I applied for an apprenticeship at a well-known insurance company. It's an education with payments, that couldn't just further my job hunt, it might come with a job offer at the end and, if not, comes from an institution that looks great on a resume.
In all honesty, I was waiting for a rejection letter.
Except, two weeks ago, I had the first interview. How many interviews there are is up for debate. Some say four in total. Some say it's just the one. I'm a pessimist and think four, on this one.
I baffled the interviewers. There were tests, there were conversations, there was roleplay and there was general information. That was normal. What wasn't normal were my results.
Not to make them sound racist, but they were sort of floundering as to what to do with me. Because, as any native speaker who's talked German with me for longer than five minutes realises, I'm not German. I'm not Germanophone. I have an accent. I make mistakes. Some words, I plain don't know.
The last bit screwed up some of my tests. But the ones I got, I scored really well on. My interview went well. I had the guts to come out and say I prefer going by bike than getting a driver's license, appy as a non-German to an education which was pretty much all-German people and move to Germany without any certainties whatsoever, except that there was someone there who loves me and makes me feel like life is a good thing.
So the interviewers had a problem. I grasp concepts quickly, I'm polylingual and I can be freaking determined if I want to. I have one visible piercing, which falls in the area of social acceptability, I clean up relatively good and I'm perky and upbeat. But I couldn't be put on a phone and expected to deal efficiently with Germans demanding their insurance company solves their problem three weeks ago. They brought in a person who worked an international department for my interview. He admitted he'd hire me on the spot if only my German were better. Would I be willing to take a German course between now and September? Of course I would.
The plan was fuzzy. They'd talk over the problem of me at a later time. Then I'd either get a letter saying yes, no, or a call inviting me to a private conversation with the head or HR.
I know they work slowly. I'm still waiting. I'm still expecting a no, to be honest.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Monday, October 22, 2012
The Insurance
I have no idea if I'm insured at the moment.
I know the dog isn't, and should be. Trust me, he's proven it, but more on that later.
I'm fairly sure neither Boyfriend or me has private insurance for, say, us crashing our bikes or our hypothetical hamster chewing through some wiring and blacking out an entire city block. We should work on that, I know.
But what I'm especially nervous about is not having medical insurance. I might still be insured in Belgium, since my international insurance card says I'm insured until the last of December. But then there's the part where my parents no longer receive money for me being their child. On the other hand, it might be all people in a certain area of my dad's contract are insured.
Technically, I should be insured by my job. I earn enough for the German government to demand my employer provides me with some from whichever company I choose. Except the paperwork for my job is incomplete, so I haven't done that bit yet. I'm officially employed since the first of October, but W. only got my personal info... Well, I sent the e-mail two hours ago, and I don't have a copy of the proof of legal residence provided to me by the city, which I should have on me at all times.
And it's making me scared.
Not being sure if I have to pay everything myself if I break my leg is worrying. Possibly getting into hospital and having to pay more than 10 euros a day for staying there is worrying. It's gotten to the point where my paranoid brain gets scared when I wander too far away from home, in the possible path of freak accidents, the aftermath of which I may or may not have to pay myself.
I didn't come to Germany for the health insurance, don't get me wrong. But I didn't plan on not having any, either.
I know the dog isn't, and should be. Trust me, he's proven it, but more on that later.
I'm fairly sure neither Boyfriend or me has private insurance for, say, us crashing our bikes or our hypothetical hamster chewing through some wiring and blacking out an entire city block. We should work on that, I know.
But what I'm especially nervous about is not having medical insurance. I might still be insured in Belgium, since my international insurance card says I'm insured until the last of December. But then there's the part where my parents no longer receive money for me being their child. On the other hand, it might be all people in a certain area of my dad's contract are insured.
Technically, I should be insured by my job. I earn enough for the German government to demand my employer provides me with some from whichever company I choose. Except the paperwork for my job is incomplete, so I haven't done that bit yet. I'm officially employed since the first of October, but W. only got my personal info... Well, I sent the e-mail two hours ago, and I don't have a copy of the proof of legal residence provided to me by the city, which I should have on me at all times.
And it's making me scared.
