search results

– Associations and an emotional statement on the war in Ukraine – *A LEMMING is a crowd member with no originality or voice of their own. One who speaks or repeats only what they have been told. (DE) I was a LEMMING* for half of my life. Born into the young Democratic Republic of Germany, even as a toddler, I was subjected to socialist achievements such as a weekly crèche, from Monday morning to Saturday evening in the community only, and all-day kindergartens. Later, as teenagers, we gathered as Pioneers and then in the Free German Youth (FDJ). Community and collective in word and deed, in thought and feeling! And I somehow fell through the cracks. Because of my lack of social aptitude, I was denied a place at university in my desired subjects of history and art education, even though I had passed the A-levels “with distinction”. So what had I done wrong? I didn’t want to be the person responsible for agitation and propaganda (AgitProp) in the FDJ group. So I was only suitable for the subject of mathematics, which probably required less social unison. This obsession with collective unison produced a society of lemmings. Only the class enemy and my father watched West German television in the sixties. We children were not allowed to do so, and my communist father excused his media alienation by saying that he had to know the class enemy. There were no internet or social media channels back then. Still, there was citizenship as a curriculum subject. There was a wall a thousand metres away, and behind it, the class enemy was supposedly waiting with murderers and bombs. Our government and the political leaders kept us ignorant at all levels – working, eating, sleeping and paying homage to socialism, just not thinking for ourselves but repeating uncritically what was said. And so I was like a LEMMING. So I followed the herd to the cliff. But the information was unstoppable. We listened to Radio RIAS and watched West-TV; we began to think and to doubt. Artists and writers were waking up and protesting against being patronised and disempowered. It was a learning process. I recognised the lies and the liars and realised the betrayal of our lives. The freer our thinking became, the narrower our scope became. For example, I received disciplinary punishments for being a teacher and not going to the polls at 8 am but 2 pm. My boss felt compelled to discipline me because I had no problem fulfilling my civic duty as a teacher to go to the polling station “at the same time as the antisocial elements” who went to vote at that late hour. I received disciplinary sanctions for not participating in the communal reading of Neues Deutschland every morning in 1986. For this purpose, a teacher had to read specific articles from the party organ “Neues Deutschland” to the assembled staff and school employees. I stayed away from this spectacle and explained that I had been able to read by myself since childhood. However, in the eyes of my superior, this was insubordination that needed to be sanctioned. Nevertheless, I didn’t really fight back and remained a LEMMING until the end of the GDR and beyond. The liberation from the “collective” in my head took a few years. It was only in a completely different school and cultural environment in Munich that I was amazed and delighted to learn how democracy works on a small scale. I was allowed, even expected, to think for myself. My opinion was heard. And I understood the difference to the atmosphere and constraints of my socialisation in the GDR. Live democracy I was allowed to participate in a democracy; I was allowed to live democracy, speak my mind, travel to many countries, tear down walls in my brain, and understand what LIFE really is. Because the value of a democratic society still touches me deeply, the Russian invasion of Ukraine shakes me to the core. It is not only destruction, displacement, suffering and death that shock me, but above all, the fear that the Ukrainians could be deprived of their democratic basis. And that is why Ukraine must not be turned into Putin’s LEMMING STATE. The people of Ukraine have learned and lived democracy for 30 years. They are no longer lemmings. They are fighting for their lives and for a life of democracy and humanity. I have turned off my heaters and oiled my bicycle. Of course, this is only a tiny contribution, but I never want to be a LEMMING again. And I don’t want to contribute to others having to be LEMMINGS either. (KK) There is not only one way in a democracy.

To understand the extent of incompetence, one must understand the elite’s character traits as a social stratum, a class, and a status in society. The priorities of the elite differ, and so does their understanding of democracy. When the Covid pandemic began, Boris Johnson was otherwise occupied. Instead of his seat of Government in Downing Street, he was staying with his fiancée, Carrie Symonds, at the Prime Minister’s official country residence, Chequers, where he was preparing for his divorce and writing his book on Shakespeare. He skipped five weekly meetings of the crisis team Cobra (Cabinet Office Briefing Room A) and delegated all Covid-related duties to Matt Hancock, his health minister. Downing Street and Whitehall - Seat of Prime Minister and UK Government Scientists’ warnings of a pandemic fell on deaf ears, and the Government ignored urgent calls from the National Health Service (NHS) to order PPE masks and gowns. Unfortunately, these failures in February 2020 may have cost the lives of thousands of people in the UK. Source: The Times, 19 April 2020: Coronavirus: 38 days when Britain sleepwalked into disaster. https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/coronavirus-38-days-when-britain-sleepwalked-into-disaster-hq3b9tlgh The Government did not cover up the dangers, as was the case in China, but underestimated or ignored them for a long time. Private, personal matters of the prime minister had priority. Such an attitude is somewhat reminiscent of a phenomenon known from pubescents who have a problem with giving reason and duty priority over the principle of pleasure. However, one expects different behaviour from a prime minister. This attitude could also explain the Government’s laissez-faire attitude towards mass sporting events such as the Cheltenham Racing Festival in mid-March 2020. Despite rising Covid infections and hospitalisations, the famous horse race, which attracts about 250,000 visitors every year, was not cancelled. SAGE (Scientific Advisory Group for Emergencies), the committee of scientists who advise the Prime Minister and Cabinet in crises, was also apparently unaware of the potential risk of infection at mass events, despite simultaneous debates in other countries, and remained ambivalent in its advice. Horse racing is the biggest sporting event after football in the UK and generates millions in tax revenue each year. The organisers expected that the 250,000 visitors would spend around £100 million on the city’s hotels, restaurants, bars and clubs. The cancellation of the Cheltenham Horse Racing Festival would have been very costly and highly unpopular. Racing has mighty patrons, including the Queen, politicians and people in business. The event is also known for networking. It provides opportunities to initiate lucrative business deals in an informal atmosphere. Thus networking is an indispensable prerequisite for obtaining money and power and for maintaining it. One of the Jockey Club directors is Baroness Dido Harding, wife of Tory MP John Penrose. She is a close friend of former Prime Minister David Cameron, who arranged for her to become a member of the English House of Lords in 2014. She is also close friends with the keen horseman and racing enthusiast, Health Secretary Matt Hancock. Shortly afterwards, he appointed Dido Harding as director of the Covid testing and tracking programme, which, with a £22 billion budget, is a crucial part of the Government’s response to Covid. Over these three days (10 – 13 March 2020) of the Cheltenham Festival, the elite was networking and opening doors for future projects. The scenario was different for others; for example, a waitress who later recalled in an interview that she was terrified of catching Covid in the crowded bar. However, she had no chance to protect herself because social distancing and mandatory masks did not yet exist and not working was not an option. NHS data analysis of the impact of the Cheltenham Festival and the two simultaneous major football matches in Manchester and Liverpool showed that together they had caused over 100 deaths, 500 hospitalisations and 17,000 infections. Faced with criticism, the Government and Health Secretary Matt Hancock later unanimously justified their decisions by saying they had been guided by scientific advice. Source: https://www.theguardian.com/world/2021/feb/20/virus-dispersion-hub-packed-racecourse-cheltenham-festival ”Wash your hands for as long as it takes to sing ‘Happy birthday to you ‘ twice” At this time, countries like China, South Korea, and most of our European neighbours discussed far-reaching restrictions to contain the spread of the virus. The British Prime Minister’s message was: ”Wash your hands for as long as it takes to sing ‘Happy birthday to you ‘ twice”. This message is a relatively trivial way of dealing with a pandemic that would cause nearly 150,000 deaths in the UK (by the time of writing in late October 2021). Equally worrying, the scientific advisors initially suggested herd immunity as a strategy, and the Government briefly found this option acceptable. The emergence of herd immunity means that most of the population develops antibodies through infection with the virus and thus becomes immune. According to the prime minister’s calculation, the economic damage would not be too significant since only older people over 80 would be affected. When there was neither a vaccine nor medication against this unknown disease, such a strategy was reckless, unrealistic and irresponsible. Source: https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/cummings-boris-johnson-said-covid-only-kills-80-year-olds-6fprlj5gf Shying away from responsibility In times of crisis like the Corona pandemic, a responsible government must strike a balance between individual liberties and human rights, such as the physical and mental integrity of the entire population. For Boris Johnson, socialised in the upper class, however, the principle of personal freedom has traditionally been a precious asset worthy of protection, outshining all else. In the pandemic, however, it has become apparent that personal freedom is quite different. While some people do have the choice not to go to the pub, restaurant, supermarket or use public transport for the sake of their health, others, such as waiters, shop assistants, bus drivers, supermarket staff, etc., cannot choose; to mention a few examples. Therefore, in my view, it was simply irresponsible how lax the reaction was initially to the study by Prof. Neil Ferguson of Imperial College. This study predicted that more than half a million people in the UK would die from the Covid disease without interventions. This data prompted Boris Johnson to make a “radical recommendation” in a TV address on the same day, 16 March 2020. He recommended that people should, if possible, work from home and avoid places like pubs and restaurants. While the Bavarian Prime Minister, for example, declared a state of emergency and ordered closures, border controls and exit restrictions, the Prime Minister could only bring himself to make a recommendation for the time being. This recommendation only meant that nothing was legally binding. So the before mentioned waiter in the pub had the personal freedom to choose between health risks or destruction of livelihood. In the imaginary world of an elitist socialised Boris Johnson, such alternatives do not occur. Of course, the prime minister and his Government also looked beyond Britain to Europe. There, they were preparing for a strict lockdown. The dangers for the United Kingdom were obvious and would have required quick and decisive action. Instead of taking responsibility for unpopular and difficult-to-implement measures and communicating the need for them, people were left to their own devices. Legally regulated financial support was not in the Government’s focus. However, financial aid is of existential importance for many people who work and live as wage earners or as self-employed. Later, ministers and scientists justified their hesitation by saying they thought the population would not accept drastic measures. They simply completely misjudged the needs of the people, whose living conditions they only rudimentarily know. However, history showed that exceptional times justify exceptional actions and are accepted by the population as long as they appear necessary, proportionate, practical and reasonable and are limited to the foreseeable future. When the UK did impose the lockdown a week later, on 23 March 2020, there were already 12,648 confirmed cases of Covid and more than 1,000 deaths. It was evident that the virus was out of control. This data forced the Government to react. Unfortunately, it had missed the moment when it could have acted. The Prime Minister, Boris Johnson, contracted Covid and his severe illness revealed how unaware the ruling elite are of its responsibility for the entire country. While Boris Johnson was fighting for his life in hospital, Foreign Minister Dominic Raab was temporarily in charge of government business. But Raab only governed on a consensus basis with the cabinet's approval. So it was unclear what powers he had to make crucial decisions, such as imposing more drastic measures or developing and implementing an exit strategy from the lockdown. No matter how small, there is usually a well-trained, entrusted and empowered deputy in any business, but not so in the Government of the United Kingdom. So, in all seriousness, a government in the middle of a pandemic was not capable of acting because the prime minister was ill. What if he had died?! The question is whether this clique of friends and former schoolmates is even aware of their responsibility for an entire country! What do these people want? Positions? Power? Business? Winning? Image? Peerage? More recently, in early October 2021, Boris Johnson faced demands to urgently tackle