I Have Iraq in My Shoe Read Online Free Page B

monumental life change. I loved to travel. It made the world seem a much more manageable place. Being surrounded by a culture—the sounds, smells, and general feel of a place—allowed me to really see how other people lived, and I could weather a mild-to-moderate case of culture shock for brief periods of time (two weeks in China, a month in Nepal).
    One whole year had been a struggle for me. I was in Korea from 1995 to 1996, when email was a radically new form of communication. Most people were still writing actual letters, with pen and paper, and using the abacus for financial transactions. Very few people used email regularly. Keeping in touch with friends and family back home was a challenge, which made Korea an isolating experience. There were many Crying Days in Korea. Ergo, I publicly declared I would
never
live overseas again.
Never say never.
There’s a reason Justin Bieber is so popular. He’s very wise.
    I would be living overseas again, which meant schlepping stuff. I needed to know how much stuff I could or should bring, and whether or not it could be shipped, to avoid unnecessary schlepping.
    Warren: Gretch [not “Gerts”—we were making progress], I just came back here from Canada, and I had five hockey bags, each about ninety pounds, and I had no problem.
    Me: Hockey bags?
    Warren: Yeah! Get a couple of hockey bags, and just load ’em up! Bring everything!
    Canadians. I didn’t know what hockey bags looked like, but I was assuming they were sturdy enough to carry big ice skates and hockey sticks, the Stanley Cup, and maybe a goalie. That actually sounded like a good idea. Some of my shoes bore a faint resemblance to ice skates, in both structure and weight.
    I ordered two “medium” hockey bags online at Amazon, and two bags were delivered (unlike the ski-bag experience, which I’m still saying was not my fault). When they arrived, I opened them up and discovered they could sleep two people, comfortably. I don’t know how everyone else likes to pack, but I want the bags to be completely full, practically bursting. No empty corners or pockets; just keep stuffing them. Did I really need to bring forty-six pairs of socks? Probably not, but they fit into those empty corners so nicely.
    I packed everything. Warren had transported five ninety-pound hockey bags with “no problem,” and I only had two ninety-pound hockey bags (so I thought) and two suitcases, which were probably around seventy pounds each. By my crafty powers of deductive reasoning, the airline would practically be thanking me for packing so light.
    My mom went to the Delta Airlines website to look up their weight/baggage restrictions. She came to me with a worried look on her face and said, “Honey, they say you can only take two bags, at fifty pounds apiece.” I rolled my eyes in typical childish exasperated fashion and said, “Mom, Warren said he brought five hockey bags that were ninety pounds apiece. I’ll be
fine
.”
    Mothers. They could be so meddlesome sometimes.

    It is possibly my least favorite thing to be standing at the Delta Airlines counter, at 5:00 a.m., listening to the agent say, “You can’t take any bags over seventy pounds.” I had four bags, two of which were one hundred pounds each (stupid hockey bags with their stuffable corners, and my inability to balance them on the bathroom scale at home); the other two were seventy pounds. I was told there’d be no math at the airport.
    If you’re saying, “I’ll bet you’re regretting packing all those socks now, aren’t you?”… you’re right. If you’re a mom, you’re probably also saying, “I’ll bet you’re wishing you had listened to your mom now, aren’t you?” Yes, ma’am.
    From Portland’s PDX to New York’s JFK, I paid a staggering $1,530 to get
almost
everything to travel with me. I got the hockey bags down to ninety pounds each, and the baggage agent took pity on me and let them go through. I had my mom take a few things back to the