Not Ferris Bueller's Day Off

I've been feeling a little under the weather these past few days. It's partly exhaustion, brought on by not getting to sleep before one and getting up between half six and seven; it's partly worry, brought on by the fact that I got the day my rent is due very wrong indeed and had to dash to the bank at the eleventh hour to pay up and am currently living in (pretty much irrational) fear that my current landlord will do a Lord Farquaad on it and turf me out for having been a little late with the payment; and it's partly the fact that my diet is abysmal and I'm not eating well at all. All of these factors have bandied together over the last three days to cause me to be even more keyed up and emotional than usual, and to produce some fine splitting headaches and general aches and pains.

At lunch on Monday, I had virtually no appetite and pushed my food around my plate while the others ate and chatted to each other. Since the colossal fiasco that was having to vacate my first apartment the other women in the office think of me as a sort of lost lamb and as being in need of constant reassurance, encouragement and attention, and I can barely bat an eyelid without one of them enquiring as to how I am and how I'm feeling and assuring me that I can always ask one of them if there's ever something I don't understand or am worried about. It's very endearing and while I genuinely do appreciate their kindness, it got wildly out of hand at the start of the week, beginning with one of them noticing that I wasn't eating a whole lot at lunch.

"No, I usually do like to eat vegetables, but I'm feeling a little out of sorts today", I explained. Next thing I knew, choruses of "you poor thing!" and "oh dear Aisling, what exactly is the matter? Is it your stomach? Do you have a cold? What about a fever, are you warm?" were echoing from all ends of the table.

"Oh, I just have a headache and a general funny feeling, but really, I'm fine" did no good and then came the worried and compassionate suggestions that I should take the rest of the afternoon off and head home to bed. Realising that resistance was futile, I traipsed off to my boss's office to inform him of my malaise and my need to leave early. Equally kind and understanding, he cleared it and explained that because I was clocking out early on the grounds of illness there would be no need for me to make up the lost hours later on during the week. "Don't worry", he told me. "You can stay at home until you feel healthy again. Just call in the morning to let me know should you take the day off."

So I left work at about 1pm with a mere headache and mixed emotions. Guilt, because there really wasn't much wrong with me and it was nothing Panadol and a decent night's shut-eye couldn't cure, and delight, because I now had several extra hours of delicious, delicious free time on my hands.

I returned to the office as normal the following morning, where the usual friendly and concerned faces greeted me. For appearance's sake, I explained that I still felt out of sorts but refreshed after my afternoon off. But God forbid they leave it at that. Did I know that there was an in-house doctor, whom I could visit between the hours of nine and one, free of charge? No, I didn't, but I wasn't long finding out when one of them insisted on taking me to him. Knowing that I had to exaggerate my symptoms a little to the doctor in order to make the visit seem worthwhile and to make me not seem like a complete hypochondriac, I found myself fabricating an all over body ache, chills, constant thirst and frequent need to pee. I had to backtrack quickly when I realised that I was dangerously close to describing the symptoms of diabetes, not wanting to end up in the local Krankenhaus for blood tests. Fortunately, he didn't arrive at this conclusion and instead gave me some effervescent aspirin tablets to relieve me of my ailments. He prepared an aspirinny drink for me there and then so I had to drink it out of politeness, although I more than likely would have survived without resorting to analgesics.

I returned to the office to find an absolute looker (pathetic choice of word but it makes me cringe decidedly less than "babe" or "hottie") of an IT technician at my desk installing new software to my computer. About twenty-one or -two years old, with a fine mop of sandy brown hair and an open, friendly face. Unfortunately, the concerned co-worker who ushered me to the in-house doctor chose then as the ideal time to discuss the possibility of homesickness or general loneliness causing my supposed ill feeling, virtually dashing all chances of me looking cool in front of the IT eye candy. 

Unless I'm experiencing a stroke or coughing up blood, the next time I feel unwell at work I think I'll just keep schtum. 

A bit of aspirin for no reason never hurt anyone, sure it didn't?