the growing crisis in the country: Price increases, tax rises, fuel shortages, labour shortages, and supply chain crisis, a problem last seen in the 1970s and now experienced by many British citizens and businesses as a “side effect” of Brexit. The Prime Minister rejected all responsibility and dismissed the current “pressures” as side effects of the country’s post-Covid economic recovery. Boris Johnson, in all seriousness, told business leaders who expected the Government to take action to solve problems that it was not his job to “solve every problem in the economy”. He urged business leaders to simply pay their employees more to absorb the rising cost of living and make jobs more attractive to domestic workers, as there was no way to issue thousands of short-term visas to foreign workers. Angry business leaders then accused Boris Johnson of simply passing the buck after dismissing and denying their fears of rising inflation and disrupted supply chains. They said the country was in crisis and the Prime Minister refused to acknowledge this and do anything about it. Source: https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-10060043/Boris-denies-claims-supply-chain-chaos-just-ending-UKs-low-wage-economy.html To escape the challenges posed by business bosses and the precarious supply situation in the short term, Boris Johnson retreated with his family to the luxurious villa of his friend and minister Lord Goldsmith on the Costa del Sol. This break was already the second holiday in four weeks. The Prime Minister’s subordinates stayed behind to administer the crisis because solutions would be the responsibility of an elected government. Chancellor Rishi Sunak, for whatever reason, was also not available for government business at this time. The steel industry chief, who feared that the lights might go out in the UK within 4 to 6 weeks, did not consider it appropriate for the prime minister to take a holiday in such a situation. Soon the unravelling of the Government’s irresponsibility in handling the pandemic became public. On 12 October 2021, a comprehensive and damning report compiled by MPs on two cross-party committees (health and social affairs and science and technology) sharply criticised how the Government had handled the pandemic from the outset. The report said it was one of the biggest public health failures the UK has ever experienced. The delays and mistakes made by ministers and scientific advisers in the early stages of the pandemic cost at least 20,000 lives. Source: https://committees.parliament.uk/publications/7496/documents/78687/default/ ; https://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/entry/mps-uk-covid-report-lockdown-herd-immunity_uk_61645a08e4b019644427c7ae Cabinet member Steve Barcley, however, repeatedly refused to apologise for the Government’s failure during interviews. Even though he had not read the report, he dismissed any blame. He insisted that the Government followed scientific advice, protected the NHS and made decisions based on available evidence. The newly appointed science minister, George Freeman, even went so far as to blame Covid victims for a severe course of the disease because they were overweight. He was scapegoating people who perhaps have a metabolic disorder for the Government’s inaction at the pandemic’s beginning. Source: Metro 13.10.2021 Covid Verdict: It’s your fault. Sorry? Fat chance. It is insulting to blame Covid victims and their families. When someone takes office in a government, they get responsibilities with the power. One is responsible for success and failure because one has made decisions. These decisions include which experts to consult and what to do with the advice and opinions. Instead of blindly following the suggestions of scientific experts, the Government representative must carefully consider the results in context. Otherwise, experts might as well take over the Government for a while! Advisors and scientists can never take away the responsibility of governing from the elected members of the Government. However, in the current make-up of the Government by representatives of the elite, this principle seems to be unknown. Profile orientation instead of task orientation I presume that the elite are very concerned about their image, focusing primarily on media effectiveness. Therefore, decisions are made based on whether they can be portrayed in a particularly effective way in the media and not whether they are practical and efficient measures. Spectacular things produce spectacular coverage. That’s how it works. An excellent example of this is the construction of the Nightingale Hospitals. As early as the end of March 2020, intensive care units across the country were already overcrowded. The public health system reached its limits very early on due to the steadily reduced capacity caused by constant cuts in the previous ten years of the Tory Government. Without admitting past mistakes, a spectacular solution was needed. The army was deployed and built within nine days a gigantic hospital in the O2 Congress Centre in London. The Government praised itself for this Herculean achievement and commissioned the construction of similarly gigantic hospitals. The danger of overburdening the health system will thus be averted, they promised. However, what the Government overlooked, which is typical of this Government, was that the appropriate specialist staff was unavailable. Shortage of skilled workers! A well-known phenomenon in the industry had apparently not filtered through to the Government. It was impossible to move highly professional critical care staff out of hard-pressed hospitals to maintain safe staffing ratios. As a result, for example, only a handful of patients could be treated at the new Nightingale Hospital in London over the Easter weekend of 2020, when record numbers of critically ill Covid patients were admitted to London hospitals. In total, 51 patients were treated at this Nightingale hospital, with a capacity of 4,000 intensive care beds, before it was converted into a Covid vaccination centre. Source: https://www.bmj.com/content/369/bmj.m1860 . Covid-19: Nightingale hospitals set to shut down after seeing few patients. But you’ve had your media hype, and the public really doesn’t look that closely for so long. Politicians had distinguished themselves, but the task of protecting the health system had not been fulfilled. In the months that followed, six more Nightingale hospitals were built across the country, at a total cost of over £220 million and with a capacity of over 11,000 intensive care beds. But, again, they could hardly be used for said reasons. Since then, four of these hospitals have been closed down; three are threatened with closure but will continue to be used at least as vaccination or diagnostic centres for the time being. The closure of these Nightingale hospitals, some of which have yet to admit a single Covid patient, raises two questions: Has the pandemic response disproportionately focused on developing intensive care capacities? How did the decision to embark on such an expensive profiling project come about without even a politician, scientist or healthcare expert having pointed out the problem of shortages of skilled workers? Or perhaps hints from the practice were ignored in order not to jeopardise the prestige project? In any case, task orientation, which one may expect from representatives of the people, looks different. When solving a complex task, it is generally known that it is essential to include diverse perspectives and levels, which means the expertise of practitioners is also needed. However, Boris Johnson and his cabinet, marked by a sense of class and know-it-allism, kept amongst themselves. They consulted the scientists of the SAGE group but neither asked people with long-standing practical experience in the health sector for advice nor did they look across borders to Europe. Instead, they made ill-conceived decisions and demanded their execution. This approach appears to be a pattern. Decisions fail in the face of reality because politicians from the elite seem not to value practitioners and their expertise; hence, they do not involve people working at the grassroots level in the decision-making process. Consequently, protests from the people who should implement these wrong, not far-reaching enough or unimplementable measures regularly led to urgently needed revisions. This ineffective way of working is probably based on the assumption that practitioners are more or less recipients of orders with whom one does not cooperate at eye level. The elite’s understanding of democracy – Jovi and Bovi In a democracy, all people have the same rights and obligations. Yet elites are people who are used to influencing social decisions, i.e. exercising social power. The tension between elites and democracy and what elites thought of the principle of equality became evident in the Corona crisis. Whoever makes the laws somehow seems to be strangely above the law, loosely based on the Latin mentioned above saying, “ What is allowed for Jupiter is not allowed for the ox”. This scandalous elitist self-concept of inequality is evident in handling the regulations restricting freedom of movement and contact restrictions. Let’s take the example of Dominic Cummings, a close advisor to Prime Minister Boris Johnson. Dominic Cummings – the exception to the rule! In March 2020, when he feared that he and his family had contracted Covid like the Prime Minister, he travelled with his wife and child from London to Durham (268 miles, 431 km, 5 hours driving time) to be nearer his family in the event of illness. He was spotted in the following days, apparently not ill, on an outing with his wife and child near Durham Castle. The directive to the rest of the population was to stay at home under all circumstances. Thus, not only did people have to endure loneliness and isolation, but they could not see their loved ones in nursing homes and even visit seriously ill and dying relatives or friends in hospitals. This was a tough time for many, whilst a government advisor made life easier for himself. Why? Because he could! The Durham police considered his behaviour as only a minor offence. The Prime Minister, with his cabinet and the Government’s scientific advisors, gave Cummings full backing. Original sound bite: “What Cummings did, any responsible family man would have done.” Excuse me? What? An outcry went around the country at this gross violation of the lockdown rules. So the government advisor who does not abide by the curfew is a responsible family man, and the ordinary citizen who does the same is sanctioned?! This episode ultimately undermined the binding nature of the Government’s lockdown rules and caused significant damage to the pandemic. Source: Dominic Cummings potentially broke lockdown rules, say Durham police. The Guardian, 28 May 2020. Matt Hancock – everyone is the same except me! Completely absurd is the story of Health Minister Matt Hancock, which happened in May 2021. He had been secretly filmed in his office (the footage was sent to and published by the Sun newspaper) hugging and kissing his assistant. That his long-standing affair with his closest aide was made public is one thing, but that he breached his own ban on contact with people from another household is another. It becomes tragic-comic when one considers how Hancock had handled the resignation of Prof Ferguson, who was guilty of similar misconduct. He had called for the latter’s resignation because, after all, the contact restrictions and rules of distancing would apply to everyone. However, not to himself. This offence probably would not necessarily have led to his resignation if other political disputes had not fuelled this scandal. For a long time, Boris Johnson had covered for his health minister, even when he came under intense attack from Dominic Cummings (after his departure as a special adviser) for his failed policies during the pandemic. But in the end, the Government probably needed a scapegoat for its mismanagement of the Covid crisis. Thus, the timing of the scandal was favourable to the Government and unfavourable to Hancock. Source: https://www.theguardian.com/politics/2021/jun/26/matt-hancock-resigns-after-questions-over-relationship-with-aide Prof. Ferguson – My mistake, my consequences! Unlike Boris Johnson, Dominic Cummings, Matt Hancock and other ruling elite members, Prof. Ferguson did not think that his breach of the rules weighed less than those of ordinary citizens. Someone observed and made it public that he had received visits from his mistress when one had to stay strictly at home and avoid any contact with members of other households. He immediately admitted his misconduct and instantly resigned from his position as Scientific Advisor on the SAGE Committee. His integrity and expertise remained unaffected by this misdemeanour, and the media regularly approached him for comment. People usually forgive if someone admits a mistake and takes the consequences. After all, we are all human beings. Source: Prof Neil Ferguson quits Government after ‘undermining’ lockdown. BBC 6 May 2020. After all these scandals, the public was sensitised to the ruling elite’s sense of inequality “ what is permitted to the Jupiter is not permitted to th e ox”. Therefore, misdemeanours had to be covered up from then on. Fake pilot projects to bypass quarantine rules In July 2021, the law was that anyone warned by the Covid app that they had been in contact with an infected person would have to go into quarantine. With the simultaneous removal of restrictions, this rule led to significant problems in everyday life and sometimes partially paralysed the economy. For example, sometimes, it was no longer possible to operate all tube lines regularly because too many employees were in quarantine. Therefore, removing the lockdown restrictions and, at the same time, maintaining strict quarantine rules is more akin to a foolish act than a well-thought-out measure. The situation became even more absurd when government officials were among those affected. They reached deep into their bag of tricks. When the newly appointed Health Minister Sajid Javid tested positive for Corona in his first week in office in July 2021, Downing Street announced that Cabinet members who had come into close contact with him would not have to isolate themselves as required. The reason given was that they would participate in a VIP pilot programme with daily tests. These individuals included Prime Minister Boris Johnson and Chancellor Rishi Sunak. This argument had worked months earlier with government member Michael Gove when he returned from the Champions League final in Portugal with his son and did not have to go into what was supposed to be mandatory quarantine like everyone else. Yet, it did not work this time. The opposition and the public had learned their lesson and resented this brazen behaviour. The politicians concerned complied. A small step forward to equality before the law? Or “ What is not permitted to the ox is not permitted to Jupiter ” or something like that. Source: Covid-19: PM and chancellor self-isolate after rapid U-turn. BBC, 19 July 2021. Source: Polly Toynbee, Mon 19 July 2021, The Guardian: Boris Johnson’s ‘freedom day’ isolation tells us the virus is everywhere. Further analyses In other articles, I deal with other phenomena that came to light during the crisis. The Failure of the Political Elite in the UK in Dealing with Covid The Common-sense Mantra Sleaze, Cronyism & Mismanagement in Covid Crisis Consulting the Government: Struggle to be Heard and Independence Boris’ Partygate – an Attack on Democracy (LL.) #oneruleforusandoneruleforthem #lackofresponsibility #lackofunderstanding #rulingelite #politicalelite #politicalfailure