Not being sure if I have to pay everything myself if I break my leg is worrying. Possibly getting into hospital and having to pay more than 10 euros a day for staying there is worrying. It's gotten to the point where my paranoid brain gets scared when I wander too far away from home, in the possible path of freak accidents, the aftermath of which I may or may not have to pay myself.
I didn't come to Germany for the health insurance, don't get me wrong. But I didn't plan on not having any, either.
The Power of Attorney
...moving to Germany means nothing to the Belgian voting system.
Belgium is a strange country, voting-wise. There's dictatorships where I wouldn't be required to vote, but in Belgium, it's civic duty. I have voted more often (once) than some German thirty-somethings. Because I had to I had no idea what I was doing. I don't even remember if I voted blank, unvalid or actually voted. Not (showing up for) voting without good cause is cause for fines, revoking civil rights and even prison term. Well, sort of. If you do it more than once, in theory, you risk the rights thing and prison thing.
In practice, and this I found out later, Belgium hasn't persecuted non-voters since 2003. Partly because the political system in Belgium has been quite messy since BHV got started and partly due to prison overcrowding and judge overworking. There is a list of non-voters. But the Department of Justice can't find a single judge willing to go over it and fine every single person for what's probably between 35 and 65 euros, which is the fine for first-time 'offenders'.
So after I moved, I called up the city I'd moved from and asked the question 'Do I legally have to vote?'.
This was one week before the election of city officials and provincial government.
Turns out, I had to vote. My vote had no effect on my life, but I still had to. The reason? Because I was on the list, and there was no way in our beautiful twenty-first century to, say, remove someone from a list, move someone to another list or alter the list in all its holiness in any way. It's logical if you don't think about it, I'm sure.
I had planned for this eventuality. There are several 'but I'm not there' clauses that can be used. Military duty, job duty, studying, illness, any of the previous abroad and just being stuck abroad. The official voting website said it's easy to give power of attorney. Provide the necessary documents, fill in a form, have it handed in with the letter calling you to vote at the actual day of voting and, presto, power of attorney.
The city's official voting expert said there was no way for me to give power of attorney because I had to somehow meet the mayor in person and beg for his permission, if I understood right, then fill out forms, which the mayor had to sign off on, then provide proof I was abroad and--Logical if you don't think about it.
My mom had gone so far to bother the mayor, which is all-in-all an okay guy, and ask him 'what the hell, dude?', except worded in a more catholically-raised adult kind of way. The mayor, in the tale I heard, basically said someone could hand in my letter with a proof of why I wasn't there, it'd get mailed to the correct instances, and I'd get away scott-free. Should I be unable to provide such proof, well, the fine was nowhere near as dramatic as I'd feared.
I sent the forms for power of attorney, proof, a signature and reminded my dad he had my letter and a copy of my ID on his pc. He and mom could go rock-paper-scissors over who got to explain it to the voting leader person.
Voting in Belgium is a pain.
The government registers you, most of the time, and demands you show up, so most people show up. And it's always on a Sunday morning, and the voting offices close in the early afternoon. If you want to wait less than half an hour to two hours, you get up at half past six, get there at seven when the offices open, vote, and get out. If electronics are used in casting the vote, most of them will break quite early in the process with no one there that has any idea on how to fix them due to electronic security measures put in place preventing a reboot. People who can fix them are stuck in line in their own community, or asleep. I know, brilliance.
My parents agreed my mom would do the explaining. My dad, as much as I love him, rarely is the type of person who repeats 'the powers that be told me to do it this way, you can't tell me it's different' until he's blue in the face, and that's how Belgian bureaucracy works. You call, research and harass until the answer pleases you, or annoys you the least, follow instructions and then play the 'you told me' card. My mom, on the other hand, is a math teacher. No one messes with math teachers. Especially before they've had time to have a cup of coffee.
The guy in charge, like all people working there, was a 'volunteers'. In truth, the government has a lottery system in place of all non-psychopaths in a certain district and anyone can be called up to spend their Sunday trying to calm down a bunch of people who really rather wouldn't be there, desperately find someone to fix the computers, and counting votes. For no pay. Some cities provide food, but I'm pretty sure the only reason everyone has drinks is because there's a law about it somewhere. Stimulating environment, I know.
Voting makes most Belgians unenthusiastic at best. Agressive and apathic are other options. Yeah, the guy in charge didn't care if my proof of employment abroad was written in crayon on used toilet paper. Mom had forms, they looked in order, she had the letters, here's two forms, ma'am, happy voting, next person.
