"Rotate"!

And the journey begins…

Rotate

„Rotate!“ The short, one word command prompts the pilot of a plane to execute a small adjustment to the wing surface constellation, without which no plane would get airborne and consequently no flight attendant would hand out tongue burning , overheated food while going 600 mph at 37,000 feet, to a random seeming grouping of humans who, individually, for one reason or another, through many little and big choices made in their lives, ended up on this very flight with me here today, at 7pm on September 14^th, 2010.

Somewhere down in the cavernous belly of this giant metal bird is a plastic crate housing a slightly drugged up, brave little dog, whose stomach, I am sure, is also rotating.

In the predictable and irritating manner of an overly proud mom, I am sharing with anyone close enough to hear, that I have my dog with me and that she is down there, by herself, and that quote ‘oh god no, I would never leave her behind and oh, no, no there is no quarantine for Germany and it’s as easy as 123 with this awesome, dog loving country that allows pets into restaurants and public transportation’ unquote. Surely someone here must be wondering , if it was wise to change seats…

The woman to my left is trying to get a word in edgewise, as I am espousing my awesome dog’s and birth country’s virtues, by unloading another one of those boring ‘’guess how many delays I had to go through’’ complaintive rants about air travel that always amaze me, because, I think, we are so lucky and privileged to be here in the first place, no matter the delays. As I am self righteously marinating in my gratitude practice in adverse conditions, snuggled comfortably into my gifted economy plus seat, the pilot comes on the speaker from the cockpit (flight deck as they like to call it…) and announces in his Chuck Yaeger-ish ‘’bring on the sound barriers’’ voice that all pilots seem to have down to perfection, that after we had been sitting motionless on the taxiway for about 30 unexplained minutes, we will have to return to the gate to fix a ‘baggage imbalance’ issue. What the §%&? Baggage imbalance?

I catch myself, smile at the woman, whose face now bears the unmistakably victorious expression of ‘’see, I told you so’’ and I tell myself to sit back and enjoy every second of this wonderful, privileged journey.

An hour later we are ‘rotating’ and I and all these lives around me hurled into the night sky, suddenly settle into an attitude of timeless oblivion, so typical for and only encountered on long haul flights. I pop an Ambien, last minute courtesy of a friend, comment cheerfully on the athletic build (he’s huge…) of my neighbor, a Swedish ex football player, who is miserable, trying to recover from a nasty food poisoning.

Several outlandish (literally) dreams and unhealthy meals later, we touch down on a different continent, in a different country, almost 6000 miles away from our take off location.

Navigating the hub of European travel

You know you are in Europe, when virtually the only luggage circulating on the baggage claim caroussell after an 11 hour flight, is your own. Out of the more than 300 people on board, I am the only one not making a mad dash to catch a connecting flight. Wow! I turn and see that Munna is already there, waiting in her crate and tears are starting to make their sweet way down my cheeks. There is my little girl, she is such a stud! She literally explodes out of the crate the moment we unlock the door and we are reunited. With 2 large luggage carts absurdly filled beyond capacity, I charm airport employee Osman from Turkey into helping to lug them to the car rental office 5 million miles away, after all this is Frankfurt airport, the hub of European travel, so everything is about 5 million miles away.

After forcing a generous gratitude tip onto my protesting helper half an hour of cart pushing later, I am off to the garage to load the car in two runs. As Munna is sniffing her low level way through the smelly airport, fetching a lot of smiles and curious looks from by passers, I, fetching none of the above, am listening my way through the endless hallways-virtually everyone seems to be speaking a different language.

130mph is not fast enough

You know it’s been a while since you have driven on the German autobahn, when, as you are steering your brand new rented Volkswagen at 130mph down the 3 laned freeway, both hands whiteknuckling the steering wheel (not a trace of Chuck Yaeger in me), palms sweaty from the adrenaline rushing through your veins, all of a very, VERY sudden one of those awesome, built-for-speed German cars comes up behind you like you are standing still. You are expected to move over, and FAST!!

In most cases this shameless display of horsepower and nerve superiority is accompanied by humiliating headlight flashing. If you can catch a glimpse of these racing business men, they do all this with extremely irritating ease and nonchalance, lazily reclined so that you almost can’t see them and probably closing some deal on their Blackberry, as they shoot past you at a certain 160 to 180mph.

Two and a half hours, two enormous German sausages shared with Munna, two coffees, and two bathroom runs later I am hugging my mom. We are home. We are in Germany. We have two homes. We are lucky.