Day 1

As our luggage began to pile up at the curb in front of the airport, I could not help but liken the scene to circus clowns piling out of their vehicle to the delight of the cheering masses.  Unfortunately, our unloading procedure did not go un-noticed by the transit police.  It took some smooth talk and a sweet smile to prevent a ticket and a tow of our drop vehicle.  I don't know how, but we made it.  In the matter of a day we had finished with our life in the midwest, leaving behind an empty farm and all those that we knew and loved.  15 pieces of luggage, a car seat, stroller, two children and 3 year old pug.  What were we thinkining?  After a fair amount of shuffling items back and forth between suitcases, each made weight and we were off.

It seemed as though we were going to pull this off without incident.  The first flight, a breeze.  Children well behaved and excited for the adventure ahead.  All was well, that was of course, until the youngest of our clan decided to drop his pants and expose his junk to a terminal full of happy travelers at our first layover.  And no, for those of you that are of a like mind to my wife, he is NOT just like his daddy.  Pants firmly at our waists, we boarded the plane for what was to be the longest leg of our journey . . . an 8 hour flight over the ocean.

Much to our surprise and delight, it all went off without a hitch.  We managed to survive the flight without a peep from our sleeping brood.  The next hurdle was going to be an issue.  Packing all of our luggage into a very small european car.  Keys in hand to the largest conveyance that Europcar had to offer, we headed for the garage.  I am truly a packing genius.  Somehow managed to cram all of the luggage, the wife, two kids, and the dog in what appeared to be a matchbox car.  For those of you that don't know, I took a poop this morning larger than most of the vehicles driven in this fair country.  This is not a complaint, simply an observation.  They certainly make a fair amount of sense when compared to the brontosaurus sized SUVs that we know and love.  This is especially true when you encounter the very narrow and congested streets in the urban jungle that we now call home.  We will get to all of that soon enough.

Now mobile, we hit the road for what turned out to be the most painful and in many ways most entertaining 5 hours of my life.  After two hours of driving on the heels of some 10 plus hours of air travel, I was finished.  We stopped for some roadside fare and moderately recharged our batteries with something called Dark Dog (similar to Red Bull but with an ingredient list full of things I had never heard of before . . . some questions are better left unanswered) we were ready to set off again.  Fortunately, my loving wife offered to take over for an hour or so.  With little resistance on my part she settled into the driver seat and we were off again.  Did I mention that almost all cars outside of the good ole US of A are manual transmissions?  Well it would appear that ours was malfunctioning.  At least that is what my wife would have you believe.  The truth of the matter is, she was a little bit rusty and she killed the motor a time or two . . . or eight to be exact.  That's right, I started keeping count.  It was the only thing that kept my mind from wandering off to those "blood on the highway" films they made us all watch in driver's ed class. 

The seventh and eighth were by far the most entertaining.  We had to pull off into a little town named "God knows what" so that our youngsters could use the head and wouldn't you know we got caught dead  in the middle of a police action.  From out of nowhere a police van was upon us and moving up fast.  With all the finese of a sumo wrestler my wife lurched our vehicle toward and ultimately onto the curb in the middle of the road.  The pressure of the blues and twos screaming at us from the rear proved simply too much to handle.  Upon restarting the now exhausted motor the next lurch forward caused another stall.  The second burst of forward movement was, however, just enough to let the emergency vehicle past.  It wasn't long before we both agreed that it might be best if I went ahead and drove the rest of the way home.

Night was falling fast as was my energy level.  Thankfully the lights of our new home town in the distance brought on a renewed vigor in all the troops.  A rush of culture poured upon us in the shadow of the dimly lit architecture.  We were home.  How the hell do we find the hotel?  Ah, our next challenge was upon us.  Fortunately, the kind folks at Europcar had equiped us with a Tom Tom and a nice lady with a very British accent led us to our destination.  Now we knew from prior expeditions that parking was going to be an issue.  The plan was fairly simple:  pull up to the front of the hotel, stop in the middle of oncoming traffic while my wife ran in to the hotel to find out where we could park.  She didn't prove to be fleet enough of foot and a city bus immediately put our plan in jeopardy.  Left with no other choice, I drove on.  After several laps of the hotel a la Clark Griswold I finally negotiated my way back to the front of the hotel.  Unfortunately, the traffic gods were not in my favor and I was forced to leave my wife standing on the corner shouting instructions as I passed for one more go round.  Determined not to fail, around the horn we went, with the youngest child inquiring as to why we kept leaving his mother on the street.  Finally in a mad rush of blurred street lights we pulled into the designated parking garage and put our now battle tested steed to rest. 

It took three trips from our room to the parking garage to finally relieve the pressure we had placed on the rear shocks of our rental vehicle.  We needed sleep, but the kids needed food more.  Fortunately in the blur that was my Talladega circuit around our hotel, I had noted that there was a familiar face right around the corner from our hotel room.  PIZZA HUT.  Deciding to play it safe, we sent mom next door to get some grub.  Upon her return, it was clear that we were not in Kansas anymore Toto.  It had a familiar look and aroma.  The taste?  A bit of a departure from the expected, but not bad at all.  The wife however, was less than impressed with what they called BBQ sause as the condiment of choice for her breadsticks.  Bellies full and thoroughly exhausted . . . Alast sweet slumber.