postcard 61: the final leg

Munich to Frankfurt to Atlanta to Nashville to Topeka to Denver

The streets grow predictably narrower and more haphazard as we enter Munich and by the time I’ve jumped out and checked into the hotel, Topher and Hazelnut are already lost. I peer out the lobby window, waiting for them for 5, 10, then 15 minutes before I finally get another call. There’s shouting in German in the background. The van is stuck in a UPS loading zone. I motion for the front desk clerk to follow me out and have him point out the parking garage entrance, hidden behind a gas station tucked under the overhang of the building, also the UPS loading zone. It’s utter chaos, but we finally get the van lined up with the barrier, though the garage is full. Topher, now thoroughly flustered, wants to leave, but I can’t imagine we’re going to easily find anything else. We sit there and wait for a good half an hour before a tiny car leaves and the light turns green, allowing us in. There’s no way we’re going to fit in this garage, Topher grumbles, and I keep to myself the tidbits I read online about the narrow spots and terrible parking jobs by other drivers. I refuse to entertain another possibility and when I finally spy the open spot, I make him slam on the brakes to try it, though it looks like a dubious fit, even to my spatially disinclined brain. I hop out and we Austin Powers it into the tiny spot, just barely fitting.

I’m victorious and he’s stressed and Hazelnut is covered in parking garage puddle water, but I’m not excited about leavibg everything we own in a parking garage in the middle of the city. We haggle and he gets me down to the two suitcases with keepsakes, leaving the camping gear, clothes, and his bike to the parking garage fates. We squeeze into the elevator, bump down a busy street and collapse into bed in our hotel room.

The humidity makes it feel bitterly cold and casts the Gothic buildings in a strange light. Spires twist out of the mist, illuminated by the glow of Christmas lights below in a way that looks like it could be a horror movie. We join the growing crowds until we press into Marienplatz, the main square under the imposing city hall building. I’m glad we’ve left Hazelnut behind as I grasp Topher’s waist, pushing single file through the masses. We order gluhwein, but after a few moments of attempting to walk without jostling it, we find a space along a fountain and stay put instead. Unlike Innsbruck, each stand has their own mugs here and, austensibly, we must return ours to the correct spot to get our deposit back. The first mugs we get aren’t that cute, so we return them empty and keep wandering. The market stretches out into every connecting artery and the further we get from the main square, the calmer it becomes. The air smells like spiced nuts. Bubbling flammkuchen being pulled from the oven draws us in and we order two, burning the roofs of our mouths on the scalding flatbread covered in creme fraiche, lardons and green onions. This one’s chewy crust is made of rye and it's heavenly. There’s more gluhwein, and spaetzle served in edible bowls and finally the cold wins and we rush back to the hotel to thaw.

Overnight the mist catches in spiderwebs along the bridge, freezing into spooky art installations. My ears hurt from the cold through my hat as we unclip Hazelnut’s leash and let her zoom through the frozen leaves at the downtown park. It’s enough to keep her in line later when we head into the Christmas markets, less crowded during the day. Our first stop is a small, medieval market and we’re immeadiately charmed. The stalls are so intricate, miniature half-timbered houses and little castles. Two knights guard the entrance and every stall is staffed by someone wearing period costumes. There’s a drum beat and we’re pulled from our gawking to step aside for a dance troupe, dressed as jesters, lords and princesses, marching through the square. Hazelnut watches in total confusion. Topher beelines for the Wurstbratery where they’re grilling sausages on a big cast iron contraption over the fire. A gal with face tattoos and piercings, wearing the bare minimum of costumery covered by a hoodie, deposits a cheese filled sausage in a bun and Topher slathers it in sweet mustard from a communal pot with a wooden spoon. We immeadiately cover ourselves in grease as we bite into it. I’m tempted to order one myself, but as we keep strolling I see a pig roasting on a spit. This is one of the last items on my Croatian bucket list I didn’t check off. I order a sandwich filled with succulent pork and top it with cranberry sauce. It’s just as amazing as I’d hoped.

