It was our home away from home, our shoulder to lean on. It filled the void in our depraved apartment-furnishing existence. It was nothing other than your friendly neighborhood home goods store. In reality, it was the assemble-it-yourself Swedish furniture store that we could not escape. It haunted my dreams.
Have you ever had the feeling you know a particular store better than a close friend? I certainly did. IKEA is the store that I had come to know all too well. Regrettably, I’d been there countless times in my stint as an American expatriate. It all came with the territory, though. If it weren’t for those dreadfully empty German apartments, IKEA would’ve been a mere fart in the wind. We would’ve gone there for the occasional knickknack or bookshelf, but we wouldn’t have been IKEA extremists. Nevertheless, it pains me to admit that it happened. We became those people. Sadly, we were the couple who could be seen there almost every other week, carrying heavy IKEA boxes and bags on our commute from train to bus to train and back to our apartment.
I remember when IKEA first opened back home. The excitement plagued consumers across all areas. As a matter of fact, I recall a close friend of mine becoming so excited that I secretly questioned his sexuality. The two of us traveled there together during the week of the grand opening and wandered through the store like amazed young children. Fast forward to German time and a permanent scowl on my face was the only predictability, as my wife and I made, what seemed like, a weekly trip to the store. The awkward, heavy items were standard protocol, too.
Comments such as “are you serious?! … you’re grabbing the wrong end … slow down or I’m gonna drop it … I need to let my end down, let’s take a break … this is ridiculous … I’m never coming back here again … this stuff is way too heavy … let’s just rent a car for the day and get everything done … why don’t we just go back next week instead?” were pretty trite. Getting a hot dog and drink at the end of our shopping excursion was nothing new either. The lady seemed to think it would’ve softened the blow. Ask a German about their IKEA experience and they’ll give you the old “you must get a hot dog when you’re done shopping.” Orgasmic gourmet food it is not but rather a hot dog on par with the standard frozen dogs found in supermarkets. As if lugging a pile of cheaply made, fashionable furniture and related items through the city of Frankfurt is going to be any less cumbersome simply because you stuffed a yummy wiener—with toppings—down your throat.
One particular week, I had a great idea. I would plan a weekend evening out at the local English theater for us to see a classic Tennessee Williams production. Apparently I was mistaken, however, because it failed to derail our chances of making a trip to IKEA. Instead, we conveniently turned a weekday evening into another stale shopping experience at that dreaded four-letter-word store, only the routine was a bit different this time.
With an hour until closing and a new Christmas section near the checkout aisle, we had just enough time to do some casual browsing. “Let’s get a hot dog and drink first this time. We can skip the first floor since we only need a spice rack, a new clock, and a cabinet handle. If we give ourselves a half hour on the first two floors, we’ll still have time to look through the Christmas section. Then maybe we can take a look at the food section so we can get a few snacks," Kathleen said, her eyes widening.
"Sounds good," I said, overjoyed by the notion that my facial muscles moved almost a fraction of an inch to illicit the always-polite half-smile. But I suppose I had no choice than to be grateful since no heavy items were scheduled to be purchased. A quick mental flashback of the crack-in-the-shoe rack experience reminded me that things never do go smoothly. It was one of our less flattering moments that involved large bags, heavy wooden shelves, and a cheap plastic shoe rack that slammed to the ground as we stood there yelling at one another, each laying blame for not having reached out to save it from its unfortunate tumble.
When we departed IKEA that Tuesday night, I felt like I could walk on water. Something different had happened. I was carrying one bag that contained only a few items. I felt free, as if I could fly. But was it too good to be true? Indeed, it would be a first for arriving home from IKEA without pressure marks on my hands from carrying heavy, unassembled boxes of furniture. I was in a euphoric state of complete and utter satisfaction. But then reality struck.
Instead, I would have to deal with the emotional scarring of a near accident, with my wife stepping out into the street as a speeding vehicle swerved out of the way, coming within inches of striking her. And yet, later on that evening, she seemed more disturbed by the fact that we didn’t buy any IKEA scented candles.
