Love and Travel

As much as we complain about airports, security and packing according to TSA regulations, I think we forget about how much easier it all makes the leaving. When all four of our bags weighed exactly 50 pounds, therefore avoiding a major charge by the airline, I was doing the happy dance from check-in to the plane. No tears here, all high fives for the team that crammed that last sweater in, or perfectly calculated the file folder that weighed exactly .5 pounds. For that, I am eternallhy grateful to all airport security, especially the cranky ones who hate their jobs. And I sincerely apologize to family and friends who may have felt brushed off. I'm sure we'll call you crying next month in a Bortsch-induced fit of homesickness.

Once we got on our plane, set for 14 hours across the Atlantic, we were feelin' pretty good. Still not sure why we, both over 6' tall, got a middle and window seat while Grandma, maybe 5' (maybe), got the aisle, but we'll get to her in a minute. For the time being, we were in that moment of bliss when we realized that the wine was free and we hadn't really thought about the likelihood of our luggage not making the transfer from our connecting flight. Life was good, pure and we had our choice of movies on our own personal mini tv. Complete bliss.

Grandma was feelin' real good. I don't know how she did it, but she managed to fall asleep immediately after takeoff. Do the math, people. Now, we're stuck. And no amount of old 30 Rock episodes can save us now. But, in true honeymoon fashion, we were still all smiles and wine (still free!) Until Hubs fell asleep, leaving me alone with a full bladder and an empty wine cup. Not only was my only way out blocked by a sleeping 90+ Thai woman, but both her and Hubs were passing gas the whole time. The silent but deadly type. You know.

Finally, in a Cirque du Solei move I will never be able to duplicate, I managed to make it over Grandma without even a flinch from her. Fresh air at last! I go to take a lap and am hit by a wall of foul teenage boy BO. Hey, Russian Club Hockey Team, it may be dark, but I still know you're in here. Yikes. Not important, I needed to hurry back to my seat for plenty of time to fold myself back up in it.

From there the flight was fairly uneventful, and Grandma ended up being a real nice lady once she woke up for the last hour of the flight and wanted to talk the whole time. Real nice. Now comes that terrifying customs/baggage claim experience. I really do believe that there's some type of electric waves that make you forget where you put your passport five seconds ago and spiral out of control into a frenzied panic, throwing the items of your carryon everywhere. (Although, Hubs would ask if that electric waves follows me and applies to my car keys, wallet, book, charger, and anything else I'm using) I try and be extra sweet to the lady behind the plexiglass checking my passport, although that probably made me more suspicious, and next time I'll try to match her sour face, (what does she have to be so sour about? She knows where her baggage is...) and off we go to claim our bags. Talk about anxiety. I don't even know whats in these bags anymore after the packing, repacking, throwing out and starting over we've done over the course of the last week and a half, but I know it's important stuff that we need and I don't want it to have exploded in cargo or be lost in Moscow, Idaho. (a real city, by the way...)

Despite our anxiety, our luggage was fine, and thankfully, a significant distance from the stinky hockey team's bags. So here we are, ready to take over Russia!

But how do we get where we're going? Right. Our taxi driver. The jolly looking man with a cross between a rat tail and mullet who, despite our best efforts to tell him we don't speak Russian, insists on talking to us. Including questions about our temporary apartment that, from my understanding of non-verbals, he doesn't think exists. Off we go!

Driving in Moscow can be tense if you're not a super-defensive driver like myself. I was completely confident in our driver cutting people off and turning at the last minute, but apparently Hubs was white-knuckled the whole drive while I enjoyed the scenery. And the conversation I didn't really understand. In my mind, we were home.

Fast forward through a really long cab ride (our driver did know the English word "traffic"), a super-hidden secret apartment and an elevator that nearly took off an arm each, and we really were home. Home. Together. Happy.

And so we start our story.
Cheers to those who made it happen.