| As I was
nearly finished assembling it, an essential part seemed to be missing
from the box or perhaps it was hidden under the paper or cartons that were
spread out all over the apartment. It would surface one day, but in the
meantime, no coffee - no problem. I’ll have wine.
I tackled
the toaster next because it looked simple and I needed a success under
my belt. Installation consisted of plugging it in. The toast test was
performed using two pieces of bread. Inserting the bread in the obvious
slots, I pushed down the obvious lever and sure enough, little coils inside
started turning red and heating up. Yes! We have lift-off! And with
that, the toast flew up in the air, made a high arc and landed in the living
room.
A little
dust never killed anyone. Since there is no adjustment knob on the
toaster, I now refer to it as my George Jetson toaster. When I make toast
I sing, “Meet George Jetson…..his son Elroy….” On my good days I
catch the toast mid-air. Over time I have ascertained that the weight of
the bread determines the height of the toast. My scientific conclusion
is that bread made out of white flour propels several feet higher in the
air than brown bread.
After the
semi-success of the toaster, I would have thrown in the towel and gone
to bed had I any clean towels to throw or sheets on the bed.
They were still in their plastic bags. Before calling it a day, at the
very least I had to wash the duvet cover, a sheet and a towel. Armed with
my German/English dictionary, I started translating one word at a time
from the Kenwood Combi washer/dryer instruction manual. That took way too
long, so I started skipping what I hoped were unimportant words.
The contraption
was of the portable variety and had to be located next to a water source
and a drain. The only space fitting these requirements was in the small,
crowded bathroom.
Okay, I
was ready. In went the duvet cover and pillow cases. Oomph, that filled
it up. Squatting down, I stuck my head in the drum. The space was no bigger
than the inside of a normal sized microwave, that is, if you can picture
a rectangular space being round. This is what happens when you pick out
a house full of appliances on your lunch hour. You don’t really know what
you bought until it is too late.
It is too
late because you sure as hell can’t return anything. At the electronics
store I had picked out a small barbecue grill from a grainy picture in
a catalogue. When the salesman delivered it, the “barbecue grill”
turned out to be a coil burner attached by a rubber hose to a can of butane
gas the size of a hair spray. Just perfect for making a pot of freeze
dried soup on safari, but useless for grilling a steak on my balcony.
When I said that I didn’t want it, that it was nothing at all like what
the salesman had described, he refused to take it back. What was
he supposed to do with it, he asked? I don’t know, do with it what everyone
else does with things that are returned.
After shoving
a towel into the washing machine, I gingerly pressed the door shut and
followed all fourteen steps required to start the machine. Was
I forgetting anything? No, I think that’s about it. Holding my breath,
I twisted the dial and unbelievably, it started washing. Well, at least
I could hear water filling the drum. Finally! Something was working!
I’ll have clean sheets and a duvet cover to sleep on tonight. In the morning
I will have a clean towel to dry off with in my new apartment! Life was
good. Where did I put that glass of wine?
Not having
any idea how long it would take to wash a load, I went back to my unpacking
and organizing in the living room. I decided to try an experimental
strategy with the phone’s instruction manual. Instead of translating the
German instructions, I was going to translate the French instructions.
After all, I did have one year of high school French. Or, was it two years?
It was so long ago that I really couldn’t remember.
If for no
reason other than their words are shorter, French was faster to translate.
By the time I had the telephone all sorted out, it was time to check on
the washer to see if it was ready to be converted to a dryer. Water on
the floor in the hall? Good God - the entire hallway was flooded! Do something!
Quick! Fast as I could, I started ripping open packages of spare sheets,
towels, anything absorbent I could find to throw on the floor.
Way too
long later I slumped on the couch in an exhausted stupor. My quivering
arms felt like they had been wrung out. My hands positively ached from
squeezing heavy water-soaked towels and sheets into the bathtub. The cause
of this fine mess was that I had forgotten to put the drain hose into the
bathtub. While I was translating the phone instructions I had not noticed
wash water lapping in the hall, so the rinse water poured out onto the
floor as well. The ultimate irony was that I now had a big pile of sopping
wet towels and sheets that would have to be washed before they mildewed.
At some
point in time all expats question their decision to live in a country not
their own and I had reached that point. What was I doing in a country
where I could not read instructions? What was I doing in a country where
I would have to pay extra for walking on the carpet, catch my toast mid-air
and wake up to yodeling with no prospect of a cup of coffee?
It was just
as well there was no more time for self-pity. I had to go check on
the dryer to see if I had screwed that up, too.
When I opened
the dryer door and stuck my hand in for a feel, the clothes felt dry.
That’s always a good sign. Pulling them out in a tight ball, I shook
out the duvet cover. It was one big wrinkle that wouldn’t shake out. The
duvet cover was so wrinkled that it seemed to have shrunk by a third. Oh.
I’ll bet this is the type of material we used to have in the USA when women
ironed every week. That was before synthetic fabric was invented and women
got a life.
At that
point there was absolutely no way I was going to translate the instruction
manual for the iron, much less iron a piece of cloth the size of a queen
size bed. It could just stay wrinkled for all I cared. All that remained
before putting this long day behind me was getting the fluffy duvet into
the wrinkled duvet cover so I could go to bed.
After wrestling
with the duvet, I wondered how Swiss people manage to coax their duvets
into duvet covers. Surely they don’t climb completely inside the open
end of the cover, grip the duvet and pull it along while crawling to the
other side to spread it out flat. That done, I collapsed.
Moving days
are rough, no matter where you move. Thankfully they are short lived
and you can get on with the enjoyable business of exploring your new home.
I am happy to report that my coffee machine brews superb coffee and I have
straightened out the wrinkled laundry situation. Currently, I am
working on improving my duvet cover stuffing skills. Expatriate life is
a work in progress.
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Bonnie Click Here |