Hazelnut’s nose is glued to the ground now that she’s realized it’s covered in tasty morsels. We tug her along as she hoovers and she comes nose to nose with another dog who is doing the exact same thing. They don’t acknowledge each other, just keep sniffing. We spend the afternoon wandering the city’s other markets, but the medieval one is our favorite by far.

Hazelnut stays back at the room after the sun sets and we venture into the city again, this time prepared with base layers on under our ski clothes. It’s still freezing. The first thing we notice as we walk back into the medieval market is the sheer amount of fire. There’s fire pits at hip level strewn across the market, fiery sconces adorn the corners of every (wooden) booth and all the food is being cooked over open flame. But, perhaps the most alluring bit of fire is the terracotta goblets people are walking away from the gluhwein booth with, shooting blue flames from their tops. We order a feuerzangenbowle, a goblet of gluhwein with a rum floater. That, and a rum soaked sugar cube sitting on a special lip in the cup get set on fire and we have our very own mug of flaming wine. The sugar slowly melts into the liquid. I laugh, thinking of all the reasons this would be illegal in America, and we’re grateful for Topher’s thick ski gloves as the flames go on and on and on. When it finally goes out and the liquid cools to drinkability, we take turns sipping it.

We’re nearly taken out at the knees by a gruff man dressed in furs, carrying a ladder. He makes his way over to one of the smoking sconces—lights what looks like a roll of toilet paper, but must be some sort of wick—on fire and uses a pair of tongs to shakily replace the torch right above the crowd’s head. It's so precarious. We buy gingerbread and walk through the frigid night, watching a lit windmill spin lazily above a small market in the square and stop for hot drinks to warm our walk back. We’re nearly back to the hotel when we spy a Korean restaurant serving tteteboki, the windows fogged and a heavenly scent wafting from the door when it opens. On a whim we order half a dozen on a stick and eat them as we finish our walk.

Miraculously, our stuff is all still in the parking garage and we make our way to Frankfurt. The air has shifted from festive to anxious as we realize just how close we are to this magical journey ending. I work from the hotel, attempting to proof magazine spreads on my tiny laptop screen and Topher finds us takeout Thai we eat in the room before doing one final account of all of our belongings and heading to the airport. Luckily, Lufthansa allows night-before check-in for oversized luggage and lets us deposit our other four suitcases early alongside the bike. We hold our breath as each suitcase goes on the scale. It’s tared nearly half a kilo light, so we’re in the clear.

Now it’s just two duffels that are far heavier than a carry-on should be, two bulky backpacks, and Hazelnut and her crate. We’re awake and snuggling her long before the 5am alarm goes off. We take her out to pee in the dark and she spots another mouse and we carefully measure out two and a half drops of CBD and drip them on her tongue.

Topher returns the van and Hazelnut waits patiently as I check her in. The desk agent covers her crate in ‘live animal’ stickers and a security agent comes out to check it over. Topher gets back just before she has to load up and I feed her cookies through the grate and tell her to be good and then begins the 12 hour journey of hoping she’s doing okay.

Security flags Topher’s bulging duffel and by the time the agent has unpacked nearly half the bag looking for a forgotten razor blade, he exclaims, “Why do you have so much stuff, man!?” Topher’s glad he wore an athletic shirt as he struggles with the zipper again, and we finally get coffee and a butter pretzel.

The orange and blue of Hazelnut’s crate stands out against the other cargo being loaded into the hold and we shuffle into the plane after her. Our bags fit in the overhead—just barely—and it's a 2-3-2 so we don’t even have to climb over anyone to use the bathroom. It’s a smooth, if long, ride to Atlanta.

The customs agent asks if we have anything to declare and we tell him a dog. He puts our passports in a Ziploc and another agent walks us to a desk where we finally get to show Hazelnut’s pet passport to someone. We wait anxiously for her crate to appear in the baggage terminal, putting our eyes on the suitcases circling the baggage claim carousel. Finally, we see her. They tip her wildly to the side as they lift her off the conveyor belt and her bed balls up and her bowls come loose. She’s panting when she gets to us and tries to scratch at the grate but she’s not allowed out until we get through baggage claim. We load her on a luggage cart at a precarious angle and I try to calm her down while Topher runs around collecting the rest of our bags and the bike. Unbelievably, everything made it and nothing is visibly dripping olive oil. We count that as a win. I balance Hazelnut as we make our way through the airport, and Topher runs back and forth between two carts until we find an outside door. Someone had promised us a pet relief area, but we can't find it so we unload her at the door and let her at least get some fresh air. She’s ecstatic to be out and drinks two big bowls of water and eats all the treats I have with me before throwing herself in my lap, ready to play. She’s her usual calm self now that she’s on solid ground and the two of us wait with the bags while Topher goes and picks up another rental car.

