Time to Vent: Taxi Drivers - WTF?!

Quick rant this morning. What is going on with taxi drivers in the US these days? Here is a sampling of my recent experiences. I have to say I miss the black cabs in the UK. Those drivers are professional and always know where they are going. I've also found that German cab drivers in/around Frankfurt tend to drive by knowledge and not GPS.

• Arrived in Atlanta on Sunday, and was met by a nice taxi driver in the taxi queue. Explained where I wanted to go and had the address. Blank look. Told him the neighborhood, cross streets and nearby highway. (Yes, I'm always prepared - seems those 2 Girl Scout meetings I went to really stuck). Blank look. Asked him if he even knew he was in Atlanta. Blank look. Then he asked me if I have GPS. Seriously?! Who the hell rolls around with a portable GPS unit? And if he thought he was going to get me to use up my international data to give him directions, he was seriously mistaken. With a grumble, he dug up some ancient navigation system that I'm pretty sure operated on Abacus 1.0, and plugged in the address. This thing was so old and so slow it took 5 minutes for directions to appear and also had me concerned that it might just drive us straight into a wall and/or Narnia. The whole time this is happening, I'm being treated to the most ineffectual A/C known to man complimented by a staggeringly robust bouquet of unwashed man, sweat, farts and old Indian food. We eventually made it to the hotel, but not before I had him roll down all the windows to let me hang my head out in the stifling heat like a dog just so that I could breathe.

• Later that day, I needed a taxi to dinner. I called down to the hotel (which I have to save for a separate post, because damn this place was busted) and asked for a taxi in 10 minutes. I have to say that despite looking like the place should be a regular feature on Law & Order: Shanknado, the staff was very nice and helpful. So I come downstairs and look outside. No taxi. A woman in the lobby asks me if I had called a taxi. I said yes, and she said Oh he is outside, he has been looking for you. I go outside again. No taxi. I look around. The only person outside is a very sketchy looking man standing outside a more sketchy-looking vehicle that once upon a time probably thought it was a Town Car of some sort. I get a sinking feeling, which was compounded when he ran over to me and said, "Taxi? You call taxi?". Ah, shit. So I went back inside and flagged down the front desk associate. The conversation went like this:
  
  

  Me: Hi! I called for a taxi for room 519?
  Him: Yes, miss. It's outside.
  Me: Um, yeah, I don't see a taxi.
  Him: He's right there (points to the man who is now almost hopping upside down in excitement)
  
  Me: Yeah. That's just a random car with a clearly over-excited guy.
  Him: No, that's ERIC. (Ed note: I put in all capitals because that is how he pronounced his name - for the rest of the time we spoke, the guy was ERIC with that kind of emphasis, like Madonna, Kanye or Elvis).
  Me: Um, I don't know ERIC.
  Him: ERIC is our driver! We have a private car service. ERIC.
  
  Me: So here's the thing. I'm not opposed to a car service, but I have a concern about getting into a random, unmarked car with a guy who seems to only be known by one name. I've seen episodes of Without a Trace that started this way.
  Also, that car doesn't look like any car service I've ever seen...
  (The woman in the lobby is now cracking up and trying to hide it)
  Him: Trust me, you're safe. ERIC does all our driving.
  
  Me: Ok... but I just want to say for the record - and for the cameras  - that this makes me uneasy. I'd really rather not exit the earth courtesy of ERIC.

  
  Anyway, I ended up getting into the car after repeated assurances that I would not be murdered, maimed, dismembered or otherwise traumatized. I figured out that apparently ERIC must be a friend of someone in the hotel who makes money on the side doing driving. ERIC is a cash-only business. Also, ERIC doesn't know Atlanta from Timbuktu. Again we had a circular conversation about where I wanted to go. I was asked if I had directions. I sort of wanted to point out that if ERIC was hoping to establish himself in the transportation business, a working knowledge of the city in which he transports would be useful, but I didn't think it would do much good - as ERIC was clearly not from the US and seemed to be about as fluent in English as I am in German. Wait, scratch that. As I am in Chinese. For the record, I know 2 words in Chinese.
  