(DE) The distance between Landshut Main Station and Munich Central Station is approx. 77 kilometres. A cyclist can cover this distance in a good four hours. In earlier, happier times, the Deutsche Bahn regional train travelled this distance in 45 minutes. The regional train in 2024 will take four hours and 30 minutes.   Travelling with Deutsche Bahn ist often quite adventurous in 2024 So how can that be? Unfortunately, this railway story is told quite often these days.   Stranded again and again!   On 1 August 2024, Günther, a staunch rail traveller, starts his return journey from Landshut to Hamburg, his adopted hometown, at 11:30 a.m. with high hopes. He has travelled this route countless times. He knows that he will need time to change trains at Munich Central Station because the regional trains are not necessarily very punctual, and when booking, he has factored in possible delays. Günther is a very relaxed person and doesn't have a problem with waiting at any railway station. But what happened that day made even his temper boil. The regional train from Landshut to Munich usually stops in Moosburg an der Isar and Freising before reaching Munich Central Station. About 10 minutes after leaving Landshut Main Station, the train arrives in Moosburg according to schedule on this particular August day and stands and stands and stands... for an hour on the track. After waiting on the train for an hour, passengers are asked to leave because the train cannot continue its journey due to a signal box failure in Freising. Passengers should now wait outside the train for an alternative or find one themselves. Loudspeakers inform the stranded passengers of this and other possibilities for reaching destinations such as the airport or the central railway station. Anyone who originally wanted to go to Munich Airport with all their luggage is starting to worry. As a passenger, you plan several hours until check-in anyway. But this margin is now rapidly shrinking. Anyone who, like Günther, had planned to change to a long-distance train in Munich has lost all hope of reaching their booked train.   Hundreds of passengers, some with huge suitcases in tow, were stranded at the railway station in Moosburg an der Isar that day, unable to get on or off. Freising cannot be passed on any tracks and all routes from this location, whether to the airport, the central railway station or Munich city centre, lead via Freising. Naturally, this blocked route impacts all travelling traffic around Munich. Travellers are at a complete loss on the platform and the station forecourt, trying to understand the alternative routes by other means of transport, about which the loudspeaker provides information. Anyone with no local knowledge or who doesn't speak German has an awful time in a situation like this. At this point, you would need people who could provide advice and help answer the relevant questions or solve the problems. But they are no longer available at such a small railway station. No information desks! No railway staff at the station! The automatisation of Deutsche Bahn's service is certainly not helpful at times like this. Günther certainly makes himself useful. He advises those unfamiliar with the area or language as best he can. He translates the announcements into English and keeps calm. He sits and waits by the track, where there is no longer a train because there has to be another train at some point. It's hard to imagine that nothing is really going to happen. And lo and behold, a glimmer of hope appears on the horizon. After all, there is still a train to Freising. But that's the end of the line for anything travelling on the tracks, which means neither the train nor the S-Bahn can continue. He finally takes a bus to the airport, which is at the other end of the city and, therefore, a long way from his original destination, the central railway station. Though the idea seems tempting, he plans not to fly to Hamburg, but he knows an alternative S-Bahn route from there via Ostbahnhof can take him to the central station. And indeed, the plan works. Almost! At Ostbahnhof, however, all passengers are again forced off the S-Bahn because, on this day, no S-Bahn stops at the central station or any station on the main line (the main line on which almost all S-Bahns in Munich connect the east and west). They only run from Ostbahnhof in the east to Pasing station in the west but do not serve the central station in the city centre. If you've lived in Munich for a few years, you'll know another underground connection that isn't affected by the fiasco. Günther has this knowledge advantage and arrives at Munich Central Station 4.5 hours after his departure from Landshut. Tourists from outside the city may have taken a little longer, as the S-Bahn and U-Bahn connections are often quite confusing for strangers, even on days when everything is working. However, those days when everything runs like clockwork are becoming increasingly rare. So Günther finally stands in front of the DB (Deutsche Bahn) information desk in the late afternoon to enquire about a train connecting to Hamburg. He doesn't want to change trains again and would prefer to stay with friends in Munich and continue his journey home the next day. There are plenty of trains to Hamburg, the unfriendly DB employee at the ticket counter tells him brusquely, so he can't interrupt his journey to Hamburg until the following day unless he buys a new ticket. And after all, he had bought a super-cheap ticket, so he couldn't make such demands. Now, of course, you could argue that by buying a discounted ticket, you had also concluded a somewhat precisely formulated contract with DB, which one of the contractual partners, DB, could not honour. After all, passengers had something in mind when booking this particular connection. You would think that if one contractual partner, namely the passenger, now has to change all their plans and lose every comfort they had booked, such as a seat reservation or a direct connection, the other contractual partner would show goodwill and postpone the day of travel. Not at all! A ticket is a ticket for a journey from A to B, when and how it cannot, and obviously, it does not have to be guaranteed under all circumstances; only the day is fixed. Passengers have no room for manoeuvre - individual needs or not. Very well! Nobody has money to give away, so Günther decides to take the 17:09 train, which is due to leave directly for Hamburg. He calculates that he can still catch the last underground train to Volksdorf, a district in the north of Hamburg, and leans back and relaxes. Lucky him! But only nearly! In Hamburg-Harburg, it's hard to believe that history repeats itself. 'Everyone, please disembark! The train ends here.'  Well, and now Günther is happy that he has neither a suitcase nor a travelling bag to carry but a rucksack on his back, so he can use his two walking sticks, which he has to use as a walking aid. He has to hurry. The S-Bahn from Hamburg-Harburg takes him to Hamburg Central Station, but not home. There's an underground train to get there, but there's only a little time to get the last one. If he misses the connection, his only option would be to take a taxi. That would cost a good €60 for the journey. But he makes it and arrives home at 00:35, after a 13.5-hour train journey, getting stranded five times at stations and using his walking stick to make the last underground train.   An unfortunate isolated incident? A singular event? Just one-off bad luck? - Not at all! Some will now say that it can happen, that anyone who travels frequently by public transport has experienced something like this. After all, Germany has the largest railway network in Europe. Having lots of services would also increase the likelihood of problems. That is all true. And yet the deterioration is evident for railway employees and travellers alike. Several years ago, Deutsche Bahn advertised with the slogan 'Carefree travelling with the Bundesbahn'. This 2007 advertising slogan sounds like a joke in 2024. According to current statistics, punctuality can only be expected with a probability of around 60 per cent these days. And the railway infrastructure, i.e. the signal boxes and tracks, has been rotting away for several decades. Now, the peak of decay has passed, and everything is falling apart almost simultaneously, as railway employees publicly complain in the media. A journey like this is no longer carefree if you have to expect that you will get stranded somewhere in the middle of nowhere and there are no train attendants, service staff at the station or other helpful people from DB to answer questions, suggest solutions and take care of things.   Another example: the railway is trying to set up replacement services!   In June 2024, Carolin also got stranded on her journey from Munich via Nuremberg to Hof an der Saale. It's actually a good connection between Nuremberg und Hof, with a relatively frequent service and a journey time of one hour and forty minutes. But shortly after Nuremberg in Hersbruck, an emergency doctor is called to the track, resulting in a 45-minute wait. When the train finally continues its journey, the valued passengers are told that they all have to get off at the next station, in Pegnitz, because the train ends there. The railway is trying to set up an emergency bus service. In Pegnitz, a loudspeaker announcement asks travellers to wait in the station's forecourt. There is no rail replacement service far and wide, and there is no railway employee who can tell them more about the prospects of solving the problem. The loudspeaker announcement merely said that the rail company was trying, which, of course, does not mean that they will succeed. And what if the railway's attempts are unsuccessful and people get stuck in Pegnitz or possibly hours later in Hof?   It is now almost 5 pm. How long can you wait if you have to change to other regional trains in Hof, which don't necessarily run every hour? Such questions and fears are not overly anxious in a situation like this. Travellers would actually like to ask a DB employee about this. But there isn't one on site. Five fellow travellers and Carolin, therefore, decide not to wait indefinitely but to charter a taxi to Bayreuth together and have Carolin's husband pick them up there by car and drive them to Hof. Carolin finally arrives in Hof at 6.30 pm, having left Nuremberg on time at 1.14 pm.   In crises, humanity helps, not the app!   The annoying thing is not even the delay of a good two hours, but the danger that you can suddenly get stranded at any place, at any station, and that there is no human support, such as a trustworthy, competent service from a member of staff at these locations. It is unsettling that the railway only 'tries' to be reliable. And it is unbearable not to be kept constantly informed about the status of things. Of course, this is due to the universally lamented lack of staff, but not only that. Automation, from online ticket purchases to information via app, has enabled savings to be made on service staff. In crisis situations, however, you need people who can leave standardised paths and react appropriately to the situation. People who pick up the phone and call heaven and earth to find out when and how things will continue. Perhaps five minutes after the passengers in the taxi had left Pegnitz for Bayreuth, a bus would have turned up as a replacement means of transport. But if there is no up-to-date information, then you don't know whether you might only find out in the middle of the night that the journey can no longer be expected to continue.   You don't have to push the train! We have a locomotive!   This is what happened in the autumn of 2023 on a journey from Munich to Hof an der Saale. This regional train usually has a section attached to it that is detached in Schwandorf and continues to Prague. The delay, which had already accumulated up to Regensburg and was even longer in Regensburg, was no longer mentioned on the train. Every railway traveller in Germany is used to this by now.   But as soon as the train had left Regensburg station, the train attendant or driver informed the passengers that everyone had to get off the train in Schwandorf, as this train would not continue to Hof or Prague—end of the announcement. There was even an approachable train attendant, but unfortunately, he didn't know how to proceed either. We would just have to organise a locomotive! But how and when? Nobody knew. All the travellers then stood at a loss on the Schwandorf platform and didn't know what to do next. First, passengers travelling to Prague were given precise and reliable information: there would be no more trains to Prague that day due to damage to the track. Schwandorf may be a lovely little town in beautiful countryside on the beautiful blue Naab, but if you want to go to Prague, you won't be enthusiastic about it. Some people would have preferred to have been informed of the cancellation of their onward journey less than half an hour beforehand when still in Regensburg. This city can at least compete with Prague in terms of tourism. I don't know what happened to those travelling to Prague, as there were no announcements about rail replacement services or offers of assistance.  