Say What Now?

Week 26

A First Time for Everything

Wednesday

The airplane touched down at Boston’s Logan Airport. Relief lightened my heart. After months of waiting, planning, and being all by myself—well, sort of—I disembarked from the metal bird. My limbs ached from the nine-hour flight. Actually, from the whole journey.

I had locked my front door back in Potsdam around 7:00 a.m. The sun wasn’t even up yet, but by the time my flight landed, the sun had already set again back home. However, the clock in Boston only struck four in the afternoon. My eyes, head, arms, and legs just wanted to curl up on a soft bed with a blanket.

I waddled to the baggage pickup area. A mob of people already waited. The luggage carousel idled. I suppressed a groan. I shifted my weight from left to right for almost thirty minutes.

Please open your bag, ordered a throaty voice behind me.

The shortness of the woman’s tone made me look up. As I lifted my gaze, my eyes followed a dark blue, one-inch-wide, woven nylon extension leading down from her left hand. At the end of the leash, a beagle waited for his next command in front of my backpack. Taken aback by the dog, I snatched my carry-on up from the floor. My eyes zeroed in on the officer.

Did you bring any food items into the country with you from your place of departure? The officer scrunched up her forehead.

Food? I exhaled, as if the word was foreign to me. Technically, English was foreign to me as my mother tongue was German, but I had acquired the meaning of this word during third grade. I understood what the uniformed woman meant.

Reactivating my brain, the contents of my bag flickered through my mind: my phone, a charger, my computer, a book, a water bottle, headphones, my wallet, my passport, a spoon, my bullet journal, a pencil case with fine liners, a fountain pen, and washi tape.

No, I insisted. Still, the dog fixed his pupils on me.

Please open your luggage, instructed the woman.

Stunned, I wanted to refuse. Just because someone ordered me to follow their demand didn’t mean I mindlessly obeyed. What if the woman was trying to pull a con on me despite being in a uniform? Airports provided loads of opportunities to get robbed. After all, people hurried quickly from one point to another, causing travelers to often submit to authority figures immediately to decrease their delays.

I covered my mouth with a yawn to conceal my hesitation. If the woman was for real, noncompliance could lead to detention. Do they employ translators here? I could not deal with an interrogation in a second language. Without a doubt, I could not even sustain an interrogation in my mother tongue either. Only yes and no would worm out of my mouth. Regardless, experiencing this kind of confrontation immediately after I crossed the Atlantic for the first time was not on my to-do list.

My back hurt, my forehead pounded, and my eyelids sagged. I just wanted to go home—to my new home, for the time being—to shower away the long flight. My shaky hands unzipped my backpack, hoping for the best but expecting the worst.

The woman shuffled through my belongings. Annoyed, I bit my lips. I didn’t have anything to hide, but I feared that my wallet would vanish right under my nose. Wouldn’t that be a fantastic welcoming present?

The woman pulled out a zipped-up transparent plastic bag from my carry-on.

Oh, I had yogurt. My response echoed back in my face when the dog shifted his attention from my backpack to the woman’s hand—a spoon dangled from her fingers.

She returned the silverware to me. Have a nice holiday!

Thanks, I muttered, swinging my backpack over my shoulders.

A metallic screech bolted through the hall. A hidden engine propelled forward. Lo and behold, the luggage carousel began to move in front of me. My hiking backpack led the way.

With all my belongings retrieved, I followed a stream of people toward the final checkpoint. Welcome to the US, greeted the female voice originating from five flat screens on the walls of the passport control area. A picture of Mount Rushmore appeared on the monitors. Seconds later, a beach with a happy family replaced the stone sculptures. When Niagara Falls came, followed by the famous Las Vegas sign, the loop of pictures commenced again.

More travelers joined the line behind me in addition to the seven other passport control lines. In total, seven passport control desks let people pass the border. Yet not all control windows serviced international arrivals. Minutes turned into hours.

I worried about Guido, my husband. I couldn’t call, text, or email to assure him that I stood only feet away from where he waited for me, inching forward in this painstakingly slow line.

Two Hours Later

Your passport, please? requested another uniformed woman behind a transparent plastic shield. I handed the double-chinned border employee my burgundy-red identification booklet.

