Feet on the ground

We are here. Day one in Germany and so far so good. As soon as we got on our flight, which was mostly Europeans, I was quickly reminded of the differences between "us" and "them". I love Europeans, I mean they are the tree hugging yin to our war mongering yang; The independent, carefree Jekyll to our materialistic, Jones chasing Dr. Hyde. Personal space is something of an American commodity if you've never been out of the states, and I was quickly reminded of this at the boarding gate as a very nice German family descended on my blocked off, marked, and claimed piece of floor real estate near the gate. They obviously didn't understand that my book bag was the east boundary point and the western demarcation line was the dog crate, because they invaded like the Blitzkrieg. Actually, I don't really mind this because they mind their business and it's like this everywhere in Europe, nobody pays attention to you, unlike that huge haired blond lady with spandex that gave Jaime the once over twice at the Golden Corral last week.

The dog park at the Atlanta airport is completely pointless. It's great and all, but pointless. In between flights I decided to take M&M there to stretch his legs, drop a load, and sniff a few butts. When I volunteered to take the dog to the park it was a more selfish decision, not that I really cared about the dogs' well-being, but I didn't want to have to occupy two boys for two hours at nap time; but as far as anyone else knows, it was me being kind. Anyway, the guy in the red jacket pointed me to the dog park "go down to baggage claim, out the doors, walk past the rental car office and hang a right". It took me 20 minutes to get to the dog park, which was outside security, outside the airport, and outside the Atlanta City Limits I think. Between the drugs and the fact that he had been in the bag the last 3 hours, when I took him out, he looked like a drunk guy trying to cross 301 at 2am to get to 7-eleven. He sort of staggered sideways, fell down, then got back up. Staggered some more, then finally after about 15 minutes he got his legs back just in time for me to shove him back in the bag. He did not pee, poop, run, or stretch. On the way back to the international terminal (furthest terminal from entrance), I got to experience the joys of security again, this time with the dog and my book bag and no help.

We get on the plane and get ready to take off, and again the European mentality catches me off guard. Once you get past all the four foot tall backpacks (apparently they don't sell suitcases in Europe) and to your seat you start to see shoes coming off faster than a bus full of kids at a McDonald's play area. Immediately they lay the seats back as far as they go, which works out well for a guy like me because with an armrest that doesn't move and the seat in front laid back all the way, I have about 6 inches to shimmy into my seat. Add to that one pocket full of passports, the other with a wallet, and the other with Jaime's lip gloss and you see I was about as comfortable as a Muslim in Kentucky. The good news was that it was only 10 more hours to go.

The food wasn't bad, no gay stewards slid down the emergency slide, so I guess it was a good trip.

When we were landing the boys were looking out the window and we saw the Alps, and all these little villages and the boys looked disappointed. I think they were really expecting houses made out of chocolate.

On a side note, I made an interesting observation. People at the baggage claim have superhuman strength. Seriously, I see women who probably weigh 100 pounds grab their suitcases, which I know probably weigh close to 175 pounds, with one hand, do a spin move and get out of the way. I don't know how they do that when I have to grab the handle with both hands, fall to the ground on my back, use my feet to push of the side of the baggage thing, to get Jaime's bag off the belt. I'm sure the locals were impressed with my ingenuity and willpower.

We did all the in-processing on base as soon as we got here and I'm sure the hardened military wives LOVED my family when we showed up. I get up from getting my ID card photo taken and see Jaime and the boys layed out, sleeping in the chairs at the Pass and ID office. So I say "J, come get your picture taken" and she wakes up walks over looking like M&M did at the dog park...sideways walk, stumble, fall in the chair. Her ID photo will have to end up on the smokinggun.com mugshot roundup, I'm sure. Nick Nolte watch out.

On the road we saw this sign, which is the word for car exit and is everywhere. I have to work on my pronunciation though, because when I say Ausfahrt, Jaime said I sound like a snobby British butler speaking of a gaseous bodily function.