The people whose destination was Hof were told by chance via the illuminated sign on the platform that a train was waiting on another platform. There was probably no member of staff to make a loudspeaker announcement. We then learnt on the train that the replacement train had not yet found a locomotive. So we sat, waited, worried, joked, gritted our teeth and hoped! The train attendant or driver kept announcing we shouldn't give up hope. People laughed and rolled their eyes. And a while later, the redemptive announcement came: 'Dear passengers, I'm pleased to inform you that you won't have to push the train to Hof after all because we have a locomotive and will be able to depart soon.' Laughter and applause!   Phenomena of our time  Of course, no one was happy about the delay and the unfortunate circumstances and the uncertainty suffered, but the situation was more bearable than the scenarios described above because a human being, a railway employee, was present, at least with his voice and his humour. In crisis situations, people need someone of flesh and blood to talk to. People who care! Staff cuts, as planned by the railway management in 2024, are irresponsible against the backdrop of increasing unreliability on the railway lines.   Everyone in Germany, and since the problems during the European Football Championships also abroad, knows that the German railway network is dilapidated and parts of the infrastructure, such as signal boxes, are barely functional. This is the reason for increasingly frequent malfunctions of all kinds and for delays and strandings at some railway stations.   Many more stories could be added to the ones described here. Stranded in Essen, stranded in Stuttgart... In such cases, staff who can act as a reassuring point of contact and provide advice and assistance in solving individual problems are needed. Display boards, loudspeaker announcements, or mobile phone apps are not sufficient in such situations. (TA)   Further information on the reasons for the cancellation of Deutsche Bahn: https://www.sueddeutsche.de/wirtschaft/deutsche-bahn-verspaetung-fahrplaene-zugausfaelle-lux.2NC8cPRtQUSFjZ9Lsxbr2C https://www.sueddeutsche.de/wirtschaft/berthold-huber-interview-deutsche-bahn-verspaetungen-lux.22fhWeEybYXf7jSEQvtsAJ https://www.sueddeutsche.de/wirtschaft/deutsche-bahn-bilanz-sanierung-probleme-1.5778766 https://www.fr.de/wirtschaft/verkommene-gleise-hoher-profit-11700172.html (2019) https://www.sueddeutsche.de/meinung/deutsche-bahn-mitarbeiter-chaos-kommentar-lux.DoS6pReD4h7nYHTqDss2jF https://www.bundesrechnungshof.de/SharedDocs/Statements/DE/2023/db-dauerkrise.ht https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Deutsche_Bahn

-Munich 1953 until the 90s- (DE) On the morning of 3rd August 1953, I stood proudly and excitedly before the Bauer carpentry workshop in Kazmairstraße on Schwanthalerhöhe in Munich, where I was to start my apprenticeship. Nobody was there yet. In my mind, I went through my parents' instructions again: Pay attention, learn, don't be rude, be friendly and polite! When the journeyman finally arrived on his bike, I greeted him with a polite 'Good morning' and introduced myself as the new apprentice. 'Lad,' he replied,' I'm going to make your apprenticeship as sour as possible!'  Apprenticeship years are not master years  Naturally, I was very shocked and offended by this threat. I hadn't done anything wrong yet, and what would this guy say or even do if I did something wrong?  During the three years of my apprenticeship, I no longer trusted this journeyman, although he occasionally showed his more peaceful side. I remained distant. I can't say whether he or the boss really made my life as sour as possible because, as an apprentice, you had to do what you were told without argument. And nobody cared how the orders were given. I accepted it as inevitable but didn't let it affect my self-esteem. But the journeyman could never persuade me to go on any mountain hikes with him and his friends. I owed it to myself and my pride.  I don't think this journeyman ever thought about how to educate and deal with young people. In the 50s and 60s, the most important thing people thought about was showing children and young people boundaries and making them subordinate. Schoolchildren were allowed to be beaten by their teachers. The saying 'apprentice years are not master years' was common at that time and meant young people should not get the idea that they deserve individual rights and respect!  In the spirit of that time, I did what I was told. I even did jobs I could barely manage based on my strength. For example, I regularly had to fetch panels from the Hochstraße in the east of Munich on a two-wheeled cart because the carpentry didn't have a lorry. That was about five kilometres across the city and then back again with the loaded cart. When I had to heave the heavily loaded barrow up the Theresienberg to Kazmairstraße, I would hardly have managed without the help of friendly passers-by. But complaining was not an option. You just didn't do that as an apprentice.  Besides, not only did I enjoy the carpentry trade, but I will never forget the first money I earned myself.   8 DM weekly wage   As a first-year apprentice, I had eight marks a week in my pay packet, which was always placed on the circular saw on Saturdays, just before the end of the day. I used my very first apprentice's salary to buy myself ice skates. (Food prices in 1954 for comparison)  When the basin of the Nymphenburg Canal was frozen in winter, young and old people would meet there to skate to the beat of the music by Rudi Schurike, Willi Hagara and Bulli Buhlan. A loudspeaker provided sound for the skaters on the ice, who danced to the hit list of the 50s.  Even today, people still skate on the Nymphenburg Canal in winter, but without music. Groups meet to play curling or ice hockey. This tradition has been preserved in the Neuhausen-Nymphenburg district.  When I was 16 years old, I earned a bit more and could buy a Viktoria moped on instalments from the Kocian bicycle shop at Frundsbergstraße 13 - 15 with the help of my parents. There is still a bike shop in that house today.  Motorised in this way, I reached my training workshop more comfortably and could meet friends in other parts of Munich. One of them gave me my first sexual experience with a girl. It wasn't really romantic, but it was effective.  First sexual experiences   This older friend often had a storm-free weekend because his single mother, a tram conductor, regularly worked shifts on Sundays. On Sunday afternoons like this, we would get two bottles of 'Insel Samos' wine from a nearby builders' canteen, which was open on Sundays, and drink them together with his girlfriend, Maria. Usually, at some point, the two would disappear into the bedroom. But one day, my boyfriend thought I should learn about lovemaking. He left the bedroom door ajar so I could overhear their lovemaking sounds. Then he called me to join them, and it's fair to say that nobody had to enlighten me from then on.  In the 1950s, sexuality was an absolute taboo in public. If you consider the extreme reaction by the church and politicians to the brief flash of Hildegard Knef's naked skin in the film 'The Sinner', my first steps into the world of physical love must have been extraordinarily condemnable and naughty. However, as is always the case when morals and taboos are held exceptionally high in society, very few people abide by them. People continue to do immoral things in secret. According to an official survey from the early 1950s, pregnancy was the reason for marriage for three-quarters of those who wanted to get married. Contraception was not openly discussed.  A few years later, when I met the love of my life, we unsurprisingly didn't abide by moral rules, and our son was already three months old when we got married in August 1960.   For us three young people, however, our first sexual experiences back then had no consequences. After a few more delightful Sunday afternoons, sometimes also with a friend of Maria's, we lost sight of each other. Our lives went our separate ways, which is quite common with teenage friendships.  Higher wages for unskilled labour in the industry   In any case, I completed my carpentry apprenticeship on 22nd September 1956 and worked for almost another year as a journeyman in the company where I trained. Business was good for Bauer Carpentery at that time. We had many lucrative orders from churches. I often worked in the Bürgersaal church in Neuhauser Straße in the centre of Munich. However, the owner of the carpentry workshop was already well over 70 years old and couldn't find a successor to take over the workshop.  At the end of the 1950s and the beginning of the 1960s, craftsmanship lost its golden touch, as the saying goes. Industrial production conquered the markets. So, it was clear that this traditional craft business would soon close.  However, the wage gap between small craft businesses and industrial companies was critical for us workers and craftsmen.  The weekly wage for a journeyman in the 1950s was 53.76 DM gross. With a 48-hour week, that was an hourly wage of DM 1.12.   One of my friends worked as an unskilled knitter in one of Munich's many stocking factories and earned DM 2.40 an hour. I didn't have to think twice about it.  Less than a year after my carpenter examination, I gave up the job I had learnt. I now took finished stockings off the 12 machines at the Hadi stocking factory in Winzererstraße daily, hung them up and transported them to be packed.   The textile industry became a significant economic factor in Bavaria, mainly due to the founding of companies by refugees and displaced persons from the former eastern territories and Eastern Germany (GDR) at the end of the Second World War. In 1955, there were around 1380 textile companies throughout Bavaria. In particular, the production of nylon stockings generated large sales figures in the 1950s due to its fashion. In 1957, the number of people employed in the textile industry in Bavaria peaked at 119,688, and I was one of them.  I didn't mind the monotony of the work because, as a young man in the era of the economic miracle in Germany, I had many dreams I wanted to fulfil. For example, I could buy a roadworthy but damaged NSU Lambretta from my friend Alois and lovingly refurbished it. We even planned trips with this Lambretta. The world was open to us.  And because our labour was also in great demand, I changed employers again, namely to the Tauber stocking factory on Biederstein. Here, we worked 60 hours a week in shifts, which increased our weekly wages considerably. 144 DM gross per week, that was very good! You could do a lot with that!  I thought I would use my well-paid job at the Tauber stocking factory to build a livelihood and enjoy life in my free time.  But things turned out differently! A strange note was posted on the notice board in the entrance area one Monday. Payments to creditors had been cancelled. But the employees shouldn't worry because of the company's excellent business situation.  It was true; the shop was buzzing. Production was running at full speed, and despatch took place as usual. Turnover had probably not collapsed. So what reason would there be to close the factory?  On Wednesday of the same week, I worked the day shift and experienced an absurd scenario. Unknown business people entered the machine room and identified themselves as creditors. They took the Perlon bobbins and yarns from the machines. This stopped the work process.  We workers demanded clarification, but neither the management secretary nor the union representative knew anything. The company owners, Mr and Mrs Tauber, were absent and could not be reached by phone.  When the bankruptcy administrator turned up late in the afternoon, we finally received information about our situation:  The company was practically bankrupt and had filed for bankruptcy. The bankruptcy administrator had to give notice to every employee, and a letter to that effect would be handed out later. However, the notice period of 14 days had to be observed, and everyone had to turn up for work every day during these two weeks, even though there was nothing left to do.  So we sat in the halls, played cards and watched the creditors take away the inventory and machines. It was an absurd situation.  Mr Tauber and his wife, had gone abroad and could no longer be legally prosecuted for the delayed bankruptcy. One of the main creditors, probably ruined by the bankruptcy, committed suicide, according to press reports.  All employees were made redundant and had to look for new jobs at the end of the notice period. A takeover and continuation of the business was not planned and was no longer possible due to a lack of machinery and inventory.  'On the dole'   So at the end of August 1958, I was out of work, registered as unemployed and had to go to the job centre on Thalkirchner Straße every week to 'sign in'. During this time, unemployed people had to go to the clerk at the job centre once a week to ask for work. If no suitable job was available, you got a stamp on the back of your registration card and received your unemployment payment at the cash desk on the ground floor. In my case, that was around DM 58 per week. That was quite a lot of money these days. I was still young and unattached back then, lived at home with my parents, had hardly any commitments and therefore felt like I was on holiday during the first two weeks of my unemployment.  Of course, the clerk at the job centre knew the job market in Munich very well. He also knew that a young man like me with training and work experience would have no problem finding work if he wanted to. That's why he called me a 'lazy dog' when I approached him to either be offered a job or to get the stamp for the unemployment payment. At that time, it was not an offence for an employee of the job centre to insult an unemployed person; instead, the unemployed person felt ashamed and stigmatised. So did I.  