Transatlantic Teenagers
I’ve never been to Europe. My husband hasn’t been to Europe since traveling with his German born-and-raised parents to visit family when he was thirteen.
Be that as it may, we decided to give our children an opportunity neither of us had.
The Teenagers are on a thirteen day tour of Europe with a school group. Twenty-one teenagers. Three chaperones. One tour guide. Germany. Italy. Switzerland. Paris. For fun. No grandparents and second cousins to visit. Just hormones and a legal drinking age of 16 for beer and wine and 18 for spirits.
Day 3:
I arrive home to a voice mail from my husband, who’s in Boston on business, sounding the alarm. His online check reveals that the 17-year-old’s checking account is down $330 in two days. The itinerary shows the group to be in Munich.
Quite certain that my two years of college German thirty years ago won’t cut it, I call my mother-in-law who lives in Connecticut and ask her to attempt contact with my daughter at the hotel in Munich. She calls back to confirm that the voice at the other end speaks English and that the group is just checking into the hotel.
I call. I hear the hotel clerk announce to a packed lobby of teenagers that “Hannah’s mother is calling.”
“Oh my gawd, I can’t believe my mom is calling.” I can feel the transatlantic eye roll.
No big deal about the $330. Her digital camera broke, so she just had to buy a new one. Uh huh. Oh and could we advance a few hundred out of her next paycheck?
As an aside, I ask why we haven’t heard from her brother or her before now. Like, to let us know they arrived safely two days ago? Pffft. She just hasn’t had time. I ask how her brother is. Fine, she thinks, but she really doesn’t “hang” with him so she’s not sure.
Day 4:
On arriving home from a relaxing dinner out, my husband and I hear a frantic voice mail from the 18-year-old. “Are you there? Could somebody pick up? I need money! You must put money in my checking account! Like now!”
I dial the number of the hotel in Italy. On the other end of the line is an Italian gentleman who speaks no English but has a wife who speaks German. He attempts to ask me, in broken German, if I speak German and if I can call back later to speak with his wife. My repeatedly shouting my son’s name, that I am his mother and that I am calling from THE UNITED STATES gets me a loud click.
A couple hours later my son calls saying his account needs funds. Cuban cigars and “a few hits” of Jack and Coke later, he finds his budget in need. And, he will need additional beverages, particularly over the next two days. It’s his turn to room with the classmate no one wants.
I remark that a few cigars can’t be that much. Well, the cigars come in a box, I am informed. And they’re Cuban. To the tune of 65 Euros or roughly 90 dollars. For Cuban suicide sticks that stink up his clothes.
Jack and Coke, I learn, is Jack Daniels and Coca-Cola.
Germany. Over 1300 German breweries, many of whom have been brewing beer since the Reinheitsgebot was enacted in 1516. And the boy is drinking Jack and Coke.
Day 5:
The 18-year-old calls to make sure we’ve deposited his paycheck that I, his mother, picked up from his summer employer. He comments on “the price of stuff” and asks if I’m having a good time without his sister and him.
Day 9:
The 17-year-old calls saying she accidentally broke her father’s suitcase and bought a new pink one to replace it. Pink because that’s her color. Wants to know if we’ll reimburse her since it wasn’t her fault that her dad’s “cheap” suitcase didn’t hold up to her TLC. And he won’t mind using a pink suitcase for business trips, will he?
She also alerts me to the fact that she may still have bloodshot eyes Friday when she returns. She had a little to drink and threw up. But don’t worry, she says. She’s learned her lesson.
Day 10:
The 17-year-old calls to announce that she found the t-shirt she bought for her dad at the bottom of her back pack. But before she found it she bought a hat since she didn’t want to come home without a gift. So could I put more money in her account for the hat and the pink suitcase?
The 18-year-old is evidently otherwise occupied since I’ve not heard from him since Day 5.
4,000 miles. $6,000.
Cuban cigars, Jack and Coke, bloodshot eyes and a pink suitcase.
Makes a mother proud.