The Four-Week Itch

Today marks a month since I came to Wiesbaden, Germany; exactly four weeks ago I boarded an Aer Lingus flight to Frankfurt for (metaphorically but not actually) greener pastures. The general aim was to live totally independently, totally immerse myself in the language and attempt to acquire a higher level of fluency, and have some fun as a typical person rather than a tourist in a country I've always been extremely fond of. The independent living is going well, as despite the ups and downs I'm managing pretty well and my life has not yet gone to rack and ruin. Speaking in German is absolutely not a problem. I've always staunchly refused to speak English in Germany in the past, and this time I feel no differently about that. I've had one conversation in English in person (that is, not over Skype or the phone to family and friends at home in Ireland) since I've been here, with an Irish guy in our office who's over from Sligo where the company also has a plant, which lasted about forty seconds. On Wednesday night, I had a dream in German which thrilled me more than it should have. They say that dreaming in a language you're learning is an extremely positive sign, so long may that continue. As for fun, I've been enjoying myself. Although I haven't been living it up as much as my friends in Berlin have, I have to say that the last few weeks have been nothing less than exciting. I haven't had more than a glass (or three) of wine since I left Dublin about five weeks ago nor have I had the need to put on any make up (I tend to only do this on special occasions or nights out) but I've experienced a plethora of new things and met so many new people and visited several new places (such as a Russian Orthodox church and a museum about shipping on the Rhine. Spaß, oder?).

I feel very much at home in Germany, and always have, even when I was only in the country for no longer than a weekend at a time. I like how things work. I like its unique quirks and idiosyncrasies, and I never thought that I'd really miss things that are unique to Ireland or pine for home comforts. But, to my horror, it turns out I do. There are certain things you only have access to in Ireland, or can't access in Germany, for which I would give my right arm as I type this.

1) Irish food
German food has worn me down. It's stodgy, there's too much of it, it involves far too much meat (and often fatty meat, at that) and carbohydrates, and it never seems as fresh as food at home does. Even "good" foods, like vegetables, are ruined as they're usually drenched in butter or lard or another unidentifiable greasy substance. Today I noticed that a woman ahead of me in the queue at Rewe, the local branch of a German supermarket chain, was buying canned mushrooms (yes, canned mushrooms. Take a moment to let the enormity of that sink in, I know I needed one at the time) and nearly threw up a bit. I have to avoid the chilled aisle in said local supermarket now because if I see another packet of salami or suspicious-looking cooked ham I will require urgent hospitalisation. I take the long way around to get to the end of the aisle with the milk and yoghurt and then retreat like a bat out of hell. Speaking of milk and yoghurt, it is nigh impossible to get a fat free variety of either here. Germans also have a penchant for drinking tea out of glass saucers the size of thimbles without milk, and say "waaaaaas?" when you admit to not being a coffee drinker.  I crave vegetable soup and homemade brown bread (not made in my own home, as I don't think anybody had baked bread in my home since it was built in 2003, but by the lovely people who work in Avoca or wherever), and scones. The things I would do for a scone with real butter and jam. Oh, or home-cooked meals with fresh vegetables and the little bit of meat I do eat, and fresh fish (virtually non existent in mid-west Germany). See also: Galaxy chocolate, Tayto crisps and Barry's tea bags. I brought a stash of those with me but they'll be gone by next week and to be perfectly honest, I'm dreading it.

2) The "it'll be grand" attitude
I'm somewhat I'm embarrassed to admit that after six years of learning the language and one year of intensive study* (pah!) of the laws and culture of the country, I still couldn't give you the name of the German national anthem and be entirely confident that I was right. I can tell you what the German national anthem isn't, though and that's Que Sera Sera (Whatever Will Be, Will Be). Germans are, quite frankly, a bit insane. We all know the stereotypes, and I've experienced them as truth whilst holidaying here in the past, but you only grasp a full appreciation for the innate German sense of orderliness when you have to pay taxes and rent and things of that ilk here. They just can't let things slide or put anything of even minor importance on the back burner. They are freaking touchy about money and it turns out the reason the country is reluctant to welcome the use of credit cards with the same welcoming arms we've used to embrace it at home is because there's a possibility that people who can't actually afford to would buy things on credit and the seller would lose out on money. Moreover, procrastination is a foreign concept here which is unfortunate as I have a major propensity toward it. You complete tasks as soon as possible and if you're a smidge behind schedule in getting things done excuses aren't listened to in the same way they would be in Ireland, where we're definitely given considerable leeway in comparison. I highly doubt Lord Farquaad (the moniker I've given my old landlady of precisely eleven hours) would have kicked off as dramatically as she did in Ireland.

