NS March 31st, 2009

The Times and many other news sources reported yesterday on the new proposed changes to maternity leave in the UK, scrapping plans to increase it from 9 months to one year by 2010 and instead introducing a system where mothers’ leave is reduced back down to six months but at a higher rate of pay. Currently, women are entitled to nine months of paid leave: six weeks at 90% of their salary with the remainder paid at the statutory rate of £117.18 per week. Under new proposals, pay for the six month period would be at 90% throughout.

Once the six months was up, “parental leave” would kick in wherein both parents would have the right to take a four month period of leave with at least eight weeks paid at 90% and the rest at the statutory rate. This means fathers* would be entitled to four months leave as opposed to the paltry two weeks they receive now and women would have the option to take another four months leave after the initial six months they automatically get. Fathers would not be able to transfer their leave to their partners so if their portion was not used it would be lost. This would help ensure that more fathers actually take the leave rather than passing it off on their partners. Both parents, regardless of whether they take advantage of the parental leave, would also be entitled to a further four months of “family leave” which would be divided up between them and paid at a lower rate, though it is not clear whether this can be used at a later date or must immediately proceed the maternity and parental leave periods.

The aim of doing this, according to the Equality and Human Rights Commission, is to level the playing field between men and women a bit more — both at home and in the workplace — by giving fathers a chance to bond with and care for their children in the early stage of life and set the tone for more equitable parenting. I wholeheartedly agree that this is important not only to the child and the father, but to the couple’s partnership as well. The more equal a couple feels with regards to childrearing, the more equal they feel with regards to other areas of life as well. Considering that so many marriages or partnerships fail because of resentment and a skewed division of responsibility (or perception of), I view this as a positive step in the right direction: men taking responsibility for the care of their children, strengthening relationships within the entire family, and giving women more options with regards to their jobs and when to return.

Increased paternity leave would also be good for women, regardless of child status, the Commission says. No longer would employers be inclined to bin the CVs of women of childbearing age for fear that they will abandon their careers once they have a baby; if men can take months off after a child is born too, it will be much harder for companies to discriminate against anyone with the potential to become a parent, as doing so would effectively mean disregarding anyone between the ages of 18 and 45. Knowing that even women with no intention of having children get bundled into this category means that support for this measure should be coming from all corners of feminism and proponents of gender equality, not just the mummy set.

To me, a huge benefit of this plan is that giving women six months at the higher rate of pay would encourage more mothers to take the full six months off that they are entitled to. At the moment it is mainly those who are abe to afford to take so much time off on so little pay who are taking the full leave. Many working class and some middle class women must go back before they’ve even recovered physically from the birth, let alone emotionally, because the statutory rate is hardly going to pay the rent or mortgage. So the ‘option’ of taking six months on such little pay wasn’t really an ‘option’ for them in the first place. Hopefully this will enable more women to take time off if the rate of pay is 90% of their usual wage.

Ironically, the other set of women who are predisposed to returning to work early are those in very high profile and powerful jobs. Returning to work isn’t about paying the mortgage to them, but the reality of working in a male-dominated field where machismo rules and time is money. Remember the raised eyebrows over Rachida Dati, the French Justice Minister, who went into the office a mere five days after having a caesarean section? Despite the media interest in such an ‘unusual’ case, women returning to work two weeks or less after giving birth is not unheard of. Do some of them do this because they want to? Sure, but it’s probably a rather small percentage. Even of those who claim they wanted to return to their jobs straight away, I have to wonder how much of that is fear of admitting any kind of physical weakness or emotional vulnerability to their male colleagues and bosses.

I cannot think of another situation where a person would be highly commended and admired by her colleagues for getting back to work five days after having major surgery, even when this is generally against medical advice, and particularly when the surgery resulted in another human life to care for. What kind of message does that send to women competing for the top jobs in the UK but who also want children? That they must work twice as hard to be regarded even half as much as their male counterparts and that allowing their biology to interfere with their job performance would be tantamount to career suicide. In the face of that kind of pressure, it’s no wonder that so many women opt to return as quickly as possible or not to have children at all.