  So out came the GPS again. At least ERIC had a more recent model and we were able to get to the restaurant without incident. As he was dropping me off, ERIC asked me if I needed a ride back. My answer? "No." (I did, but I figured I could sort that out later.) The best part about ERIC is that I was chatting the next day with the two agency colleagues who came for the research and they have been in Atlanta several times for other projects. As I was telling my story, one of them asked, "Was it ERIC?". For the rest of the time in Atlanta, I used Uber Black Car, which worked perfectly and involved no issues whatsoever.
  
  
• Yesterday, off I went to New York. I thought about ordering a car, but decided against it as JFK is a hot mess already without adding in the complexity of meeting points and transit police. I stood in the taxi queue and informed the attendant that I was heading into Manhattan, near Herald Square. For those of you who don't know Manhattan, Herald Square is a pretty notable landmark. It is also home to the world's largest department store - the Macy's that spans several blocks. I point this out to explain it's not like I was saying take me to the corner of Eleventy & Random. I waited for a car and not one of those minivan things that are everywhere, as riding in them tends to make me feel very ill. The attendant told the driver where I was going, luggage was put in the trunk and then....
  
  

  Driver: Where you go, miss?
  
  Me: (gives address, cross streets and big ass Macy's as reference)
  Driver: Blank look.
  
  Me: Manhattan? Herald Square?
  Driver: Um....
  
  Me: Do you know how to get to Manhattan?!
  Driver: You please to wait, miss.

  
  He then spends about 5 minutes on his phone putting in the address, then calling someone and discussing the matter in what I later found out was Punjabi, until he had gotten directions TO THE CENTER OF MANHATTAN from J.F. Freaking K. And so then we were off. And when I say we were off, what I mean is this guy could make an excellent getaway driver for a bank robbery. Add to that the fact that the car had exactly negative zero shock absorbers. Remember riding on the yellow school buses? And how when they would hit a bump, you would literally go airborne and so all the kids would fight to sit in the back where the bumps could be appreciated at maximum effect? My ride into the city was like that, minus the fun part. If I were a popcorn kernel, I would have been fully cooked less than 10 minutes into the ride. He even managed to make sitting in traffic in the tunnel a traumatic experience.
  
  When we came out of the tunnel and got into the city, guess who had to direct him the rest of the way?! Now many of my friends know that I have somewhat dubious navigation skills. The weird thing is when I'm alone and traveling, I can always find my away around, often just by intuition. But when I'm with someone else, for some reason I always get everything completely ass backwards. To the point where I've had friends threaten to leave me where I stood if I didn't just shut up and listen to them. My point is that asking me for directions around Manhattan is about as good as using as using a Ouija board to predict lottery numbers. The only upside is that I had driven into the city recently when I came over Memorial Day and so I recognized our exit and where we were. I'm very visual, so if I've driven it and seen it, I can remember and navigate my way around. But the whole time I'm in the back of this cab like Sweet Baby Jesus how is this guy a cab driver who doesn't know midtown Manhattan?

Boxmania!

My search to rid myself of the massive furniture boxes has now been renamed "Boxmania" by my work colleagues. I'm lucky that I work with some really nice people who have been incredibly helpful and supportive during my move. However even they are astonished at the production Germany is making over these boxes.

One of the women on my team has been calling the FES (garbage services, for lack of a better word) to try to get some resolution. It seems that the FES will gladly and without cost come and pick up any old furniture or other assorted junk I may have. However, they want nothing to do with these boxes. Their option was for me to pay to have a container dropped off (about $150 USD equivalent) and then I fill the container and they come back and get it. The catch is that the container cannot be left in any public space - i.e. sidewalk, street. (Which, I think is a whole bunch of hooey as the people down the road are renovating and it looks like Containers 'R' Us opened up a pop-up show on the sidewalk in front of their house). Seeing as how I live in an apartment and do not have a driveway, this is problematic. Also problematic is the fact that the container men don't speak English and so trying to arrange a drop-off or pick-up on my own is nearly impossible. Best part? They told my colleague that if they don't understand me, or if I'm "not home" when they arrive, they will not leave the container, but go ahead and charge me anyway just for fun.