After two weeks - and on my own initiative - I got a job at the Haaser & Co. hosiery factory in Augustenstraße in Munich's Maxvorstadt district.  Dreams and decisions   Now, I was back at work and planning a several-week-long holiday trip to France with my mate on my NSU scooter. Such a trip abroad was a dream, and we had a lot to think about: what was essential to take with us, saving money and exchange our DM into francs, checking the expiry date of our passports, finding out about cheap accommodation in travel books or agencies, getting maps and a German-French dictionary ... Back then, there was still a border between Germany and France. There were still different currencies in Germany and France, and there was no internet to consult or mobile phone to help you find your way around and communicate abroad. Information had to be painstakingly gathered, or you had to set off on the off-chance and then solve the problems on the spot.  During all these preparations, I came across a pretty distraction. She had blue-grey eyes, and I fell in love with her immediately.  As with almost 20-year-olds, you can't tear yourself away from the person you love when you fall in love. I found myself in a dilemma. Should I go away for a few weeks and leave my Marianne behind in Munich, or should I stay in Munich and not have the wind blow on my face on the faraway roads or see France?  I usually asked my father for advice when faced with such difficult decisions.  He suggested I stay with my girl and spend time with her if I really loved her.  What can I say? I didn't see France until much later in life. Instead, I became a father to a son in May 1960 at 21 and a husband in August 1960. We said yes to each other in St Anthony's Church in Kapuzinerstraße, and we celebrated our wedding in a modest setting at the Frundsberg restaurant in Neuhausen.  This year, 1960, really had it all because the Bundeswehr, founded in 1955, as the army was called from 1956 onwards, also asked for me. I received my conscription notice.  Unrecognised conscientious objector   'Never, do you hear me, never pick up a weapon!' my father had told me over and over again because of his own war experiences. I didn't want to serve as a soldier in an army myself. So, I looked for ways to escape the compulsory military service. I sought advice from Jehovah's Witnesses, who have years of experience with conscientious objection. But that wasn't as helpful as the support of an SPD (German Social Democratic Party) man from our circle of acquaintances who knew about the legal situation.  On his advice, I refused to undergo the medical examination and was given a certificate of fitness grade 3 'after external assessment'. (see document left) I had not allowed myself to be examined by the doctors at the conscription board. Of course, as a conscientious objector under Article 4(3) of the German Constitution, I also had to answer questions about my conscience in front of an examination board, which, as expected, asked me questions like: 'What do you do when there's a fire?' There were no 'right' answers to such questions, and I didn't find any. Therefore, I am officially an unrecognised conscientious objector and could have been called up.  (see the following document) However, they obviously had no use for me because the alternative civilian service had not yet been set up, and I would have been a nuisance in the army. So, I was spared from military service and planned to build a life for myself and my family.  The impact of the block formation on my life  But this was thwarted by the State's regional economic management. The formation of a bloc between East and West and the Cold War between the European states led by the USA and the Eastern European states led by the Soviet Union resulted in the Iron Curtain being lowered along the border with the Czechoslovak Socialist Republic (CSSR) and the German Democratic Republic (GDR). The final division of Germany began with the construction of the Berlin Wall in 1961.  In Bavaria, the areas along the border with the (eastern) German Democratic Republic and Czechoslovakia were now 'zonal border areas'. The previously lively economic relations with eastern Germany and Czechoslovakia no longer existed, and the trade routes were largely blocked.  There was hardly any work in the towns west of the 'zone border'. Many travelled to the big cities such as Munich, Nuremberg and Regensburg to work week after week and only returned to their villages at the weekend. Others turned their backs on their homeland and settled further west in parts of the country where the economic miracle was in full swing, where there were jobs, schools, modern shops and leisure facilities.  To prevent impoverishment in the border zone, the Bavarian State supported the border region with economic programmes intended to make it attractive for businesses to settle here, for example, by subsidising wages.  My employer, Haaser & Co., therefore relocated its production from Augustenstraße in Munich to Furth im Wald in the Upper Palatinate district in 1961, right in the centre of the border zone with Czechoslovakia.  The company management asked me to go with them to Furth im Wald for the time being to train the new workforce. The boom in stocking production in Munich was slowing down noticeably at this time. Closures and migration to rural regions were the order of the day. So I went with them to the Upper Palatinate.  During these months, my little family often visited my parents-in-law's farm in Loipfering in Lower Bavaria. This way, I could at least manage the 110 kilometres between Furth im Wald and Loipfering over the weekend to be with my family. Between Munich, where we lived in a room with my aunt in a typical traditional flat at Maistraße 4, and Furth im Wald were almost 200 km. At that time, there was no motorway, so one had to drive along minor roads and through villages. The journey would have taken far too long for a weekend. You also have to bear in mind that people were still working on Saturdays back then.  I had known that I wouldn't have a future with Haaser and Co. in Furth im Wald, but the fact that they sacked me a few weeks before Christmas after I had completed my work there really hit me. After all that hard work, I would have loved to have received my Christmas bonus.  Parcel deliverer - a vocation  The Christmas period is not the best time to look for a job. So, I was unemployed for a while, and it didn't feel like a holiday this time. After Christmas, I secured an employment contract as an insurance agent at Frankfurter Versicherungs AG. I was now often out in the evenings and at weekends advising customers. Neither I nor my wife enjoyed such a life. This work was definitely detrimental to family life.  The year 1962 also held some positive surprises for us.  Our little daughter Brigitte was born in October 1962, making us a family of four.  Because life with two children in one room was very stressful, my mother used her connections with the housing association in Neuhausen. As a result, we were awarded a 65-square-metre flat at Erhard-Auer-Straße 8, which we moved into in November 1962 and where we still live today.  However, I still had to continue to work as an insurance agent until March 1964. I am a positive person and always look for and find the good things in everything, but my dissatisfaction with this job grew and grew.  My father, who had already worked as an employee and later as a civil servant at the Deutsche Post (the German Mail Office) after the war, persuaded me to work there too.  I had never dreamed of becoming a civil servant. It was definitely not my career aspiration, and I couldn't imagine what a post office job would be like.  But I followed my father's advice and became a parcel deliverer at the post office in 1964. It turned out that this job was my calling. The independence at work, namely in the Postbus on the roads in my district, getting to know and dealing with my customers, gave me great pleasure throughout my life.  In 1970, I became a civil servant, and in 1995, I took early retirement with a heavy heart following the privatisation of Deutsche Post.  I have experienced a lot and gained unique experiences in all these years.  Experiences from the world of parcel deliverers  Together with a colleague, I will tell what it feels like when you want to drive off in a fully loaded Postbus but suddenly have the free-swinging gear lever in your hand. Or why does a parcel delivery driver sit in the car and cry? We also want to tell you about our good relationships with our customers, about the 'Rosenkavalier' (the Knight of the Rose, an opera by Richard Strauss), the hero of everyday life and about the search for recipients on the large construction site of the hospital in Großhadern.  (HB)  Sources and background information on the contemporary phenomena mentioned:  Further information on the history of education and pedagogy:    https://www.br.de/nachrichten/deutschland-welt/pruegelstrafe-in-deutschland-ein-historischer-rueckblick,TGOW2Et    https://www.deutschlandfunk.de/pruegeln-verboten-vom-langen-kampf-fuer-die-kinderrechte-100.html    https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Schwarze_P%C3%A4dagogik    In the 1950s, the education of children and young people was strongly characterised by the ideas of enlightenment education, which aimed to drive out the feral nature of children and young people and instil reason. From 1977 onwards, there was a name for this violent pedagogy, which also relied on intimidation: Black Pedagogy. (Katharina Rutschky, ' Black Pedagogy ' )  It was not until 1973 that corporal punishment was banned in schools in the German federal states and in Bavaria only ten years later. In 2000, the following was enshrined in Section 1631 of the German Civil Code: ' Children have a right to a non-violent upbringing. Physical punishment, psychological injury and other degrading measures are not permitted. ' It is also interesting to note that corporal punishment in schools was abolished in Finland as early as 1914, in the German Democratic Republic (GDR) in 1949 and in the Federal Republic of Germany (FRG) only between 1973 and 1983.  _____________________________________________________________________ Further information on prices and purchasing power in the 1950s: https://www.was-war-wann.de/1900/1950/preise-1954.html    To better appreciate the value and purchasing power of the 8 DM apprentice salary, some selected food prices from 1954 are listed here: 1 kilogram of butter/ DM 6.32; 1 kilogram of pork/ DM 5.19; 1 kilogram of coffee/ DM 27.50; 1 kilogram of potatoes/ DM 0.45; 1 egg/ DM 0.22;  _____________________________________________________________________  Further information on morality in the 50s:   https://www.ndr.de/geschichte/chronologie/Vater-Mutter-Kind-Moral-und-Frauenrolle-in-den-50er-Jahren,frauenrolle100.html    According to official surveys, in the early years of the Federal Republic of Germany, almost three-quarters of new marriages have a child on the way. However, pregnancies were not openly discussed, and pregnant bellies were hidden under flowing maternity clothes. According to the prevailing morals, sexuality was not an issue, recalls Hanna Laux: ' I didn't talk about sexual matters with my friends either. We were pigtail girls, shy and harmless to the point of ' no more ' . ' __________________________________________________________________  Further information on the textile industry and hosiery production in Bavaria:   https://www.historisches-lexikon-bayerns.de/Lexikon/Textilindustrie#Wiederaufbau_nach_dem_Zweiten_Weltkrieg    In Bavaria, numerous hosiery companies specialising in the production of fine Nylon stockings ventured into a new start, such as Elbeo from Saxony, which first moved to Augsburg, or Kunert from Bohemia, which settled in Immenstadt. Even the well-known textile company Dierig relocated its headquarters from Langenbielau (Bielawa) in Lower Silesia to Augsburg, where it had already owned the Mechanical Weaving Mill on Mühlbach since January 1918. Of almost 1,380 Bavarian textile companies in September 1955, around 42% were owned by refugees and displaced persons, most of which were small businesses. The Bavarian textile industry grew in the wake of the so-called economic miracle. By 1957, the number of employees had risen to a peak of 119,688. In Augsburg alone, 17,500 people were employed in this industry. (...)  The year 1957 marked a momentous turning point in the history of the German textile industry, as the volume of foreign textile imports exceeded the volume of German exports for the first time. These imports initially came from Western Europe, such as France and Belgium, and over the years, they have also increasingly come from Eastern Europe, such as the German Democratic Republic (GDR), Poland, Czechoslovakia, Romania, and Bulgaria. The liberalised foreign trade responsible for this - together with the reduction in customs duties - began to negatively impact Bavarian textile companies, which often had a low export quota. This was the beginning of a profound structural crisis in the textile industry in Bavaria. __________________________________________________________________  Further information on conscientious objection in the FRG:   https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kriegsdienstverweigerung_in_Deutschland#Grundrecht    https://www.bpb.de/themen/militaer/deutsche-verteidigungspolitik/203136/die-wehrpflicht-eine-historische-betrachtung/    The fundamental right to conscientious objection was enshrined in the German Constitution in 1948. However, this did not mean that the State created appropriate structures for dealing with conscientious objectors after rearmament and the founding of the Bundeswehr in the Federal Republic of Germany (FRG). __________________________________________________________________  Further information on the borderland programme in the 1960s:  https://www.historisches-lexikon-bayerns.de/Lexikon/Grenzlandproblematik_(nach_1918)#Das_Bayerische_Grenzlandprogramm_von_1954    https://www.historisches-lexikon-bayerns.de/Lexikon/Grenzlandproblematik_(after_1918)    The Bavarian border region was severely disadvantaged economically by the Iron Curtain on the border with Czechoslovakia and the GDR. The Bavarian state government, therefore, launched programmes to support the region's economic structure.