That’s not to say I blame women like Dati for feeling she needed to return quickly; I blame the workplace structure that penalises women’s biology and props up the male body and lifestyle as the gold standard. Unfortunately, until attitudes in the ‘boys club’ change, these new maternity leave proposals probably won’t alter length of leave for those top-rung women. I suppose the only reassuring factor is that at least they have the means and resources to ensure their infants are being cared for properly, and most likely the time and space to express milk at their offices. The working and middle class women who go back very quickly out of absolute necessity often aren’t so lucky.

However, that brings me to another perceived benefit of making the six month leave a more viable option — breastfeeding. Breastfeeding rates in the UK are pretty abysmal and are among the lowest in Europe, as evidenced in this NHS report:

The UK Infant Feeding Survey 2005 (Bolling et al. 2007) showed that 78% of women in England
breastfed their babies after birth. However, a third of these women had stopped by week 6 so that
only 50% of all new mothers were breastfeeding by week 6 and 26% by 6 months. For more details
of the Infant Feeding Survey, please see link.

http://www.ic.nhs.uk/pubs/breastfeed2005

So just over 3/4 of new mothers initiate breastfeeding but by week 6, only half of those babies are being breastfed. That quarter drop can largely be accounted for by lack of support and correct information, along with a small percentage experiencing medical problems that make breastfeeding impossible. This is a huge problem in and of itself and would merit numerous posts to address, but that is not what I’m writing about today. I want to look at how many are breastfeeding at the 6 week mark but not at 6 months, which I used to find strange. Why, after persevering through the most difficult part (the first 6 weeks), would a mother give up before the 6-month benchmark so vital for babies’ health? The answer, in many cases, is the return to work.

Without the proper equipment, support, time and means to continue breastfeeding when they return to employment, the task becomes rather impossible for many women. Some give up in anticipation of their return, sure from the stories of difficulty they’ve heard from other mothers and the lack of support by their employer that they will be unable to keep it up. Even those determined to succeed, armed with information and support, are often waylaid by the drop in milk production that inevitably comes if they are not able to pump as often as necessary to maintain supply. Not many small businesses or service-based jobs offer the opportunity to pump, sadly. Even large, multinational, “progressive” companies often have nonexistant or minimal support for lactating mums: herding them into semi-public spaces like supply closets or conference rooms where they risk being walked in on, causing a great deal of stress and embarrassment; providing little or no space for the milk to be stored at appropriate temperatures without being labeled ‘biohazard’ by outdated health regulations or alongside squicked-out colleagues’ lunches; docking break time or wages for taking 15 minutes to pump a couple times a day, even if other employees take the same amount of time smoking or drinking coffee; having to hear behind-the-back sniping about how ‘unfair’ pumping breaks are and how colleagues have to “pick up the slack,” making her feel like a burden and a liability. In the face of such obstacles, is it any wonder that many women who return to work before 6 months end up quitting breastfeeding?

So if these new laws would enable more women to take up and continue exclusively breastfeeding their babies to the recommended minimum of 6 months, that’s fantastic. But this must be done in conjunction with improving lactation support for mums returning to work before that time, whatever the reason, or for those who wish to cary on past 6 months for the recommended 1-2 years and beyond.

As a start, I’d like to see the government stipulate that all new office buildings and/or those over a certain square footage and/or businesses that employ a certain amount of people must have a lactation room(s) and a policy on expressing breaks for returning mothers. Financial incentives for smaller businesses to follow suit would undoubtedly help in getting more places of employment to be new mum and breastfeeding friendly. I wonder too if a scheme could exist where a father could defer his portion of parental leave to a later date, say when they child is past one year of age, if his partner is exclusively breastfeeding. That way a couple who find themselves in the situation where the woman wants to use as much of her leave as possible to carry on breastfeeding wouldn’t be penalised for not using the father’s leave immediately. Pipe dreams, I’m sure, but they make sense, to me at least.