3) Extreme Irish politeness and awkwardness
My German colleagues just don't understand why the phrase "es ist mir egal" - I don't mind - is such a regular fixture in my vocabulary. I'll never be assertive enough to live like a true German. If somebody offers a German a slice of cake and they want a slice of cake, they'll take the slice of cake. Irish people, myself included, will refuse out of politeness or possibly out of not wanting to seem like a fat shit. If you're in a German's way, they'll tell you to move, and the offender will move without hesitation or hard feelings. In Ireland, you'd move, but grudgingly, and probably muttering "who does that one think she is?" under your breath, but then again it's also extremely likely that the person trying to get past you would just say nothing and try to shuffle past you as they wouldn't want to bother you. While I do admire the nation's assertiveness as it does make things easier and less complicated in general, with less reading between the lines, it still really unnerves me. I know it's not intended as rudeness or to make you feel as though you've done something wrong, but to an outsider (especially an Irish outsider, the Irish being amongst the most spineless people on Earth) the directness can sometimes feel that way. Of course, there are times when German assertion is with the intention of making you feel bad - yesterday, for example, I was told to "halt die Fresse" (shut the f*ck up) on the bus for talking on the phone too loudly. But I guess I was asking for that one.

4) Less dodgy pop music
I've noticed it before, but Germans are very fond of totally crap musak in shops, elevators, and restaurants. I'm not claiming that we get much better at home, but if I never hear the Europoppy strains of Cascada and her ilk again it'll be too soon. Germany also tends to go through phases of listening to nothing but one particular song, and it's usually one that was in the charts months ago in the English-speaking world or didn't even register in the first place. This month, they're all going mad for "Another Love" by Tom Odell, which isn't nearly as heinous as the song du jour when I stayed in Berlin for a fortnight in June 2011. That song was "Dirty Talk" by Wynter Gordon. Look it up, or don't if you don't want a jarringly infectious ditty reaming off a list of bedroom activities stuck in your head for the next ten days. Two weeks after moving here, my Spotify copped on that I was no longer in Ireland and gave me two options: switching to Spotify Deutschland or upgrading to Premium for €10 a month. I took the upgrade option and headed for the hills. Ain't no way I'm losing out on Kodaline for Culcha Candela (crap German pop/hip hop outfit).

5) Feeling relatively attractive
I'm not a very pretty person, but I'm definitely less conscious of that at home in Ireland where my peers are decidedly less well dressed and elegant (sorry, Ireland). In Germany, I feel like a sack of potatoes most of the time as most girls my age are slender, impeccably outfitted in the skinniest of skinny jeans, tanned, and with a head full of thick, glossy hair. They never slouch and hold themselves with such grace and they never spazz out and drop their phones whilst walking down the street and they don't stumble awkwardly every twenty-five metres. I haven't noticed any of them suddenly panic and frisk themselves and rifle through their bags and pockets in fear that they've misplaced their phone or wallet. I shall have to work on doing these things with less frequency if I am to make it in this country. I'll also have to sort out my chronic pastiness and undergo a hair transplant.

These are all minor grievances, mind you. However, I absolutely appreciate Ireland and Irishness so much more now and will resolve to complain about living there a lot less when I return in September. I'll also wipe away a bittersweet tear when the baggage carousel at Dublin Airport inevitably doesn't work or is slow and everybody will act as though the delay is totally normal, because it is in Ireland, and nobody will pace or complain loudly.

*Speaking of studying, I got my exam results last week and I'm pleased to confirm that I have passed (better than passed, actually, I got a two-two) first year law and German the first time around with minimum effort or work. Seriously, if you have IQ points in double digits then don't worry about grades during your first year of college and concentrate on having a lot of fun and lie ins. You can always cram in April.

[My] house, in the middle of [my] street

In Germany, I have embraced the Old Man Morley from Home Alone lifestyle and live alone, albeit without rumours that I murdered my entire family with a shovel. It's pretty manageable. There are also many useful articles on the subject online, which at first appear helpful...

Aw

...but rapidly spiral into hopelessness and despair.

Oh

There are times when I wish that there was somebody to say goodnight before I go to bed, or with whom I could eat breakfast (breakfast, who am I fooling?) in the mornings, but mostly I'm perfectly content. I like my own company. I don't feel the need to be constantly surrounded by chatter and noise and other people. The fact that I lived in Halls during my first year at college made the aloneness less of a culture shock, too, because although I shared a kitchen with thirteen other girls there was often nobody about during the week when I left for lectures (or napping in either Costa or Insomnia) or when I returned later on. 

