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.

Fishy-Viewy-Transporty-Sausagey Scenes from Vienna

Sarajevo: The Phoenix

Cozy and romantic. And SMOKE FREE!

When Mark wasn't literally running the consular section at the embassy in Sarajevo, he spent time de-stressing with his newly made friend Armin at his bar called The Phoenix. The Phoenix got its name after the house burned 3 times yet it rose again from the ashes. This was the very place that Mark took over while he ran to pick up his children.

4 KM Nektar draft, about 2.75 USD

Built in the basement of a historic house fronted by a carpet of headstones on the western hills of Sarajevo, it was a popular bar where people would gather to play their guitars and sing songs.

People would pass around song books and microphones taking turns to belt out Irish lyrics, Dylan poetry, or rock ballads. Usually four or five guitar players and a percussionist would hook up the amps and Armin would join in with his banjo.

Yay Armin!

Before Armin became a family man, he once spent a summer traveling knocking about the U.S. During his visa application the consular officer asked why he wanted to go to the States.  He replied, "I want to meet hillbillies!" So he did. That summer, he traveled all over the south and eastern side of the States playing his banjo in blue grass festivals, local bars, even on the streets. He loved every minute of it, especially meeting the small town locals who'd all but take him into their family.

He is an incredibly talented string player, and an equally talented host and story teller. I could see why Mark enjoyed his company so much. 

So enraptured I didn't notice a thing...

My 1,556.94 RON Blog Post

Breaking out into random dance.

Lest I commit a heinous crime while cooped up in our apartment in Sarajevo, I made it a personal mission to get the kids out for fresh air. Ignoring the rain, I wheeled my kids around the hidden streets of Old Town in search of an indoor play area that promised energy burning fun. What should have taken 20 minutes I found in a mere 75 only to find they didn't open for several more hours. Try explaining that to a toddler who was continuously coaxed with half hearted promises of  "just a little bit longer." 

Defeated for the late morning, I chucked the kids back to the apartment in the rain for a hopeful nap time before trying again in the afternoon. While they slept I scoured parenting blogs for other potential areas and found one a few miles away so when they woke up, I gave them no time to think as I shoved the three of us into a cab. Seemingly, the cabbie understood my request: "Interex Coco Loco, dopasti se (please)," and off we went. 

Dropping us off in a maze of warehouses and modular strip malls, I took a a guess at where this Coco Loco place might be. I can tell you it wasn't in the first two buildings we looked in and I could see Deets getting increasingly frustrated, feeling duped about empty promises of playground fun. Finally, someone understood what I was asking for and directed me two warehouses down, four doors to the right. Drenched but relieved, I opened the door, paid my 3.50 KM (about 2.50 US) and didn't see Deets for about three hours.  

With Margo happily watching the madness of children running around, I took the opportunity to upload some pictures to the blog. Feeling successful at my multitasking during "Operation-Time-Waste" and waiting for Mark to get off work, I began to write on my teeny iPhone screen when I got a phone call from Vodafone. 

When you turn on 3G-roaming when out of country, extra charges occur to use email/SMS/Internet services. Duh, you say. Well I would agree. It doesn't take a genius to realize this and I knew I'd be spending extra money but I didn't really think it would be too much.

But THIS genius here didn't read the fine print about data-roaming in Bosnia Herzegovina: if you upload data in this country you get charged 9.92 EURO/MB and so in a matter of minutes I managed to spend 1,556.94 RON for uploading pictures. That's 350.00 EURO or 478.00 USD. Vodafone was giving me a courtesy call to give me a heads up.

**Face Blanch**

 I looked back at my automatic  "Welcome to Bosnia" SMS from Vodafone. Indeed, the fees were right on the screen. Smooth move, Ex Lax: an expensive lesson to learn, and I learned it good.  As a curiosity, I went through my old texts to compare prices: Austria and Great Britain charge 0.558 EUR/MB. Spain, Hungary, Greece and Bulgaria charge 0.868 EUR/MB. I'd say better luck next time, but I doubt there will be one. And now, the prized (and random) pictures for my most expensive post ever...

Deets stuff his face with cevapi, a minced sausage.
Note Mark's approval.

Margo diving in too. You'd have thought
I never fed the kids all day.

Mark at his favorite bar in Sarajevo
ordering a Nektar of the gods.

Vienna Airport Shenanigans

You know The Simpson's episode "The City of New York Versus Homer" where he begrudgingly goes to Manhattan to retrieve his abandoned station wagon despite an intense hatred for the city? Vienna is my New York. While it's a city with a spectacular reputation for unmatched architecture, culture and käsekrainer, I just can't seem to get into the spirit. I resist its charm and opulence preferring the likes of Bratislava and Budapest over Vienna.

Of course my connecting flight to Sarajevo went through Vienna and I decided to embrace our 4.5 hour layover with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. I planned ahead with extra undies for my potty training three year old along with copious amounts of candy and toys for bribery; I gate-checked the stroller (which is a be-otch to disassemble) and mentally prepped for a 50 Euro lunch. Though we destroyed our seats on the plane with exploding croissants and a barfing baby I still felt positive as we got off and waited for the stroller on the walkway.

