Another and hopefully my last airport story

As I was traveling back from Germany to America after my first six months here I was so excited after a long trip to see America again. I was so excited to go back and be able to order pizza without any struggles or unwanted extra attention. So my husband and I got off the plane with our custom forms filled out and standing in line with all the other Americans! I was thrilled! Like kiss the floor excited! All smiles! My husband was not so happy. He had a cold and when you fly with a cold it's a miserable experience. His ears where all clogged up so every time he would say anything he would yell it.

This was my very first experience with going through customs. (When you enter Europe you barely notice that you went through it.) So we went up to the desk with out filled out form and handed it to a very stern woman. She said, "You didn't put a date." I said, "Oh sorry, what is the date? She replied, "15 March" By the way she said it you would have thought I just asked if it was ok if I brought a 10 oz bag of Marijuana with me. So I went to write the date. When I was in Germany I had learned to write the day first and then the month, but now that I was in the USA I reminded myself to write the month first then the day. The customs lady was pissed about that. She gave me a look that was meant to put the fear of the United States government in me. It did. She told me as if it were of the utmost importance and I had broken a major law, "I told you the day first then the month." Uuuhhhh...ok sorry lady. Luckily she let us in despite the horrible thing I had done.

We went to claim our baggage so we could put it right back onto another baggage claim belt. (I don't get the point of that.) As we were walking I was still totally excited and my husband looked like a zombie, the security stopped him to ask him a few questions about what he was bringing into the country. He could barely hear anything. They'd ask a question and he'd yell his response back to them. I told my unaware husband that he was yelling his answers and the security guys just glared at me. Oops, controlling wife, not a good look for me.

We got rid of our bags and went through the medal detectors. I flew through them, since I had practical slip on shoes and no belt, while my husband had on a belt, a watch, quadruple knotted tennis shoes. Every time we went through security I was always way faster and I guess in a hurry to get to the next place. So finally he was getting sick of it! I was getting ready to bolt to to find some of that amazing American food that I missed and he's trying to put his belt on, and he yells at me, "Why are you always running away from me when my pants are falling down?" He had no idea that he had yelled till he noticed curious eyes staring at him.

Ok just so my he doesn't feel so alone, what's something you've blurted out and wish you could take back?

Travel Tips

We went to Rome five years ago. We went with one of those super cheap airlines--Ryan Air. They can shuttle you around Europe for like 25 euros a ticket. I found out the flight was only going to take an hour and a half. So I decided to forgo my usual motion sickness medication. I figured the stuff makes me so drowsy and it was such a short flight it wouldn't matter. Of course when we got in the plane I started to get nauseous. One of the stewardesses came around offering drinks. I asked for sprite hoping it would settle my stomach. She handed me a miniature sized can and cup and then said, "That's 3 euros." We were like what? Since when do we pay extra for drinks? We begrudgingly handed over the money. The rest of the flight the stewardesses walked up and down the aisles selling everything. Alcohol, weird little toys that looked like they were made out of rubber bands, cologne, and who knows what else. We tried to tune it out. We were smarter now. We were fast learners. They were even selling bus tickets into the city, but we already lost 3 euros on a tiny Sprite, we weren't going to be tricked again.

So we got to the airport in Italy and were trying to figure out how to actually get to Rome from this airport. We went to ask a lady behind a desk. We stood in line and Z, my husband, went ahead and asked in German if she spoke English. (Yes, we were in Italy) The lady looked at him oddly and said, "I speak German and English, which would you prefer." We chose English, because this was really before we actually spoke German. We found out we should have purchased our bus tickets on the plane because they were cheaper there. So we lost a few more euros, but bought our tickets.

We got on the bus and we were both eager to see a bit of Italy, but I was feeling really nauseous from the plane ride. I was so dizzy from the trip, and I had such a bad headache I just kept my eyes closed for the 20 minute ride into town. Z was having a great time. He would tell me every once in a while to open my eyes to look at a ruin, then say "oh sorry honey I guess you didn't look in time." At one point he got really excited and said look a prostitute! Neither of us had ever seen a real live prostitute before. We're from small towns alright, that was exciting stuff to us. So after I missed all that excitement we finally got to the center of town. I was feeling even worse after that wild ride. Bus drivers drive like maniacs, I think it's part of their training--drive this bus like it's a Lamborghini.

