Anyone who reads this blog knows that I believe in signs. When something out of the ordinary happens, I take note… and then try to figure out what that note means.
And that is why, last week, when I arrived in Helsinki to find my checked luggage torn to bits, I had to wonder: What was the universe trying to tell me? Was this an omen that moving to Finland was a bad idea? Could it be a sign that I should have left my belongings, along with my job, back in Germany? That I shouldn’t have come at all?
Only time will tell, I suppose. But more immediately speaking, the headline may be something far more literal: You can’t move a one-bedroom apartment in a plastic bag.
Yes, I did. I absolutely did check a plastic Snoopy bag with the entirety of my Munich apartment onto an AirBaltic flight to Helsinki with a transfer in Riga. And I’ll tell you why I did that: Because I am too cheap to spend $40 checking an empty suitcase from Helsinki to Munich to properly pack my belongings.
For the record: I know. I am well aware that it was a stupid idea. I had little faith that the Snoopy bag would make it, but I checked it anyway because I didn’t care all that much about the stuff in the bag. Normally, I’d be tempted to just throw it all out. But lately there are all these articles about sustainability and waste and how much water it takes to grow cotton and how much cotton it takes to make a pair of sweatpants and how much jet fuel it takes to transport them across the Baltic Sea and I am really confused about which of my sins are the greatest. I packed the bag to save the landfill.
While we’re on the subject, one more thing to note: They let me do it. The airline allowed me to check that ridiculous bag. I was not expecting that. In fact, I was prepared for a showdown at the check-in counter, one in which the airline representative smugly told me that a $5 Snoopy bag does not meet the standard for checked luggage. And I, in an equally haughty tone, would explain that I am getting on this flight one way or another—that she could take the bag and hope for the best or that I would leave it behind a chair and shut the whole terminal down for two hours. Eventually we would compromise, by which I mean she would allow me to remove the most sentimental and important belongings from the bag—that being a half-finished hardcover Helsinki coloring book and travel-sized curling iron, respectively—and surrender the remaining contents to her.
But it never happened. The woman just took the bag, tagged it and sent it on its merry way all the way to Helsinki. So if you think that I’m an idiot, just know there’s another one out there enabling me.
So the bag didn’t make it to Helsinki–that’s no surprise. But it came so close—all the way to the baggage claim. I can tell because the bag showed up on the belt torn like a pair of designer jeans, but the contents inside were undisturbed and completely clean. One of the handles had apparently snagged on its way off the plane, but it was in otherwise good shape… until I attempted to pick it up from the handle that was still intact and broke that one too.
I stood there in Terminal 2 wondering if I should just cut my losses and move on. If I should just drag it to the trash can and empty it item by item, or take it to the luggage counter and let them deal with my mess. But I didn’t. Because in addition to being cheap, I am also stubborn. And a cheap and stubborn person does not pay the checked bag fee and drag that 40-pound albatross all over Europe just to give up 8 miles from home.
What about Johann, you might ask. Why couldn’t he help? Well he was at work. It was one of the few times that he wasn’t able to meet my flight.
Honestly, I was a little relieved that he wasn’t on the other side of the baggage claim waiting for me. I often arrive in Helsinki with a good deal fanfare—this in the form of a group of Japanese tourists who need help getting the city center or a chance encounter with a woman I once rented an Airbnb from in Turkey—but a broken Snoopy bag that is leaking small toiletries and being dragged like a dead dog was a lot, even for me.
So this was a solo operation. I had to get my broken bag to the train, then the subway, then on a ten-minute walk to my apartment. If you’re wondering why I didn’t just take a taxi, I already explained this: I’m cheap. Keep up.
I have been in a lot of airports over the past few years. I have arrived sick and tired and disoriented, but I have never looked more disheveled than I did that day in Helsinki. And yet, as I dragged my Snoopy bag through the terminal, you would not believe how many people stopped me to ask questions. Keep in mind, there were 50 people around, all of them more Nordic looking than I and none of them yanking a broken plastic bag onto an elevator. And yet these strangers chose to engage me, asking things like: Are there ticket machines on the platform? Does this train go to the city? And, my favorite, what time does the sun set here?
Curiously no one asked the question, May I help you? No matter. I wouldn’t have let them anyway. I was beyond help.
But I made it to the train. Once I sat down, I attempted to redistribute some of the weight from the Snoopy bag to my backpack and the two other reusable plastic bags that everyone in the Finland carries at all times. (Sustainability!) As I sat there, moving items such as a floral duvet cover and a Venice guide book from one plastic tote to another, tucking several months’ worth of Sephora Beauty Insider samples into my backpack, I again had to question my sanity. Did I not already have perfectly fine bed linens at home? Did I really need two more bath towels in my life? Why do I even have contact lens solution, let alone feel the need to move it to the North Pole?
