Just Trying to do the Right Thing...

For several days now, I have stared at a blank page searching for inspiration and motivation to write my last blog post in Romania. I have wondered how I'd like it sound and feel but with the intensely dynamic emotions charging through on a moment's notice, I waffle: make some smart ass cracks about my new wardrobe and the cable company's inability to cancel a freakin' contract? Or do I soften my perspective instead to reminisce about the people and places we encountered?  I guess since I don't pay by the word, I can write about all of it though not necessarily in that order. Let's begin with a bitch fest.

People move all the time so it seems that canceling a contract should not be rocket science.  I understand the obligation to payout a contract even with cancellation with or without a fee. Believe me, I get it. That was my intent when I started the whole process but apparently due to the 2014 year comin' round the mountain, Mr. Rep told me their computers could not handle future payments, as if they might blow up in smoke like we all feared during the millennium change. Surely there's a loophole, I insisted. After shoving me off to another line, I bided my time as the line swelled with pensioners and other assorted customers, ignoring the stifling smoke overhead and ebola-infused cough coming from God-knows-where.

Finally, I made it to the hot seat. Ms. Rep again demanded I return their cable box before they could move forward. Triumphantly, I handed her proof that it indeed was returned the visit before.  Though I am pretty sure she fake dialed her fake colleague, she did say that by filing a complaint with their legal department, I could cancel the contract and pay the remaining balance. But of course- my complaint would not be processed for another week. Come back they said.

I came back. I sat down in a vacant seat ready to play. The customers entourage in front of me carefully poured over their packages of documents, delicately looking at their Chopard watches. Corporate account I supposed. Ten minutes turned into twenty, twenty into thirty. Then Ms. Rep spoke to another waiting customer, equally as eager to get his business done, and he stormed off. He left in such a huff papers scattered. Then she turns to me and tells me I had to leave due to her pending coffee break from 1-2pm. Astounded, what else could I do? I know I'm stubborn, but this blew me away. She flat out refused to help me and pointed to the freakin door. Douche baggery at its finest.

Enter, Mark. He silently took my keys after I got to work and set off to settle the matter himself. As we should, Foreign Service folks are obliged to follow up on bills and accounts prior to leaving post. We can't just flash the Diplomat Princess Card and refuse to pay bills, but Mark figured, "they don't know that." After about an hour he came back to work where he filled me in: Ms. Rep told him: no-way, no-how could the contract get cancelled; that I was mistaken and she never told me file a complaint; that she didn't care if we didn't pay the bill.  Washing his hands of her classless attitude, Mark then found another cable office where he somehow convinced them to turn off the cable by the end of the week. We will have three days to go until this madness unfolds. Will our cable bill come to a victorious end or will the saga continue?

The Pack Out. And Me.

We all do it. We all have done it. We all will do it again: the big "Pack Out."  Clothes and household must-haves will fly around the house much like an uncovered blender set to high and everything becomes a dire life changing decision: Do we keep the 20 half empty tubes of lip balm and jars of hard earned spices? Do we keep the pile of bike-to-work t-shirts or the collection of ugly mugs? With impending explosions of tape, boxes, and organization rapture, it is easy to lose sight of the really important things, right?

Regardless of how we choose to go about managing these issues, the reassuring thing is pack out will eventually happen: with or without a carefully sculpted check list, with or without enthusiastic participation. A twisted enjoyable treat for some, a horrible nightmare for others but pack out is an obligatory task we all commit to in the Foreign Service and the stories we tell each other are heard around the world. Thankfully, most of them are boring and uneventful, some make us cringe  while other stories force us to sigh in resignation. Hopefully this ridiculous pack out story will make you laugh... 

This week our family hunkered down for our turn to load up and pack out our apartment. We sifted, sorted, sold and donated what we could, never once referring back to the half filled out lists I attempted to create for sake of organization. As I sectioned off each room for accompanying baggage, versus air freight, versus house hold effects by colored sticky notes, I dared to feel confident. The movers actually understood my directed requests and diligently started to take our lives off the shelves and placing them into tidy boxes labeled "Mr. Schlink."

By the end of the first day (3.5 hours to be exact) our apartment was nearly finished. They returned at 9am sharp the following morning to complete the move, just as I dashed out the door to take Margo to her checkup. Less than one hour later I returned to unmoved towers of boxes crowding the foyer, with six men huddled around the table discussing a plan of action. Apparently they were not permitted to use the elevator due to previous moving shenanigans with our landlord and thus were faced with hefting the boxes down sixty six steps. 

They took it all in literal stride, and one by one the boxes disappeared. By 12:30pm, we signed the papers, shook hands and watched the truck disappear down the street. Overall it was an uneventful mundane pack out. I felt victorious with my vibrant sticky notes stuck to the wall. With the children and dog accounted for, we planned to celebrate over lunch. I walked back to our bedroom and noticed they somehow forgot to pack four beach towels and a binder stuffed with odd end medical literature and a basket full of lip balms, mugs and wires. Finding it somewhat funny, I laughed as I reached for my dresser drawer to pull out a clean shirt. 

