4+15+8+5796 = a new adventure

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?!!