Where did you fly from?

Berlin.

How long are you planning to stay here?

Six months.

The border control officer flipped through the green pages of my official document. She stopped at my J1 visa sticker.

Who are you planning to stay with?

My husband.

Place your right hand on the machine in front of you.

I did.

She stamped half on my sticker and half on the paper, saying, Welcome to the US.

Mareike, Mareike! Guido’s voice boomed through the crowd of waiting people. I zigzagged through travelers and flung myself into my husband’s arms.

When we embraced, the overwhelming scent of Guido’s aftershave exploded in my nose. The fragrance reminded me of my childhood. My grandmother used to wear a perfume that resembled my husband’s aftershave. As a preteen, I loved the smell. Unfortunately, as a now-pregnant adult, the aroma repelled me like a mosquito.

I bit my tongue. After nearly three months apart, Guido probably wanted to put his best foot forward.

What was going on back there? I waited for three hours, my husband moaned.

I don’t know. I probably waddled half a mile through the airport, then waited for my backpack forever, and stood in line to get my passport checked for an eternity.

Anyway, you made it, declared Guido before shouldering my luggage.

My new home floated by through the windows of a taxi. The houses, people, and streets appeared all too familiar but also strangely alien. I wasn’t sure what I had imagined. I had watched enough movies and documentaries to know that the USA wasn’t much different from Germany. Yet I pictured everything more clean or shiny, perhaps futuristic.

However, a spirit of festivities to come sprung up in me as we drove through our neighborhood. Inflatables of kid-friendly horror movies were set up outside several houses. Spiders and skeletons decorated many outside walls. My brain rummaged through all possible occasions to provide my mind with reasons for those decorations.

Besides the decor for kids, I noticed some adult ones too. The word Oktoberfest popped up here and there. I had so many thoughts and so many questions. I had to admit that I had only once been to the Oktoberfest in Munich. Let’s put it this way: the festivities weren’t my jam. I’d instead go to our pub around the corner to hang out with our friends.

Guido squeezed my hand. I’m so happy you’re here.

Me too, I concurred.

Are you happy to be on leave?

Yes, but technically, I am on vacation. And I am a little scared that I will still be cc’d on most work emails. I had accumulated three weeks of unused vacation time to take before my maternity leave officially started.

I am sure the lemonades will be made without you, teased Guido.

Of course they will. I have nothing to do with the production.

Guido grinned at me. He knew that my position as a controller in a lemonade company only involved numbers.

I can’t believe I’m here, I repeated, kissing my husband on his cheek. Months ago, he’d convinced me that his stay abroad would only be a few months. A couple of months, echoed in my head. I rubbed my stomach. That was back when my tummy sat flat on my body.

When we first talked about Guido’s stint in Boston, my hair stood up on my skin. The time period made the situation clear; if I’d stayed at home, Guido would miss the birth of his child.

Why can’t someone else go? I had screeched at him.

You know why. I am the lead software developer. I have to train these people to install, implement, and debug the software for the cashier machines, argued Guido.

I’d thrown up my hands, exasperated. But why can’t you train someone else to train the people in Boston?

There is not enough time. Listen, we’ll talk about the options after I speak with my boss, Guido had soothed me.

Suddenly, I sat in my apartment, alone, pregnant, and trying to decide what was best for us. Either I had the baby with Guido or I didn’t. Weeks went by, putting pros and cons on a list.

My sister, Ulrike, the world traveler, tipped the scale during my decision-making process, probably hoping to be able to swing by in Boston. But shortly before I flew to Guido, our cousin Annette told us all about her new mom life. All Ulrike heard was: babies cry during the night, no one can sleep, there is always a never-ending pile of food to be prepared, and nobody has time to deep clean the bathroom. Her excitement to visit us dimmed. On the other hand, I heard Ulrike could help with the baby, cook, and keep me company.

The cab stopped in front of a three-story gray house. Guido lifted my hiking backpack from the car trunk and carried my belongings to the house’s main entrance. He pulled open a flimsy door with an oversized mesh window, and a spring on top of the frame pulled the door back in. He blocked it with his body and pushed the key into the main door.

