One of the hardest decisions we had to make in regards to moving to Moscow was what to do with our cat, Molly. She’s been with us since Valentine’s Day in 2001 and is as much a part of the family as a cat can be. We left her in Berlin over the summer and figured that we would go pick her up before school started.
When we got to Moscow and took a look at our apartment (12th floor) and our surroundings (big city), we decided that it maybe wasn’t the best place for a cat. The people who had moved into our old house in Berlin had left their cat in London and were more than happy to adopt Molly and take care of her. On a tearful night in mid-late August, the kids decided that Molly would probably be better off in Berlin. I canceled my plans to fly back to Berlin, and we settled into “normal” life in Moscow without Molly.
Fast-forward to November 29th. I received an e-mail from Magda in Berlin. Back in September, the people in London who had been watching her cat, Picasso, decided that it wasn’t going to work out, and so Magda went to London to collect Picasso and bring him back to Berlin. Molly and Picasso did not get along. After cleaning up cat pee and cat poo for the umpteenth time, Magda decided she had had enough, thank you very much, and told us that she needed us to do something about Molly. So…
I left for Sheremetyevo, the Moscow airport, on Saturday the fourth of December at 0500. As much as I complain about the traffic in this town, it is surprisingly easy to get around when no one else is on the road. The drive out to Sheremetyevo took about 20 minutes. No problem. Sheremetyevo has six terminals. Problem. Fortunately, it’s Russia, so normal rules about parking and leaving cars in front of airport terminals don’t apply.
I parked in front of terminal E and went in to try to find my airplane. No luck. Couldn’t even find a computer monitor to tell me where my airplane might be. Back in the car and on to terminal D. Parked in front of terminal D and headed in. Yay…computer monitor. My airplane was at Terminal F. Drove to terminal F and parked on the road just outside the parking garage. Hey…everybody else was doing it.
My plane left Moscow at 0820 and arrived in Berlin at 0900. Having spent a large chunk of the last three years schlepping my family and most of our belongings through various airports, it was unreal to me to get from my plane to my rental car in 25 minutes. I didn’t know such a thing was even possible. (Oh…and I got to sit in the exit row on the flight. Can’t do that with kids. Heaven.)
The day in Berlin was lovely. I went into town, hoping to walk through a Christmas market or two, but they weren’t open yet. So I headed out to Kleinmachnow and grabbed some of the comfort food—tea, white chocolate spread, crackers—that we’d been missing. I had lunch with our old neighbors, chatted with Magda and her family, and then went to visit Joost and Rem, our dear friends who stayed behind in Berlin. Darren and Ben, colleagues and Champions League friends, made it out to Kleinmachnow, and we headed over to the Doener shop for food and conversation.
Why I love being a guy:
Jesse: “Joost!”
Joost: “Jesse!”
Jesse: “Haven’t seen you for four months! How’ve you been?”
Joost: “Good! You?”
Jesse: “Good.”
Joost: “Now about those world cup selections…Qatar? Really?”
Jesse: “I know…”
And we were off.
It was good to catch up and touch base and reconnect. The food was as I remembered it, the beer was cheap and plentiful, and the conversation was sports-centered and off-color. Perfect.
Back at the Joost and Rem’s, the hug from their daughter, Mijke, was worth the price of admission all by itself. That and getting to walk around with Elke, their seven month-old daughter was lovely. I do likes me my babies.
I had a lovely evening with them, and I left their place around 2000, did some last-minute shopping, and went to pick up Molly. The trip from Berlin to Moscow was relatively uneventful. Walking through the metal detector while carrying a cat was a little surreal, but I guess it’s good to know I wasn’t smuggling a weapon inside the cat. When I checked in, I suggested that the whole plane would probably prefer that I sit as far away from everyone else as possible. So they gave me the back row of the airplane, which meant that I could stretch out and sleep. Even better than the exit row. Molly would perk up every 30 minutes or so and express her displeasure with her current lot in life—in a bag under a seat on an airplane—but her complaints were half-hearted at best. The plane left Berlin at a little past midnight on Saturday night/Sunday morning.
And then, at about 0500 on Sunday morning, we landed in Moscow. What to do? The way I saw it, I had two options: 1-declare the cat; 2-don’t. With option 1, I figured, best-case scenario, it all goes well (I had a pet passport and all the appropriate documentation), it doesn’t take all that long, and Molly becomes a legal cat-immigrant into the Russian Federation. Worst-case scenario, they don’t let Molly into the country and I go to jail for assaulting a Russian cat-immigration officer. With option 2, worst-case scenario, I get sent back to option 1 and, best-case scenario…home free. Here’s how option 2 played out:
On the ride down the escalator from passport control (side note: good to be a “diplomat”) to baggage claim, a large sign comes into view: “VETERINARY CONTROL ----> ” Hm. Wonder what that’s for?
I grabbed a luggage cart, put Molly’s bag on it, and covered it with my jacket. I collected my bag full of German goodies and put it on the luggage cart, too. I then lurked around the exit until there were several people waiting to leave baggage claim. (Full disclosure: I also had 2000 Rubles ($60) in Molly’s pet passport. Is graft a way of life in Russia? Yes it is.) Once there were about three or four people heading out, I joined them.
Every international airport I’ve ever been through has two lines when you leave baggage claim: red and green. Red means you have something to declare; green means you don’t.
Guess which one I chose?
The drive from the airport was as equally uneventful as the ride in had been, and I got home, with Molly, around 0630. 25 hours.
And now, on January 8th, Molly’s currently sitting on the windowsill looking out at the world from the 12th floor. I don’t know what she’s going to be like when the sun comes out and the weather turns nice, but, for now, she seems pretty content. She and Sasha have their relationship mostly sorted out. She hasn’t left us any “gifts” in shoes or laundry piles. That’s about as much as we could ask for.
And Izzy’s happy.
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