Tonight, January 6, is a night not so different from any other night. I'm sitting on the couch watching Modern Family, with a cat on my lap. I don't feel like blogging, but it's Tuesday, so I promised myself that I would. In other words, tonight could have passed for any night at this time last year, except that it's 40 degrees warmer now. That's because, since the last time I wrote in this space, I moved from Nashville to California.
For some reason, I brought the cats with me.
They don't remember much about the move. The vet prescribed them drugs that left them in a suitable pleasant fog for the entire flight. They are the lucky ones. I had to be fully conscious while living through this:
3 Days Out:
We awake in our hotel room in Mexico. Our 10-year anniversary is next month, so we took a break from the move preparation for an advance celebration. We are set to return today, for a mad scramble to finish packing and run the errands necessary to leave our house of the last seven years for the
last time. And it's still up for sale, so we must leave it in condition for showings. Our problems at that point, as we understood them, included the following:
*There was way too much too do at home to move across the country in three days, even under the best of circumstances;
*I sprained my back during the packing, which put us far behind. And I still have limited ability to get anything done;
* I have Montezuma's Revenge, and am unsure I can make the flight home; and
* We've already shipped our car to California and are relying on the kindness of family for transportation.
Those were just the problems we
knew about.
As we wait on our shuttle bus to the airport, I run to hotel bathroom countless times in misery. I won't get too graphic, but an encounter with Montezuma is worse than what I could have possibly imagined. I barely survive the endless, bumpy drive to the airport.
When we get there, a shady fellow working for the airport informs us that we can't check into our flight without some card, the details of which he can't explain. He isn't sure where we would have gotten this card, or what the name of it is, but he won't let us check into our flight without it. Eventually, it becomes clear that we should still have had some customs declaration, an identical copy of which we gave to Mexican customs when our flight landed. No one told us we needed to keep a copy of the form so we could once again turn it in to the exact same agency to which we had already turned it in six days earlier.
Apparently no one in Mexico, or the hospitality/airline/tourism industry finds this requirement strange enough to mention. But if I had a vote, I would change the country's national motto to: "Mexico, where it's secretly illegal to throw stuff away."
Without the card, we couldn't leave the country unless we bought another one. I didn't think that would be such a big deal when both our check-in valet and the customs agent told us it would only cost $30.
My opinion began to change when I learned that the desk where they sell the customs cards doesn't take credit cards, since we were out of cash. But at least there was an ATM in the terminal, which would have been a lovely convenience if the ATM had worked. Or, for that matter, it hadn't charged me an $11 fee before informing me that my transaction could not be processed. The process repeats at the terminal's other ATM. On the bright side, I had by this point forgotten all about my digestive issues.
"This appears to be a scam," I concluded, as I explained my plight to the customs agent who directed me to a third ATM in another terminal.
There wasn't time for to get ripped off again anyway. Our plane left in an hour, and we couldn't yet even check in to our international flight.
We explain our circumstances and ask the previously mentioned shady airport guy--in our most groveling possible voices--what to do now.
"Become Mexican citizens," he said.
I'm not kidding.
Meanwhile, my 18-year old niece was about to leave from Georgia on her first college road trip to pick us up at the Nashville airport, hang out, and help us finish packing. But I had no way to contact her to tell her that I'm in danger of being stuck in Mexico (with Montezuma's revenge) when she arrives.
Another American couple hears us having a breakdown at the idea of being stuck in Mexico and feels compassion. They had a similar problem, and went into town to get cash from an ATM that worked. They agree to loan us $40.
But the customs desk is now claiming that we owe $60, $30 for each of us, in direct contrast to what they said 15 minutes ago. I note the contradiction, in the most lawyerly voice I can muster given my circumstances, but they are not persuaded.
So we have to approach the nice couple again for an extra $20, which they reluctantly agree to give. If you guys ever read this, THANK YOU!!!!!! (I later mailed them a check, with a little extra included for their generosity.)
We make it home, and my niece is there to pick us up at the airport. Which is vital, because we've already shipped our car to California. Between my losing battle with Montezuma and the country's unwillingness to let me leave, I vow to never set foot (or any other body part) in Mexico again. But if ever I do, I'm not throwing anything whatsoever away, even it its a Kleenex. Apparently I might need to present a copy of it in order to leave.
2 Days Out:
Packing. Errands. Bathroom. Repeat.
Help from my niece, and my wife's wonderful aunt and uncle have us in sight of the general range of being packed and ready, assuming one is looking through a telescope.
That night our thoughtful friends Grant and Carissa are throwing us a going away party. It's a final chance to see most all of our Nashville friends, which was lovely. Almost as importantly, I survived it without having to run to the bathroom. We say goodbye to everyone, and have one more day...
1 Day Out:
*The movers are supposed to come at 9:00 to load our stuff, and we are pretty much ready. The biggest remaining hitches:
*I'm 0-for-3 on my attempts to locate an airplane-compliant cat carrier. This must be done today.
*In order to keep the house pretty for showings, we need to clean each room behind the movers.
*Our box springs won't fit down our stairs, due to the low ceiling in the stairwell. I'm going to have to crush it with a sledge hammer to the point I can drag it down.
*Montezuma's Revenge.
Looking back, I don't know why I was optimistic it would all go smoothly when I woke up. Things started going wrong almost immediately.
The movers were late, and only two of them showed up to load what should have been a job for six of seven. It took them 10 hours, and they blocked my neighbor's driveway, leading to an explosive confrontation.
My realtor forgot to take her lockbox off our rocking chair, and we had to wait 45 minutes on someone to bring a key to get it off. The pet store only had one suitable carrier at a reasonable price, so I had to pay a painful amount for the second.
