With Apologies to the Germans

Driving to Paris I finally did it—I exceeded 100 mph! What a feeling! My need to do this disturbs me some, and I wish I understood it. I fear it has something to do with living with a pig for 2 weeks, but I am not sure.

I miss our little rental car. I really enjoyed driving a standard shift because it made me feel as though I had achieved something by just arriving. And I suppose I had. I also liked driving a red car which matched most of my travel clothes and was easy to find in parking lots. But what I really liked most about that car was the wonderful “D” sticker on the back.

Back in 1969 officials in Europe were finding it harder and harder to determine a car's origin because there were so many languages involved and so many countries involved. After a particularly difficult day when he had to ask in Finnish, Portuguese, and Irish, “No, where is your CAR from?” a border guard threw up his hands in despair and shouted, “Too many languages. Too many countries.” Luckily for him—and us—a United Nations official was nearby and heard his anguish and took this plea for help straight to the the UN General Assembly. An emergency session was held, and, after a heated debate, the UN came up with the idea of adding a sticker to the vehicles with a country code so officials could know, without asking, from whence the vehicle came.

Or something like that.

The Sticker on the Back

Our sticker, which we fondly called The Sticker on the Back, was invaluable because it identified us as Germans, the “D” representing Deutschland. It was not so much that we wanted to be identified as Germans as it was that we didn't want to be known as Americans. Do not get me wrong. I love America and am fiercely patriotic—so much so that I worry that I will tarnish America's reputation while I am abroad.

Once at a West End play in London, as soon as the lights dimmed and the overture began, our family did what every dedicated theatre-going family does: we rushed forward to grab better seats. In this case the prized seats were in the middle of the fifth row and we each had to step across about a dozen pairs of legs to get to them. Thinking quickly, and fearful we'd be discovered to be Americans, I simply whispered my apologies to each person as we passed using my handy Australian accent, “Crikey, mate. Sorry, mate. Cheers, mate.” No doubt I single-handedly prevented an international incident right then and there between us and a few bruised-toe Brits because who can yell at an Australian with that great accent?

Guten Tag. Ich bin ein Deutscher.

Driving last month with our handy “D” on the back, we felt immune to the stares and jeers sent our way in Stresa, Italy, when we accidentally went the wrong direction on a one-way street. And as heinous as this act might seem, at least we didn't mean to do it. You'd have thought, however, that we'd damaged some priceless artifact by the reactions of the other drivers with their frantic arm waving and yelling. Two police officers joined in the mayhem and, I fear, added some name-calling. But guess what? All those people thought they were yelling at Germans! Ha!

Later in Perpignan, France, we took a little too long to walk across a lane in a parking lot, which made a driver mad enough to stop, roll down his car window, and yell at us. I smiled and yelled back, “Bonjour Monsieur,” and toasted him in a friendly way with my McDonald's coffee cup. This made him really mad, and a tirade began which I cannot repeat here, mainly because I didn't understand the French. But I can say this: a happy Frenchman he was not! So, assessing the situation at hand, I dashed for the car and stood by The Sticker on the Back and began speaking German in a loud voice. I truly hated to sacrifice the reputation of Germany to protect the reputation of America, but you sometimes do what you have to do.

I sure miss that “D”.