Back in Biberach

So, we're home. It doesn't really feel like home yet--at least not the city--although our row house is starting to: "Home is where your stuff is."

The trip back, was, um, challenging. The first leg, from Brainerd to Minneapolis on messy, snowy roads, was symptomatic of the whole: we got where we were going more or less on time but it took more worry and effort than we were expecting . . .

The next leg, from Minneapolis to Detroit, should have been the easiest part. We had built in about two hours of layover time between the Minneapolis and Frankfurt flights, which should have been sufficient. However, due to a schedule change, a late incoming flight due to fog in Detroit, and (apparently) due to the sudden illness of the original pilot, our flight left . . . two hours late. I ground my teeth the entire way . . . maybe we could still make it? Thorsten, for his part, was resigned to a day in lovely Detroit. After a sprint between gates (if you could call it that, with Thorsten loaded down like a Sherpa and me joggling Johanna and dragging a cooperative if mystified Lilia behind me), we arrived at our gate 10 minutes after the scheduled departure time for our flight, to find the plane being held for us and a few other delayed passengers. Whew.

The Detroit-Frankfurt flight was uneventful in the sense that it got where it was supposed to go. Lilia slept all of half an hour and refused to eat most of the airline food. Johanna slept all of about an hour and a half, spent the last three hours getting increasingly fussy, and the last half an hour screaming inconsolably. At one point during this stretch the flight attendant came over to ask if he could do anything for me.

"You could give me a Valium," I said despairingly.

"I want one too," piped up the guy sitting next to me.

As Thorsten said, we probably didn't make too many friends on the flight.

Once we landed in Frankfurt, we were pleasantly surprised to see our suitcases again, and we headed over to Terminal 1 on the shuttle bus so we could catch the train. As we got off, Thorsten took charge of the luggage and told me to head inside with the kids. Which I did. I waited five minutes. No Thorsten. Ten minutes. No Thorsten. Panic. As I frantically scanned the terminal, my tired brain spun increasingly improbable scenarios: was he hit by a bus? Did a suitcase clobber him on the head, inducing amnesia and a sudden desire to head off to parts unknown? I had him paged and tried to keep from freaking out, not appreciably helped by Lilia's little voice piping up, "Did we lose Papa?"

Finally Thorsten appeared, understandably exasperated. I had headed right into the airline terminal, stupidly not realizing that the train terminal was to the left. Oh. Shoot . . .

Well, anyway, we got on the first train on time, got to Ulm, and had another wild sprint, this time encumbered by our suitcases in addition to the carryon luggage, and just managed to catch the Biberach train.

On the way, Thorsten asked me if we could really survive doing this again this year. I don't know, but it's probably like asking a woman in labor how many more kids she'd like to have . . .

We're still fighting the jet lag and trying to quilt together enough patches of sleep to remain functional, but are very grateful to Mom and Dad for the wonderful hospitality and are relieved to get home at least physically in one piece.

And now I should go to bed, provided I can get Johanna to agree.