My colleague is born-and-bred German. In fact she grew up in the GDR, so she knows a little something about inflexible government institutions and processes - and even she is flummoxed. It seems the only viable solution is for me to rent a van for a day (which is surprisingly affordable) and throw all the boxes in the back and then take it to a place called the Werkstoffhof, where they apparently delight in accepting boxes. It seems that in Germany, this is how it is done. My challenge stems from the fact that I ordered my furniture from a French company, who then sub-contracts the delivery out to Hermes. Most German furniture companies will apparently unbox the furniture and take the boxes with them. Also complicating my situation is the fact that I've got some industrial-sized boxes (good for transcontinental shipping; bad for breaking down/folding) - and even when I fold them over and jump on top of them they don't break down. And while I like to kid myself that I am a delicate flower of womanhood, there should be enough of me flopping around on that cardboard to make a dent. Alas, no. I'm pretty sure that if left to their own devices, these boxes could give Roman ruins some competition in terms of durability and sustainability.

The rest of my furniture is due to arrive on the 6th and I have been lucky enough to enlist the help of a co-worker and her husband for the dreaded un-boxing. As I insisted on purchasing furniture that was already put together, it seems the universe (or Germany) is punishing me by providing me with said furniture wrapped in boxes double my height. Unboxing my wardrobe was hard enough and so I know that there is no way I could get my desk, bookshelf, etc set up without causing mass injury and/or destruction. I figure this is a win-win all around; I get help with boxes and they get free entertainment (and a nice meal) out of it.

Beyond the great box explosion, I'm settling in nicely. Yesterday, I set out in search of an ATM as I needed cash for the taxi I would be taking to the airport. I accidentally left my phone at home and so couldn't do a quick search for a nearby Deutsche Bank, so I figured I would just keep walking until I found one. Well, I never found a Deutsche Bank (ended up paying 3,85 Euro to withdrawl from another bank) but I did realize that my flat is so close to downtown Frankfurt. About 5 minutes walk takes me away from a quiet, tree-lined residential area to the bustling shopping area that begins at Alte Opera. Not only is this building gorgeous to look at, it seems I can actually go get my culture on inside.

Alte Opera at night - not my photo

If I keep walking, I get to the Hauptwache, and the beginning of the main shopping street called the Zeil. There are tons of small alleyways and shopping streets, and from the Hauptwache, there are signs pointing to almost every major landmark of interest in the main city.

I can't wait to be back and have more time to explore. Not only is it any easy walk, but if I keep going straight beyond all that, I get right to the river, with a nice running path. It seems I did indeed pick a great location for my apartment. Now, I just cannot wait until it is de-boxed (is that a word? It should be) and fully furnished. Roll on, September!

Yakety Yak

For some odd reason, Germany is obsessed with rubbish. I kid you not. You may remember a previous post, where I shared some of the rules regarding how to dispose of various kinds of rubbish. Up until now, I thought I was doing a pretty good job. Except, I wasn't.

I had some of my furniture delivered today. Upside: I had the same two delivery guys who brought my washing machine and refrigerator (all deliveries seemed to be outsourced to a company called Hermes), and they were very nice. Downside #1: every single piece of furniture came in ginormous boxes. I kid you not on the size of these boxes.  Downside #2: I live alone, and so guess who had to unpack all these ginormous boxes? Downside #3: While the furniture was mostly assembled, guess who still had to put tables together, which involved lifting heavy as hell iron and wood (because I just had to go authentic) and following instructions which had pictograms for 2-3 people assembling this shizzle?

If you said me, then winner winner, chicken dinner. I had the pleasure of unboxing and assembling a dining room table, 4 chairs, a coffee table, a console table, a side table, and a hanging rack (for coats). And while I didn't need to assemble my kleiderschrank (wardrobe), it came entombed in two huge boxes that I had to figure out how to remove without tipping the damn thing over on top of myself or destroying the paint and/or floors. BIG FUN. I am now the proud owner of countless scrapes, scratches, cuts and bruises. I look a little like I spent the day in a mosh pit - or inside a Walmart on Black Friday. And while every single minute sucked, I can proudly say that I handled it all - and all by myself. Oh, I cursed a great deal and at one point found myself singing songs from Cinderella (yes, the old animated version - and no, I have no idea why); and I'm pretty sure that my next move after this post (and dinner) is to post a Craigslist ad for a German man-friend because I sure as hell do not want to do this again when the rest of the furniture comes. Oh, yeah, that's right. Didn't I mention there's more? I am so not looking forward to the desk. Or the bookshelf. Or the other wardrobe (had to get two - no closets, and these things seem to be built for Barbie and/or Laura Ingalls Wilder and her three homespun dresses.