-Munich 1939 to 1945 -  (DE) When I was born in Munich on 23 May 1939, the world was on the brink, and very few people were aware of it.  The year I was born, 1939, was a landmark year for Germany and for the whole of Europe, marking massive preparations for war and, ultimately, the start of the Second World War with the invasion of Poland on 1 September.   Throughout the year, gradually, the Nazis took measures to prepare Germany and the Germans for war.  - In January, Jews, from business managers to craftsmen, members of co-operatives and the self-employed, were removed from their posts in all sectors by a "decree for the elimination of Jews from economic life".  -In March, the German Wehrmacht occupied the remaining parts of the Czech Republic in breach of the Munich Agreement.  -In April, Hitler instructed the Wehrmacht leadership to prepare for the Polish campaign.  -In May, Italy and Germany concluded a treaty of alliance.  -In August, Germany and the Soviet Union concluded a non-aggression pact with a secret additional protocol in which Poland would be divided between them once it had been conquered. -At the beginning of the war, food was rationed in Germany, and ration cards were introduced.    So, I spent the first phase of my childhood in the war. I knew nothing else. Six years after I was born, in May 1945, when I started school some months later, the world was a different place, a world of ruins, hunger and chaos. But people had no idea of all this in the spring of 1939 because, as a contemporary, one does not have the overview of a historian and is fully occupied with coping with everyday life.  Starting a family in the middle of the war My mother Anna and my father Johann were delighted to have their first-born, me.  They lived in a small flat on the third floor of a block of flats at Gollierstraße 36 on Schwanthalerhöhe in Munich. My father worked as a hairdresser in our neighbourhood, so nothing stood in the way of starting a family.  The Schwanthalerhöhe district, also known as Westend, was originally a working-class neighbourhood developed during industrialisation and railway construction. Even in my childhood, the so-called "little people" lived here in simple-built apartment blocks.  My maternal grandmother also lived in our neighbourhood, at Guldeinstraße 41, and the fact that she had an allotment just around the corner in Barthstraße was a stroke of luck for all of us. A little bit of nature and some fruit and vegetables certainly helped against the ever-increasing lack of food in the first years of the war.  Were my parents aware of the threat of war even before my father was called up at the beginning of the war? Probably yes, because my family were staunch social democrats and trade unionists suspicious of the National Socialists' policies.  My maternal grandfather was sent to the Dachau concentration camp after the Nazis seized power in 1933.  He was a member of the SPD and an employee at Bayerpost, where he was an active trade union member. The smashing of the free trade unions and the internment of trade union representatives from 2 May 1933, to nip any resistance in the bud, sent my grandfather to a concentration camp. He was not to return home until 1943, wholly emaciated and terminally ill. He died shortly after his release. Unfortunately, I never got to know him. My mum and grandma were my main carers during those first years of the war. Grandpa was in a concentration camp, and my father was at the front from the very beginning of the war and very rarely came home on leave.  Nights of bombing and wailing siren s  Many women had to cope with everyday life alone at this time. It became tough for the civilian population from 1942 onwards, when the bombing of Munich by the Allies steadily increased. I have very intense and traumatic memories from this time, even though I was only three years old. For example, I remember standing stiff and rigid with fear in bed. The wailing of the sirens goes right through me. I instinctively realise that this eerie sound is a warning of something, but not of what. I'm three years old and terrified, while my mum desperately tries to put something on me so that we can seek shelter in the basement like the other residents of the house. Everyone rushes down the stairs, carrying their most essential belongings in bags and suitcases. There are chairs in the cellar corridors. I'm sitting on my mum's lap and am completely numb with fear. Some neighbours are crying silently to themselves. Some children are howling loudly in panic.  What the adults knew, but we children thankfully did not, was that the residents in this cellar were actually not protected from bombs. This air-raid shelter in our house was not one of the 24 air-raid shelters built in Munich. An ordinary cellar like this was neither deep enough nor did it have sufficient safety features such as reinforced thick ceilings and walls, doors, air shafts and the like. I suspect that this lack of security prompted my mother, during another night-time alarm, to walk with me on her hand along Gollierstraße towards Theresienwiese, where she knew a pub that at least had lower-level or more secure shelters. My memory of this is still very vivid in all my senses today. As we run, I hear the sirens and incredibly loud and harsh barking that must have come from giant dogs. It seems to me that we are rushing straight towards them. My instincts urge me to flee from the dogs. But my mother resolutely pulls me onwards until we reach the bomb shelter.  It was a disturbing, surreal experience for me.  I only learnt many years later what the barking of the dogs was all about. The anti-aircraft defences stationed on the Theresienwiese fired at the bombers in the night sky for all they were worth. The shots of an anti-aircraft gun really do sound like the rough, angry barking of a pack of big dogs. I can still hear the sirens in my memory. I also remember the air raid sirens day and night. These impressions, these experiences, and this fear are deeply engraved in my memory.   Today, I know that in 1942, I didn't experience the worst air raids. In 1942, the Allies were just beginning to bomb Munich. The attacks were still sporadic. They became more frequent until July 1944, when the city was the most heavily attacked and heavily destroyed in a continuous bombardment.  Evacuation - Warngau time  But by then, we no longer lived in Schwanthalerhöhe; we lived on a farm in Warngau near Holzkirchen. Only my grandmother had to hold out in the town and endure the bombing days and nights. She was no longer a young mother and, in the opinion of the National Socialists, didn't need any special protection.  However, young mothers with children were evacuated from Munich from the spring of 1943 onwards, and it was not easy for my mother to give up her home indefinitely and live somewhere in the countryside in unfamiliar surroundings with unfamiliar people. But there was nothing to be done; the safety and care of the children came first. My little sister was born on 4 May 1943. It was almost impossible to cope with shortages due to the war economy and the nights of bombing with a four-year-old and a newborn. So, she resigned herself and left Munich for the south with a heavy heart. But when, months later, she and the other adults looked towards Munich at night from the hill of the Stauchhof, where we were billeted, and watched the "Christmas trees" over the city, she knew, of course, that she and her children were better off on the farm. The harmless term "Christmas tree" stood for the Allied flares used to mark the targets of a bombing raid. "Christmas trees" over Munich meant that the city would be bombed shortly afterwards.  However, we were safe at the Stauchhof, about one kilometre from Warngau. Warngau is about five kilometres south of Holzkirchen near Munich. That spring of 1943, my mother, my newborn sister, and I travelled by train to Warngau, where we were picked up in a horse-drawn carriage and taken to the farm. There, we moved into a room on the ground floor, and I know from my mother's notes that she worked on the farm to feed us children. Like everywhere else, I think there was a labour shortage in the countryside, so everyone who could lend a hand counted. Of course, I wasn't much help at the age of four or five. But I made friends with the farmer's grandson, who was about my age and was also called Hans, as I was. The problems of the adults didn't bother us. We played obliviously, as children do, and proudly helped out where we could do more good than harm—for example, helping with the harvest in the fields.  And that's where the war caught up with us in 1944. We saw several aeroplanes flying over Warngau from Munich when one dropped a silver thing right over our field. Everyone stared upwards, mesmerised. But then chaos broke out. The adults shouted to the children to run away quickly and get to safety. What was falling on us had to be a bomb! Everybody was running and screaming. I ran towards the hay barn as fast as my little legs could. I reached the supposedly protective building not a second too soon when the thing hit the ground about 50 metres from the barn and - didn't explode. When everyone dared to breathe again, had calmed down and ventured closer to the "dud", they realised it was not a bomb but a spare fuel tank. At that time, aeroplanes carried such fuel tanks as a reserve to increase their range and dropped them when they were empty.  Once we had recovered from the shock, we took the tank with the hay cart to the yard, where the village policeman inspected it and arranged for it to be collected later. We were not allowed to keep it. Father's return before the end of the war  It should have been clear to everyone in February 1945 that the war would end soon.  -The 6th Army of the Wehrmacht had already been forced to surrender in Stalingrad in February 1943. -In the summer of 1943, the American 7th Army landed in Sicily. -A year later, in 1944, the Allies landed in Normandy on D-Day, and the Russian Red Army offensive pushed the Wehrmacht further and further back into German territory within the borders before the war began. The war was lost for Germany, especially for the National Socialists. Only stubborn fanatics could still believe in victory through a miracle weapon. And yet it was life-threatening to talk about the end of the war and no longer believe in Germany's victory. Alois, my mother's brother, had been sent home on sick leave in February 1945 to recover from a wound. Given the course of the war, family members and friends pleaded with him on his recovery not to return to his unit at the front as ordered. "We'll hide you", friends offered. But Alois didn't want to risk it because refusing to fulfil your orders was desertion, which was punishable by death. The many death sentences carried out under the law during this period show that my uncle Alois' fears were not unjustified. And so, a few weeks before the end of the war, he went back to the front, not out of conviction, but out of fear of being executed. For weeks after the end of the war, my grandmother hopefully looked out of her kitchen window in the direction of the Guldein School, where returnees, prisoners of war and soldiers were being released. She hoped for his return until one day when a priest came to tell her that her son Alois had died in a river crossing in Langenargen near Lake Constance a few days before the end of the war. My father's fate was more fortunate, as he returned to us before the end of the war, injured but alive and full of vigour. Thanks to my mother's field post letters, he knew where to look for us. Not in Munich, but near Warngau on the Stauchhof.  He was in a military hospital in the Czech Republic with a shot wound in the thigh at the beginning of March 1945, when the hospital was closed because the Red Army was advancing unstoppably. The danger of being overrun could no longer be denied. The orders were given to flee as quickly as possible to avoid becoming a Russian prisoner of war. For a man with a shot through the thigh, escaping on foot was, of course, not really an option.  My father later told me that he was probably saved from being taken prisoner of war by an officer who gave him a lift in a military vehicle to Rosenheim. From there, it was 36 kilometres to Warngau, about nine hours of hard marching. With his injury, that would hardly have been possible. But he was able to hitchhike his way to the Stauchhof. Of course, my mum was delighted that her husband was with her and was in relatively good health. But the man was only well known to my mother and was a stranger to me. It took me a while to realise how important this man was to our family. Alongside my mother, he provided protection and security for us children as a father. In those days of chaos, uncertainty and shortage, this was not that easy.  My father was in a very precarious situation as his status was unclear.  Not because of his wound. The wound healed quickly and didn't hinder him. But the fact that he hadn't been officially discharged from the Wehrmacht due to his escape from the military hospital, i.e. that he didn't have a corresponding stamp in his military service record book, could well cost him his head. Because without a discharge stamp, he was actually a deserter. But even if he had not fallen into the hands of any of the fanatical Nazis of the last days of the war, he would not have been able to accept any official work without this stamp. The risk of being hanged by the SS or not being able to feed his family because he couldn't work was too great for him. The offence of "forging documents" seemed less severe to him. So, he made a stamp to certify his discharge from the Wehrmacht. Problem solved! While still in Warngau, he pursued his trade as a hairdresser at the Kienzle barbers.  My father's ability to act consistently and decisively ensured a certain stability in our family. But there was pure chaos all around us. The chaos of the last days of the war  On the Berghammer farm, no more than 100 metres from the Stauchhof, a Wehrmacht unit that had been billeted there was disbanded in the war's final days. There were rumours that it was a Waffen SS unit. The soldiers could no longer be correctly identified, as they removed their uniforms and all signs and symbols of their military affiliation. Just threw them away! The once proud Hitler supporters didn't want to be seen as Nazis by the Americans. But apparently, they still had better supplies than the rest of the population, at least with cigarettes, which were very expensive then. I know this because I sometimes had to get cigarettes for my father there, which I managed to do. Scattered soldiers kept turning up at the Stauchhof farm, not knowing where to go in these confused times. The Stauch farmer's wife gave them makeshift accommodation in the hay barn, where they had to hide from the SS and wait to be liberated by the Americans. Not only did the soldiers wait for the Americans, but the entire population of Warngau looked toward Holzkirchen, where they knew the Americans had already marched in. The atmosphere was extremely tense, and the adults waited anxiously for what would come. When a car drove along the country lane towards our farm at the end of April, the time had finally come. The war was over! But I, not quite six years old, was disappointed. Not because the war was over. I couldn't understand that at the time. I had never known a time of peace. I hadn't experienced that in the first six years of my life.  