A door before the door? I mused.

Yeah, concurred Guido. I believe they are called storm doors. But don’t ask me why.

I had so many questions, but I swallowed them for now as we climbed up a narrow stairwell. How could anyone carry big or heavy items up? Of course my husband had rented an apartment on the highest level. My back was killing me when Guido unlocked the door to our nest.

It felt surreal to finally be standing in his apartment. Previously, I’d only gotten glimpses through my computer screen. A black floor cushion graced the otherwise empty living room. Instantly, I missed our cozy home.

Over the past several months, I had teased Guido about the emptiness within his apartment. Unfortunately, the living room hadn’t become more inviting. Marks and stains on the off-white paint from a long line of previous occupants didn’t help either. Somehow, relief flushed my system at the sight of bare walls.

When we first moved into our current apartment back home, we’d spent a whole weekend tearing down the wallpaper. On another, the two of us painted the walls in a shade of cream. Here, half the work was done already.

The more significant issue was the apartment itself. The emptiness in each room glared at me. At least Guido had obtained a proper mattress with a frame; the inflatable one seemed gone.

On one level, I understood Guido’s lack of furnishings. He basically only slept within these four walls. On the other hand, we had planned my stay far in advance. Disappointment bubbled up in my gut. Guido didn’t step up to make our space more habitable. Now I had to. On the bright side, though, shopping for stuff I wanted to surround myself with would force me to explore my new hometown.

My sister had implored, Only when you get lost do you discover new neighborhoods.

Despite the visual unwelcomeness of Guido’s apartment, a delicious fragrance layered the air. What did you make?

Goulash.

Yum. I took my shoes off to inspect the kitchen. Two empty blue bowls, different styles of spoons, and two mismatched chairs waited for us. Somehow, he had organized himself a proper kitchen. Go figure.

Where did you get those? I pointed at the dinnerware. I’d expected him to live on paper plates as a Strohwitwer. ¹

I found the bowls in a box on the sidewalk, announced Guido. My smile slipped off my face. I couldn’t believe he found unchipped, uncracked kitchenware on the street.

I found the kitchen table and the chairs on a curb too, confessed my husband. No wonder they were mismatched. But Guido hadn’t stopped there. I stumbled upon an ironing board the other day as well.

Instead of questioning my husband if the board came with an iron, I marveled aloud, Is this wishing curb on your way to work?

Sometimes . . . and sometimes at random places when we go out for lunch or when I pick something up for dinner, Guido informed me.

Ha, I huffed. My creep factor cranked up. How about the bed and bedding? I inquired. I imagined bugs hiding in the fabric only to crawl all over us as we slept.

No, no, he assured me. I bought it off Craigslist.

Craigslist?

"Yeah. It’s like eBay Kleinanzeigen." ²

Guido poured the hot soup into my dish.

I nodded. I can’t believe I’m here, I sighed.

Me neither, echoed Guido.

I gulped down the hot dinner. A sensation of home overcame me. I have to call my mom to let her know I arrived in one piece.

My husband gave me a wry look. Well, it’s eleven thirty back at our parents’.

Oh, I forgot.

Just send her an email. I can enter the modem information into your computer while you shower, proposed Guido as a yawn escaped my mouth. If you want, we can go to bed early today. I’m tired too. Guido smiled and finished his food.

Sounds like a good idea, I agreed. I placed my dish in the sink after Guido and found my luggage in the bedroom.

My husband rinsed our dinnerware. I made you space in the closet.

Two empty shelves above neatly stacked shirts, sweatshirts, socks, and underwear provided room for my clothes.

Our appointment is at ten tomorrow.

This wasn’t my first pregnancy visit, of course, but my first one in a new country with my husband—exciting stuff. Usually I either went by myself to appointments or with my mother or sister.

I am already excited. I unclipped my backpack cover and pulled out my pajamas, cardigan, and toiletry bag.

Me too, Guido said. I have missed so much already.

Well, yes and no, I guess. At times, though, it has been tough to be without you, I confessed.

You are here now. Guido embraced me. I pushed my body against his. Beneath his new cologne, his natural scent filtered through. A sigh of relief relaxed my shoulders.