The hermit life has its perks; for example, I can forget to shut the bathroom door behind me and only realise once I'm in the shower and it doesn't matter because ain't nobody around to see. I can fill the cupboards and fridge with whatever I like and it is with this sentiment in mind that my cupboard is currently occupied by a half empty box of chocolatey, diabetesy breakfast cereal, a tin of pineapple, some Barry's tea bags from home in an attractive IKEA tin, .and a hipflask. I can sing as I potter about the apartment without fear of ridicule. Last but certainly not least, in fact, probably most importantly, I can change into skimpy shorts and a baggy four year old t-shirt as soon as I get in from work and there is nobody there to pass judgement - it is just my internal monologue that berates my thighs each time I pass the mirror in the hallway.

Certain fate - starvation and/or alcohol poisoning

I have to constantly remind myself that I am not Bridget Jones and so far I have held back on drinking wine in the apartment (much as I've wanted to drink wine in the apartment, like an adult). I'm far too young to drink alone and hope to delay reaching this new realm of pathetic for as long as possible. Also, there is the persistent worry that I will collapse or injure myself and nobody would be around to hear my pleas for help. Think about it, if I slipped in the shower on Friday evening and had no plans that weekend, and was either unconscious or my phone was out of reach, I could potentially be facing a weekend naked on the bathroom floor with a possibly fractured skull or limb. Nobody would notice until Monday when I inevitably wouldn't turn up at work.

I'm fond of my hermitic way of living and definitely prefer it to sharing with strange Germans. Don't get me wrong, Germans, strange or otherwise, are of endless fascination to me but living with three or four of them would involve tidiness and taking things like recycling very seriously. I'm all for recycling but I wouldn't lose sleep if something cardboard found its way into general waste. A German might.

P.S. the weather. Oh, the weather. It reached THIRTY-NINE DEGREES yesterday and I genuinely thought that I was going to die so I drank three entire litres of water in the hope of staving off fatal dehydration. If I have to tussle with tangled sheets again tonight at two in the morning I think I will end up getting very angry and doing something rash and ridiculous like throwing them out the window in a fit of rage. This afternoon I went to Saturn, the German answer to Power City only not shit, to buy a fan only to find out that they are sold out and won't be back in stock until Monday, but in the meantime I could buy a NASA-engineered oscillating "air system" for €399. Sod that. It is currently raining and there is thunder and lightening but it still feels as though I'm trapped in a room with the steam of one million just-boiled kettles. To add insult to injury, one of my colleagues has suggested a trip to the local lake for a spot of swimming this weekend if the weather holds. I have not appeared in public wearing a bikini since 2009 and do not wish to change this so I now have one more reason to beg whatever force is controlling this weather nonsense for some nice anti-social single-figure temperatures and a bit of wind, to arrive Saturday afternoon at the very latest.

Hot in Hierr

Wiesbaden is warm. Warmbaden. I have no air conditioning in my apartment and this evening I actually appreciated the fact that I can't get anything other than ice cold water in my shower. Usually, it's so cold that I have to yell "IT'S COLD! IT'S COLD!" loudly which seems to help a little and emerge shivering and suffering from a transient form of post traumatic stress disorder. Today the Arctic temperature was something for which I was grateful. Nothing like a little thirty-two degree heat at eight o'clock in the evening to force you to stop and think about the little things.

I realise that, in general, thirty-two degrees is not exceptionally high. It's par for the course in package holiday destinations and a little on the cold side in the Middle East and the Amazon Basin. I, however, struggle with anything more than what Irish grannies describe as "mild" weather. My hair finds a way to stick to my face and neck even when it's tied up and out of the way, my eyes water if I so much as think about the sun and I turn a fetching shade of pink after just a minute's exposure to the great big star in the sky. Like a great big cured ham. With hair.

