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how not to travel with a pet

Arrived in Amsterdam on Sunday to discover that I couldn't continue on to Oman because I needed permission from the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries to "import" Bea. The expeditor at the Embassy said the process of getting permission could take up to the three weeks.

Bea anxiously, well maybe not, awaits her fate in an Amsterdam hotel room. 

So I spent the next 24 hours panicking about where to go for three weeks. Should I fly to Kyiv? Take a train to some cheap town in Netherlands? Do cheap towns in Netherlands exist? My hotel, where I'd planned to stay only one night, had only one extra night available. I looked into renting an Airbnb, but the only one I could find at first that allowed pets was a studio in what I suspected was the red light district.

CLO in Muscat assured me that the process would probably not take three weeks, but hopefully only around three working days.I changed my plane ticket to Thursday and hoped for the best. I asked small hotels in my neighborhood if they accepted pets.  All said "It goes against the rules," which for me means, "So?" but for the Dutch seemed to be a polite, but firm no. I started sending messages to Airbnb hosts asking if I could rent with a dog starting tomorrow.

Happily, within 24 hours Bea had been granted permission to enter Oman. The dog, two fifty-pound suitcases and I found a sunny room in a pet-accepting apartment. Things were turning around! I went to the Rijksmusuem, an art supply store, and walked the dog around my new favorite city, Amsterdam.

Once we arrived in Muscat, we handed over all our paperwork to the Ministry and after waiting about an hour, a crabby guy demanded to see the USDA stamp on the health certificate. I have the health certificate signed by the veterinarian, but no USDA stamp. (Remind me to make one.) Crabby guy makes me sign a paper swearing that I'll get a USDA-stamped certificate back to the Ministry within two weeks. I have no idea of how to pull that off. But I've heard the jails here are nice.

While waiting for the Ministry's approval in Amsterdam, Bea's vet-signed health certificate aged to more than a week old, therefore the USDA will no longer stamp it. Peter and I float various scenarios: We beg the vet for an updated health certificate to send to the USDA, Peter's sister picks it up and mails it to the USDA, then after it's stamped, mails it to us via FedEx/UPS/DHL for some ruinous fee. Or: Peter takes the dog to Kyiv, gets a certificate from the vet there and enters Oman from Ukraine. Or: I fly back to California, revisit the vet and get the USDA stamp--I'm sure this option is super cheap. 

Day two and we are at the vet in Oman already--Bea developed a hot spot and required medication. While there, we told the vet our story. She rolls her eyes and tells us I won't go to jail, in fact the MInistry won't really do anything. She signs a new health certificate and tells us to take it to the Ministry and explain that this is all we need.

At the Ministry (or the sub-Ministry or whatever it is they have at the airport) a less crabby guy than the first listened to Peter explain the situation. Then I explained the situation. Then Peter explained the situation some more. Weary of our story, he found the paper I'd signed promising the USDA stamp in two weeks and signed his name with an Arabesque flourish above "approved."

Half way around the world, one week and one signature later, Bea is legal. Welcome home to Oman.

road trip to starting a new life

Bea and I pulled out of the driveway from Tahoe in the Mini, the start of our road trip to San Diego.

First stop: Auburn to see my mom before I flew. We met her at Ikeda's, a fruit stand turned grocery store/hamburger stand. I had just sat down in the outside seating area when a car pulled into a parking space right in front of me. Just as the car rolled to a stop, instead a final push on the brake, the driver hit the gas.  The car lunged over the cement parking block and through the metal fence just a couple feet in front of me. Table and chairs flew against me. I looked at mom, like, "Is she going to stop or drive over me though the building?" 

The car stopped, but not before pushing me and the pile of chairs and tables all the way to the building. Thank goodness mom, on the far side of the table was well-protected and had Bea's leash. If I'd had Bea at my feet, she would have been crushed by upended tables and chairs. I stood up and started crying. I have a bruise that extends down one calf, a sore leg, and a worse hip--if this had happened to my 94-year old mother the injury would have been much worse. But I could walk, so I knew nothing broken and hey, everybody's still alive!

Shaken up, I continued to Watsonville in the Santa Cruz area where Bea got to chase eight chickens around my friend's yard. Gina and Augusto made a gorgeous Puruvian-style salmon dinner and I got to see the new kitchen and interior paint colors of Gina's pink house. She's a teacher and gets up early for work; I left when she did and took highway one to Monterey. 

In Monterey I stopped at a Petco groomer and paid $50 for Bea to get a flea bath I didn't ask for and a haircut not as good as the mom-cut I'd given her. I'm traveling with two suitcases that weigh 50 pounds each and one of the reasons is because I now own an professional-level electric clipper. From now on, I'm cutting her fur myself and saving the money. 

While Bea was being bathed, I got to wander Carmel, buy what I thought was a somewhat silly purchase: an irresistibly soft, sheep-skin-looking cardigan. It was a windless 80 degrees in Carmel that day, the sand at the beach was actually hot. Buying a sweater too hot to wear to take to the Middle East seemed crazy, but that's just a testimony to the hot-chocolate marshmallow irresistibility of this sweater. 

Onward to Amuk's so I could see her life in her little house in Ventura. We walked along the beach and watched the sunset, then the next day had a gorgeous roasted squash green salad while admiring the the old mission across the street. I loaded up the car with my 50-pound suitcases, careful not to bash them against my owie leg, and Bea and I headed off for the last portion of the trip.

I found Camille's house because she was outside jumping up and down at the sight of her (our) car. While there I rearranged Camille's room, ate a chimichanga and salmon tacos and met all six of her roommates. 

Early Saturday I said an early good bye to Camille, the San Diego coastline, friends and family and my life in California and the U.S.  I was scheduled to fly out of Amsterdam to Oman the next day, but I've been derailed in Amsterdam, which is another saga for a different day. But everyone is alive, so who cares? The trees have gold leaves and it's cold in Amsterdam. I've been living in my furry sweater.