So far, I haven't received news that my old place of residence wants me to fork over money.
Belgium is a strange country, voting-wise. There's dictatorships where I wouldn't be required to vote, but in Belgium, it's civic duty. I have voted more often (once) than some German thirty-somethings. Because I had to I had no idea what I was doing. I don't even remember if I voted blank, unvalid or actually voted. Not (showing up for) voting without good cause is cause for fines, revoking civil rights and even prison term. Well, sort of. If you do it more than once, in theory, you risk the rights thing and prison thing.
In practice, and this I found out later, Belgium hasn't persecuted non-voters since 2003. Partly because the political system in Belgium has been quite messy since BHV got started and partly due to prison overcrowding and judge overworking. There is a list of non-voters. But the Department of Justice can't find a single judge willing to go over it and fine every single person for what's probably between 35 and 65 euros, which is the fine for first-time 'offenders'.
So after I moved, I called up the city I'd moved from and asked the question 'Do I legally have to vote?'.
This was one week before the election of city officials and provincial government.
Turns out, I had to vote. My vote had no effect on my life, but I still had to. The reason? Because I was on the list, and there was no way in our beautiful twenty-first century to, say, remove someone from a list, move someone to another list or alter the list in all its holiness in any way. It's logical if you don't think about it, I'm sure.
I had planned for this eventuality. There are several 'but I'm not there' clauses that can be used. Military duty, job duty, studying, illness, any of the previous abroad and just being stuck abroad. The official voting website said it's easy to give power of attorney. Provide the necessary documents, fill in a form, have it handed in with the letter calling you to vote at the actual day of voting and, presto, power of attorney.
The city's official voting expert said there was no way for me to give power of attorney because I had to somehow meet the mayor in person and beg for his permission, if I understood right, then fill out forms, which the mayor had to sign off on, then provide proof I was abroad and--Logical if you don't think about it.
My mom had gone so far to bother the mayor, which is all-in-all an okay guy, and ask him 'what the hell, dude?', except worded in a more catholically-raised adult kind of way. The mayor, in the tale I heard, basically said someone could hand in my letter with a proof of why I wasn't there, it'd get mailed to the correct instances, and I'd get away scott-free. Should I be unable to provide such proof, well, the fine was nowhere near as dramatic as I'd feared.
I sent the forms for power of attorney, proof, a signature and reminded my dad he had my letter and a copy of my ID on his pc. He and mom could go rock-paper-scissors over who got to explain it to the voting leader person.
Voting in Belgium is a pain.
The government registers you, most of the time, and demands you show up, so most people show up. And it's always on a Sunday morning, and the voting offices close in the early afternoon. If you want to wait less than half an hour to two hours, you get up at half past six, get there at seven when the offices open, vote, and get out. If electronics are used in casting the vote, most of them will break quite early in the process with no one there that has any idea on how to fix them due to electronic security measures put in place preventing a reboot. People who can fix them are stuck in line in their own community, or asleep. I know, brilliance.
My parents agreed my mom would do the explaining. My dad, as much as I love him, rarely is the type of person who repeats 'the powers that be told me to do it this way, you can't tell me it's different' until he's blue in the face, and that's how Belgian bureaucracy works. You call, research and harass until the answer pleases you, or annoys you the least, follow instructions and then play the 'you told me' card. My mom, on the other hand, is a math teacher. No one messes with math teachers. Especially before they've had time to have a cup of coffee.
The guy in charge, like all people working there, was a 'volunteers'. In truth, the government has a lottery system in place of all non-psychopaths in a certain district and anyone can be called up to spend their Sunday trying to calm down a bunch of people who really rather wouldn't be there, desperately find someone to fix the computers, and counting votes. For no pay. Some cities provide food, but I'm pretty sure the only reason everyone has drinks is because there's a law about it somewhere. Stimulating environment, I know.
Voting makes most Belgians unenthusiastic at best. Agressive and apathic are other options. Yeah, the guy in charge didn't care if my proof of employment abroad was written in crayon on used toilet paper. Mom had forms, they looked in order, she had the letters, here's two forms, ma'am, happy voting, next person.