A family that was on our flight is in the same boat—moving from Europe with a dog and their whole life in tow. They post up next to us and send the dad to go get a car. We chat about our journey and lives and then a wheelchair attendant stops to love on the dogs. He tells us where the pet relief area is and we take turns watching each other’s stuff and taking the dogs out. Neither pup believes the AstroTurf is real grass and it's a wasted trip, other than the world-class pigeon chasing to be had.

Finally, Topher arrives with the minivan and thankfully all the seats stow, so we easily get everything inside. We’re back on American highways before we know it and they lead us to a Kroger. We’re almost too tired to appreciate the novelty of it, but then we hit the chip aisle and Topher is literally a kid in a candy store. Everything is so big and bright and colorful and loud! It’s bizarre and a little overwhelming to be able to understand everyone around me. By the time we make it to our hotel and shower, Panda Express via Uber Eats is the best we can do. We fall asleep at 8, and I wake up jet lagged at 3:45am and eat Cheez-Its and work until Topher wakes up. There’s biscuit sandwiches and Starbucks for breakfast (hallelujah!) and Hazelnut realizes she’s never seen a squirrel before and hides behind our legs.

We wind through gentle mountains still clinging to fall color, an abnormal amount of road kill staining the highway as we make our way to Nashville. I find myself making more small talk than necessary at gas stations, reveling in the English and the thick southern accents. We watch the sun go down out our hotel room windows, trying to muster the energy to go do something fun and touristy, but ultimately fail. We rally for Nashville hot chicken, though. Our route takes us down Broadway, past the honky tonks with their colorful neon, and Hazelnut watches out the window. We order too much food: chicken sandwiches and mac n cheese, loaded fries. It’s amazing and we eat the cold fries for breakfast the next morning.

I’m technically on PTO but there’s no way the next issue is getting to the printer on time without a little bit of work here and there—something I pride myself on never doing, but desperate times call for desperate measures. We post up in the lobby, next to a big Christmas tree, and I proof spreads while Topher reads and Hazelnut sighs loudly, letting us know she’s ready for the next adventure. We go to Centennial Park—yes, the ‘green was the color of the grass’ Centennial Park—and see the full size replica Parthenon and the Taylor Swift bench, but it's freezing. We do a rapid lap and then find a hipster coffee shop to grab lattes at before hitting the road. It’s also an outdoor store and we wander for way too long, rediscovering our favorite brands.

Tennessee bleeds into Kentucky into Missouri. We cross the Mississippi, full of huge barges, and roll through derelect small towns and big cities and suburbs and everything in between. The day drags, as does the audio book I’ve picked. Dinner is brisket served out of an old gas station in Kansas City and we collapse into bed, after dragging all of our luggage upstairs that is, in a roadside motel inTopeka where the hotel restaurant is a Hooter’s. I can’t decide if this is more peak Anericana, or the billboards we’ve passed all day advertising the state’s biggest selection of guns.

We walk through a park that’s home to Kansas' only large trees and seemingly the state’s entire squirrel population. Hazelnut eyes the branches warily and we jog lightly to keep the bitter cold at bay.

The audio book gets swapped for true crime as the prairies roll out in golden waves in front of us, dotted with wind turbines and oil rigs. The sky is impossibly blue and I can’t help but feel giddy. We’re almost home. I eat a salad out of a bag with a pilfered plastic fork and somehow we gain three hours when it should have only been one driving into mountain time, and then there they are.

The Rocky Mountains, capped with snow and glowing in the late afternoon light.

We’re home.

-Mikaela