Between the middle of June and July 25, we fought our way through the obstacles that state bureaucracies put in the way of people trying to retire, sold our house, packed, moved into the condo we'd bought in Minneapolis, returned to close on the house, returned to the condo to resume unpacking, brought to Goodwill three station wagons full of stuff we'd overoptimistically thought would fit into the condo, made final arrangements for RV insurance in Europe and RO-RO shipping from Baltimore to Zeebrugge, bought one-way plane tickets, Baltimore to Minneapolis, arranged three separate piles (the trip to Baltimore, but returning to our condo with us; into the RV, and staying there when it gets on the ship; and going to Europe, but not until we fly to Belgium to meet the RV when it gets off the ship), and sold the older of our two cars.
On the way to Baltimore we've made plans to visit with no fewer than two children, one new granddaughter, and at least three, maybe four, sets of brothers and sisters, as well as spouses and assorted nieces and nephews. Why should it be easy?
As I write this, we're two days into the trip halfway across the country. We survived Chicago yesterday and anticipate doing the same with Cleveland tomorrow. And we're determined not to travel this way in Europe, i.e., $100 worth of gas every day, nothing but interstates at 60 mph, staying at Jellystone Parks and eating restaurant food for lack of anything better.
But we're traveling this way because we have deadlines: by August 6, we have to get our RV through Customs in Baltimore and onto the parking lot of the shipping company, who insists that we get it to them 4 working days (and two weekend days) prior to the sailing date of the Texas on August 12.