Here come the polizei!

7 March 2008

Days away from boyz: 6
Weight gained from too much dairy: 1.5 kg
Hours of sleep during previous night: 4.5

Early morning Amsterdam. Have to fly to Frankfurt to register with the authorities at the Rathaus (a somewhat unfortunate name for City Hall) to procure a residence permit. Really need to attend meeting in Amsterdam, but told I must register. Now.

Am scheduled to meet a new relocation specialist at the Hertz counter in Frankfurt. Sure enough, there she is.
“Give me your passport,” she says, “I’ll have it back to you this afternoon.”
Is she kidding? Like I’m really going to be in a foreign country without my passport? I think not.
“What do you mean?” I ask, “as soon as I get my car we can go.”
“no, the Rathaus closes in 45 minutes. I need to go now or we’ll miss it. I don’t need you – just your passport.”
Is she kidding? I flew all the way here so she could borrow my passport? Couldn’t we have done this from the States??
Fine, I finally give in, given the time element. I’ll just go check into the hotel.

Drive. Thank goodness for GPS. Drive. Finally,the hotel, across the street from the quite grand-looking Hauptbahnoff (the main train station – think Grand Central Station). I immediately look for the parking garage, to no avail. Around and around the block I drive, with no luck.
I call the hotel.
Ah, underground.

Discover the rabbit hole into the parking garage and down I go. Hey, check this out – parking for women. Frau parking. Hmm, I could get used to this. I pull into a space next to the entrance to the hotel. Lug out the LUGgage (see entry for 9 Mar to get true essence of my bags.) Up the ramp. Stairs. Where’s the elevator? Stairs. Stairs. Out into the garage. No evidence of elevator. Stairs.
I call the hotel.
Ah, there is no elevator.
And I’m not under the hotel, I’m under the Hauptbahnoff. I’m to climb the stairs and cross the street. Clearly she hasn’t seen my LUGgage.

Back to the car. Better to drive to the front of the hotel and unload my bags. I drive to the exit. Odd, there are no parking lot attendants to take my money, just a little machine wanting my ticket. Here you go. It spits my ticket back at me and flashes something in German on the screen. I try again. No luck. Oh no. Sinking feeling in stomach. Don’t tell me I have to go to one of those machines and pay before I can leave. A car pulls in behind me. Sorry dude, you gotta move.

Back to my frau spot. Grab ticket and leave car. Head to stairs. Go up a flight. More stairs. No entrance. Odd. I go back down. I see a sign with a man running and an arrow pointing toward a big door on my right. of course, the exit. I push the door but nothing happens. Jiggle knob. No luck. Push really hard. Nope. Oh, of course - the button. Often on European doors, you have to push a button to the left of the door to release the lock before the door will open. Usually the button is white. This one was red. Oh well, clearly the door is locked.

Push.

HONK!!!!!…..…HONK!!!!!………HONK!!!!!…..…HONK!!!!!……..

OH
MY
GOD.

The alarm was reverberating throughout the entire garage.

“$&%*!!!” I scream. “ALL I WANT TO DO IS GET OUT OF THIS %$^&ING PLACE AND NOW THE POLICE ARE GOING TO COME!!! AND I HAVE NO PASSPORT!!!”

After what seemed like 30 minutes, the alarm stopped. I gave the polizei ample time to arrive, lest it looked like I was fleeing the law. No one showed. But I was still stuck in the garage.

Back to the stairs. This time, down. Success. Right in front of me, a McDonalds. Starving, I ordered a Big Mac with no cheese. (I’d had enough dairy products during the week to open a creamery.) Apparently no one orders a burger without cheese in Frankfurt and I was unable to complete my transaction without an intervention from the manager.

Sporting my MickeyD’s bag, I set off to pay my parking ticket and emancipate myself. I spy the machine. Insert ticket. Spits right back at me. Try again. Spits again. A homeless man approaches. In broken English he points out that I am trying to insert my ticket into the machine where one BUYS a ticket. To pay, I must follow him. (Headline: “Mother of Two Disappears in Hauptbahnoff after Setting Off Alarm”) I walk far enough behind that he cannot grab me. The visual: the American with her purse, pump (I have no idea why I chose to bring my pump with me to go pay my ticket) and McD’s bag, dressed as though a blizzard was blowing, follows the homeless man across the train station. Up the escalator. Out the door. There’s the machine. I pay €3. My homeless friend explains he’s “collecting money” and holds out a cup. I give him €2.

A bargain at twice the price.