No, I was disappointed with the Americans. I had been so curious to see what they would look like, these Americans that everyone constantly talked about. But they looked just like us! Almost like the German soldiers! I found that quite irritating. I also didn't really understand why the German soldiers in our yard had to get on a lorry shortly afterwards and be taken away. But even the adults didn't know what would happen to them. I sensed the insecurity of the adults, of course, and I instinctively suspected that big changes were in store for us. I indeed overheard my parents' conversations in which they made plans for the future and planned my return to Munich, taking into account my school enrolment in September 1945. But, of course, I didn't really understand what it was all about. This new world, this new life, was not a continuation of my previous life. It was a new beginning with all kinds of unknown circumstances. Today, parents ensure their children are prepared for a possible move and the start of school. Back then, this was not common practice and perhaps not even possible. Returning to Munich by bike  The first big change in my life was that I was taken away in the summer of 1945, away from my mother, my little sister, the Stauchhof, my friend, and everything else that had been my life until then.  My father packed me and a few things onto his bike, and we cycled on the motorway from Holzkirchen to Munich. My mother and little sister stayed behind on the farm for the time being. I remember we stopped at forest aisles to inspect the German Luftwaffe aeroplanes parked there, which were unguarded, for anything useful. My father dismantled one of the radios, but what for, I don't know. Perhaps he needed it to barter for food on one of Munich's black markets.  Munich was a sad sight then: destroyed houses and rubble in the streets. Many people were busily walking around among the ruins, either to clear the roads of debris or to look for food sources or usable living space, to queue outside shops or to barter for something on the black market.  My father took me to my grandmother's house at Guldeinstraße 41. The front building, where my grandmother lived, was thankfully undamaged. But the rear building was in ruins. So, at the age of six, I was the first member of my family to return to Schwanthalerhöhe, which meant that my post-war school days soon began. (HB)

The ' Note Affair' from three perspectives  The girl in 1977  (DE) When she woke up alone in a strange bed on that June morning in 1977, she was delighted with how the situation between her and the object of her desire had developed.  The young man who owned this bed, indeed the entire stuffy, shabbily furnished student flat, was no longer there, but that didn't matter. They had spent the night together, which was the only thing that mattered.  For months, she had had her eyes on this broad-shouldered, good-looking senior student who, when you met him in seminar rooms, in the university cafeteria or the library, seemed extremely aloof, almost disinterested in university life and even in pretty female students.  He had also never appeared at the communal flats or various political organisations and circles where she moved. She had to grudgingly realise that he didn't frequent the local pubs she and her circle of friends visited. As there were many student pubs in Regensburg at the time, a targeted search was a hopeless endeavour.  However, she was relieved to realise right at the beginning of her passion for this lonesome wolf that he was studying German and politics like her. That way, she could ensure they ran into each other more often. Her effect on men would do the rest; she was sure of that.  Well, she was also in desperate need of some excitement this term, as she spent several hours a day on an intensive Latin course to take the Latin exam, a prerequisite for studying history and German in Bavaria. It wasn't much fun. She needed distraction.  But he was more than just a distraction; he was a challenge. He was a man she didn't understand. She couldn't see or feel where he came from, what he stood for and where he wanted to go. All her friends and the flatmates in the communes had ideas of a more unrestrained way of life. They boasted about their life tasks and ideals, were curious about new experiences, were keen to experiment, and shunned conformity and stuffiness like the devil shuns holy water.  She found none of this in him. Only in a few moments did she sense that he was also searching but very reserved, almost inhibited and seemed highly suspicious of any emphatic or idealistic behaviour. His sarcasm was unusual and sobering for her but also challenging.  So, she had ended up in bed with him and didn't want to give up now. On the contrary, she felt she was entitled to a romance after all her efforts. She liked him and wanted to turn his indecision into determination.  It was, therefore, strategically better not to wait in bed for him to return from his student job as a postman but to disappear, make herself scarce while at the same time not leaving another date to chance.  So she left him a note: 'If you want to see me again, come to the afterlife". The father, in 1977  On the way to his son's student room on the southern outskirts of Regensburg, he racked his brains as to what to do next with his son. His youngest offspring had just passed his master's degree in political science with a minor in German studies and was now an academic. A success! But not yet a career. Even better than a simple academic would be a civil servant academic; perhaps even with a doctorate, his son would be the family's first and only one.  After the war, he and his wife Maria moved from a small village in the middle of the Bavarian Forest further and further towards the city until they finally settled in Landshut in a lovely owner-occupied flat.  Although they came from simple, almost poor rural backgrounds, they had built up a very decent middle-class life. He was able to prove himself as a policeman and became a detective.  The fact that his son could now achieve a much higher social status and would undoubtedly do so in the future filled him with great satisfaction and pride.  Today, he wanted to talk to his son about these ideas for the future. He would tell him how a degree in politics and German studies could lead to a respected, secure and well-paid job. If he needed anything else, he and his wife would support him. But the boy had to do something now, something meaningful, something profound, something proper, something practical! He wanted to make that clear to him.  However, when he entered the attic room his son rented as a lodger, it was empty. The bed hadn't been made, and nobody had tidied up either.  Good thing Maria couldn't see that! She would immediately roll up her sleeves and tidy up, complaining and grumbling, casting an extremely interested eye over this and that detail. He grinned.   Well, he thought to himself, he might as well rummage around a bit while he had the chance. Then he wouldn't have come for nothing. Perhaps he would find clues about his son's future plans. As a criminal investigator, you were blessed with a particular gift for deduction!  And then a handwritten note fell into his hands: 'If you want to see me again, come to the afterlife'. Oh my goodness! Some foolish woman wanted to seduce his son into committing suicide together!   As a "Woidler" (a forest man), as the stoic men of the Bavarian Forest are called in Bavaria, he was well aware of melancholy. It was a natural, but not significant, part of the general state of mind in the Bavarian Forest. At any rate, nobody really wanted to kill themselves, no matter how hard fate struck.  He had also heard much about the wild and crazy student life in the big cities. The things these female students had on their minds! Even suicide! As a criminal investigator, he had already come across suicides. But his son and a madwoman like that?  At the next opportunity, he would feel his son's tail and find out who he was hanging around with. With such indirect eavesdropping, which he had mastered quite well professionally, he would find out whether his son needed to be warned about this suicidal woman. He could get into hot water if she really did kill herself.  The son in the year 2024  Yes, what must he have thought, my poor father, when he read that: 'If you want to see me again, come to the afterlife'.  He had just appeared as a witness in a Regensburg court. This was a regular duty for the investigating detective. He had become accustomed to appearing before judges and public prosecutors. I never noticed him getting into the car nervously in the morning on such days. However, the defendants' lawyers sometimes seemed to have him in a tight spot because, as I know from occasional comments, he was not on good terms with them. Ticked off. Such trips to court were always a bit of a holiday. Away from the smoke-filled offices where the interrogation protocols were hacked into the typewriters non-stop. Away from the creaking corridors and the repurposed high stucco rooms in the old Landshut mansion, where several dozen men and a few female detectives competed fiercely. After the court appearance, there was always a little time to take a deep breath and stroll around. A snack break in a pub on the way home; a short visit to one of the two brothers in Regensburg, still with the hard, chiselled seriousness that a court appearance leaves behind. Today, for once, there was even more time. He had never visited his son's student accommodation in the previous five or six years. He never bothered his son in the university town, which was only an hour away, because his son knew what he was doing. And how right he was. Recently, the family hopeful had scored top marks in his exams. So what could be more natural than to surprise him at his home today, to the delight of them both? After all, the years of hard academic work had borne fruit. All their hopes had been fulfilled. Their son's future life would feel like a perfectly polished slide.  I still don't know how he knew which of the many student accommodations in Regensburg he would find me in. I had moved out of my shared flat a few months earlier because of my exams. There were too many binges, too much youthful surrogate family, and too little stamina and discipline, which I only painstakingly painted on the wall at the weekends with my parents. Nor do I know how he managed to enter the room. Was the door unlocked? Had he won over the young woman living on the ground floor as an accomplice? Had he perhaps even held the police badge, which he was wearing on a chain in his trouser pocket, under her nose? In any case, I can rule out the possibility that he had to search long before the ominous piece of paper with the ticket to the afterlife fell into his hand. After the exams, I radically got rid of books, folders, papers and other study stuff. Only the shifts at the Regensburg post office had to be survived. Anything written, though, reliably put me into a deep sleep. From today's perspective, I would like to help my father understand what he read. It's just a stupid misunderstanding, Dad. This isn't the afterlife you're thinking of. It's just a student pub. I'm glad you're here. Quite surprising, I wasn't expecting it. But now let's do something great together, which we have never done. Man, I'm exhausted from the night shift.  Instead, he stands alone in the untidy room. The dishevelled bed sends no message; if it does, it's not a good one. Nothing else in this absurdly empty place is cosy, beautiful or inspires confidence. But above all, I'm not there and can't resolve the misunderstanding. I can't make him think more pleasant thoughts. Only in my imagination do I see the film of how the day ends for him. Maybe he won't stay long in this room where the air is suddenly stale. Perhaps he no longer has an eye for the sympathetic woman downstairs who has unlocked the door for him and whom he now walks past like a zombie. I can't imagine that he laughed at himself and the tricky note on the journey back to Landshut. The man had seen too many actual suicides, probably of young, desperate people, in his police career. And he never laughed anyway; at best, he smiled. But I still marvel to this day at the composure with which he brought the matter to an end that day. He didn't raise hell to save his son from danger, as I would almost certainly have done in the same situation. As a policeman, he would have known where to press the alarm buttons in such cases. He drove home, and the day turned out differently than he had imagined. Perhaps he would turn up at the nicotine-infested police villa that afternoon and plunge into the protocols for the next real suicide. He probably spoke to my mum that evening about the scribbled message, and she reassured him. There is no real imminent danger. Who knows what they write to each other? Why did you visit him if you didn't even know he was there? It's your own fault. It's quite possible that this familiar marital speech helped him to re-calibrate. His worries about his son, to whom he was so close, probably subsided after this lecture. No one could harm his offspring, not even someone who left such odd messages in a shabby flat.   However, I realised a few weeks later that he wasn't indifferent to the note affair. And now my memories are, admittedly, quite hazy. I know that he took me aside on one occasion, probably at the weekend at my parents' house, and warned me about the author of the note. I know he gave the warning quietly but firmly. I remember first being taken aback and then laughing with relief when I told him the amazingly simple solution to the riddle. And to my shame, there is also the memory of the secret joy that flashed through my mind for seconds. It serves you right; why are you rummaging around in my room and reading messages that are none of your business? Because today, and I know this for a fact, I would like to comfort him, greet him laughing at the door, throw the note in the corner and keep him from going home for as long as possible. (SAGT.)