I got my luggage and we were trying to figure out where we were. It was dark out and despite the fact that we were in the center of Rome, we didn't really know what that meant exactly. So we were standing on a curb and realize that I was really sick, like I'm about to throw up. I call out to my husband, who is apparently so engrossed in studying his map that he's walked away from me. I was standing by myself throwing up on the curve holding my own hair in a foreign city. Hesitantly, another tourist came over to ask me if I was ok. I wasn't but I said I was and walked away to go yell at my husband.

A few days later after a lovely time in Rome we went to get back on our bus to head back to the airport, as I was putting my suitcase in the under the bus storage area another passenger was swinging his large bag into the compartment. He swung it directly into my head. I wobbled off to go find my husband who was once again absent and happened to miss that fine moment of mine.

And that's kind of what traveling is like with us. We're a mess. If you don't believe me you can read this old post about Z and his problems with getting through airport security.

So my travel tip is, do the opposite of what we did and you'll do great!

I think I just got same hair cut as the mom from the brady bunch...

I've been putting off getting my hair cut. I put it off to the point that my hair was so damaged that it would just knot itself together. Like really horrible knots. it looked like I had just spent the whole day in a convertible car without pulling my hair back. Like imagine ten thin gold necklaces tangled together in your grandmas jewelry box. That was happening like three times a day. I go into the hair salon without an appointment. They usually don't make appointments at that place. I just show up. So I get there, stumble over German words that's I've known for 2 plus years, and then ask for my usual hair stylist Denise. The young stylist looks at me sadly and says, "Oh, Denise is sick." This surprised me for several reasons. One, the girl could understand my German and didn't make me repeat myself. Two, she expressed great emotion over this problem. For a moment I thought I found an employee in German that was going to try and help a customer. So I wanted to know how long she was expected to be gone. So I asked, should I come back Monday? She didn't really seem to know or seem to care that I wanted to know. I lost that little bit of friendliness. So I smiled and left.

I went back on Wednesday, I gave Denise plenty of time to get better. This time the lady I talked to told me Denise wasn't there but would be there tomorrow at 10. She said a lot of stuff and she sort of lost me, but all I knew was that I could finally have a haircut with Denise tomorrow at 10. (also thanksgiving day, not a holiday here) Even though that was Thanksgiving day and I had a lot of work to do, plus I had to travel for an hour and half on trains carrying my 30 twice baked potatoes, I was determined to get my hair cut.

The next morning I put my potatoes in the oven and left my husband in charge of watching potatoes bake, while I road downtown to get 6 inches of damaged hair chopped off. I get to the salon and there is my stylist! There is Denise! The girl I've been waiting for! The stylist that can make my hair look amazing!!! I get there and she asks me if I had made an appointment. I think back to that conversation that I had yesterday, where the girl had said something about tomorrow at 10. Oh no I was late, had I missed my appointment? So I tell that story to her. She asks if I had just called to make an appointment at 10:30. Oh no I guess not. I didn't miss my appointment. Denise asks me if I can come back at 11. Yes definitely. Potatoes can wait, Thanksgiving can wait, I don't care, I finally have an appointment with Denise.

So I walk around downtown, come back for my appointment and wait. A few minutes after 11 a girl comes over and calls out my name, well something like my name, because she has no idea how to say this English name. So I think oh she must want to wash my hair so Denise can cut my hair. She sits me down in a chair in front of a mirror, just like Denise used to do and asks, "How much do you want off?" Reluctantly I told her what I wanted. I tried to stay optimist thinking Denise is the only German that's cut your hair, maybe this one will be amazing too. I watched her, and she did the same stuff as Denise, but it didn't turn out the same. Apparently somewhere in my conversation with Denise I failed say, "I want YOU to cut my hair." So this Thanksgiving I'm thankful for my lousy haircut.

P.S. despite the hair cut, I had an amazing Thanksgiving with other Americans living here in Germany. I'm thankful for so much!

Knives Bibles, what's the difference?

Since we live in Germany we do a lot of flying. So you would think by this time we would be awesome at it. Well we're not. I'm terrified of flying and Z (yeah that's my husbands new "blog name") is just a disaster when it comes to getting through security. He might as well be wearing a turban around his head. Like last September my parents were driving us to the airport. We started talking about all the times Z has gotten away with flying with a pocket knife that's on his key chain. In fact last May he somehow got me to carry his keys in my purse. I didn't discover them till we were entering America and in the middle of going through the strenuous and thorough process of getting through the American customs. I was digging around in my purse and my hands felt Z's keys-with the pocket knife still intact.