So far, I haven't received news that my old place of residence wants me to fork over money.
The Official Moving
I've officially moved.
No, really, I did. I got behind on the paperwork, but it got done. I'm officially registered as a EU citizen looking for work while living in Germany.
Only I've since been employed for what Germany considers slightly above minimum wage. And I should totally inform the city of that. Except I haven't had time.
But what's really strange is...
No, really, I did. I got behind on the paperwork, but it got done. I'm officially registered as a EU citizen looking for work while living in Germany.
Only I've since been employed for what Germany considers slightly above minimum wage. And I should totally inform the city of that. Except I haven't had time.
But what's really strange is...
The Treadmill
This is a rather disappointing post, I'm afraid.
Around the time we ordered the washing machine, we won a bid on eBay for a treadmill. Thirty euros and some change.
Except we forgot to ask W. if he could drive us and if it was too far and if it was feasible and... Well, we ended up winning, cheering, realising that and panicking. We went downstairs with guilty faces and used please a lot, along with the argument that I hadn't looked at offers that didn't ship or were further than an hour's drive away from Coburg.
The seller was a confused mess, causing us to worry. There was very little information on the actual machine. Communication was strained.
Boyfriend and W. went to pick it up around lunch. The trip, at the most, shouldn't have taken more than three hours. By eight o'clock, they weren't home and I was worried. Turns out, road works and geocaching had intruded upon the schedule a bit. The good news was that the treadmill worked and was lightweight and foldable. Hallelujah.
We set it up, tested it, noted we could use the hallway cupboard for putting a laptop on for entertainment, and folded it away.
I've been wanting to see if I can get a would-be treadmill desk thing going, but I've been sort of caught up in stuff. We'll see.
Around the time we ordered the washing machine, we won a bid on eBay for a treadmill. Thirty euros and some change.
Except we forgot to ask W. if he could drive us and if it was too far and if it was feasible and... Well, we ended up winning, cheering, realising that and panicking. We went downstairs with guilty faces and used please a lot, along with the argument that I hadn't looked at offers that didn't ship or were further than an hour's drive away from Coburg.
The seller was a confused mess, causing us to worry. There was very little information on the actual machine. Communication was strained.
Boyfriend and W. went to pick it up around lunch. The trip, at the most, shouldn't have taken more than three hours. By eight o'clock, they weren't home and I was worried. Turns out, road works and geocaching had intruded upon the schedule a bit. The good news was that the treadmill worked and was lightweight and foldable. Hallelujah.
We set it up, tested it, noted we could use the hallway cupboard for putting a laptop on for entertainment, and folded it away.
I've been wanting to see if I can get a would-be treadmill desk thing going, but I've been sort of caught up in stuff. We'll see.
The New Washing Machine
Our washing machine broke down. I know I said it didn't spin, but I was wrong.
Not spinning is bad enough. We don't have a dryer, and laminate flooring warps when you let water sit on it for too long. Soaked washing dripping down on it for hours on end is not a good thing.
Then I fell with my bike. Boyfriend threw a total and utter fit, even if we later found out that we were the ones not supposed to be biking there. I still maintain that anyone operating heavy machinery in public should watch where they're steering it, but hey, that's me. My injuries consisted of a hurty thumb for about a week and a bruise under my nail. A small one.
What really bothered me was my new jacket being stained. Badly. By oil. And the washing machine wouldn't spin. Then again, it was a fleece jacket, so creases weren't really an issue. I called Wonderaunt, Mistress of Stains (She's a kindergarten teacher who tames toddlers and is still willing to tell parents that, yes, Timmy spilled suchandsuch on his jeans, but buy/find this random thing and you'll get it out relatively easily. On most things laundry related, I call my mom. When it comes to stains that I know won't come out by soaking it with cold water as soon as possible, I go to Wonderaunt), who told me to get dish soap on it and chuck it in the washer pronto, spinning or not.
I rubbed in dish soap, I threw it in the washer.
The machine, as before, flipped out. No spinning, cycle cut by two-thirds, uncertain result. I got my jacket out of there and found it wasn't washed. It was still stained. The soap was still a white foam inbetween the fibres.
At this point, I had no more clean jeans and Boyfriend was out of pajama bottoms. So I swallowed my pride and fear of being even more of a burden than I already am and lugged a laundry basket full of dirty laundry to J.'s house, asking if she could please help.
