Supernanny to the rescue

 Let’s play the word association game.  I say black, you say white.  I say palm, you say tree.  I say Norway, you say fjords, Viking or reindeer.  Whatever you say, I know you’re not gonna pull the words hot, sultry or steamy out of your word toy box. 

 

Oslo, Norway is my home for Summer 2008.  Fabio, my Italian boyfriend, has seduced me into joining him here, with his impressive spaghetti-twirling skills, wonderful sense of adventure, and willingness to joke around with me about things like foreign good-luck pigs and gnomes.  I adore him.

 

For my second weekend in Oslo, my sweet man invited me to join him for a business trip to Madrid.  I hesitated momentarily, thinking 7 days might be too short for even me to be bored and ready to leave my new city for a weekend trip to Spain.  But then Google Maps showed me the way; Madrid is nowhere near the Arctic Circle while Oslo is its next door neighbor and BFF.  Even a third grader could tell you it was gonna be a helluvalot hotter in Madrid than Oslo in June, and I like me some summer heat. 

 

The day of my departure, irony struck.  As I departed from Oslo, it was 82-degrees Fahrenheit; the hottest place in all of Europe.  Disembarking from the plane in Madrid, my pinky toes whimpered against the chilly wind in my open toe sandals.  It was blowing and in the 60s.  The grey Spanish clouds were laughing so hard they nearly wet their cloud pants.

 

Regardless, Madrid was approximately 1000 times more beautiful than I remembered.  Our weekend was freaking fiesta-riffic, despite needing to wear 5 of my cotton t-shirts, 2 sundresses, a headscarf and all my jewelry to stay warm on the way to the Prado. 

 

Fabio and I were returning to Oslo on different flights.  The business traveller was flying direct, while I had a short layover in Germany.  In the meantime, a cold front was colliding with a warm front directly over the airport in my connecting city of Frankfurt, forming a big, fat storm sandwich with a side of fuck-me french fries. 

 

Consequently, my flight to Frankfurt was delayed, circling Frankfurt until the final Oslo flight for the night had left without me.  So I arrived in Frankfurt alone and flightless, knowing only enough German to ask for a piece of cheese really nicely and then politely thank someone for it.

 

My expectations at this point were set to American standards.  I anticipated a troubled night of semi-sleep on sticky vinyl waiting area seats, clutching my luggage fearfully to my chest, preceded by begging airline reps for a $5.00 dinner vouchers valid at any fast food restaurant in the airport.  I clearly hadn’t much experience with the German stereotype of efficiency and preciseness.  I’ll tell you how it really went down.

 

A makeupless, stern, yet somehow kindly, fraulein met me at the airline customer service desk.  She tidied up the mess like a German Supernanny.  I’ll take care of all this for you and you had better like it, leipshin.  She had answers to all my questions.  Of course the airline would provide a hotel for the night.  And of course transportation would be included.  How dare you even ask about dinner and breakfast… Of course!

 

Not believing the fraulein supernanny, I frantically purchased an emergency bag of salt-and-pepper potato chips on my way to the bus, thinking I could ration 10 chips for dinner and the other 10 for breakfast so I wouldn’t have to consider devouring a bar of bathroom soap or downing a travel-sized shower gel.

 

A cruise ship-sized luxury bus with plush seats was waiting outside to shuttle little me and the rest of the international refugees to the hotel.  In just 10 minutes, I was at the hotel, checked-in by 15, and by 20 I was nibbling on a salad of fresh mesclun greens with smoked salmon and cucumber in the hotel restaurant. 

 

I fell asleep with a smile of my face snuggled beneath a puffy down duvet after a squeeky clean hot shower.  So happy to be stuck in Frankfurt and not Bangledesh or Tuscaloosa.