And while I'm pretty sure any neighbors with a good view into my flat had a great time watching me fight with boxes twice my size and exploding styrofoam, that's not even the best part. The best part was when I tried to get rid of the damn stuff. Knowing Germany's weirdness with regard to abfall (rubbish), I asked a couple colleagues what I should do. Their answers were "take it down to the Alt-Papier bin and put it in". To explain, this is basically a regular sized wheelie bin that says "Alt-Papier" on it, and is supposed to contain... paper. I tried to explain that my boxes weren't going into that bin. My boxes were twice the size of that bin. In fact, I'm pretty sure I could fit the bin - and a couple of friends - inside just one of my boxes. Their answer? Just put it outside by the bins and hope for the best.

Survey says: WRONG.

Off I go, carrying down boxes in groups of 2 (these fools are heavy and awkward and I live on the third floor). Carry boxes down, take boxes out to bins, leave boxes against wall. I'm on trip 2 or 3 when I hear a commotion outside. I've also been bringing down bags which contain either paper (for some reason every piece of everything was wrapped in brown paper) or plastic (because every piece of everything was ALSO wrapped in bubble wrap) or styrofoam (because... I think you get the picture). I tried to sort these out correctly - putting the bag of paper in the paper bin, and the plastic in the yellow plastic bin and the styrofoam in the restmull bin (everything else bin).

Again, surveys says a big old X.

There stood my landlady and a young guy I had never seen before. He was wearing gardening gloves and gesticulating wildly while explaining something in German. Lots and lots of German. He saw me, and his eyes widened and he started pointing. My landlady turned around, saw me with more boxes and bags and started laughing like crazy. "Oh no no no" she said, still giggling. And then proceeded to drop some knowledge on me regarding rubbish in Germany.

It seems that you only take out what can fit in the bin.
Anything else? You call the rubbish guys and make an appointment, which can be anytime from tomorrow to 4 weeks away. In the meantime, boxes and such go in the "kellar" (cellar). The man who I thought was a nosy neighbor happened to be the son of the Hausmeister - not exactly a janitor, and not really a housekeeper, more someone who does odd jobs around and keeps the place clean. On second thought, it's like a super but one who cares. He was the one who dropped the dime on me because I was messing up his garbage system.

Both the guy and my landlady seemed absolutely astonished by the number of boxes I had. I kept trying to explain that this is how the furniture came, but I still think they may harbor secret suspicions of me operating a cut-rate box factory. I didn't have the heart to tell them about the eleventy-million boxes still sitting in my spare room.

I was so embarrassed. What made it worse was that I apparently had all the bins wrong, too. Paper in the bin can't be in a plastic bag. Cardboard that is shiny can't go in the paper bin. Plastic can go in the bin, but only if the labels are off the plastic. And so on and so forth. I feel like there should have been a class and a test before I was allowed to get my residency permit.

So finally I got all my rubbish down into my area of the cellar (I have a small room with a padlock) and tomorrow I have to call these peeps - http://www.fes-frankfurt.de/ - and arrange an appointment for them to roll up and take all my stuff. Upside: they come and get it. Downside: I have to take it down to the cellar and then back up again which is a whole bunch of ain't nobody got time for that. I think I prefer England, where you just put everything in your car and take it to the Rubbish Tip. Or better yet, America - where you just throw that shit out in front of your house and random people come and take it, even if it is complete and total junk.

Maybe in the meantime I can build a clubhouse.

Not my actual boxes. These are what my boxes tiny little box babies would look like. If boxes could have babies.

I'm so glad I had the foresight to buy my landlady a bottle of very nice wine to thank her for all her (continued) help. For her part, she seems to find me quite amusing and seems to actually enjoy my various mishaps.

And now, finally, some dinner and then bed - where I hope I don't dream of boxes.

Auf Wiedersehen, Temporary Housing

I've been a bit remiss in keeping up with my blog, although I feel justified in that I have been busy traveling across the Earth, suffering from the worst case of jet lag I've ever had, and moving during what has been heat wave of biblical intensity.