We were finally back together. Unfortunately, another smell disrupted our reunion. Sweat. My sweat. Self-conscious, I pulled away to sniff under my arms.

I have to take a shower.

I put out a fresh towel for you.

Thanks.

I shuffled into the bathroom. Right in front of me sat the toilet. Next to it was the sink. Above the vanity was a hanging, mirrored cabinet, and under the sink was more storage. There was also a shower and bathtub in the corner of the bathroom; the entire room was barely wider than my wingspan.

I peeled my clothes off and turned on the water. From a short, stubby, pear-sized showerhead warm water drizzled over my head and shoulders. My lower back began to relax. The water rinsed off the journey—a clean start to a new chapter in my life that would launch after I dried off.

My Aronal und Elmex tubes of toothpaste pushed through the zipper of my toiletry bag. Underneath rolled my blue-and-white Florena cream. Abruptly, a memory sprang into my mind. A faint odor lingered in the air of Guido’s aftershave: Kölnisch Wasser.

I had to devise a way to tell my husband that this one item in his self-care regimen caused me almost to puke.

I dried my skin, lathered my body in lotion, and put an extra dollop of Vaseline on my lower belly. Then I slipped into my soft, casual royal-blue pants and shimmied into my orange T-shirt with a green Ampelmännchen, ³ courtesy of my sister.

My hair dryer’s cord tangled on the floor while I hunted down an outlet. None showed themselves to me. I wrapped my beige cardigan around my back, which my mother had knitted. I have always admired her craftsmanship, as well as her patience. The fluffy jacket turned out exactly how I hoped the knitwear would be. I loved the big pockets on the sides and the belt instead of buttons.

I scooted along, examining the walls of our bedroom. On my husband’s bedside, I found a creamy-white plastic frame. I pushed the hair dryer plug in, but the end didn’t budge. A barrier blocked the metal rods. I crouched down for a better look.

No way, I wailed.

What happened? asked Guido.

My hair dryer doesn’t fit into the outlet.

Are you serious? Irony lined my husband’s words.

I glowered at him. I am not in the mood.

You can’t even travel to France and expect just to plug in your electronic devices, Guido pointed out.

Of course he was right. I didn’t know how often that irked me. Each country in the European Union had different outlets.

How was the shower? Guido asked, in an attempt to shift my annoyance.

Nice, but why don’t you have a long showerhead? It was such a pain to clean the tub.

I don’t know. There was none when I moved in.

Oh. How have you cleaned the shower then? Moving the showerhead back and forth barely did anything to get rid of my hair on the sides of the walls.

My husband shrugged. He focused both his eyes on a YouTube video. Before snuggling up next to him with wet hair, I put the handful of clothes I’d brought with me in the wardrobe. To my surprise, all of Guido’s hangers tilted upward.

What’s going on here? I snorted.

Guido turned to me. The space is too small for the hangers.

Ha, I exhaled. Visually, the metal bar appeared to be mounted in the middle of the closet for the hangers, but the space to the wall proved insufficient to hang clothes properly. I smacked my forehead in my mind.

Unable to remedy the issue, I cuddled up to my husband instead. The moving pictures on the computer screen showed a guy hammering away on metal between dipping the silver material into roaring flames. The title under the video read, Forging a Viking Axe. Hhhmmmm, this is new, I thought.

But if you want, we probably can get one, Guido continued, as if we were just discussing a specific topic.

I pushed my brows together, confused. What do you mean?

I mean a showerhead. We can probably just buy one.

That would be great. Bending over with my belly is no fun. I pulled up the thick white blanket, absorbing my husband’s body heat as I drifted asleep.

Thursday

Luckily for me, Guido was by my side on our way to the gynecologist. My phone could display the directions, but the GPS took me on the least direct route without the Internet. I breathed in the air of my new temporary home. Like in the taxi, the houses and the people oozed little differences. Besides the language passersby spoke, the street signs were green and not blue. The ending of the street names was Ave or St, which I presumed stood for street. I mused if all those Ave’s meant "Allee," ⁴ but the road didn’t look like one.

Another peculiar sight