A curious evening

Today was the day I picked up my flat keys. Walking between the car park and the flat, the effect of Mariä Himmelfahrt on the city is drastic. The place is absolutely dead. Upon seeing the flat completely empty, it becomes clear that furniture will definitely be necessary. I encounter another resident, but only very briefly. I forget her name within minutes.

Today is also extremely hot. Hence, I decide to pack the bulk of my things in the evening and move them into the flat when it has cooled down a bit. Things get later than expected. I bump into my landlord on the stairs, who looks at me as if I am faintly unhinged, lugging boxes to the car at past 21.00. I get to the flat at around 22.00. Much heaving ensues, there are many stairs, extremely steep and uneven. I meet another of the tenants, a friendly ground-floor dwelling woman having a cigarette. It seems that news of "the new renter" has spread. At around 22.50, the work is done. Starving and exhausted, I resolve to head home and aim to grab something on the way.

There is no food on the way. However, I remember that there is a McDonalds, beacon of holiday-bucking slave labour, not far from the flat. Arriving, I am faced with a trio of grinning people, one of whom raises his phone and starts taking pictures, motioning me to stay in the car. I oblige, figuring that anyone else at McDonalds this late must be as deranged as me. Getting out, the camera wielder asks me:

"Do you speak Deutsch?!"

"Ja"

"Komisch, auf der rechten Seite zu fahren oder?

"Nein, nicht besonders, ich bin daran gewöhnt."

"Bist du in der Bundeswehr oder was?"

"Nein, ich mache ein Pflichtpraktikum."

"Ein Jahr?"

"Genau."

Another of the group:

"Sein Deutsch ist besser als dein Englisch."

I take advantage of this switch of speakers to head into the welcoming fluorescent glow of the McCafé, but it strikes me at the same time that this level of immediate openness and friendliness without the aid of alcohol would be unusual in England, but seems less so here.

I gain a free glass with my McChicken-Menü. It offsets the fast-food guilt, but only slightly.

Arriving back in Kissing, the sky is incredibly clear. I walk out of my street and away from the violent orange of the sodium street lamps. Heading into the large open area nearby, the light fades. The stars are dense, the milky way a smudgy streak across the sky, a few late Perseids flash. I am standing opposite a dense field, but in a brand new parking space, in a brand new road in front of the empty space where there will be a brand new house, whose occupants will need brand new street lights to make sure they cannot see the stars.

The factory

On Thursday after lunch I am given a whistlestop tour of the manufacturing buildings by Günther L and Claudia N, the two people primarily responsible for the databasing program. Günther is in his early 30s and is almost evangelical when it comes to conveying his enthusiasm, not only for his database but for the strengths of his employer: "this is the most flexible factory in the world!". He is also keen on football and Ritter Sport. Claudia is a rather fierce late 40-something, somewhat less friendly and a lot less talkative than her co-worker.

There are four huge halls of which I see three. Things progress from one end to the other getting progressively closer to the final product. The number of products, people and machines is extraordinary. Work continues non-stop at a rate of about 10,000 units/day.

What really leaves an impression is the makeup of the workforce. A man at either end of the production line and nothing but women in-between. Günther says that this is because men are terrible at small scale repetitive work: "If you employ men you will produce far more faulty products. Women are much better at detailed work, and their hands are smaller. You only need men for the lifting." Claudia mutters grimly "and they're cheaper too".

Bureaucracy

You would have thought that, having been through the mill once before, one might be wiser to the paper-fuelled lunacy that is living in Germany and hence be better able to deal with whatever ink-festooned nuisances come fluttering in one's general direction. Sadly, this was not the case.

I had been informed that I should not register with the 'Einwohnermeldeamt' until I was to be living in the same place for the forseeable future. As my current accommodation was temporary I didn't. It then becomes apparent that I need to get a German bank account to register with the company so I can receive my salary, such as it is. So I go to the bank. There I am informed that I will have to pay for a current account unless I can prove that I am in fact a Praktikant/Student.

A few days pass and I get a copy of my contract and a copy of my Immatrikulationsbescheinigung for the bank. Back in the bank (where at least you get free drinks) I am told that without an official document from an Einwohnermeldeamt, I will be unable to set up the account. I point out that I was specifically instructed not to melden. Unfortunately, this doesn't get me anywhere, at which point it becomes clear that melding is going to be the only option. It is a frustrating Wednesday afternoon.