It was no problem. We got out laundry back clean, folded and covered in strange, white celulose. I'm assuming one of my jeans pockets had either a receipt or a shopping list in there. Oops.
A short discussion with J. and W. revealed that the cheapest and most lasting solution was to buy a new machine. There was a cheap one on sale, it could be delivered, they'd sponsor us a bit, old machine was taken away, it would even get installed.
I got out my mastercard and ordered it with all the trimmings. The trimmings weren't free, but W. had his arm operated on and wasn't allowed to lift, and I know my own handiness with carrying biiiiiig, heaaaavy things.
So the day came when it had to arrive. Boyfriend had endured hotlines to find out the when (which turned out to be technically an ETA, but it was so nonspecific it might as well have been our own estimate). The company had said that, at the latest, a truck would arrive at three pm.
A quarter to four, a truck pulled up. Two men came up, with a new washing machine, disgruntled that we hadn't done more than shut off the water supply and unplug the old machine. Could I sign here please?
They took the old machine and disappeared. Without installing the new one. Unpacking only half of the things that came with the machine.
After fifteen minutes, we were quite certain they'd gone and left us high and dry.
Boyfriend called the helpline, expressing our anger and disappointment while I tried to see if we could install it ourselves.
I plugged it in. I removed the transport safety. I attached the drainage pipe. I checked all revealed bags for a hose to attach the water supply to. There was none. The instruction manual insisted there was, but it appeared to be either lying, or the men had taken it with them.
Oh, and Iggy had responded to two disgruntled strangers and my growing agitation by peeing indoors about three times and trying to pull out my underwear out through the holes in the hamper.
I went to S. in the studio and vented. I vented loudly and long. Customers witnessed my woe-is-me performance. S. offered to drive me to a hardware store after work and fetch a hose, so I could wash. All I had to do was get my purse, the washer's manual and probably some kind of serial number.
I got my purse, the manual and checked for serial numbers wherever I could think of. Filter cap, back of the machine and inside--
There was a plastic bag inside the machine. It held a hose. We had had a hose for three hours. I could have kicked myself. I told S. I'd found it, called J. and W., who would drive us to the hardware store the next morning if it didn't work, and finished installing the machine.
Then there was washing. A lot of washing. The best part of the week got taken up by washing. Partly because we hadn't had a laundry machine for up to three weeks, partly because we'd put off doing laundry until we had to before that and, oh yes, our bedlinens were overdue for a wash.
I love the new machine. All I can say against it is that it's slow and does not come with a handy-dandy 'shorten cycle' button, which is basically the same complaint twice. It does come with a 'mini 30' cycle, which is washing a small load for 30 minutes on 30 centigrade. I abuse that cycle beyond all common decency. Don't get me wrong. The full cycles get used, and get used often, but I'm no longer forced by visions of dead polar bears and burning rain forests to not run the 2-hour cycle just to clean three T-shirts and a knitted hat. I don't wait a week to do coloreds when I have only a small load of them.
Whites, darks and towels, I've got little choice but to do a full cycle. Towels and bedlinens have the cellular life forms purged from them at 60 centigrade. Darks especially pile up, and sometimes I get real philosophical about what that means about our outlook on life, but what it basically means is that men don't get fun-colored pajama bottoms and I know better than to buy white jeans.
Not spinning is bad enough. We don't have a dryer, and laminate flooring warps when you let water sit on it for too long. Soaked washing dripping down on it for hours on end is not a good thing.
Then I fell with my bike. Boyfriend threw a total and utter fit, even if we later found out that we were the ones not supposed to be biking there. I still maintain that anyone operating heavy machinery in public should watch where they're steering it, but hey, that's me. My injuries consisted of a hurty thumb for about a week and a bruise under my nail. A small one.
What really bothered me was my new jacket being stained. Badly. By oil. And the washing machine wouldn't spin. Then again, it was a fleece jacket, so creases weren't really an issue. I called Wonderaunt, Mistress of Stains (She's a kindergarten teacher who tames toddlers and is still willing to tell parents that, yes, Timmy spilled suchandsuch on his jeans, but buy/find this random thing and you'll get it out relatively easily. On most things laundry related, I call my mom. When it comes to stains that I know won't come out by soaking it with cold water as soon as possible, I go to Wonderaunt), who told me to get dish soap on it and chuck it in the washer pronto, spinning or not.
