By the time we land in Seattle, I am tired of people asking about the contents of the plastic toolbox. Both Rand and I have carried it from my father’s tiny Bavarian village to Munich to Amsterdam and now home, each of us now acutely aware of how ill-suited a container it is for transportation. The handle is uncomfortable, and you have to dedicate an entire arm to its heft. It is meant to sit on a shelf, as it did in my father’s home, and not to be carried halfway across the world, while fending off questions from mostly well-intentioned travelers and flight crew.
“Oooh, is that a pet carrier?”
“What’s in the box?”
“You got your husband to carry your cosmetic case?”
Most of the time I just smile (even through the misogynistic interrogatives), or let Rand answer. I am exhausted from jet lag, from having finally seen