Germans, however, are pros at handling steeper temperatures (except for perhaps the obese ones, who sweat buckets and expand in the heat so as to take up extra room on public buses. But they are few and far between). My colleagues, for example, enjoy lunching outside so my daily forty-five minute lunch break has become something I live for and dread in equal amounts. As soon as the automatic door opens onto the outdoor seating area from the cool and calm air-conditioned canteen I am poised for battle with the elements. I usually forget to take my sunglasses with me, and the trays in the canteen are white, so if I look down I am dazzled and if I look up I am blinded by the sun. The solution is to close my eyes almost entirely but leave an all-important half a millimetre gap to allow for vision and me to not look like a complete imbecile. Furthermore, I take out as many cups of chilled water as my tray will carry to prevent my body from shrivelling up and frying itself on the picnic bench during the half an hour or so that I am forced to be as close to "at one" with nature as I ever will be. It probably looks a little extreme but if anyone ever asks I just play the "I'm Irish and I can BARELY cope with this weather, it's so unusual back home, how do you manage at all?" card. I am perennially jealous of my peers' natural ability to remain composed, outside, at the hottest time of day. They are brown, lean-limbed, their make up stays fully intact, and not one hair clings to their foreheads, ever. Damn them.

My apartment, meanwhile, is no longer the comfortable, relaxing and cool retreat it once was; rather it has become Germany's largest sauna. There is no air conditioning and opening the windows doesn't help as it's probably warmer outside. One solution is to swing the living room door open and closed really fast to generate a breeze but this reprieve from the sweltering heat is merely temporary and if I keep it up I'll probably end up pulling the door off its hinges and having to replace it. I wouldn't want that.

Until this heat lets up (which will be sometime later this week, according to the news and every German with whom I have made small talk this week) I shall have to make do with guzzling two litres of water a day, cold showers thrice daily and overly sentimental thoughts about Irish rain, dampness and drizzle. Oh, drizzle.

Neroberg

I figured that as, so far, I come across as utterly unfortunate and ridiculous on this blog I should probably do something to rectify that assumption and prove that I can function like a normal human being would whilst staying in a foreign country for three months.

So on Sunday (yesterday) I went sightseeing with a fellow intern who has very kindly taken pity on me and my lack of social life and befriended me, and her friend, who it turns out is also studying law in Mainz, a neighbouring university town. It really has to be said that the German youth are extremely friendly and welcoming. In Ireland, it's the total opposite. People in my position in Ireland basically have to beg people to be their friend and show them around, whereas here everyone has been so interested in me and how I came to learn German and why I'm here now. In fact, on Sunday I had two invitations to socialise, the first one being this sightseeing outing and the second being a barbecue thrown by two colleagues. Check me, being all popular and in demand!

Anyway, we went up to the Neroberg which is basically a large hill but not quite a mountain (then again it may be, I am no geographer) overlooking the city of Wiesbaden. The views of the city below are stunning, particularly in the sunshine we had yesterday. There's also a Russian Orthodox cathedral with a gold roof that gleams in the sunlight. I looked directly at it and couldn't see properly for purple blotches for about an hour.

I relished the opportunity to make use of my shitty €69.99 Argos digital camera, covertly purchased to replace the one I broke after dropping it on a night out from being too gee'd up on white rum and orange, and took a few snaps. My new acquaintances took a few awkward shots of me standing in front of various things and if you didn't know any better you'd swear I took them myself with a tripod as I am currently the only person to feature in the album on Facebook.

We finished off the excursion by sitting in the sunshine at a hilltop café sipping Diet Coke (well, they did, I had pineapple juice), chatting auf Deutsch and enjoying the view (truth be told I grow weary of views, no matter how magnificent, after about two minutes of looking so I pretended to continue to enjoy the view out of politeness).

Wiesbaden panorama shot. The shitty Argos camera actually has some nifty features, who knew?

Myself. The view.

Russian Orthodox Church with cornea-destroying gold turrets.

This is a strong contender for the title of Most Awkward Photo Taken Of Me, Ever. But then again, is it possible to look anything less whilst stood in front of a water-powered funicular railway?

EVICTION

Faulty front door locks requiring professional assistance aside, I was quite pleased by my new German abode. It was spacious, with a large sitting room, a recently refitted kitchen and a double bedroom containing ample wardrobe space and several hangers. It was on the third floor of an old building and quintessentially German, and located in Wiesbaden's central district just a five minute walk from town. I quite liked the idea of calling it home for the next three months.