The other issue that needs to be sorted out is childcare. Not just in the first year of a child’s life but until he or she begins full-time schooling. I really don’t know why more companies don’t have in-house childcare for their employees. Think of the time saved in having to drop off and pick up, often meaning a later start or earlier finish for at least one parent (usually the mother). Parents wishing to use the scheme would contribute a percentage of their paycheque to fund the centre and the rest would be government funded, like it currently is at pre-schools and daycare centres across the UK for children over 3. This would take some of the legwork and guesswork out of finding reputable childminders as they would be officially vetted and background checked by a special liasion in the HR department. Sick children could be kept in a room separate from the others with one or two employees supervising them, to minimise the spread of sickness and also allow a parent to report to work. The parent of a child in the ‘sick room’ would be entitled to longer or more regular breaks that day(s) in order to visit with, care for and dispense medicine as necessary. Those who choose to hire a full-time nanny or stay at home themselves should also be eligible for voucher schemes, perhaps toward petrol, food and activities for the children.

I don’t know, maybe I’m too much of an idealist. I certainly haven’t thought out the minute details and costs of these plans but I do know that they make sense, to this mother at least. At some point we have to say screw cost and just suck it up and dole out the cash to implement these kinds of programs and structures. Plans implemented now, no matter how painful the price tag, will have multiple long-term benefits with positive knock-on effects. When businesses complain about the cost they are being blind to the potential for growth in productivity and the dangers of keeping things as they are. We have to start somewhere, right?

Lastly, I want to say how deeply disappointed I am that there wasn’t even a mention of this on The F-Word, the leading UK feminist site. Hell, it wasn’t even discussed on The Times’ very own working mothers’ blog, Alpha Mummy! This is why so many mothers feel marginalised in the feminist movement and in the media, largely fronted and voiced by young and/or childless women. I fight for the same things they do — safer streets, equal pay, an end to violence against women, the freedom to control my reproduction — even when they are not my most pressing personal concerns. But when it comes to issues that mean the world to mothers, things like the right to paid maternity leave, the right to breastfeed in public, the right to give birth where and how we want, the right to affordable childcare…radio silence. Oh, we get the odd murmur of activity if something is particularly salacious or eyebrow-raising but by and large issues that are important to mothers are ignored and it angers me. No, it infuriates me. We are mothers and we matter, goddamnit! Even if you think these are not your fights, they are. When we are marginalised, so too are women everywhere. We are deserving of commentary, we are deserving of discussion and we are deserving of column inches.

So let’s get this conversation rolling. Be you a feminist or a mother or both, what are your thoughts on the proposed changes? What are your ideas for bettering maternity and parental leave, for supporting breastfeeding in the workplace and for improving childcare arrangements for working parents? What about if one of you stays home — should you be on your own if you choose not to return to work or should that role be government-compensated in some way as well? And if you are a father, please share your feelings on the new proposals and what you think it will mean for your family and your career.

*I use fathers throughout because this is how the non-birth-giving parent is referred to in the mentioned articles but I would apply this equally to same-sex partners of the primary parent

• Activism , Career , Feminist Fury , In The News , Parenting 101
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NS March 28th, 2009

Part 1 and Part 2

My eyes were closed and I had my hands up in a protective stance. I could feel the heat and smell the beer-sodden sweat of whichever man was closest to me. He put a hand above my head, hovering as if he was considering what to do next with it. My stomach dropped like I had just started freefalling on a roller coaster and waves of nausea washed over me. I thought about running but was afraid that would worsen the situation. I hoped that they’d minimise the damage and let us go after they’d had their fun, though I wasn’t sure how much ‘fun’ they planned on having. That was the worst part, imagining what they might do, what they could do because they were men and they were bigger than us.