I had forgotten about some old furniture in our backyard storage shed. I needed to bust it up with my sledge hammer so that it would fit in our trash, which was then out of room even though we had about 10 more bags of stuff to throw away.
As the sweat poured down on me while I beat upon my box springs to little effect, we decided to cancel our dinner plans.
Our aunt and uncle stopped by to bring us gumbo and help get the place in presentable order. As wife and aunt cleaned the downstairs, our uncle sliced his arm open as he helped me carry the wires from the demolished box spring downstairs.
It was getting late, we were getting tired, the house was dirty, and we were not remotely prepared to leave the house forever early the next morning. Somewhere along the way, I, fittingly, stepped in dog poop.
Late that night my wife and I stopped to have a final glass of wine with our favorite neighbor. I took about 25 bags of trash out, the stuff that didn't make the cut for the cross country move. Having run out of room in our own trash bin, I scavenger those of our neighbors for empty space, We set up the mattress on the floor and gathered everything we hadn't put in the moving truck to either be put in the suitcases in the morning or in trash.
The packing and cleaning needs seemed to multiply as the night went on, but at midnight, we were dead.
Moving Day:
4:00 a.m.: Alarm goes off. I've only had 4 hours of sleep, but in an hour and fifteen minutes, I have to be fully packed, with cats loaded, to leave my house for the last time. And we have to leave it spotless. I would be emotional about it, if I didn't have so much to do before I head to the airport.
We had decided to take the first morning flight to reduce the risk of getting delayed in an airport with cats. But all four of us could have used a bit more sleep.
4:05: Take quick shower, dry off and throw away my towel, since I can't move it. Take sheets off of mattress and throw them away as well.
4:22: Eat remaining items from fridge. Gather up trash. Scoop cat litter and throw litter pans into trash bag. From now until California, the cats will just have to hold it.
4:28: Under cover of darkness, find neighboring trash bins in which to throw trash and all remaining household items, since mine is already full. Spread trash over 3 neighboring bins, satisfied everything will fit.
4:40: Feed the cats, slipping drugs in their dish. We've dreaded the idea of moving with the cats for months. Our cats never shut up in their own house, so they seem likely to go nuts on a cross-country plane ride. At the halfway mark, someone on this plane might strangle us.
4:42: Stand over cats, hoping they will swallow their pills. If not, it's going to be a long cross-country flight with connection in Vegas. Trouble devoured everything in her bowl within seconds. Sebastian is eating around his pill but might have swallowed part of it. Oh boy...
4:45: Vacuum.
4:50: Begin panicking. There's only 25 minutes until I leave my house forever. I'm not sure I'm totally packed, I don't know if the cats are drugged, or if they will fit in their carriers. Or if we can even catch them, for that matter.
4:58: Cats are rounded up. Trouble is woozy already, but Sebastian put up a huge fight to get in his carrier. And the poor guy is meowing like mad. He doesn't understand and isn't listening to my attempts to reason with him.
5:03: How is there still more stuff to throw away? And where will I put it?
5:06: Leave our spare key under our neighbor's mat, as I had promised.
5:10: Lug our mattress down to the basement until it can be picked up by a charity.
5:14: We're actually on time! I forgot to deliver our sump pump to my neighbor as I had promised, but she seemed fairly ambivalent about getting it anyway. There's no time now.
5:15: Say unemotional goodbye to the house we lived in for the last seven years. Throw away a grocery bag full of trash on the way out the door in the bin of my least favorite neighbor, my final act of retribution for her failure to ever clean her swimming pool.
5:22: Stop for gas. Debate whether to re-drug howling cat in backseat.
5:30: Arrive at airport, where our aunt meets up to pick up her car. Say goodbye, and emotion hits for the first time. But there isn't much time. There is, however, an unhappy cat. This is going to be a long day.
5:45: As we wait in the check-in line, Sebastian finally starts to feel the drugs.
6:15: Ever wondered how one goes through airport security with felines? Apparently you have to take them out of their carriers for some reason, and carry them through the metal detectors. I suppose they want to make sure the cats aren't carrying any lasers.
6:20: Images of our cats bolting from our arms and sprinting through the airport race through our heads. My wife asks if there is any other way...
6:23: Security escorts my wife and two cats to a private room for a screening. The cats clear security, even though I have suspicions that one of them is actually a terrorist.
6:45: Morning coffee and two cats in hand, we board our plane. We sit on pins and needles for 8 hours, as we connect through Vegas on our way to San Jose, and catch a ride from the airport to our apartment. But our mostly drugged cats hardly said a word. If they only behave for one day in their 18 combined lifetimes (and so far, this has been it), they picked a good day to do it.
3:00 p.m. (Pacific time): We settle into the new apartment, release the cats, and take a look around.
It's a sunny day, and Montezuma decided not to follow me to California. Perhaps he had to go back to Mexico to get a new immigration form.
We made it. We'll be sleeping on the floor for the foreseeable future, and living out of our suitcases, as our furniture won't arrive for at least another week. But we made it. Out of Mexico and out of Nashville, with two cats and the slim majority of our sanity intact. Sebastian has decided to live on top of the refrigerator at our new place, but he's had a rough day, so we decided to let it go.
We think of our friends Lindsay and Jason, who moved from San Diego to Nashville and back again. "How does anyone do this more than once?" my wife asks.
"I can't imagine," I say. "But I guess they didn't have two cats, a sprained back, Montezuma's revenge and an anniversary trip interfering with their move.
But secretly, I think: "Next time, you're going to have to drug me along with the cats. "
