The Story: Part I

The Victory
Early morning Wednesday (around 11pm Tuesday on the east coast), the day I was to move in and the day after the elections, I woke up in the hotel, the internet was down, and I was dying to know who won or even if they’d declared a winner yet. I was pleased to turn on AFN in time to see McCain’s concession speech and shortly after that, Obama’s acceptance speech. Both, I thought, were very good—McCain was gracious and respectful, while Obama was refreshing and hopeful. I’ve heard many say, and I believe it as well, that having a black man as president will be good for our country and for our foreign policy. I believe diplomatic ties to countries will strengthen where they were barely visible before. (Climbs down off soapbox.)

The Move
After I arrived at my apartment and unloaded my car, I didn’t have to wait around in my empty apartment for very long until the movers arrived with my household goods. I only had to sit on the kitchen counter staring out the window or on the radiator ledge in my living room staring out the window for about 1.5 hours. It didn’t take them long to unload and bring in my things either. Granted, I don’t have much stuff to begin with since I, a.) didn’t have much to begin with and b.) downsized and got rid of a lot things before I left.

Movers unpacking the crates, which contained my household goods and furniture.

They weren’t going to unpack anything, but from the beginning, I’ve been told by everyone even before I left the U.S. that the movers will pack and unpack everything and that I should not to touch anything, because if you touch it and something comes out broken, you could be faulted for it. Apparently unpacking is not something movers typically do in Germany, but given that they’re supposed to, I argued with them in German to at least unpack my kitchen, reattach my mirror to my dresser (since I don’t have tools), and unpack all of my large paintings. My things arrived in good condition, save for a broken wheat beer glass I got in Austria, a broken drying rack, and a dented bookcase. The rest of the day was spent sorting, unpacking, and putting things away. That night I was exhausted.

Thursday I woke up and had to be ready by 8 again to get my air shipment, but they didn’t get here until after lunch. They came in, sat my 7 boxes down and then wanted me to sign the papers saying everything arrived. Here’s the conversation that ensued in German:

Me: What about the bike?
Movers: What bike?
Me: The bike that’s listed right here on the sheet, where it says 7 boxes and a “bike.”
Movers: Oh. We don’t have a bike. This is all we have.
Me: Awesome.

I spoke to a woman at the company and she said she’d put out “tracer” on it, whatever that means. This is actually a coworker’s bike, not my own, because it was in the shop when they came to pick up his things, so he asked if I had room for it in my small shipment. Apparently, it never left the U.S., because the German company didn’t receive a bike. It’s a very expensive bike…waaay more expensive than mine if you know about mine. (Dad is now thinking two things: 1.) How much was hers again? and subsequently 2.) “Oh my God!”) I felt bad breaking the news to Pete, because he hasn’t had much luck with housing. He’s been here a month longer than I have and is still in a hotel.

The Trip
Friday I went to work and was actually glad to go, because it meant human interaction and nothing to do with boxes, sorting, or finding places to put things. Around 9:45, I put in a vacation request for the end of the month, because I was invited to go to Poland over a couple days with some girls to shop for Polish pottery. My boss, Chantel, came out and said, “You know, if you want to go to Poland, Jen and I are leaving at 2:30. We’re staying in Dresden (Germany) Friday, going to Poland Saturday, then coming back to Dresden and having dinner with a friend of mine. Sunday we’ll drive back home.” The old me first thought to say no because I had so much to do at home and wanted to get things organized. The new me, however, decided that my crap would still be sitting there when I got back and it wasn’t important to unpack it this weekend, especially since I had no TV, radio, or internet and no other plans. So I said and left work early to go pack, then met up with the girls. (Are you counting your tax dollars, Mom?)

A shop with pottery on the shelves and baskets on the floor.

The weekend was great. I shared a room with my boss, which I thought would be weird, but it wasn’t at all. Also, it was fun to be around women. Most of my friends are men so doing girl things was sort of refreshing. I wasn’t certain I’d like the Polish pottery, because the few designs I’d seen here in Germany weren’t that appealing. The first store we went in I made a purchase and pretty much in every store thereafter I bought either for me or gifts for other people. The weather was pretty gross, but we enjoyed the shopping and had lunch at a great hotel/restaurant called the Blue Root.