The attack I was so certain was coming was stopped in its tracks abruptly by a pair of approaching headlights and the screech of tires. The hand above my head dropped and I could sense my ‘guard’ retreat a few steps. I heard different voices swearing and shouting and my eyes flew open to see what was happening. I was astonished to see a taxi smack dab in the middle of us and an Italian man hanging out the half-open door, revving his engine and making starts and stops towards the legs of our German antagonists. After a cursory attempt at fighting back, the gang of men fled into the night, leaving the American traveler, the Irish barmaids and the Italian taxi driver in their wake.

Our saviour was aptly named Angelo and he had seen our plight as he walked back to his taxi after answering the call of nature down the end of the cobblestone street. He thought first of minding his own business, he told us as he drove, but then the thought of his sister and what he would do if it was her surrounded by seven men in a dark corner had him running to his car. Orla said “He’s cute AND sweet. I think I’ll take him home,” and we burst out laughing. The tension we’d all been under was finally broken and we breathed a collective sigh of relief. I sunk back into the torn leather seat and watched the orange lights from the lamp posts punctuate the landscape flying past. It was a balmy night and the wind rushing through the windows felt smooth and wet like a stone fresh from the river. Air never tasted sweeter than from the backseat of Angelo’s taxi. All the memories of that town, that summer, that life…they still smell like dawn.

We explained about the missing keys and how we had nowhere to go but Angelo said in his heavy Italian accent “Surely you musta know someone you can go to. I take you there, just tell me.” Maeve had a friend who lived not far away and said he would be awake. He was a bit of an insomniac dope smoker and Nintendo addict: the early-morning afficionado that we were praying for. After a few pebble tosses at his window, we were in. We each kissed Angelo on the cheek before filing into the marijuana-scented apartment and watched him drive away in wonder. A few hits on the resident bong and we were out for the count, sprawled across sofas and floors.

I got to sleep at about 5.30 but had to be up two hours later. With a nap under my belt and 20 marks lent to me by Maeve, I set off for the train station in a fug but with a sense of relief that the nightmare journey was ending. I waited on the platform for the train that would take me to Frankfurt airport. And waited. And waited some more. Turns out someone had done a jumper (thrown themselves in front of a moving train — more common than you might think) and so they were all delayed. I made it to the check-in desk only a half hour before departure time. They told me the gate was closing and they were boarding the passengers. It was too late, they said. The thought of not making it now, after all I’d been through, was absolutely unbearable. So I did the only thing I knew would work — death, tears and pity. I told the agent that my mother was on her deathbed (forgive me, Mom) and that I had no luggage to check, just my small carry-on. I produced the finest of tears and the most heartbreaking of sobs. After a brief consultation between them, the two agents said they’d get me to the gate before it shut. I got to jump on one of those golf cart-type things and was rushed there just as the last person was handing their ticket in. I slept like the dead once I was in that seat.

There was more drama, of course, when I got back to the States. I had some explaining to do to my parents but I think they were relieved that I was okay more than anything. Now, the matter of getting my luggage back is an entirely different story and one I will tell another time (along with the story of a taxi ride with two just-released neo-Nazi convicts who licked my neck — what is with me and taxis?!) but for now I’ll leave you with what I learned from my European mishap: No matter how insane or ugly people can be or how badly and wrongly things can go, there are more good people out there than bad. John McAirlineAgent, Maeve the Irish barmaid and Bob and Angelo the taxi drivers are proof of that. Lecherous Guys and Elbowers and Train Jumpers exist, sure, but they’re just part of the human experience and the strange, itchy, sometimes uncomfortable fabric of society.

Like a sweater knitted by your Aunt Mildred, it doesn’t really fit at first and you hate it. You mock it and put it at the back of your closet, dreading its appearance. But after awhile you start accepting of it. You grow to love it for its uneven seams, tightly knit pockets and loose threads. And, like adventurous mishaps such as these, you eventually learn to grow fond of what it represents: the weaving of something out of nothing. Isn’t that, ulitmately, what living life is about?

I’d like to think so.

