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.