During the eighties and early nineties, I would frequently travel to Munich to integrate my programming changes with our Siemens counterparts. Sometimes, on evenings and weekends, I walked the city and surrounding burgs, taking in the atmosphere, beer, and fatty meats.
I had instruction in German, and could speak well enough in restaurants, church, department stores, and beer halls. My German counterparts even suspected that I knew more of the language than I really did.
Common sense prevailed when faced with situations calling for lingual clarity. One later winter evening, I put on my worn coat and OJ-like woolen cap, and took a midnight stroll.
All was well until I wandered a little too far from my hotel. I was in a dark, uninhabited section of town when stopped by the Polizei. Two officers emerged from a van, which was empty except for a derelict in the back. Great, I thought, they’re rounding up suspicious characters tonight. Just my luck, since I look homeless.
The first officer asked me for my papers (in German) while the second stood guard. I immediately went into clueless visitor mode and told them (in German) that I only spoke English.
The first officer asked for my passport (in English), I produced the document and hoped for a quick dismissal. The officer leafed through the booklet. “Why don’t you have permission to stay? You’ve been here for six months.”
I explained that I had only been there a month, but that passport control hadn’t stamped my document when I had returned to the U.S. last year.
The officer seemed sympathetic. “Stay there,” he said, then returned to the van and climbed back to talk to the derelict and show him my passport. Apparently, this was an undercover detective. After some give and take, the officer returned and told me I had to go with them to the police station until I proved that I was only there for a month.
“How can I prove at midnight, in a police station, that I’ve only been here for a month.”
The officer pondered this. “Stay there,” he said and returned to discuss this with his superior (i.e. the derelict).
I remembered my boss telling me once that if I was ever stopped and questioned on my length of stay, I could show them my plane ticket. He was in town then and staying in the same hotel.
The office returned. “You have to go with us.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “ My plane ticket is in my hotel room. I can show it to you to prove I’ve only been here a month.”
“Stay there.” Another visit with the brains of the operation. He returned. “You have to come with us to the station.”
The derelict was driven away in another van. They loaded me into the back and took off. The two officers chatted. The one who had spoken to me turned and said, “We’ll take you to your hotel. If you can prove you’ve only been here a month, we’ll let you go.”
So there I was being lead into the hotel, an officer on both sides. Would my boss see me? What would he say? He wasn’t in sight. Thank God.
The officers talked to the front-desk clerk, who knew me. He vouched for my story and the officers let me go. I returned to my room, but couldn’t sleep, convinced every time the elevator door opened, that it was the police, who had changed their mind and were ready to batter down the door and lead me away.
I finally slept for about a half hour, dressed, and went to the lobby to have breakfast with my boss and the site rep who was also staying in the hotel. I told my story, which they thought was hilarious.
“We’re you wearing that goofy hat,” asked the rep. I nodded.
“I knew it,” he said laughing.
Moral of the story: Dress better for midnight strolls in Europe, and don’t expect a sympathetic ear from your peers.
I had instruction in German, and could speak well enough in restaurants, church, department stores, and beer halls. My German counterparts even suspected that I knew more of the language than I really did.
Common sense prevailed when faced with situations calling for lingual clarity. One later winter evening, I put on my worn coat and OJ-like woolen cap, and took a midnight stroll.
All was well until I wandered a little too far from my hotel. I was in a dark, uninhabited section of town when stopped by the Polizei. Two officers emerged from a van, which was empty except for a derelict in the back. Great, I thought, they’re rounding up suspicious characters tonight. Just my luck, since I look homeless.
The first officer asked me for my papers (in German) while the second stood guard. I immediately went into clueless visitor mode and told them (in German) that I only spoke English.
The first officer asked for my passport (in English), I produced the document and hoped for a quick dismissal. The officer leafed through the booklet. “Why don’t you have permission to stay? You’ve been here for six months.”
I explained that I had only been there a month, but that passport control hadn’t stamped my document when I had returned to the U.S. last year.
The officer seemed sympathetic. “Stay there,” he said, then returned to the van and climbed back to talk to the derelict and show him my passport. Apparently, this was an undercover detective. After some give and take, the officer returned and told me I had to go with them to the police station until I proved that I was only there for a month.
“How can I prove at midnight, in a police station, that I’ve only been here for a month.”
The officer pondered this. “Stay there,” he said and returned to discuss this with his superior (i.e. the derelict).
I remembered my boss telling me once that if I was ever stopped and questioned on my length of stay, I could show them my plane ticket. He was in town then and staying in the same hotel.
The office returned. “You have to go with us.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “ My plane ticket is in my hotel room. I can show it to you to prove I’ve only been here a month.”
“Stay there.” Another visit with the brains of the operation. He returned. “You have to come with us to the station.”
The derelict was driven away in another van. They loaded me into the back and took off. The two officers chatted. The one who had spoken to me turned and said, “We’ll take you to your hotel. If you can prove you’ve only been here a month, we’ll let you go.”
So there I was being lead into the hotel, an officer on both sides. Would my boss see me? What would he say? He wasn’t in sight. Thank God.
The officers talked to the front-desk clerk, who knew me. He vouched for my story and the officers let me go. I returned to my room, but couldn’t sleep, convinced every time the elevator door opened, that it was the police, who had changed their mind and were ready to batter down the door and lead me away.
I finally slept for about a half hour, dressed, and went to the lobby to have breakfast with my boss and the site rep who was also staying in the hotel. I told my story, which they thought was hilarious.
“We’re you wearing that goofy hat,” asked the rep. I nodded.
“I knew it,” he said laughing.
Moral of the story: Dress better for midnight strolls in Europe, and don’t expect a sympathetic ear from your peers.