• Funny Ha-Ha , Miscellaneous Missives , Travel
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NS March 26th, 2009

You’ll probably want to read part 1 before proceeding, if you haven’t already

I ran the length of the platform and burst into the station, desperately looking around for a place to hide. I ducked behind a newspaper kiosk and crouched low to the ground, my breathing fast and laboured. I said about ten Hail Marys because I’m totally one of those people who only pray when faced with extreme circumstances that require divine intervention. Despite my waning belief in God and non-existent attendance at Mass for a couple years, Mary obviously took mercy on me because suddenly the guard turned and went back to board the train as it prepared to take off for the next stop. I exhaled a huge sigh of relief and stood up, feeling strangely exhilirated and giddy. The rebel in me enjoyed running from The Man, even if I was totally in the wrong. Take that, German ticket man!

Once that was over, I looked around me and realised how empty the station was. It was getting quite late, about 11pm, and I didn’t really know anyone there. All of my flatmates from the summer job were off doing their own things in other European cities and I had no way to contact them. The only person I knew would be around was Maeve, the bubbly waitress at the Irish pub in the center of town where I’d hung out all summer. She would sometimes join us for a couple pints when she finished her shift but that’s as much as I knew of her. I wouldn’t call us friends but certainly acquaintances. She was my only hope.

I needed to get to the pub but it was a good 20 minute walk that involved cutting through a very dark park with an unsavoury reputation. I knew I’d be pretty foolish to do the walk alone, especially when I had a suitcase with me and didn’t speak more than a few phrases of German. I used the last remaining marks on my pre-paid phone card to call my parents and tell them what was going on and ask for some advice. Of course, they freaked out when they found out I was penniless and on my own, at night, in a foreign country. Good God, what was I thinking, telling them? Quite simply, I didn’t know what else to do.

To make matters worse, while we were on the phone a rather drunk or similarly off-his-head man kept approaching me with salacious looks and raised eyebrows, offering drinks and sweets. I kept saying “Nein, danke” and tried to shoo him away but this made my mother even more upset. She was afraid this guy was going to follow me when I left the station and was terrified of me walking alone. I promised her I wouldn’t and said I’d figure something out and that I’d see her at the airport the next night, right before my phone card expired and hung up. I do believe that my mother may have experienced heart failure and collapsed at that very moment if my father hadn’t been there propping her up. Bless ‘er. I understand now how she must’ve felt.

True to my promise, I made my way outside and approached the taxi rank, keeping an eye on Lecherous Guy as he hovered behind me. I decided that telling the sordid tale of what had happened to me would be too complicated so went for a half-truth: I didn’t have any money (true) because I’d been mugged (false, though I had indeed been mugged in Amsterdam a few weeks previously — twice) and could I please, oh so kindly, have a lift to find my friend because this guy was following me? The fat German taxi driver with the brown checked cap looked bored and just flicked ash on my shoe. He pointed me towards another driver in the rank and said perhaps he would help me.

That man turned out to be a Jamaican angel of mercy named Bob. His name wasn’t really Bob but he was listening to a Bob Marley tape inside his car and so that’s what I called him. He listened to my tearful tale of woe, saw the strange guy hovering in the background and said he’d take me to the Irish pub, no problem. The kindness of a stranger had saved me, for the second time that night.

I staggered into the pub looking a mess — bloodshot eyes, rumpled clothing, mascara stained cheeks, a big suitcase in tow. I was still suffering from the previous night’s hangover and hadn’t had anything to drink or eat in ages. I was so tired I could barely see straight but I had to perk up enough to convince an Irish barmaid to let me stay the night at her place. I found Maeve amidst the noise and chaos of the live band playing. She saw me and waved; I was a regular by that point. As she balanced perspiring drinks on a scuffed tray and weaved in and out of the barrels-for-tables, I managed to explain what had happened, briefly, and ask if I could crash at her place.

“Well a’ course ya can, lurve,” she said. “Just as soon as I’ve finished closin’ the pub down.”

