Have to fly to Frankfurt to register with the authorities at the Rathaus (a somewhat unfortunate name for City Hall) to procure a residence permit. Really need to attend meeting in Amsterdam, but told I must register. Now.
Am scheduled to meet a new relocation specialist at the Hertz counter in Frankfurt. Sure enough, there she is.
“Give me your passport,” she says, “I’ll have it back to you this afternoon.”
Is she kidding? Like I’m really going to be in a foreign country without my passport? I think not.
“What do you mean?” I ask, “as soon as I get my car we can go.”
“no, the Rathaus closes in 45 minutes. I need to go now or we’ll miss it. I don’t need you – just your passport.”
Is she kidding? I flew all the way here so she could borrow my passport? Couldn’t we have done this from the States??
Fine, I finally give in, given the time element. I’ll just go check into the hotel.
Drive. Thank goodness for GPS. Drive. Finally,the hotel, across the street from the quite grand-looking Hauptbahnoff (the main train station – think Grand Central Station). I immediately look for the parking garage, to no avail. Around and around the block I drive, with no luck.
I call the hotel.
Ah, underground.
Discover the rabbit hole into the parking garage and down I go. Hey, check this out – parking for women. Frau parking. Hmm, I could get used to this. I pull into a space next to the entrance to the hotel. Lug out the LUGgage (see entry for 9 Mar to get true essence of my bags.) Up the ramp. Stairs. Where’s the elevator? Stairs. Stairs. Out into the garage. No evidence of elevator. Stairs.
I call the hotel.
Ah, there is no elevator.
And I’m not under the hotel, I’m under the Hauptbahnoff. I’m to climb the stairs and cross the street. Clearly she hasn’t seen my LUGgage.
Back to the car. Better to drive to the front of the hotel and unload my bags. I drive to the exit. Odd, there are no parking lot attendants to take my money, just a little machine wanting my ticket. Here you go. It spits my ticket back at me and flashes something in German on the screen. I try again. No luck. Oh no. Sinking feeling in stomach. Don’t tell me I have to go to one of those machines and pay before I can leave. A car pulls in behind me. Sorry dude, you gotta move.
Back to my frau spot. Grab ticket and leave car. Head to stairs. Go up a flight. More stairs. No entrance. Odd. I go back down. I see a sign with a man running and an arrow pointing toward a big door on my right. of course, the exit. I push the door but nothing happens. Jiggle knob. No luck. Push really hard. Nope. Oh, of course - the button. Often on European doors, you have to push a button to the left of the door to release the lock before the door will open. Usually the button is white. This one was red. Oh well, clearly the door is locked.
Push.
HONK!!!!!…..…HONK!!!!!………HONK!!!!!…..…HONK!!!!!……..
OH
MY
GOD.
The alarm was reverberating throughout the entire garage.
“$&%*!!!” I scream. “ALL I WANT TO DO IS GET OUT OF THIS %$^&ING PLACE AND NOW THE POLICE ARE GOING TO COME!!! AND I HAVE NO PASSPORT!!!”
After what seemed like 30 minutes, the alarm stopped. I gave the polizei ample time to arrive, lest it looked like I was fleeing the law. No one showed. But I was still stuck in the garage.
Back to the stairs. This time, down. Success. Right in front of me, a McDonalds. Starving, I ordered a Big Mac with no cheese. (I’d had enough dairy products during the week to open a creamery.) Apparently no one orders a burger without cheese in Frankfurt and I was unable to complete my transaction without an intervention from the manager.
Sporting my MickeyD’s bag, I set off to pay my parking ticket and emancipate myself. I spy the machine. Insert ticket. Spits right back at me. Try again. Spits again. A homeless man approaches. In broken English he points out that I am trying to insert my ticket into the machine where one BUYS a ticket. To pay, I must follow him. (Headline: “Mother of Two Disappears in Hauptbahnoff after Setting Off Alarm”) I walk far enough behind that he cannot grab me. The visual: the American with her purse, pump (I have no idea why I chose to bring my pump with me to go pay my ticket) and McD’s bag, dressed as though a blizzard was blowing, follows the homeless man across the train station. Up the escalator. Out the door. There’s the machine. I pay €3. My homeless friend explains he’s “collecting money” and holds out a cup. I give him €2.
A bargain at twice the price.