The Kissing Einwohnermeldeamt has conservative opening hours, to say the least. However, as sheer luck would have it, Thursday is the day of the week when they are open after midday. I am still forced to get to work stupidly early to avoid cutting my working day dangerously short. I get to the Kissing Rathaus, which looks more like an elementary school than a government building. I am supplied with the necessary paperwork for einmelding pretty rapidly. However, it is when the person in the office sees the dread word 'Britisch' on the form that I am told that I will also need to apply to the 'Ausländerbehörde'. I feel the blood rage beginning to set in when I am told that, thankfully, all the necessary paperwork is in the same office. For this paperwork two 'biometrische' passport photos are necessary. Extremely handily, I had kept a couple of passport photos in my wallet for months, just in case such a situation should arise.

When I point out that the whole procedure is a little silly as I will be moving shortly and I am only doing it to get a bank account, the woman behind the desk says 'Well lets just pretend I don't know about that.'

Finally back to the bank to get the account, which is achieved within minutes. Then back to the flat via a petrol station. I only mention the station because it was down a funny back street and had a staff of one: a sweet little old lady. I have never encountered such a friendly person behind the desk, let alone such a venerable one. She was so nice I thought her worthy of enshrinement...

Now only three weeks until the Ummeldung...

The final journey & One for the feminists?

Fairly lengthy drive from Brandenburg to Augsburg, nothing serious in comparison to previous capers. Stefan and I go to see the "Gartenreich Wörlitz" on the way. A full post on this will follow when I have a quick enough connection to upload photos.

Stopping in two rest areas in Bavaria, I see this type of sign:

Apparently these signs are a measure to encourage female safety in car parks. However, there is no evidence that there is more or less assault in German car parks than in any other country. Furthermore, the main reason for these signs, namely that more women are assaulted in car parks than men, seems to me entirely specious, given that more women are assaulted than men full stop. According to the Polizeiliche Kriminalstatistik 2007, 94.4% of all 40,333 'Straftaten gegen die sexuelle Selbstbestimmung' were committed by men, who also committed 99% of all 6,456 instances of rape. Women represented 95.8% of all victims in these cases.

Germany is by no means one of the worst countries, coming in at #24 with 9 rapes/100,000 people, behind the UK at #13 with 14/100,000, the US at #9 with 30/100,000 and South Africa's unbelievable 119/100,000. One has to bear in mind that these are only reported statistics. Actual figures can be much higher: according to a sign I once saw at Johannesburg airport, a woman is raped every 30 seconds there alone.

Even when you throw extra CCTV and alarm buttons into the mix, these signs seem to be a very ineffective way of combatting a problem that is far wider spread than motorway service stations.

Meanwhile, to return to a somewhat lighter note... In this delightful post-feminist/male chauvinist world of ours, these signs have been healthily mocked. I would hope that this has arisen out of an appreciation of the silliness these signs represent, but I fear that this hope is misplaced. In any case, I include a few examples:

And all this when I was just stopping for a Red Bull...

Radio entertainment

Classical radio keeps me interested on my journey. Seemingly good stations include:

Bayern 4, MDR Figaro, Deutschlandfunk. Honourable mention to MDR Sachsen, whose reverb enhanced oom-pah-pah accordion music kept me laughing for a full ten minutes while hurtling along. Or maybe that was the energy drinks...

An odd degree of Anglophilia on the radio: one station going on about 'das britische Understatement', another with a festival entitled 'England, oh, England'. Sadly the Latvian National Choir's rendering of Purcell does not live up to the good intentions of the organisers.

Arrival in Germany

The Stau is a peculiarly German phenomenon. It is a traffic jam that occurs without warning and usually only for a few minutes. It involves slamming on the brakes and praying that you don't hit something or get hit from behind. There is almost always a sign warning you that you are in a Stau area. They seem almost animal in nature, like a vehicular elk.

The first Stau happens because of a tank being transported. I was not expecting such an early reminder of the might of the German war machine...

Further Staus are mostly caused by roadworks, it is in a break from one of these that I stop at Lonetal Ost service station, somewhere north of Ulm.

A strange place, as these stops often are. The interior is of a mostly red and white persuasion. Food is offered in the form of either Burger King or Gusticus. As the latter sounds like an infection, I opt for the former.

And now a riddle, to be answered afterwards: Was Schöneres gibt es als einen Grillabend?

Overheard while ordering food: "Ach scheiße! Ich hab' mir den Finger gegrillt." My Long Chicken Menu is inexplicably flavoursome.

A male Gusticus worker gets into a deep conversation with a female counterpart at Burger King. The situation is fraught with possibilities for a roadside Romeo and Juliet adaptation.

Ein Restaurant, wo den ganzen Tag gegrillt wird.