Nothing. There was absolutely nothing.

Confused? Here's a helpful tip on what to do during a packout: when you tell the movers not to touch anything in the bathroom where you keep your packed bags safely out of sight, keep them there until you see the moving truck head down the street. Here's a helpful tip on what NOT to do during a packout: when you "think" the movers can read minds, assume they cannot. Clearly out of my own mind, I unpacked my own bag earlier to help me feel more at home amidst the white walled cardboard city around me. I failed to communicate any of this to people  who might have stopped this dumb move and so it was- my clothes were gone. All I had was the dirty shirt (which could no longer change out of), the jeans on my body, a cardigan and jacket, and an extra pair of forgotten underwear that was stuck to the inside of the dryer.

My husband stared at me as I confessed my mistake. Then he dashed to his drawers to make sure I didn't do the same thing to him.  Relieved to find his clothes were still here, he gave me a hug and laughed. Shaking off my shock and embarrassment, I too eventually started to laugh so hard tears ran down my face. It was decided right then and there I would create a how-to guide on wearing the same thing for seven days. Here you go: 

Day #1: Discovery Day

 Day #2: Kris Kross Day
(though admittedly I was unable to button my pants)

Day #3:
My-ankles-are-soaked-but-my-knees-are-bone-dry Day.

Day #4: Soccer Mom Day.

Day #5: Sue Ellen Mischke Day

Day #6: Sweater Slashie Scarf Day

Day #7: Laundry Day

Sure! Let's Go to Chisinau...

With a pending pack out, perhaps traveling out of the country for a weekend excursion would be the last thing to calm the nerves amongst the scatter of clothes, toys, and dishes. Or maybe it's the first. Either way I stuffed our car with the usual arsenal of essentials: pack 'n play, bribery food and toys, DVDs, four electronic sources of entertainment, clothes, stroller, case of Ursus beer, blah, blah, blah. I even remembered the kids and husband and began the northwest drive to Chisinau, Moldova.

Six hours, four potty breaks and two barf breaks later we rolled into town to meet our dear friend John who guided us to the Air BNB house that Google failed to find. The kids all but threw themselves into bed. While the men relaxed at the table tearing into grade C pizza, I made quick order of dismantling the car seat cover that Margo christened and drank back some beer. Long day for all of us, but really not altogether terrible.

Found all over the city.

Once part of former Soviet Union, the country is now the poorest country in Europe and the scars of the Soviet times have not healed completely- but they are fading. We strolled for hours in the parks with grafittied and tattered playgrounds next to five star hotels and restaurants. We made small talk with children who spoke a dialect of Romanian and Russian (Romussian?) and placated their exasperated parents who thought Deets and Margo were terribly underdressed and dirty. The weekend was a lovely opportunity to reconnect with my family.

Soviet playground: rusted metal bars everywhere.

Some light accounting on the day.

What is it with kids and tree stumps?! Their favorite stop on the day.

Mark and I also enjoyed a night out galavanting with John and a few of his friends eating lamb and drinking beer. At the babysitter's rate comparable to the rates from 1987, how could we not? "She thought babysitting was easy money - until she started hanging out with the Andersons. Schlinks." Deets entertained her with hours of talking about trains and helicopters.

Deets and Margo totally dug the babysitter so we used her again to go visit Chateau Vartely, a renowned Moldovan winery that grows, cultivates and bottles its own wine. The three of us got down to business tasting some wine. While I cannot doubt the quality they put into their bottles, I was sorely disappointed with the flavors. I like my wines dry and fruity, not sweet and flowery so it was a struggle to keep my poker face as the scent of roses and peachy sweet fuzz coated my tongue with each sip.

Trying to enjoy my diabetes in a glass.

As you might imagine the leisurely mature afternoon rapidly escalated into a giddy and guffawing time there as we waited for the cook to catch and slaughter the chicken for our soup (or rather to heat it up.) It was our time to leave when five wedding parties took over the winery. So instead, as we mortified our young taxi driver on the way home with our delinquent jokes and buffoonery. 

Our Air BNB hosts invited us to their home that night. As Margo slept we snuck next door where we dined on cheese and sweet pumpkin filled placintas, a traditional Moldovan pastry and drank their homemade wine and apricot palinka. Deets made a considerable impression when he announced his intent to poop. Luckily they were unbothered by his major accomplishment and bid us farewell with pear jam and a 2 liter bottle of wine. I do love that about Eastern Europe: the kindness and generosity is always unmatched here and just might be the biggest thing I will miss about living here.

Sunday arrived quickly and it was time to head back. We packed the car and crossed our fingers for a six hour barf free trip back home, relying on my keen sense of direction to get us out of Moldova. What's a forty minute detour in the whole scheme of things? Besides, it's not like I needed to face packing out a house or anything...

Racing against the sunset and protests of Margo.

No more milk on road trips. Only water for this one.