Unfortunately, disaster struck yet again, just one day after the emergency services incident. I was about two hours into my working day when I got an email from the agency through which I'd rented the apartment, advising me to call them as soon as possible. Unfortunately, as I'd only started my job on Monday and it was now only Friday, I was far too spineless to ask to use the phone in the office and resolved to call them myself over my lunch break. However, the agency beat me to it, and about thirty minutes later I got a call from them, through my supervisor. I didn't really understand what she was saying, but I picked up something about having to call the landlady asap, and not wanting to be a complete nuisance demanding constant use of the telephone I awkwardly decided I'd do that later. Little did I know I was basically constructing a vortex of complication and awkwardness and confusion for myself. 

See, when I went to the agency's offices the previous Friday looking for somewhere to live, they told me that they'd send me on the tenancy agreement the following Monday once I'd decided on the apartment at Ludwigstraße 2. They did not. The hotel at which I was staying up until I moved into the apartment, which was to be the Thursday, had painfully shite WiFi access available only in their poky little lobby but I dutifully lugged my titanic-sized laptop plus plug-in USB keyboard (the original built-in keyboard deigned to function when I spilled tea on it whilst either taking webcam selfies or video chatting with someone, I forget which, but it involved the webcam) down there every evening to check my email. This email with the tenancy agreement did not arrive until the Thursday, the day I was due to collect the keys and move into Mi Casa. Because I obviously didn't bother dragging my dad's HP Officejet printer-scanner-fax machine over with me, I had no means of returning a copy of the agreement with my signature on to the agency until the next day when I could hunt down an internet café, so I decided to just go ahead and collect the keys anyway. After all, they hadn't sent it to me when they said they would. And after all, I was obviously going to sign it eventually. It wasn't as though I was going to move in, refuse to sign anything then barricade myself in the apartment and start up some sort of controlled substance production line in there. That strikes me as just asking for trouble, really. So I moved in. And got locked in an hour later. But anyway. 

I explained the above to my supervisor and other colleagues when they asked what the phone call had been about, and they were all so concerned! So helpful. They insisted that I call the agency to find out what exactly was going on, and even offered to put the call on speaker phone so they could speak on my behalf and help me understand exactly what was going on. I suppose they figured that while my German is pretty good, it probably wasn't the wisest idea to put it to test when scary legal stuff such as contracts and my status as a person with somewhere to live was involved. We did so, my comrades fighting my corner, and it then emerged that the bottom line was that cranky old lady landlady got her elderly knickers in a twist when I moved in without signing the contract first (or paying the deposit, it turned out) and was insisting that I remove myself and my things from the apartment by that evening. Shit, I thought to myself. I'm homeless.

By this point I was starting to feel a little overwhelmed by the whole situation so I excused myself to go to the bathroom for a bit of a cry. 

When I returned to the office, I was greeted by the concerned faces of my colleagues whom I'd known for little over four days, eager to tell me that a solution had been found. The agency had found an alternative apartment in the Bierstadt district of Wiesbaden which was cheaper and on a much nicer and safer street. Two of them told me that if that didn't suit, I could stay with them until I could go back to the agency the following Monday to look for another place. I decided to go with the quickest option available, which was to take the apartment offered as the landlord had agreed to let me move in that evening provided I paid a deposit and signed a lease when I collected the keys from him. In a move of incredible generosity, Birgid whose desk is next to mine offered to drive me to my old apartment, collect my things and bring me to the new apartment because it's not too far from where she lives. I gratefully took her up on this offer and she even went as far as to bring me to her house later on to meet her husband and two children and to give me some cutlery, utensils and bedlinen as the new apartment was without them and she thought it rather pointless of me having to buy a whole new set for three months. Furthermore, the landlord turned out to be an elderly retired policeman who is well-known and much-respected locally and was extremely kind to me when he met me, even insisting that we leave the contract and the deposit until the following day so I could spend more time settling in. Mean old lady landlady could do with taking a leaf out of his book as she is still giving me grief a week and a half after I vacated her death trap of an apartment with its faulty lock. Her latest joyless and whiny insistence is that I pay the end cleaning fee, as stipulated in the contract. No way, José, for three reasons: 1) I wasn't in the apartment long enough to warrant €100 worth of cleaning. I was there for thirteen hours, for eight of which I was fast asleep. 2) The lock on the door was faulty and nobody checked that before I or anybody else moved in, which I thought was dangerous and careless, especially when I was locked in and frantically pummelling it hoping somebody would hear me. 3) She can't kick me out for not signing the contract then use the contract to make me pay a fee I shouldn't have to pay because of reasons number one and two. But I digress.


