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Today we’re on a train back to the Duesseldorf airport. It’s a very full train with lots of young people. it’s 7am on a sunday morning and it seems like all of the teenage girls that were standing in front of our hotel are now mobbing the train.
I had a Turkish pizza this morning at the Koln/Dom Hauptbahnhof so my breath smells like fetid rotting flesh.
We checked flight loads last night and they look good for a uneventful flight back to the United States.
Flying back is always the hard part because the flight from Europe to the US is a little longer, there’s always clearing customs in Atlanta which is a pain in the ass along with all of the paperwork and the agony of seeing a apathetic customs agent stamp your passport incorrectly.
“Anywhere, just anywhere is fine, yeah that’s it, just stamp it right over my picture, thanks so much”
We purchased quite a bit of wine at the wine festival in Altmarkt, but Christian brought us an entire case of Swiss wine, chocolate and cheese so my rollaboard is at least 100 lbs. So we’ve reached our record of 23 bottles of wine.
The only problem is that carrying so much wine back to the United States means carrying the bags on and off U-bahns and S-bahns and deadlifting hundreds of pounds four times into an overhead bin (one connection in Atlanta and two bags of swag). So the loot sounds great, but 14 hours of combined flying in addition from a 22-hour time from getting up in the hotel in Cologne to arriving home in Arizona is going to mean sore muscles and an aching back.
The Pink Shoes.
Kristie likes to wear comfortable, but business-friendly sandals, but the Germans are very strict in terms of dress code.
A few years ago, I was wearing my uniform pants and a pullover sweater trying to fly back from Frankfurt to the United States. Since I was wearing a non-collared shirt, the gate agent almost denied me boarding. It took some humility a little negotiating but I was able to finally get a seat on the flight.
But this afternoon, an agent in Duesseldorf said something unintelligible in German then said, “I must see your clothing”. Apparently, I passed the “test” of sorts in able to sit in the business elite cabin, but apparently Kristie’s shoes weren’t to specification because they were open-toed sandals. She could still make the flight but didn’t fit the Duesseldorf standard for seating in business elite.
As long as Kristie would show up to the gate with proper footwear, we could get her into the business cabin.
“We’ll get shoes no problem.”
I had NO idea how we were going to make this work.
A ride home is a ride home after a long weekend of being away from home, but I figured there’s no use for us BOTH to sit back in steerage because of Kristie’s shoes. Well, I know she’ll be on the flight, but if I’ve got my shirt tucked in and wearing my Doc Marten uniform shoes, well, to dress what I consider to be formal attire and sit in back would just be doofus.
As we turn the corner from around the ticket counter after checking in and promising, somehow to find proper footwear was a tie shoe which had an assortment of footwear for women at the bargain price of 20 Euros. The only pair that fit were these bright pink shoes, from China, that had a floral print. Naturally they did not match her outfit, but as gaudy as they were, they were acceptable for business class travel. I didn’t mind spending 20 euro because I have a pocketful of Euro because out German friends wouldn’t allow us to spend a dime during the time we spent with them.
One of the biggest pain the asses with travel back to the United States is that you have to answer a flurry of questions like:
“Who packed these bags?”
“Where have these items been?”
“Where did you pack these bags?”
“How did you get here?”
“Where were the bags when you were (flying/riding a train/taking a taxi) to this airport?”
Then you finally arrive at the ticket counter, and the questions start all over again.
But wait! You’re not done. You go through the EU (European Union Passport Control) which isn’t bad, but then you take off your shoes, empty your pockets, remove your laptop, take off your belt and shoes to go through the scanner and metal detector.
You walk no more than about 20 yards towards the gate, and you literally have to repeat the entire shoes-off, belt-off, laptop-out, pocket-emptying, physical hand wand all over again.
Yes, quite often you’re close enough to the last checkpoint to almost spit on the previous security personnel, but you’re scanned a second time.
Then you finally arrive at the gate to wait for your name to clear the standby list.
The flight home, so far, has been uneventful, but my arms are still aching from lifting two carry on bags filled quite literally “to the brim” with wine and chocolate.
Lunch has already been finished and “Brokeback Mountain” just finished as well. Kristie’s taking a nap and I’m typing away at the laptop enjoying a nice, lukewarm viognier listening to Sarah McLachlan.
Arrival in Atlanta. What a mess. Twenty-five customs agents standing around, another twenty-five working. Once we’re finally next, they close the entire area, and send us all to the another area because of a shift change.
A shift change just as the big international arrival surge begins.
Long story short, it’s good to be home.
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