At this point we are standing around to reclaim our baggage so it could go back through more security. I'm a bit panicked, because apparently I'm as dangerous as terrorist at this point. We decided to huddle together and get the knife off the keys and smuggle the 2 inch knife into our luggage. I know what you're thinking these two are rebells. Yeah, we are. Some missionaries smuggle Bibles into other countries, we smuggle weapons into America. Not really something we can really use in a church presentation.

So back to September, when we're flying back to Germany. We're teasing Z about the pocket knife. And even asked him if he had remembered to take the knife off of his key chain. He assured us he had. We got to the airport, checked our luggage in, said our sad goodbyes to my parents. Stood in line to go through security. I start taking my shoes off and Z pulls out his keys, which had of course the pocket knife on it!

Ich Heike...ich heiße...What?!?!?

Shortly after we landed in Germany, we learned a new simple phrase. "Ich heisse ..." So "My name is..." Wow, what progress. That Sunday we went to church thinking we were ready for anything. We knew how to say What's up in German and my name is... What more could we need? We get to the door. The greeter knew we were the Americans so she greeted us with "Ich Heike..." And we looked at her waiting for her to finish the sentence with her name. So she kept saying it. Ich Heike..." And we kept waiting for her to finish the sentence. This went on for a short eternity before we all gave up and went into the sanctuary. We were confused, she was frustrated. After church we asked someone what that ladies name was. Apparently her name was Heike, not heisse. She was trying to make it simpler for us by just saying "I Heike"

For the six months that we lived in that went to that church all of our conversations with her went about that way.

No I don't want your socks

Way back in October of 2005 I came to Germany on an internship. My German pretty much consisted of:
"I don't speak German."
"Can you speak English"
and whatever else the German CDs taught me. So one day when Z and I were exploring our town we wondered into what we thought was a small shop. It turned out to be a huge 3 or 4 story department store. German shops can do that to you. You think you're walking into a small store but then find out it goes on and on. So we finally came to the top floor of this massive place. We had done a pretty good job of sneaking by everyone else and not being talked to, but this last floor was much less crowded.

So in the sock department our worst fears came true, a lady approached us and spoke to us in German! We stood there for a second not sure what to do. I looked at Z to do something. He's the much braver of us two. So he used one of the few phrases that we knew. "Ich spreche kein Deutsch." (I don't speak German.) This ensued all kinds of panic. The lady alerted all of her coworkers around that we didn't speak German. Was there anyone that could speak English. At this point we were dying to run out of that building. We had no interest in actually buying socks. We just wanted to see if German socks looked the same as american socks. We were relived to find out that yes their socks are pretty much the same.

So finally they found someone who spoke English. She came over to us and asked. "Can I help you?" To which we replied,"No we're just looking." That was it. We left. After that we were much more cautious about what stores we entered.

Yes "Socks for You" is an actual name of a store.

I'm not complaining, but...

So did you know that in America you don't have to open windows in the winter time to let the moisture out? Oh you did. Well then did you know that in the rest of the world you have to constantly be worried about the humidity in the house and be fearful of mold growing behind your furniture? So we have to wake up in the mornings and open our windows for at least 10 minutes a day or who knows what would happen. I'd probably be deported or something. And if you want to take a shower, who knows how long it would take to get all the moisture out of there if the mirror steamed up.

Rain, snow, heat, doesn't matter! Open the window! This was pure torture to me at first! I spent the first 6 months with my ridiculously bright green coat on. I also wasn't aware that everyone in Germany wore only black or varying shades of gray. But I want to inform you that I've adjusted to all of that. So you can not accuse me of complaining. Well sort of. Like now my favorite colors are black, gray, and white. Instead of just walking around with a coat on, I've learned just wear one tank top, 3 layers of long johns, a hand knitted sweater made by grandma, but please grandma only black thread, then top that off with a scarf and then you hardly miss not having a coat on indoors. Yes it does take about ten minutes to get all the layers on, and yes I can't move my arms as freely as I want to, but it's so nice to be able to shed all those layers when spring gets here look in the mirror and think, man I look good. I look like I lost 10 pounds. This is what I have to look forward to every spring.

But seriously it's just the beginning of October. What am I going to do? Can't wait to be wearing my black down coat that makes me look like a giant burnt marshmallow.

Ok here's a tricky question. Can you find me in this photo? And for a million bonus points where am I?