Jen and Chantel waiting for lunch to arrive.

The city we were in was by no means built up or even modern. The buildings were drab and grey and you could tell who had money, possibly from the pottery business, by the new, elaborate houses. I’m glad we stayed in Dresden, though, because it helped with the drive on Sunday and Dresden is just a gorgeous city.

Building in Poland on a farm.

My treasures.

The Parking
Since I’ve lived in the house I’ve been able to park my car in the garage, which is so awesome, by the way. The garage and my space, however, are tight. My space is next to a large circular cement pole and a cement wall. I have to drive in, swing as wide right as possible without hitting anything, which is basically impossible because there are cars on either side, then continue to do about a 28 point turn trying to fit into it. It’s stressful and I hate it, but I’m going to keep trying until I figure out a way where I only have to do an 8 point turn.

Friday morning, a coworker comes up to me and asks, “what happened to your car?” I told him that the last night at the hotel I had to park on the street, under a tree and that a bird must have had some bad Mexican, because there were about 7 runny blobs of bird crap covering my hood. I was quite embarrassed driving it looking like that. He said, “no, I’m talking about the marks you have on your right front bumper.” My heart sank into my toes and I went out to look. Sure enough, I had scuffed it probably during one of my many maneuvers to get into my space, but hadn’t heard a thing. After I washed it Friday, though, it didn’t look as bad—just a couple of scuffs on the edges protruding on my bumper. I plan to get it fixed after I get the hang of parking in my spot.

Another issue with parking has been that twice someone has been in my spot. The day before I moved in, I bought groceries and went to the apartment to put them away. Sure enough, I pulled in and there was someone in my spot. Not having any clue who to ask, I was lucky that someone was leaving the garage, so I ran over and asked the man in the car. Since my apartment is owned by the doctor who has his practice next door, he explained that it was probably Dr. King. So I had to go to the practice and explain to the woman at the desk that someone was in my spot. Apparently he allowed people from his staff to park there when no one lived in the apartment.

I haven’t had any other problems until tonight (Thursday, November 13th) when I came home late around 6 to find a car there. Highly annoyed, I thought of parking in someone else’s space, where I haven’t seen a car for days, but figured it best to park on the street. I marched in the house, wrote a nice, but forceful note in German explaining that it was my spot and that the apartment was no longer empty so you can’t park here anymore. I happened to catch my neighbor, who lives across from me and asked her what to do when someone was in my spot. I had to keep from laughing, because her reaction was such that you’d have thought you told her the Earth was flat. She just couldn’t believe it. So her husband came down with me to see if he recognized the car. Just as we opened the door to the garage, they were pulling out and he explained to them that it was my spot and they can’t park there (I couldn’t actually hear what he was saying, but that, I’m guessing, was the gist). They said starting tomorrow, no one from Dr. King’s office would park in that spot. Thank God for wine…

The American
I’ve been asked on, I think, 5 occasions now if I am an American. They’ve all just double-checked. One was my neighbor across the hall and the other old man I met in the garage the first day I tried to park. I’m flattered actually. I haven’t spoken German on a regular basis in years and I still wouldn’t say it’s on a regular basis, but it’s at least several times a week, depending on how much I go out or how many times I have to call the moving company about my friend’s bike. I realize I’m making mistakes and honestly I just don’t care anymore. I think it’s because I’m not learning the language anymore and I’m also a more confident person that I used to be. And frankly, I think Germans are a little nicer to Americans who can speak German--at least around here, where there are so many Americans anyway. Some of the people I work with know enough to order at restaurants and for courtesies, but I don’t think the Germans can figure me out. There’s something off about me (no comments from the Peanut Gallery necessary, thank you) when I speak and that’s flattering if they can’t catch the accent I have. So that’s why I’ve been asked, “Sie sind doch Amerikanerin, oder?”

**It's Tuesday, November 18th and I just got my internet set up last night. I'll post the hilarity and the rest of my goings on later this week or this weekend in Part II.