America in two pallets

So America finally arrived on our doorstep today, all 2000+ pounds of her. Mixed emotions followed: joy at being reunited with our "stuff" and anxiety about why we need so much "stuff."

Yes, I am happy to have the guitar, new kid books, and snowboots for this winter. But I also have enjoyedw shedding everything for the sake of this adventure. Somehow we've got along for the past three months without everything and life has not been constrained or stunted in any way that I can tell. Further debate on whether you own your stuff or if your stuff owns you can take place at another time though - more pressing issues press.

So the first thing you should know about shipping internationally is that no matter what the guy on the front end tells you, it is a complete crap shoot. Our experience was probably typical with various companies handing off and transferring our stuff to new entities in a massive game of Telephone stretching 1/2 around the world. The fact that anything actually arrived is quite remarkable.

So I got the call, took off work to be here. Our shipment is a month and a half late. Various excuses were provided:

• Container ship constantly harried by The White Whale throughout the north Atlantic
• Stormy seas blew ship off course, had to refuel in Nigeria
• Ship captain was Joseph Hazelwood
• Ship too big for Panama Canal, had to go around Cape Horn at last minute

I meet the guy down on the street, somewhat surprised that it is just ONE GUY since we have expressly paid for a team to carry our stuff up four flights of stairs (22 stairs each mind you). He wheels pallet #1 down the street and deposits it outside our building. We both go back for Pallet 2 and I note with horror that he's driving a Hertz rental truck. The company we used should have had their own trucks. This proves that he is miles away from the original transaction and almost certainly hasn't gotten the proper memos. We leave his truck in the middle of Grunewaldstrasse, a busy street, with his flashers on. A feeling of dread starts growing quickly in my stomach, spreading into my limbs and filling them with a dark, lethargic numbness.

We get back to the flat and he produces a digital device where I can sign to take ownership of the two pallets. I can see where this leads! Hold on dude, before I sign anything I need to make sure every one of our 48 named boxes/items is actually here. And if anything is broken then I will make a report with YOU before YOU leave. And this is AFTER YOU CARRY EVERYTHING UPSTAIRS.

Guy has no intention of any congress with that version of reality. He doesn't speak English. I can't prevail on him to help, even if it is what we paid for. He's there to drop two pallets, thank you very much, and then continue on deliveries. Sign here, I don't want to get a ticket for double-parking my truck.

It is insane but I sign the form and then stare blankly at 2000 pounds of America.

I think about the large number of items that we blithely threw into shipment boxes that I will now pay dearly for as I will heft each one 99 steps into the sky.

I pull open the first box and note that it contains six wine bottles, a Volnay 1er Cru from Domaine Carre Courbin. It sounds fancy. It is not ours. What other things in this pallet are not ours? Is someone else in Berlin at this moment opening a bankers box of 50 children's books?

So I consider this for awhile and pin-ball between sitting down on the step and openly weeping or simply heading to a bar to start drinking.

Eventually I just start unwrapping plastic and digging into the job. I think about what my late uncle Frank Wylie would have said, "Simply consider the possibility that it will ALL WORK OUT." You'll get all your stuff plus a case of amazing French wine. There, aim for that.


>MUSICAL INTERMISSION WHILE JAY SPENDS THE NEXT FEW HOURS DOING STAIRS<

25 round trips later, I have everything up the stairs. Every last matchbox car, shoe and muffin pan has been lovingly borne up to our flat. These are stairs that exhaust me when I am dragging up a bag of groceries. Now I will know better than to complain about that.

It all was worth it of course when the children entered, saw the boxes, and simultaneously exploded in a freak-out fun-spasm.

As soon as Cassandra returns from her latest biz trip, we will crack open one of those Volnays. And no I am not going to try and chase down the original owner, sorry. My back hurts.