getting settled

Weary-eyed and physically torn, we dragged our baggage the last hundred meters. EB pushed the dog-laden luggage cart while I alternated between

two others packed with luggage. We got to be those people with their names on a drivers’ placard. We found our driver and headed for the door. EB took the chance to walk Smuggler and clean his miserable kennel off in the shadows. I was posted just outside the sliding doors and was charged with fending off the vultures in taxi driver clothing. I swatted the scavengers away as I got into it with our driver in pantomimed French/Arabic (Frerabic?) about whether all our stuff would fit in the truck. Of course it would, thought I, after all EB’s broker had arranged it all: “I will organize the pick up car for you and will confirm (since you are a very nice client); a seven seats car would be ok?” Not so. After much deliberation, translation by phone (EB’s broker was awaken between 3:30-4:30 multiple times to deal with the consequences of his lack of foresight), we finally pushed the carts yet again to the dark corners of the parking lot where the driver had parked his compact SUV rental. Though challenging, I was in my element again fixing problems, rearranging the pieces of a puzzle to make it all fit. It took two tries, but we were finally able to pile ourselves into the car.

The broker had booked us the one hotel he could find that would accept a bribe in exchange for housing a dog for the night. I went to check in while EB tended to the dog’s needs and the driver unloaded the truck. “That is not small dog,” declared the hotel manager. I shrugged: “who told you it was a small dog? WE did not tell you that—don’t know what to tell you… could I have the key please?” And so as the hoteliers glared and the sun began to poke up, I nearly singlehandedly loaded the tiny elevator and shuttled up the four loads of luggage to the smoke-staled room. EB washed Smuggler, his crate, and herself, before I took my own turn in the war-torn bathroom. My five hours of sleep that ensued were glorious. EB’s three hours were less so, but she did the productive tasks of procuring a bed and arranging the move to the apartment.

So after a six hour break we again piled our belongings, this time into two very old Mercedes taxis. We weaved the city streets, and before we knew it, the ‘concierge’ at EB’s new apartment had lugged everything the two flights up into our spacious, marble-laden domicile. The landlord was still working on the place, and it was hardly clean. Again, the broker: “apartment is ready to move in; we called [the landlord] couple of days ago.”

No furniture, save for a mattress on the floor. Hot

water for showering, check. Fridge was operating, though beeping obnoxiously at 90-second intervals. But we were home with falafel sandwiches in hand. Full stop.