Have you ever had the feeling you know a particular store better than a close friend? I certainly did. IKEA is the store that I had come to know all too well. Regrettably, I’d been there countless times in my stint as an American expatriate. It all came with the territory, though. If it weren’t for those dreadfully empty German apartments, IKEA would’ve been a mere fart in the wind. We would’ve gone there for the occasional knickknack or bookshelf, but we wouldn’t have been IKEA extremists. Nevertheless, it pains me to admit that it happened. We became those people. Sadly, we were the couple who could be seen there almost every other week, carrying heavy IKEA boxes and bags on our commute from train to bus to train and back to our apartment.
I remember when IKEA first opened back home. The excitement plagued consumers across all areas. As a matter of fact, I recall a close friend of mine becoming so excited that I secretly questioned his sexuality. The two of us traveled there together during the week of the grand opening and wandered through the store like amazed young children. Fast forward to German time and a permanent scowl on my face was the only predictability, as my wife and I made, what seemed like, a weekly trip to the store. The awkward, heavy items were standard protocol, too.
Comments such as “are you serious?! … you’re grabbing the wrong end … slow down or I’m gonna drop it … I need to let my end down, let’s take a break … this is ridiculous … I’m never coming back here again … this stuff is way too heavy … let’s just rent a car for the day and get everything done … why don’t we just go back next week instead?” were pretty trite. Getting a hot dog and drink at the end of our shopping excursion was nothing new either. The lady seemed to think it would’ve softened the blow. Ask a German about their IKEA experience and they’ll give you the old “you must get a hot dog when you’re done shopping.” Orgasmic gourmet food it is not but rather a hot dog on par with the standard frozen dogs found in supermarkets. As if lugging a pile of cheaply made, fashionable furniture and related items through the city of Frankfurt is going to be any less cumbersome simply because you stuffed a yummy wiener—with toppings—down your throat.
One particular week, I had a great idea. I would plan a weekend evening out at the local English theater for us to see a classic Tennessee Williams production. Apparently I was mistaken, however, because it failed to derail our chances of making a trip to IKEA. Instead, we conveniently turned a weekday evening into another stale shopping experience at that dreaded four-letter-word store, only the routine was a bit different this time.
With an hour until closing and a new Christmas section near the checkout aisle, we had just enough time to do some casual browsing. “Let’s get a hot dog and drink first this time. We can skip the first floor since we only need a spice rack, a new clock, and a cabinet handle. If we give ourselves a half hour on the first two floors, we’ll still have time to look through the Christmas section. Then maybe we can take a look at the food section so we can get a few snacks," Kathleen said, her eyes widening.
"Sounds good," I said, overjoyed by the notion that my facial muscles moved almost a fraction of an inch to illicit the always-polite half-smile. But I suppose I had no choice than to be grateful since no heavy items were scheduled to be purchased. A quick mental flashback of the crack-in-the-shoe rack experience reminded me that things never do go smoothly. It was one of our less flattering moments that involved large bags, heavy wooden shelves, and a cheap plastic shoe rack that slammed to the ground as we stood there yelling at one another, each laying blame for not having reached out to save it from its unfortunate tumble.
When we departed IKEA that Tuesday night, I felt like I could walk on water. Something different had happened. I was carrying one bag that contained only a few items. I felt free, as if I could fly. But was it too good to be true? Indeed, it would be a first for arriving home from IKEA without pressure marks on my hands from carrying heavy, unassembled boxes of furniture. I was in a euphoric state of complete and utter satisfaction. But then reality struck.
Instead, I would have to deal with the emotional scarring of a near accident, with my wife stepping out into the street as a speeding vehicle swerved out of the way, coming within inches of striking her. And yet, later on that evening, she seemed more disturbed by the fact that we didn’t buy any IKEA scented candles.