It all worked out rather well in the end. My relationship with my colleagues has been consolidated and I like to think that they're rather fond of me, I feel an awful lot happier and more secure in my new apartment (you have to get through a locked gate before you have access to the building and the landlord and I share a garden so he's nearby and he's a sweetheart), it's cheaper and I now live one door up from a small supermarket to the right and three doors down from an Italian takeaway to the left. This suits a lazy glutton like myself down to the ground.  Also there is no television so I can devote my free time to more worthy pursuits such as solitaire and playing the harp. Just kidding. As long as I have my laptop, I shall never do anything intellectually stimulating or worthwhile again. 

"He huffed, and he puffed and he... signed the eviction notice". 

My first landlady was Lord Farquaad.

The Lock-In

"Ich brauche drigend Hilfe. Meine Türschlüssel funktioniert nicht und ich bin in der Wohnung gefangen. Ich bin letzte Woche in Deutschland angekommen und seit heute Abend in dieser Wohnung, und ich habe keine Familie oder Freunde hier. Ich kenne niemand. Hilf mir, bitte!"

These were not exactly words with which I had imagined I would be pleading to the 112 operator on my first night in my new apartment in Germany. Call me idealistic, but when I daydreamed idly about my new (albeit temporary) life here I envisioned myself lounging on a shabby chic futon (that would actually probably be from IKEA, but nobody would have to know) drinking coffee (even though I cannot stand the stuff, it tastes of nightmares) and just being generally cool. Frantically trawling Google for the German equivalent of 999 to make sure that it was freephone did not feature in my musings.

I'm a clumsy, accident-prone person. Mundane tasks such as receiving change from the cashier in a shop are fraught with risks such as awkward accidental knuckle bumping and five and ten cent coins slipping through my fingers and landing on the floor, or worse, the other side of the counter. I can't walk and drink from a take away cup of tea at the same time, am notorious for falling over on public transport and once dropped a litre bottle of cheap knock off vodka in the lobby of a Berlin hostel which then of course smashed all over the floor, requiring the attention of two hostel workers and their mops and a wet floor sign. Mortifying. Because I tend to be plagued by blundering, gawky pandemonium wherever I go, my run in with the fire brigade on my first night totally alone in Germany really isn't all that stunning. 

The whole situation was utterly surreal. The operator was very patient with me and tried to talk me through the process of unlocking a door, but to no avail. The key wouldn't budge and I was well and truly stuck. He used the most sympathetic and kind tone of voice, in sharp contrast to my quavery, overwrought and heavily accented German, and quickly arrived at the conclusion that I must be a bit of a moron because he promised to dispatch someone to come and unlock my front door for me. Decidedly calmer (I had spent the last twenty minutes pacing the apartment alternating between crying my eyes out and scowling at my keys) I sat by the window overlooking the street and awaited the arrival of this someone who would come and free me from my own home. To my horror, ten minutes later an actual fire truck pulled up in the street and two firemen got out, wielding a toolbox each and what looked like a giant scissors. (It kind of reminded me of The Sims, when the fireman would arrive on foot to attend to a rather large blaze, except without the rather large blaze). They shouted up to me, asking if I was the idiot girl who'd called 112 about being locked in and asked me to throw down the keys. Less than a minute later they were standing on the corridor outside my door and I heard the keys jangling. The lock, which had refused to budge for me ten minutes earlier, clicked gently and the door swung open, revealing a tear-stained and agitated idiotic me within, wearing my "Wir Sind Wunderbarristers" hoodie. I explained my situation, and they tinkered about with the lock for what seemed like five years, shining torches on it, spraying stuff into it and prodding it with the giant scissors. They eventually decided the mechanism on the interior half was "kaputt" and needed replacing, and advised me to keep it unlocked and to get in touch with the building superintendent as soon as possible. They looked sort of incredulous when I explained that I had no idea who that was and had no means of contact with my landlady. I had to sign a few forms, show the two men to my bathroom where they could wash their hands, and see them out. I expected some sympathy or comforting words but the two firemen were surly and unmoved by my gratitude and emotion. I wonder do they rescue people like me who get locked into their own apartments often? 

So there I was, my first night in my new German apartment, unable to lock my front door. I headed to bed soon after the Feuerwehr left, worn out by all the excitement and my frantic sobbing, with my phone under my pillow and cash and VISA card in my bra.