Days away from boyz: 6
Weight gained from too much dairy: 1.5 kg
Hours of sleep during previous night: 4.5
Early morning Amsterdam. Have to fly to Frankfurt to register with the authorities at the Rathaus (a somewhat unfortunate name for City Hall) to procure a residence permit. Really need to attend meeting in Amsterdam, but told I must register. Now.
Am scheduled to meet a new relocation specialist at the Hertz counter in Frankfurt. Sure enough, there she is.
“Give me your passport,” she says, “I’ll have it back to you this afternoon.”
Is she kidding? Like I’m really going to be in a foreign country without my passport? I think not.
“What do you mean?” I ask, “as soon as I get my car we can go.”
“no, the Rathaus closes in 45 minutes. I need to go now or we’ll miss it. I don’t need you – just your passport.”
Is she kidding? I flew all the way here so she could borrow my passport? Couldn’t we have done this from the States??
Fine, I finally give in, given the time element. I’ll just go check into the hotel.
Drive. Thank goodness for GPS. Drive. Finally,the hotel, across the street from the quite grand-looking Hauptbahnoff (the main train station – think Grand Central Station). I immediately look for the parking garage, to no avail. Around and around the block I drive, with no luck.
I call the hotel.
Ah, underground.
Discover the rabbit hole into the parking garage and down I go. Hey, check this out – parking for women. Frau parking. Hmm, I could get used to this. I pull into a space next to the entrance to the hotel. Lug out the LUGgage (see entry for 9 Mar to get true essence of my bags.) Up the ramp. Stairs. Where’s the elevator? Stairs. Stairs. Out into the garage. No evidence of elevator. Stairs.
I call the hotel.
Ah, there is no elevator.
And I’m not under the hotel, I’m under the Hauptbahnoff. I’m to climb the stairs and cross the street. Clearly she hasn’t seen my LUGgage.
Back to the car. Better to drive to the front of the hotel and unload my bags. I drive to the exit. Odd, there are no parking lot attendants to take my money, just a little machine wanting my ticket. Here you go. It spits my ticket back at me and flashes something in German on the screen. I try again. No luck. Oh no. Sinking feeling in stomach. Don’t tell me I have to go to one of those machines and pay before I can leave. A car pulls in behind me. Sorry dude, you gotta move.
Back to my frau spot. Grab ticket and leave car. Head to stairs. Go up a flight. More stairs. No entrance. Odd. I go back down. I see a sign with a man running and an arrow pointing toward a big door on my right. of course, the exit. I push the door but nothing happens. Jiggle knob. No luck. Push really hard. Nope. Oh, of course - the button. Often on European doors, you have to push a button to the left of the door to release the lock before the door will open. Usually the button is white. This one was red. Oh well, clearly the door is locked.
Push.
HONK!!!!!…..…HONK!!!!!………HONK!!!!!…..…HONK!!!!!……..
OH
MY
GOD.
The alarm was reverberating throughout the entire garage.
“$&%*!!!” I scream. “ALL I WANT TO DO IS GET OUT OF THIS %$^&ING PLACE AND NOW THE POLICE ARE GOING TO COME!!! AND I HAVE NO PASSPORT!!!”
After what seemed like 30 minutes, the alarm stopped. I gave the polizei ample time to arrive, lest it looked like I was fleeing the law. No one showed. But I was still stuck in the garage.
Back to the stairs. This time, down. Success. Right in front of me, a McDonalds. Starving, I ordered a Big Mac with no cheese. (I’d had enough dairy products during the week to open a creamery.) Apparently no one orders a burger without cheese in Frankfurt and I was unable to complete my transaction without an intervention from the manager.
Sporting my MickeyD’s bag, I set off to pay my parking ticket and emancipate myself. I spy the machine. Insert ticket. Spits right back at me. Try again. Spits again. A homeless man approaches. In broken English he points out that I am trying to insert my ticket into the machine where one BUYS a ticket. To pay, I must follow him. (Headline: “Mother of Two Disappears in Hauptbahnoff after Setting Off Alarm”) I walk far enough behind that he cannot grab me. The visual: the American with her purse, pump (I have no idea why I chose to bring my pump with me to go pay my ticket) and McD’s bag, dressed as though a blizzard was blowing, follows the homeless man across the train station. Up the escalator. Out the door. There’s the machine. I pay €3. My homeless friend explains he’s “collecting money” and holds out a cup. I give him €2.
A bargain at twice the price.
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