Ode to the dishwasher

Germany has a population density of about 230 people per square kilometer, compared to about 30 people/km² in the United States. Unoccupied space is precious. As a result, Germans are the world's masters at packing a maximum of stuff into a minimum of space.

Consider the kitchen, which has every modern appliance a person might need. I have already mentioned the three foot high refrigerator, an invention that encourages living for the moment rather than planning for the future. There's also the diminutive oven, into which grateful turkeys all over Europe will never fit, and the pull-out hood over the stove. But the appliance I like the most in our kitchen is the dishwasher. It is just the right size to clean a day's worth of dishes.

In particular, I am verliebt (enamored) with the top rack. Rather than unceremoniously dumping your silverware into a basket--a basket that occupies prime real estate that could otherwise be used for at least two bowls and maybe also a plate--you thoughtfully place each piece of silverware on the top rack. The utensils have to be placed sideways: lay them flat and they collect water. Loading the rack gives you an opportunity to greet and appreciate each delicate dessert fork, each silver dessert spoon. For the obsessive compulsive, there is a certain soothing quality to placing all the butter-covered knives neatly between the tray's plastic prongs, and to aligning all the dinner forks and soup spoons--never touching!--in the same direction. The sharp and serrated cutlery rest safely perpendicular to the other utensils--you will never cut yourself reaching blindly into an overfilled basket--and despite the rack's short stature, it always welcomes the odd ladle or lonely spatula. And then comes that special moment, after the dishwasher is done running, when you pull out the rack and all the silverware glistens quietly below your gaze, and you are at peace with the world.

Paying bills

Forget summer camps where you must pay in full before a space will be reserved for your child. When you sign your child up for the city-subsidized day camp in Freiburg, the camp organization generously assumes you will pay your bill at some point, and they send you an invoice with your registration materials.

But...you cannot pay your invoice with a credit card. Germany has made the shift from credit cards to the EC debit card; only big touristy businesses take credit cards now.

Nor can you pay your invoice with cash. Your correspondences with the camp are all by mail or telephone and are for registration purposes only, not financial transactions. And you cannot pay your invoice with a check. Germans don't do checks.

Instead, you pay your invoice using the Ueberweisung (money transfer form) that came with the camp registration materials. The Ueberweisung includes the payee's business name and bank account information. You fill out the Ueberweisung with your name and bill reference number; then you take it to your bank, and your bank pays the bill for you. So it's kind of like paying with a check, except that you have to interact directly with your bank every time you want to pay a bill.

What do you do when you don't have a local bank? Stefan's bank in Munich recently started offering online banking. Fortuitously, our list of PINs arrived in the mail yesterday. For every Ueberweising you want to pay, you use a different PIN, until your PIN list is used up; then you ask the bank for more PINs.

Despite the arrival of the PINs, we cheerfully thought "hey, let's handle this one the easy way." The Ueberweisung for Elias's camp was issued by a Sparkasse bank, so this morning I walked to the Sparkasse bank on the corner. I went bright and early, because I already knew Sparkasse banks close at noon on Wednesdays, and I carried two crisp 100 Euro bills along with the completed Ueberweisung.

But you are not supposed to think "let's make this easy" in Germany. The Sparkasse likes account numbers; it does not like cash. Eying me questioningly, the teller informed me that even though their client had issued the Ueberweisung, without my own Sparkasse account, there would be a hefty 5 Euro charge to complete the transaction. Not to be deterred, I agreed.

She had me sign and date the Ueberweisung. So far so good. Then she asked for my address and jotted it down above my signature, although the Ueberweisung specifies not to include street names or zip codes. Hmm. She asked for my identification card. I hadn't brought one. She consulted with a co-worker, who frowned and tutted, and I was told I could not pay with cash without an ID.

I like to imagine this practice stems from a past era when unscrupulous criminals regularly stole and paid other people's bills, but I think instead it has something to do with German thoroughness. Time to go online.