The big news? I'm out of temporary housing! No more Ingelheim! No more boredom! No more bed-which-was-clearly-inspired-by-12th-century-Carthusian-monks. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am now safely ensconced in my lovely apartment in the West End of Frankfurt... and I have my American bed back!!!

The movers from the relocation company came on Friday, and it took them about 3 hours to bring everything in and get it unboxed and set up. I then spent the weekend unpacking and getting organized. I have 8 bags of clothing and other assorted things to go to the German version of the Goodwill - assuming I can find it. (Apparently there are big bins around the city that say "Alt-Kleidercontainer" where people drop off used clothing for charity)

This is where the used clothes go

As of right now, my bedroom, bathroom and kitchen are set up. My couch and guest bed should arrive sometime mid-August (I think), the first part of my furniture delivery should come this week or early next week, and the rest will be delivered the second week of August. So by mid-August, I should have an apartment that looks like a place someone actually lives, as opposed to right now, where one would be hard pressed to tell if I was moving in or moving out.

Despite my lack of furniture, I love, love, love my new apartment. I'll put photos up once it is all decorated. This is probably the nicest place I've ever lived in my whole life. The ceilings are so high  and the light is amazing. The building is extremely well built and I don't hear my neighbors. At all. I know one of them has a small baby (I saw him outside) but I don't hear a peep. It's AMAZING - especially after the paper-thin walls in my old place in the U.S.

This morning, I had my refrigerator (Kuehlschrank - literally cooling cabinet) and washing machine (Waschmaschine - I'll let you figure that one out for yourself) delivered. Apparently everything here is delivered by a company called Hermes. My Hermes delivery men were two very cute guys in their mid-20s, who despite looking like cyclists or runners, were very very stark (strong - also, side note: wonder if this is where George RR Martin got the name for House of Stark?). We had a funny moment where one of the guys was trying to tell me not to plug the refrigerator in for "acht uhr" (8 hours) - but I thought he meant to plug it in and wait 8 hours for it to get cool. I was in the process of putting the plugger in the socket when the other delivery guy came running in, shouting "Nein! Nein!" and something about gas. Turns out that because the refrigerator was moved around alot in the delivery, it needs time for the gas (I think they meant freon) to settle before using. I'm sure glad we got that cleared up because if a blockage had occurred it could ruin the refrigerator and that would not be covered under my warranty.

This is my waschmaschine. Super efficient and very clever sizing. And yes, it goes in the bathroom.

As I haven't had a refrigerator all weekend, I've been exploring the local eateries. Last night I walked towards the Palmengarten and found a nice (if slightly expensive) Spanish restaurant. The best part of it was that the waiter insisted on speaking to me in constantly rotating stream of French, Italian, Spanish and German. Seriously. A sentence would start out in German, meander over to French, pick up a bit of Italian and end in Spanish. It was amusing to say the least. And while I appreciated his effort at keeping me on my linguistic toes, the English translation of the menu left me wondering if they wouldn't benefit from a bit more practice in English.

So many questions. What are Exotic Fruits? What variation of mousse? What is Licor 43? and WTF is Pyjama?!!

The restaurant also was so very German in that it was incredibly well-appointed, with bow-tied waiters and excellent service... and yet it boasted a cigarette machine and a guy who looked like an extra from the original Joe Dirt.

This guy. Classy all day. And check out the flip flops. And no, that's not my wine :(

Because what goes better with a delicious meal than cigarettes?!

 

I didn't get a photo, but there is also a cigarette machine down the street from my house, attached to a fence. Right next to what appears to be a gumball machine. I kid you not. Keep in mind that I'm in what is known as a fairly nice neighborhood, too. I just find the random cigarette machines everywhere so weird - especially since Germans seem to be very active and health-conscious. People walk or bike everywhere, and regularly take long hiking or walking holidays. And yet... people smoke up in here with an enthusiasm seldom seen outside Eastern Europe. If anyone reading this has any insight on this, I'd love to hear it.

I'm off traveling again for work this week - hitting London just in time for the tube strike. I love Europe but enough already with the striking! Or at least balance out the striking with free deodorant for all taxi drivers.