I sat in a corner drinking Diet Coke, trying to stay awake while the band did its encore then packed up, the crowds dwindled then disappeared and the staff cleaned then organised for the next day. I offered to help but they could all tell I was in a bad way and so insisted I stayed put. I spent the time not only being miserable about my situation and the fact that I’d have to leave behind all my luggage at the base, but pining for The Noble Husband (then New Boyfriend). The clock’s hands marched on and on, until it was nearly 3am and my eyelids felt absolutely leaden. Every time I thought Maeve was finished she’d bring out another rack of pepper mills to fill or pint glasses to dry. She finally reassured me that she was all finished and was just going to have one quick drink from the bar to help her unwind after a busy shift. The music was turned back on and the staff sat down at the bar with shots of tequila and pints of Guinness lined up before them. I declined to participate and silently willed them to down their drinks as quickly as possible.

I was suddenly startled by the sound of breaking glass and looked up to see the Greek barman throwing a wine glass onto the floor as he danced wildly and whooped. His coworkers cheered and egged him on. Another glass was thrown and then another. He danced over to me and pulled me from my half-asleep funk. I couldn’t help but smile and laugh as he twirled me around to the music. Then he put a glass in my hand and told me to throw. I refused and tried to put it down. He handed it back to me again and insisted.

Maeve laughed and called out, “Come on, Yankee girl! Live a little! You’ve had a rough day as it is, you’ll feel better if you break something.” I sighed and asked her if we could go home after I broke the glass and she nodded while gulping her drink. I gripped the glass and let loose a “Yeeeeeee hawwwwww” for comedic American effect, and then I hurled it away from me. I watched it leave my hand and hit the side of the polished mahogany bar, the shards of glass exploding and arcing into the air like dozens of silverfish, darting and flickering in the neon light. I marched over the crunching glassware graveyard, downed one of the shots of tequila and then marched back over to my luggage, looking at Maeve expectantly. We were finally leaving. Hallelujah!

Maeve had two roommates: Orla and Siobhan. They lived above the other Irish pub in town, just a couple streets over. Orla had also been working this evening and so she joined us on the walk to their flat. I was practically salivating at the thought of laying down on a sofa and sleeping, though I knew I’d only get a few hours in. We reached the entrance to the flat which was down a dark cobblestone street. Maeve turned to Orla and asked for her key. Orla stared blankly and said that she had given her key to Siobhan and suggested she use her own. Maeve said, “But I didn’t bring my keys, I thought you’d have yours. Shit. Where is Siobhan?” Orla said slowly, “She’s in Paris this weekend with her boyfriend. It was a last minute trip.” We all locked eyes as we realised what this meant. It was 4am and we were ALL locked out with nowhere to go.

As we stood there trying to figure out what to do, a group of about seven German men came by. They were in their mid-20s and were very drunk and aggressive, shouting and pushing each other as they barged their way through. One of them elbowed Orla, who muttered something in German. The Elbower stopped and started speaking, quickly and angrily, and moved increasingly closer to Orla. His friends stopped and watched, smirking and forming a circle around the three of us. Orla and the Elbower were having a rather heated exchange now, none of which I understood. Maeve looked pretty pissed off and jumped in to defend her flatmate. Suddenly the circle of men got tighter and we were backed against the wall. I had no idea what was going on and got very scared very quickly.

I asked Maeve out of the corner of my mouth what he was saying but before she could answer, the Elbower spat in Orla’s face and made a lunge toward her. Maeve grabbed Orla, pulling her closer to us and hissed, “Girls, get ready to fight with whatever you’ve got.” I looked around frantically for something to use as a weapon but instantly knew that whatever I might find would be absolutely useless in the face of seven men hopped up on booze and anger. I shut my eyes and braced my body for what I thought would be the inevitable blows. But they never came.

To be continued

• Funny Ha-Ha , Miscellaneous Missives , Travel
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NS March 25th, 2009

The strangest day of my life began at Heathrow airport.

