Heather v. Germany, Round 6

So I was going to refrain from writing anything crazy lately, just haven’t felt up to it, but then two incidents this week have already set me off and now I’m really to fight people.  The Germans.  All of them if they want to.  It’s been so bad lately with a few select Germans that currently  I want to light my landlord on fire and make the Stuttgart Customs Office at STR cry like little girls.  Yes, I am hateful.

Let’s start with the more comical and typical incident of the two–an incident I just had at the Stuttgart Customs Office on my arrival home from a trip to Amsterdam.  I’ll try to be somewhat fair about this, but really, it’s just my luck to get strip searched at an airport.  Ah, yes, I said strip searched, as in down to my goodies. 

So there I was, coming off this trip to Amsterdam, walking down the ramp to baggage claim to retrieve my belongings, as this carry on idea is obviously too complex for me.  I cannot figure out what  100 ml  is and I was not about to get my lotions and such dumped in the trash twice in one weekend.  So into baggage it went and now I was there to retrieve it. 

So like I said, I’m in baggage and it’s late and the only people there were on my flight.  My bag is obviously last and so as I’m waiting, I’m listening to my iPod and checking my phone and then as I retrieve the very last bag I remember that I should probably try to use the facilities and so off I go to the bathroom.  Now, here’s where the fun starts.  Upon exiting the bathroom, I see four guards lined up in front of the door.  And when I say see, I mean kinda notice, but not really, because usually I insist on walking around like a 5-year-old oblivious child, and so I am unaware that they are waiting for me. 

(insert terrible German accent and lots of seemingly serious talk they are trying to make clear to me)  I don’t even bother with pleasantries. 

“English.”  I say nothing more.  I am not impressed with them waiting for me outside the bathroom and  they get the point.  I’m tired and I want them to leave me alone.

“We need you to come with us.”  I wonder if I’m in the next Bourne movie.

“Why,” I ask flatly.  I am still unimpressed and really, really tired. 

“We need to search you,” they said as they led me to a room by the arm.

“For what?” I ask as I take my Ifuckinghatewhenpeopleinvademypersonalspace ARM BACK, thankful that this is the one trip in the past year that I don’t have 4 random bottles of foreign booze and boxes of fancy chocolate in my bag, all that would typically go undeclared.

“Drugs.”   Oh good god.  But then I realize that they’re serious, and they’re pissed and they’re looking at me like I’m Claire Danes from Brokedown Palace.  I want to assure them some dashing foreign national has not charmed me with his accent in Amsterdam, bedding me by night and tricking me into transporting heroin or pot or shrooms or dildos across the border by sunrise.  I imagine they haven’t seen this movie, though, and won’t be amused or interested.  (in googling “heroine drug smuggling, I came across this fancy little comic that I got a kick out of. http://pixton.com/comic/j5fuut5w )

The room they bring me in is blinding and white and has no windows.  It has cold, steel tables, a few chairs, 5 German soldiers, none of which have a vagina (this will be important in a few minutes) and one of those slinky ass German shepherds.  That dog is so slinky.  It just creeps around all sketchy like typically, but right now, this particular one is near the table I know I’m to sit at and he’s alert and looking at me like he would just love to sniff me.  I think back to the last time I was told what to do if a police dog attacks you and I can’t remember what the correct behavior is.  Cry, I think.

So they empty my bag and take my passport from me, questioning me as to why I’m here and where do I live and where do I work and why and they seem disturbed that I travel every 6 weeks and so then they want to know about each spot I’ve been, especially Costa Rica, and so I tell them it’s lovely there, especially in Tamarindo, which is really pretty affordable too, but they cut me off and I suppose it’s best to not offer such fuckbags travel suggestions anyway.  Now all of my belongings are everywhere and they’re even running their fingers over my change and examining the dirt, dust and filth that has collected at the bottom of my bag, which isn’t pot, if that’s what they were thinking. 

“We’ll be back.”  They went to make a phone call and left only two of the guards and the dog with me.  I think this is the point where they were trying to break me.  I can’t imagine who they’d be calling.  Maybe the Embassy…oooh, I hoped so.  It’d be nice to have a suit in navy come breezing in with a briefcase and a smart pair of glasses, demanding this U.S. citizen (me, the damsel in distress) be let go and shame on you terrible Germans for wasting both of our time.  Or maybe they were doing nothing, just making me nervous, because at this point, I was beginning to convince myself I was smuggling drugs.  I started to hope there wasn’t a bag of coke in my makeup or a few joints stuck in a pack of smokes.  I didn’t need an endless supply of ecstasy mixed with my advil and I tried frantically to think of if some stranger offered to hold my bag for me at the airport.  Oh jesus, I had drugs in my bag.  I was going to German jail for sure.

They came back. 

“We need to test you.”  Cute.  Out came a kit of med supplies.  “Stick out your hands and your tongue.”  They swabbed my mouth and soaked my hands with solution.  Oh good god, what if I touched a cup that someone drank out of after a few bong hits.  I am so fucked.  The swabs didn’t change.  I was drug free!  Hurray!

“We’re going to need you to take off your clothes.”  Typically I like this kind of thing but right now, I didn’t want to strip for anyone. 

“I’m pretty sure you can’t search me without a female guard here.”  I have watched the fuck out of Law and Order and I would Jack McCoy them if I had to.  I crossed my arms and stared at them.  They stared back.  They spoke to each other in German.  GodDAMNIT I didn’t need another reason to hate myself for not knowing Deutsch.  Shit.

“There is no female officer until tomorrow.  You can wait for her until then.”  Oh good fucking christ I did not have a heroine balloon up my ass or joints in my skivs so I said fuck it and took my clothes off.  Shit, shit, shit, I thought.  My knees started to shake together and my hands were sweating and as I considered the horrors involved with a cavity search.  What if they stuck a mirror, like the little circle ones on a stick like they use at the dentist–what if they stuck one of those up my jage??  Shit, can they do that?  I didn’t bother asking, feeling it would only encourage them.  I was trying not to cry but it was cold and too bright and I was almost naked in front of the Stuttgart Customs Office and I really hoped they were amused because I was not.  Fuckers.  They’d pay for this one, with interest.

“Turn around.”  I heard twirl.  At least my underwear were acceptable, for once.  I was pissed.  How could they tell what I had smuggled up in my jage if I was just twirling?  Idiots.  I hated them.

“Ok, we’re done here.  You can put your clothes on.”  They jammed everything back in my bag. 

“Oh, you’re done now?  I can go?”  They nodded.  At least I had escaped the dental mirror trick up the jage.  That would have been awkward.

And now I’m fired up again.  I’ll save the light my landlords on fire story for tomorrow…..

And in closing, here are my six words of the day:  Doesn’t look both ways when crossing.

3 thoughts on “Heather v. Germany, Round 6

  1. Judy says:

    Scott summed it up perfectly. My only addition is that, upon finishing reading this, I promptly put my passport through my shredder just in case I ever have a brain fart and actually consider flying to Germany again!

    • unapologeticmoxie says:

      So that’s your excuse? Don’t be crazy, we’ll just fly you into a different airport and wear nice underwear. 🙂

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