I rubbed in dish soap, I threw it in the washer.
The machine, as before, flipped out. No spinning, cycle cut by two-thirds, uncertain result. I got my jacket out of there and found it wasn't washed. It was still stained. The soap was still a white foam inbetween the fibres.
At this point, I had no more clean jeans and Boyfriend was out of pajama bottoms. So I swallowed my pride and fear of being even more of a burden than I already am and lugged a laundry basket full of dirty laundry to J.'s house, asking if she could please help.
It was no problem. We got out laundry back clean, folded and covered in strange, white celulose. I'm assuming one of my jeans pockets had either a receipt or a shopping list in there. Oops.
A short discussion with J. and W. revealed that the cheapest and most lasting solution was to buy a new machine. There was a cheap one on sale, it could be delivered, they'd sponsor us a bit, old machine was taken away, it would even get installed.
I got out my mastercard and ordered it with all the trimmings. The trimmings weren't free, but W. had his arm operated on and wasn't allowed to lift, and I know my own handiness with carrying biiiiiig, heaaaavy things.
So the day came when it had to arrive. Boyfriend had endured hotlines to find out the when (which turned out to be technically an ETA, but it was so nonspecific it might as well have been our own estimate). The company had said that, at the latest, a truck would arrive at three pm.
A quarter to four, a truck pulled up. Two men came up, with a new washing machine, disgruntled that we hadn't done more than shut off the water supply and unplug the old machine. Could I sign here please?
They took the old machine and disappeared. Without installing the new one. Unpacking only half of the things that came with the machine.
After fifteen minutes, we were quite certain they'd gone and left us high and dry.
Boyfriend called the helpline, expressing our anger and disappointment while I tried to see if we could install it ourselves.
I plugged it in. I removed the transport safety. I attached the drainage pipe. I checked all revealed bags for a hose to attach the water supply to. There was none. The instruction manual insisted there was, but it appeared to be either lying, or the men had taken it with them.
Oh, and Iggy had responded to two disgruntled strangers and my growing agitation by peeing indoors about three times and trying to pull out my underwear out through the holes in the hamper.
I went to S. in the studio and vented. I vented loudly and long. Customers witnessed my woe-is-me performance. S. offered to drive me to a hardware store after work and fetch a hose, so I could wash. All I had to do was get my purse, the washer's manual and probably some kind of serial number.
I got my purse, the manual and checked for serial numbers wherever I could think of. Filter cap, back of the machine and inside--
There was a plastic bag inside the machine. It held a hose. We had had a hose for three hours. I could have kicked myself. I told S. I'd found it, called J. and W., who would drive us to the hardware store the next morning if it didn't work, and finished installing the machine.
Then there was washing. A lot of washing. The best part of the week got taken up by washing. Partly because we hadn't had a laundry machine for up to three weeks, partly because we'd put off doing laundry until we had to before that and, oh yes, our bedlinens were overdue for a wash.
I love the new machine. All I can say against it is that it's slow and does not come with a handy-dandy 'shorten cycle' button, which is basically the same complaint twice. It does come with a 'mini 30' cycle, which is washing a small load for 30 minutes on 30 centigrade. I abuse that cycle beyond all common decency. Don't get me wrong. The full cycles get used, and get used often, but I'm no longer forced by visions of dead polar bears and burning rain forests to not run the 2-hour cycle just to clean three T-shirts and a knitted hat. I don't wait a week to do coloreds when I have only a small load of them.
Whites, darks and towels, I've got little choice but to do a full cycle. Towels and bedlinens have the cellular life forms purged from them at 60 centigrade. Darks especially pile up, and sometimes I get real philosophical about what that means about our outlook on life, but what it basically means is that men don't get fun-colored pajama bottoms and I know better than to buy white jeans.
The Time Passing Really Quickly
Uhm, so you haven't seen me in a month. On one hand, it feels longer, on the other, a lot shorter. Life sort of grabbed me by the piercings and pulled. Like I said in my last post, I try not to make the internet my priority in life, even though it looks that way from my usual way of spending an evening. So here's a few updates!
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