Questions I did not have answers to. Any of them.
You might be asking a question of your own, which is why was I dragging the bag around when I could just carry it? And I have a good answer for you: It was heavy. The scale at the Munich airport said 18.2 kilos, which in the U.S. metric system, is the equivalent of a small washing machine. Also, I was saving my arms. Between the Helsinki Railway Station and the Metro, I would have to walk several hundred meters outdoors, during which I could not drag the bag as easily as I could on the tile floors of the airport.
I was dreading that walk. But, when I arrived on the platform, I was pleasantly surprised by how easy it was to gather the straps, swing them over my shoulder and carry the bag like a giant purse. I marched myself through the station, out the door, down the street and right onto the next Metro. I took it one stop, got off and made it up two escalators and through the shopping mall attached to the station. And that was when things got interesting.
I made a break for an open door, thinking I could kick it open with my foot before passing through. But the door swung shut before I could reach it and I abruptly changed course, twisting my ankle in the process. Ordinarily, it wouldn’t have been a problem, but with all the extra weight, I couldn’t recover. I stumbled to the side and then straight ahead, picking up momentum as I went. My hands were full, which gave me no way to break my fall. I panicked, the way one does when realizing she is are about to lose several teeth on a concrete floor. At the last second, either by instinct or fate, I twisted to the right. The giant Snoopy bag full of sheets and towels hit the station floor first, followed immediately by face.
I stayed there laid out on a pile of my most unnecessary belongings for a few seconds before rolling into a side straddle. I sat there and laughed, waiting for a reaction from all the other people in the station during rush hour. I got none. Not a chuckle, not a hand, not even a second glance. The great people of Helsinki just carried on as if a foreigner with a Snoopy bag face plants at the Metro station every day of the week.
It was in that moment that I really missed New York. Say what you will about Americans and their language skills and shitty healthcare system and need for ketchup—at least we have a sense of humor. If this scene played out in Manhattan, people would have laughed with me. Someone would have started to clap and everyone would have followed suit. Eventually, a stranger would help me up and then ask me how much I’d been drinking. When I told him that I hadn’t been drinking at all, he’d joke that I better start.
But we were in Finland. And I don’t know what the Finns were thinking, but they weren’t doing anything, not even laughing. And honestly, that’s their loss. Because there’s no simpler joy in life than a klutzy stranger with a sense of humor.
The worst part of the fall became clear once I got up and out the door. Somewhere along the way I had torn one strap completely. I could no longer gather the bag and carry it on my shoulder. Dragging it was also out of the question since I was now outdoors.
My predicament attracted the attention of several construction workers. They were the first people to ask me, however sarcastically, if I needed help. I answered them in English as I attempted to wrist-wrap the one remaining strap over my mittened hand and carry it like a garbage bag. I managed to take five steps to the corner where I tied up crosswalk traffic for a full two minutes when the drivers refused to take me at my wave. Finns: Can’t laugh and won’t listen.
If you are again wondering why I didn’t just pick the bag up and carry it like a box, I have a very good reason for that too: It’s because I didn’t think of it. This despite having taken the bag to the airport that very same way earlier in the day! I don’t know why I didn’t remember that as I entertained the construction workers and annoyed the traffic but I didn’t. In fact, it didn’t come to me for another half a block.
But eventually it did. And once that light bulb went off, I felt unstoppable. And that was when it started raining.
For the record, I made it back to my apartment—wet, tired, cranky and with muscles that felt like I had been doing burnout reps at the gym. But I was home and I hadn’t lost a single item or tooth in the process. I was standing in my lobby, kicking the Snoopy bag along and congratulating myself on a mission accomplished, when my neighbor came through the door behind me. He glanced in my direction for but a second before stepping around me, wordlessly pushing the elevator button on my behalf as he headed up the stairs.
At least someone in this town has my number.
God help us if we ever travel together.
OMG, our packing list:
35 books
1 Kindle
2 notebooks
4 pens
3 maps (all for cities we are not visiting)
2 umbrellas (broken)
2 huskies
NOTHING BUT THE BASICS
I get it! What a great sense of humor. Surely being able to laugh at yourself is an admirable trait.
thank you!! I was not upset about falling but i was SO MAD that no one was laughing!! xx thank you for reading… and agreeing :)
Glad you could laugh about it. I recently did something similar but didn’t have a snoopy bag to break my fall. no one was laughing but my nice neighbors did help translate broken nose from Korean.
Oh honey… I feel you. I beg the Finns: Please laugh. If I am laughing, please laugh. It is the best medicine for a bruised ego or a broken nose. I hope you are OK. xx