Well, actually, it all started in Germany where I was spending the summer on a working student visa, employed by the US Army at their base in Wiesbaden, but I’ll go into that another time. All you need to know is that I had arrived in Wiesbaden in early June and was now in London in mid-August in my second-to-last day before heading back to the States. I’d left the bulk of my luggage on the base and taken a smaller bag to London where I was spending as much time as possible with my new British boyfriend (the man you now know as The Noble Husband).

On my last night there, I went to a party. I stayed up until the wee, wee hours and in my inebriated state, forgot to set the alarm. I think I was supposed to be at the airport for about midday but didn’t even wake up until after then. Most normal people, upon waking to see that they’re going to miss their flight, would freak out. I didn’t though. I just snuggled back down into bed with a shrug; too hungover, tearful and reluctant to part from TNH to care. I had only turned 19 about six weeks earlier and in my deluded, teenage mind I thought I could just show up at the airport later and get the next flight. So I took my time showering, packing my bag and saying goodbye to TNH. I was utterly heartbroken to be leaving him, not knowing when I would see him again. We’d had the most incredible, intense summer together, traveling all over Europe and falling in love; I didn’t want the adventure to end. Little did I know that the biggest adventure of that summer was about to unfold before me, on my journey to get back home.

I arrived at Heathrow in the late afternoon, well past the departure time of my original flight to Frankfurt. Wiesbaden was a half hour away from Frankfurt by train so the plan was to fly to Frankfurt where a former colleague of TNH’s was going to pick me up, take me to the base to collect the rest of my luggage and let me stay the night at his place, and then put me on a train back to the airport the following morning for my flight to Louisville via Washington D.C. It was all planned out. Unfortunately, my party-hard night in London mucked all that up and set off a chain of events which spiralled out of my control little by little, starting at the check-in desk.

I breezed confidently up to the ticket desk and informed the agent that I’d had a car breakdown on my way in (a blatant lie) and needed to get the next flight. He informed me that there was one more flight to Frankfurt that evening but as my ticket was non-refundable, I’d have to pay. The ticket cost £150. I didn’t have anywhere near enough in cash and, being barely 19, had no credit cards. It was only 1998 after all — it would be a couple years yet before they started giving first year university students unlimited access to plastic.

I tried phoning TNH to ask him what to do but his mobile was switched off and he was back in bed nursing his hangover still, no doubt. I began to realise with a growing sense of panic that if I didn’t get on this flight, I would miss the Frankfurt – D.C. leg of my journey the following day. Since that ticket was undoubtedly non-refundable as well, I knew that my parents would be less than thrilled at having to bail me out to buy another. I went back up to the ticket agent (let’s call him John) and tried again.

“Isn’t there any way you can bill me? I swear I’ll pay as soon as I get back but I have no access to more money right now.”

“Umm, no.”

“Shit.”

In desperation, I emptied the contents of my entire wallet onto his desk, coins and all. This was pre-Euro and so about five different currencies came spilling out: Deutsche marks, British pounds, US dollars, Czech crowns and Dutch guilders. I was fighting back tears at this point and was edging dangerously close to a nervous breakdown. I think John sensed this and kindness kicked in as he helpfully tallied up what I had into pounds to see if it was enough. I was still £50 or so short. I let loose a strangled cry and my knees started to buckle. I turned to John with the same panicked, searching look that a stag undoubtedly gives the hunter when it realises it is trapped and lined up in the gun’s sights. John was obviously a vegetarian, bleeding heart liberal, pansy boy who would never hurt a fly, let alone a deer (thank god!), because he didn’t find the strength to pull the trigger. Instead, he leaned forward and said, “Okay, you’re on the flight. Now go, and don’t miss it this time!” with a smile. I could’ve kissed and hugged John McAirlineAgent but had to just smile broadly and thank him profusely.