"Uh ma'am, your stroller got checked all the way through to Sarajevo," was followed by "and could you please put a sweater on your baby? She's cold." Looking at my sweating, tomato faced Margo, I said nothing and started toward the terminal. Making our way to the next gate I saw we went through security who demanded to see our boarding passes. Luckily mine weren't printed out so I handed over my itinerary instead which they had to make a phone call to inquire about its appropriateness.  I proceeded to unpack my hastily packed bags for screening: unopened bottle of water I purchased to mix with formula, phone, belt, passports...

The Beast with no nap.
So long security blanket, that plunged into
the ice cream abyss of an airport.

 Security piled my stuff in with the guy's tray ahead of me and proceeded through, sounding off the alarms right on schedule. Now, Margo has been going through a separation anxiety stage (for well... 11 months) so during the frisking I had to put her on the ground, hysterically crying while Deets gleefully climbed onto the metal tables completely disregarding my pleads to sit on the bench. While one guard lectured me that my bottled water didn't count as an exception for infant needs, another guard suggested I consider bring a stroller when travelling with two young children.

Huh. Imagine that. All the while someone was feeling up my chesties. So great.

Somehow we continued into the terminal. I was desperate to find a bathroom not just for myself but for Deets who shockingly told me we needed to pee. All the family/handicapped bathrooms were out of order so I bit the bullet and squashed us into teeny, rancid stall. Ignoring Margo's protests and my general sense of hygiene in a public bathroom, I set her down with the bags and perched Deets on top of the Ebola tainted toilet seat. He shocked the hell out of me when he successfully peed. It was cause for celebration: his first public urination. 

By request we began searching for ice cream but were told by a server they weren't allowed to serve ice cream due to airport rules and regulations. Though I am pretty sure he made that up, I convinced Deets pancakes would be just as good and I gratefully set our stuff down and Margo into the only existing high chair in the whole terminal. Deets refused to eat the pancakes because they didn't taste like Daddy's so instead I placated him with movies and watched Margo throw the pancakes covered in apricot jam and powdered sugar onto the ground while I chugged my teeny beer. It was a moment of calm amidst the pit sweat filled vigor of the morning. 

Deets very concerned about the swirly letters and
unconcerned about his surly mom.

Then along came Ms. Vuitton-McGucci and her baby toting husband with their covetous stroller filled with shopping bags. Requesting a high chair she was denied and her glowering eyes settled on my smeared (but non-crying) daughter. Man, if looks could kill. Freakin' Vienna.

Eventually we got our boarding passes and meandered to the gate where we found the chairs filled with folks from Canada and Hong Kong, joining forces for a pilgrimage in Bosnia. They sported matching t-shirts with the Virgin Mary screen printed and giant color coded name tags indicating which assigned group they belonged to. Minutes before the boarding announcement, one particular lady sidled up to us with a bag full of chocolates shoving them into Deets' hands without asking. 

Glued to the window as if the plane would leave without him.

He was already jacked on sugar from the ice cream bar I finally found at the far end of the terminal, and napless so I wasn't thrilled with his gift. Turns out neither was the crew member who offered to open his candy for him, only to find his sweaty and grimy palms melted the chocolate. It smeared all over her, and she started yelling at me to help her. 

I stood there with my bags and a volatile baby who also had chocolate oozing off her. Again, I set her down to grab the wipes and again she started screaming. As if the hilarity needed to continue, the old lady walked past oblivious to what she had done, and told me my children needed some nap time. Uh huh, sure thing lady. 

Fiiiiiiiinalllly, we made it onto the bus and eventually onto the plane. The Austrian Airlines crew immediately offered more candy to my children and perhaps I was a bit short in my reply of "no thank you" because suddenly was I persona non-grata for the remainder of the flight into Sarajevo. Alas, as the plane descended into gorgeous rolling mountains, I was but minutes away from a much anticipated reunion with Mark. Without caring, I retrieved our stroller that suffered a broken wheel part and rolled into the waiting area where the kids only had eyes for dad; nothing else mattered. We were home. 

Onward to another adventure in a new city...

Ames and Jo in the Ro: Lake Balea

We left Sibiu in a bit of a daze and ready to get back to Bucharest but we needed to make one last stop. I took the ladies up the Transfagaras Highway.  With blue sky stretching over both sides of the mountain I ignored my whiny stomach that protested every curve of the road by rolling the windows down in the refreshing 45 degree air. I mean really, who gets car sick when they drive themselves? It's just ridiculous.

Below Lake Balea: Transfagaras Highway.

At any rate, we parked at Lake Balea and my wimpy, lethargic self wanted no part in this thing called "exercise" especially at a mind blowing 6,670 feet. However following Jo's initiative, she singlehandedly whipped my attitude into shape. Before I knew it, all three of us were hauling ass up the trail and we didn't even need a stinkin' key-chain flashlight to do it.

Above Lake Balea from the top-ish part of our hike,
right after a marmot screeched at our intrusion.

Baures bringing it ON.
Forget bear watching...

Spunem cascaval! 

True to random Romanian fashion, there was a blue bendy-bus from Germany creeping along the two lane mountain road on the way home. We got stuck behind it for several looooong painful miles before I felt ballsy enough to pass. Where did this thing come from?! 

We cracked ourselves up pretending to be the driver of that bus, making multiple 90 degree turns all along Lake Vidraru with his three foot steering wheel and air suspension chair. Ok maybe you had to be there, but Google Map that freakin' lake and see what we went through...

It maxed out at 10mph had to make complete stops around the curves.