The Honeymoon's Over

Mein Mann and I go to the garage to hop in the car and drive to the airport, yet again. We have had a great few days together, just living life in Munich.  To my great surprise, our brand new (thank you company!) leased car had arrived and been sneakily placed in our parking spot!  The old car rental is right next to it, in the under-sized "double garage"**.  To get into the driver's seat, I had to snake across from the passenger side.

The effort was worth it.  The leather seats feel smooth and good. It's roomy, but no bigger, and even less long than our car rental.  After we got in, I carefully backed out of the spot in the shiny white Q5, having to perform a 6-point turn in order to avoid the concrete wall on the left and the car rental to my right.  Several automatic safety features were put into the car, which were all going off at the same time, alerting me that I was very near to the car next to me and the concrete wall.  Safety features? Check.  All is working well.  I take the boy to the airport have a pleasant airport lunch date before we say goodbye for a few days.  We take pictures like proud new parents.  I drive home happily, impressed with the huge moon-roof, the wide windows, mirrors, and sheer lack of blind spots due to the car's excellent design.  Neither of us have ever had such a nice car, or a brand new car.  It is nice; I'm a little bit in shock and awe.  I am careful driving home, even though I don't have to be.  The lane guidance assist system alerts me if I get too close to the lane next me on either side.

I pull into our garage.  I perform a 2 point turn and start to very slowly pull back into our teensy weensie parking space.  My head is out of the driver's side window.  I am creeping into place.  I hope to not have to make another adjustment to my turn, as it would be cutting things close to the car on my right.  I hear no beeps, no whistles, no alerts of danger.  I have been told many times to "trust the infallible technology", granted this was in regard to the navigation system.  It looks too close for comfort, but, hearing no infallible technology, I press on, slowly.  I hear a scrape.  No bells. No beeps.  A stinkin' scrape. You've got to be kidding me.  I back up, readjust, and head into the spot.  I get out and look.  Not one, but somehow, two (!) deep, black, gut-wrenching scratches across the front bumper are now haunting our shiny white car.  My heart sinks into my stomach.  I blink back tears.  I can't believe it.  I should have trusted my instinct.  How many times must I learn this lesson! Wahhhhhh!  Uggggh! Disgust! Wahhhh! Someone put me under now; I can't even park a car without damaging it.  oh. my.   whine whine whine. ughhhh!

I get out the phone and call my husband, still in shock that I did this.  These kind of things don't usually happen to me.  I've always had a decent sense of depth perception.  Sigh.  He answers the phone.  I tell him, but find from him only grace.  Don't worry.  It's alright.

I really like like him, for so many reasons.

**Double garage, in Germany, means single garage in the USA 


 Before the big bang:

 

Crybaby

So I cried while watching the Biggest Loser yesterday, again.  I am watching season 9, which i think is a year old or so.  Some sweet guy named O'Neal lost his brother while at the ranch and kept breaking down during his workouts. It felt wrong of me to be watching it (almost)--his raw grief displayed for the world.  And the trainers were super sweet, getting him to let it all out by having him do stuff like boxing, throwing, pounding, beating things as hard as he could, etc.  Anyway, I heard my friend's voice in my head & started laughing. After telling her about my weakness for watching the biggest loser (and crying when they lose all the weight), she empathetically wrote back: "Crybaby."

Customer Service--Nein!

Dear Germany,

Though you have many things to offer the world, I would like to be quite German, and tell you directly, that, your  customer service leaves much to the imagination.

For instance:

When I walk in the doors of your Audi dealership, you greet me with a glance in the opposite direction, a shuffle of your papers, an urgent phone call you just remembered to make, and a "just a minute"-finger in the air, which really means, just 20 minutes before you acknowledge my presence.

After looking at every car model but one, without a word from your staff, who are all sitting around and turn the other way when I come over, I ask if I can have a seat in the one car I came here to seriously consider, which is locked.  You tell me that the battery must be dead, and that, honestly, it likely will not be charged today or tomorrow, due to a company party everyone is looking forward to that evening.  And then it's the dreaded Sunday, dreaded only to the typical American. Dreaded because everything is closed, except for the shops that sell bier.  If you want bread, water, food--tough luck! If you want beer, this is possible.

I come back another week with an appointment to buy a car and check in.  You tell me someone will be with me in 5 minutes. An hour later I am still waiting. I mention this to you and you shrug. I leave.

But I must come back. And I do, for a 2nd appointment, reassured by the manager on the phone that someone will be with me at the allotted time.  I come back because the company is paying for the car, and only at this dealership.  I wait one hour. You have gone on vacation and have forgotten to mention this small detail.  Your receptionist informs me that I can make an appointment if I really want a car.

I come back a third time.  Now you see me, only 15 minutes after our appointment time.  You needed your smoke and your tasse Kaffee erst.  You mock me with your smile and ask me if I'm proud to be an American.  You hate me, and, quite honestly, the feeling is starting* to be mutual.

I ask your waiters for wasser. They roll their eyes at me, while I'm still looking.

I walk into a store: "Do you have any....excuse me please.  I'm looking for....".  You go into the back room.  I was even speaking German.  You must hear my accent and scurry away to laugh.  Hmm. Perhaps you had something more important to do than sell anything in your shop?    

On days when I am just browsing, of course, this is a wonderful feature of your country.  However, if you really want to get something, I feel I must make noise to do so.  Is everything this way?  How are you all not exhausted?

I ask for a reservation at your restaurant.  You say, "We are full.  There is no more room."  You offer no alternative. The only information is that I cannot get what I wanted.  No apologies. No problem solving.  This is not possible.

And so it goes.  If I want something in your country, I must ask for it, in German, directly, loudly, with command of respect.  Oh Germany, if only you would walk onto the car lot of any store in America.  You could not turn your bicycle around in the lot without at least two men waving you down, asking if you wanted something to drink.  They would ask about your day, your family, and appear sincerely interested. They would try to sell you things you didn't want.  I wonder what you would do with such an overwhelming sales-force.....

 * Starting?  Okay...yes, at this point, it is a euphemism.