I finally boarded the plane and arrived in Frankfurt a couple hours later. I was so ready for a nice, warm bed and some food and drink. Of course, it was quite late by that point, approaching ten o’clock, and my original flight was supposed to have gotten in at about four. Obviously, the man who was supposed to meet me there and let me stay at his place (TNH’s colleague) was long gone and I had no way to contact him. I had a number for him but he wasn’t at home and I couldn’t exactly leave a number where I could be reached either. Not only was this pre-credit card days but pre-mobile days. In other words, the Mesozoic Age. Besides, I’m sure he was just giddy at having spent hours at the airport earlier, waiting for a girl who never showed, so even if he had been at home I doubt he would’ve done much to help me.

It was too late to go back to the base to collect my luggage and my flight to D.C. the next day was quite early so I should’ve stayed put at the airport. I should have slept there where it was safe and warm and with access to toilets and phones and resources to get money wired to me. But for some reason, my 19-year-old brain decided it would be a MARVELOUS idea if I went back to Wiesbaden anyway, to somehow get someone to let me onto the base to get my bags and perhaps find someone I knew to loan me some cash and give me a place to crash, all between the hours of 10pm and 7am. Yes, I really was that stupidly optimistic. You know where this is going, right?

I realised that I didn’t have a single penny on me, not enough to buy a bottle of water or a candy bar, and certainly not enough to buy a train ticket from Frankfurt to Wiesbaden. I thought forlornly back to the moment where I emptied my entire wallet onto John the Benevolent’s desk and wished I’d been smart enough to save back at least a few marks to buy some food with. Not one to dwell on mistakes, however, I resigned myself to fare evading and got on the train with fingers crossed that they wouldn’t check tickets. About halfway through and here comes the bloody guard, checking tickets. Damn! I stealthily slid out of my seat and into the toilet where I sat with my feet braced against the door and with my bag pressed up against my chest. A knock followed by some shouting in German soon followed and I knew that the guard was asking me to come out and show my ticket. I ignored it and just squeezed my bag tighter, hoping he would go away. A few minutes later, the train glided into Wiesbaden station and I had to get off or be carried onto the next, unknown town. I took a deep breath, flung the door open and jumped off the train as soon as it came to a stop. I walked up the platform quickly and with my head down, hoping I wouldn’t be caught. I heard a whistle behind me and knew I’d had no such luck. The thought of spending the night in a German prison where I didn’t understand hardly anything being said to me, missing my flight back to the States and having to tell my parents what happened and begging them to bail me out somehow sounded as appealing as eating chunky, green, month-old milk. So I did the only thing I knew to do — I ran.

To be continued…

• Funny Ha-Ha , Miscellaneous Missives , Travel
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NS March 24th, 2009

We are the army of mothering soldiers
Raising the sons who will fight in your wars
We are the army of mothering mothers
Raising the girls who will keep clean your floors
We are the women with eyelids heavy
Coffee our friend and sleep an unknown
We are the women too busy to sit
Yet they say that our job is to just stay at home
We are the feminists who feel abandoned, forgotten
Lost in the shuffle of equal pay rights
We are the feminists whose consciousness soared
Our babies the matches that set us alight
We are the singing, the dancing, the stern
We stagger and skip and fall down
Wiping juice from our tables, our clothing, the cat
And mysterious streaks of brown
We are off-peak travellers, not ’til 9.45
Wearing our sensible boots
“Ladies of leisure” out for the day
Kept hidden away from the Suits
We struggle with prams and bags up the steps
While shouting at children in tow
We are the mothers struggling inside
With darkness that nobody knows
We are the Great Unpaid, the secret untold
Our skills swept under the rug
We are the ones with dusty CVs
Replaced by round-the-knees hugs
We are the tearful, the lonely, the sad
The busy, the happy, the bored
We run the spectrum of motherhood
And then we run it some more
We are the voices behind closed doors
singing the words of that song
We are mothers living the chorus
Round and round all the day long

• Life's Lyrics , Miscellaneous Missives , Parenting 101
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