19 March 2021 (another tale from 30 years ago in Hamburg)
I’ve decided to move to Germany. And as if living and working in a foreign land won’t be enough of a culture shock, I’ve also decided to take my car. A simple question immediately springs to mind: why? What on earth makes me think bringing my British-made car to the home of the automobile is a good idea? Even with the benefit of hindsight, this is impossible to answer.
Just in case you don’t know this, the Germans love their cars. But of course you know this, even residents of a Mongolian yurt know this. One in ten Germans believe it’s more important to have a car than a partner, for goodness sake. There’s only one thing they love more than their cars and that’s driving their cars. There’s even a word for it: Fahrvergnügen - the pleasure of driving.
Germany’s history of building automobiles is long and distinguished. It’s almost as if they invented the motor car in the first place. Spoiler alert: they actually did - the first patent was recorded in 1886 by the Benz family. This famous name lives on today as the maker of Mercedes, whose company motto tells you all you need to know about the German approach to making cars: “das Beste, oder nichts” (literally “the best, or nothing”). What this really means is: “if it’s not the best, we shouldn’t bother at all”. This legacy is the main reason Germans take such pride in their cars - and why the emissions scandal would so badly dent this pride in the future.
Paying scant regard to all of this, my right-hand drive Ford Granada rolls gently off the Harwich to Hamburg ferry on a freezing cold winter’s day. All my cars up to that point have been Fords made in Dagenham - probably because you can see the factory from the top of the hill where I grew up. At its late sixties peak, the plant employed 40,000 people and became synonymous with the equal rights movement for women workers. Now it’s down to the bare bones - a poignant symbol for the decline of UK manufacturing.
Excited but nervous, I set off for my first day at work, driving on the right (but for me, wrong) side of the road. It all goes well until I get lost in the city centre and find myself on Alter Wall, a one-way street. Disorientated, I take a British left turn at the lights, meaning I’m now staring straight into two lanes of oncoming traffic waiting on Jungfernstieg, the main road around the inner Alster lake. This is embarrassing beyond belief. I’m still completing my thirteen-point turn when the lights signal green and the looks of disdain escalate rapidly into a cacophony of angry horn-blowing.
On the occasions I do manage to drive on the correct side of the road, I find that my fellow road-users respond with good humour. In the queue for traffic lights, some like to mime the removal of my steering wheel from its incorrect position and relocation to the other side. The only time it becomes a problem is in the line to exit a car park, when I’m forced to get out of the car to pay at the kiosk, then run back to the other side as quickly as possible before the barrier descends and traps me forever. This sort of palaver doesn’t sit well with the orderly motorists of Hamburg.
After three months of driving around with British licence plates, I need to face up to the daunting prospect of importing my car and registering with the German system. This involves a trip to the Speicherstadt - to most visitors a place of historical beauty on the Hamburg tourist trail, to me the start of an epic battle with the bureaucracy of the freeport.
I try my luck first at the port’s welcome office, whose very appearance implies the opposite of its name. Explaining what I’d like to do, I’m told I can’t possibly do that unless I possess a thing that is unintelligible to the naked ear. After a few failed attempts to convey what this thing could be, the customs officer either takes pity on me or despairs, I can’t decide which. Whichever it may be, he starts writing the thing down on the smallest square of paper known to man. By time he’s finished, the thing stretches over five lines and has four hyphens. The thing is: Zollunbedenklichkeitsbescheinung. A word with 32 letters - welcome to Germany! Starting backwards, as you do, this means a “certification of non-objection from a customs perspective”. To be fair, the German word is shorter than my English explanation of it, but even so. If I’d had my wits about me, I should have responded that I work for a Wirtschaftsprüfungsgesellschaft (auditing firm) so he’d do well to watch his tone. But I don’t do this, as causing trouble is never advisable when you need something vital from a public official in Germany, the dreaded Beamte. In any case, my word only stretches to 30 letters, so is barely fit for purpose.
Obtaining the said thing then involves being sent to several pillars and various posts. In my naivety of all things German, I’ve set aside a morning away from work, but inevitably I need to return the following day for a second bite at the cherry. The vital next step is a TüV inspection, which is similar to the UK’s MOT test but - most likely - technically superior. TüV is one of many three letter acronyms, or TLAs, that are in common use in Germany. Everyone knows what they mean but what they stand for is of lesser importance - and generally far too long. In this case it’s Technischer Überwachungsverein, a relatively poor effort at only 29 letters spread across two words.
Alas, disaster strikes. I am devastated to learn that my car has failed its TüV. That said, I’m not overly surprised - after all, the vehicle had been manufactured in England. I cut a forlorn figure as I make my way to the next counter, at which a youthful and possibly incompetent officer presents me with a valid pass certificate. This strikes me as odd but, as I’ve said, I’m not one for arguing with officialdom. I hurry away with my ill-gotten paperwork before he has time to realise the error of his ways. The twenty-eighth and possibly last hurdle is the counter responsible for registration numbers, where a nice lady asks me if I have any preferences. This once again takes me by surprise as, back in the UK, you simply get what you’re given. Or, should you desire a penis extension, you can pay £5,000 to someone on the internet who owns a licence plate with your name or initials.
Foolishly, I reply that I don’t mind. It’s all fully sausage to me, as the Germans say. In truth, I just want the paperwork to be over. So it’s completely my fault when I arrive back at work with registration plates bearing the random letters “JW”. By a cruel twist of fate, these happen to be the initials of the office senior partner. He isn’t best pleased, probably at a loss to decide whether I’m a special sort of sycophant or merely an imbecile. But at least I can console myself - against the odds - that my car is now officially German. I’ve also learned an important life lesson for the future: if you want to come and live in Germany, please don’t bring your crappy British car.