(DE) "The horizon was so vast back then", Fips, my friend and former flatmate, muses when we meet up almost 50 years after our time together in our student flat. Fips, his wife Hanne and I are sitting in the garden of his atrium house on a hot summer afternoon, sifting through our memories of our time together in a communal flat in Regensburg in the 1970s. I had asked for this conversation because when I wrote my article on shared flat experiences, the memories of this commune seemed so wonderful. Too good! I suspected I was embellishing. So, I approached a founding member to get closer to reality. Four friends for a life together At this time, we were two university student couples who decided to look for a flat and somehow live together as a commune in a new way of living. There was no particular ideological background, and we didn't suffer from a housing shortage as we each had a small, affordable flat. However, Fips, his then-partner Ingrid and I had been close friends for years. We travelled together, discussed relationship problems, new experiences and the like. Our last big adventure, an overland trip to and across India over several months, had brought my then-boyfriend Heinz into the circle of friends. We knew each other well. We liked each other. We wanted to spend our student years together. The first challenge was to find a landlord who wanted to rent a flat to four students. In the 1970s, quite a few shared flats were already in Regensburg. Still, the prejudices of the relatively conservative citizens of Regensburg were based on the reports about the immoral, drug-infested revolutionary milieu in the communes in big cities like Berlin. Pictures and reports of the famous Commune 1 in Berlin had made it into the living rooms of respectable people. Naturally, they stimulated their imagination about what might happen in flat-sharing communities. There was a fear of attracting "deadbeats" to the time-honoured apartment buildings. At the same time, most young families preferred to move into the much better-equipped new buildings on the city's outskirts. They were not exactly queuing up for flats in old buildings without central heating that needed renovation or at least refurbishment. Fifty years later, neither of us could say why we were offered a beautiful flat in an old building in Von-der-Tann-Straße, on the edge of Regensburg's old town. Our willingness to renovate was probably the deciding factor. We scraped old newspapers from under the wallpaper and were even happy to see what we had uncovered. The fact that there was no central heating but individual oil stoves, for which the oil had to be regularly dragged in heavy cans from the cellar to the first floor, did not detract from our enjoyment of this flat. We divided the four unevenly sized rooms so that each couple had the same size. One room could only be accessed via one of the other two rooms, which was a drawback but didn't bother us. It wasn't a problem in the end. You could always get through one of them; the doors were usually open anyway. Our bathroom had a huge boiler and space for a washing machine, but we had to hang the drain hose in the bathtub. Everyone always adhered to the rule "Never shower when the washing machine is running". At that time, having a bathroom was not a matter of course in the old flats in Regensburg, many of which were occupied by students. Fips remembers that at the end of the 1970s, Hanne's sisters still regularly turned up to shower in our flat because they didn't have a bathroom. The separate toilet was also highly convenient. With four plus x residents, you appreciate little things like that. And we enjoyed decorating the painstakingly renovated flat in the spirit and flavour of the 70s. The walls were very colourfully painted or wallpapered in fashionable green-brown-orange tones. For seating, there was nothing better than mattresses covered in green or brown corduroy on the floor, which could be spread out to sleep on. Wicker lamps, very modern at the time, provided a somewhat subdued light. Those who wanted to feel particularly cosy, such as our flatmate Ingrid, laid out flokati carpets all over the room. The lightness of a communal flat atmosphere But the best thing was the eat-in kitchen with a small balcony overlooking the inner courtyard. Of course, a fitted kitchen was not an option. On the contrary! We rummaged through classified ads for secondhand furnishings of all kinds, useful and cosy, a cooker and fridge, an old kitchen buffet and a sofa. There's nothing better for a communal flat than to have a large, cosy kitchen like this. Community life took place in this room. "There was always someone there," said Fips during our conversation, "when you came into the kitchen to talk to someone." That also tallies with my memories. If you wanted to socialise, you went into the kitchen. If you wanted peace and quiet, you stayed in your room and closed the door. "I was the first person in the commune to set off on the march through the institutions by starting my teacher traineeship," recalls Fips. "That meant I had to get up much earlier than everyone else and, therefore, go to bed much earlier. But as the kitchen was a long way from my room, I wasn't disturbed by the chatter and singing there. I was able to sleep peacefully. However, my flatmates were not necessarily granted peace and quiet at 7.00 a.m., their bedtime, when my 2 CV (Citroen) once again failed to start in winter. I then got them out of bed to push. My flatmates were usually too tired to grumble, but they pushed until the 2CV got going." Even today, I still think wistfully of this option of a completely informal, uncomplicated form of communal living. What's more, a wide variety of visitors turned up. Every member of the flat share had their own circle of friends and acquaintances, siblings or partners, etc.They were all welcome - by the hour, by the day or for weeks at a time. Some travelled through on their way from Berlin to Bologna to study in what was then called the city of the Left. Not only students from all kinds of disciplines came to stay with us, but also professionals, globetrotters, mothers with children... There was always a place to sleep for a few nights or a spot on the kitchen sofa for a few hours. I still remember one weekend evening when Fips came home from a school assignment in another city. Shortly after his arrival, he came to us into the kitchen and presented with pointed fingers a pair of greyish male pants he had found in his bed. "I don't mind if someone sleeps in my bed when I'm not there, but they should take their pants with them!" he told us, slightly annoyed. Given these pants, we could understand his concern well. We, the core residents, so to speak, were always curious about the stories, plans and experiences of others. For example, a couple of vets stayed in our flat for a few weeks. "Those were exciting conversations, be it in our kitchen or in our favourite pub, the Schwedenkugel, about their work experience at the abattoir and about this completely different professional field," Fips remembers clearly decades later. This diversity was stimulating, sometimes exciting, sometimes annoying, but always highly interesting. It broadened all our horizons and gave us a sense of freedom. Everything was in motion. Of course, this also affected the members of the flat share. Relationships broke up, and new ones were forged, which led to people moving out and moving in. When we met after all these years, we could no longer reliably reconstruct who lived in which room and when. After three years, in the autumn of 1977, when I also left the flat share to study in Berlin, only Fips was left of the founding members. However, there were never any applications from outsiders. It was always people from our circle of friends who wanted and got the vacant room. The excellent cuisine in our commune I can't say whether it was because we appreciated good food. But it could well be because delicious food was vital to us. And we had our tricks and strokes of luck when sourcing good food despite our small household budget. We bought meat and sausages from the abattoir, where the products were much cheaper because they came from animals that had been emergency slaughtered. In general, we made sure to put good products on the table, within our means. There was never any tension over food and drink. Life was generous to us, so we were too. However, the highlight of our culinary endowment was the return of our flatmate Heinz from his annual summer holiday in Sorrento, where his sister and her family lived. His brother-in-law was a  connoisseur of the highest order, so Heinz brought along a whole host of southern Italian specialities in his Fiat 650, just like an Italian mum would have given her son: home-canned olives, tomatoes and aubergines, home-made tomato sauce, olive oil and red wine in large glass containers, preserved with olive oil on the neck. Heinz skilfully decanted this wine into smaller bottles, and we had an excellent wine on the table. This was quite different from our usual house wines, such as Lambrusco, Valpolicella, or Chianti Fiasco, which were cheap and came in two-litre bottles. Heinz generously shared his Italian treasures with us and his exceptional cooking skills. "His goulash is still unrivalled", Fips and Hanne unanimously stated when we recalled our memories. For my part, I've never had another fillet Wellington like the one prepared by Heinz. That was quite delicious. Hanne's speciality was spaghetti vongole with tinned mussels and whipped cream. We loved it, partly because we didn't have to worry about cholesterol levels at that age. One year, we saved up money for a Christmas goose by playing card games, and on Christmas Eve, we stuffed it with chestnuts before putting it in the oven. Flatmate Gertrud was the lead cook. And it was a treat! Those of our friends who didn't have a home or didn't want to go home came to us. We mixed traditional Christmas food and anti-Christmas kitsch protest. People didn't have such a narrow view of things back then. Not even ideologically and politically. Of course, fundamental debates were also held in our kitchen. After all, different groups within the left-wing student community believed their analyses to be the only true ones and their solutions, too. We were all part of this scene at the university. But it would never have occurred to us to assert any claim to absoluteness at our kitchen table. I even know of a friend from the Department of Mathematics and Physics who was close to the CSU (conservative party). But it wasn't worth more than a shrug of the shoulders. Fanatics and fundamentalists didn't turn up at our table. We liked interesting, perhaps a little weird, but definitely open-minded people. And because we loved dining so much, we often organised vast meals with several courses, to which I usually contributed my apple strudel for dessert. These were gigantic feasts with many people, better than usual wine and the sounds of Heinz and John on the guitar and Richard playing the accordion. We sang songs by the Beatles, Stones, Kinks, ballads by Biermann and others. Richard was a source of versatile songs with his accordion. Everything from Bella Ciao to German folk songs and opera arias was included. Marvellous! For us anyway! For the neighbours, it was often an annoyance We were indeed a nuisance to our neighbours. The door to the kitchen balcony was usually open due to the heat and cigarette smoke, and a backyard like that has good acoustics. When we had a good time, the neighbours were probably all standing upright in their beds. It certainly wasn't malicious intent or indifference, but simply the inexperience of young people who think they're the centre of the world and can't understand that what's good for them isn't good for everyone. For example, we loved our clogs. They were clunky shoes made of wood and leather. When we walked in them down the long corridor, the neighbours below us must have felt a herd of cows was trampling over their heads. One day, the tenant below us vented her anger, and I think we tried to improve things. This neighbour also had no sympathy for the fact that a friend who went to study abroad for a few months stored his beloved wardrobe in the hallway next to our front door. Fips also thought it was strange but on the other hand.... None of us remembered what the flatmates then did with the wardrobe. I think we got on the nerves of the whole neighbourhood at least once. Fips and I both remember this blissful event. As we had done many times before, we had organised one of these great dinners and decided to go afterwards to the late screening at the Ostentor cinema, which was more or less around the corner. Strolling home after the show, perhaps inspired by the film, we discovered the street decorations for the next day's Corpus Christi procession. Due to our arch-Catholic childhood, we were very familiar with the rituals of this holiday and started our own procession. One of us held something up as a liturgical monstrance. The rest of us grabbed the birch branches that adorned the path and formed a procession. One of us ran ahead and knelt at the side of the path so that the procession also had followers who crossed themselves. Once we had passed, he overtook us and kneeled again. And, what must have been the last straw for the residents of the neighbourhood, when we sang Corpus Christi songs like "Meerstern ich dich grüße" with great enthusiasm accompanied by an accordion, presumably played by Richard. I can't remember anyone shouting abuse at us. In any case, nobody called the police to punish the nightly disturbance. I still don't understand why. Maybe it was the church hymns, so the residents were unsure whether it could be classified as disturbing the peace. But we didn't just get up to mischief. We also discussed, talked shop and worked in our kitchen. We learnt about the content of other study subjects and discussed them. Germanists, historians, educationalists, physicists, future doctors, and vets all had something to say to each other! We discussed Fips' first teaching sample at the kitchen table. And Alois' computer-controlled physics project for his diploma, an absolute novelty at the time, was also a topic of conversation at our kitchen table. That was quite something! Disharmony and arguments? After reminiscing enough about our fond memories that afternoon in 2023, I still tried to find a few flaws in this idyllic communal living. But for my former flatmate and old friend, nothing mattered. We never had any arguments about the money in the communal kitty. The cleaning schedule, which included the kitchen, bathroom and toilet, was more or less adhered to. Still, I remember being annoyed when the dishes piled up in the kitchen sink bucket so that I couldn't reach the tap. I was probably grumpy and often washed the dishes because my flatmates didn't see the need for such an action, but I did. I also remember Fips banging his fists against the bathroom door because he wanted to study for his exam while I sang at the top of my lungs in the adjacent bathroom under the shower. You have to know that I definitely can't sing. So, his request made sense to me immediately and didn't lead to any further frictions. Our communal living time in Regensburg was indeed a good period, and it shaped me. However, I think I was more needy than the other flatmates. I needed the security and reliability of a surrogate family because my family had split into two hostile camps, and there was no home for me beyond our communal flat. The coming and going of members and a certain emotional lack of commitment didn't help. Anyone could disappear at any time, never to be seen again. That was my sore point. The threat of loss loomed everywhere and always! Perhaps to avoid this, I left Regensburg for Berlin with my new boyfriend Günther in the autumn of 1977 to live in a way I didn't really want: Living in a flat in a close relationship with one partner, which meant social isolation and emotional dependence on a single person. But it wasn't to stay that way. In contrast to Fips, I tried again and again to repeat this experience of a true communal life, and twice more, I founded a commune. But this open spirit of broad horizons no longer emerged. Living together was much more narrow minded and severe. The Regensburg flat-share in Von-der-Tann-Straße was dissolved in July 1981 when Fips and his wife Hanne went to teach at the Amani secondary school in Kabul, Afghanistan. After that, the landlady rented the flat to a family again. (TA)

Great Britain, August 1978 As I drove along the coast of West Wales towards Barmouth, I had time to reflect on the impressions and incidents of my journey, which had taken me through England and Scotland. For three weeks, I had been driving around the country in my little yellow Renault 4 and had seen a lot and experienced a lot. I had set off from Berlin with two classmates from the School for Adult Education to get to know Great Britain and, in preparation for our A-level exams next year, to improve our English. Travelling by car was supposed to be an adventure, and it turned out to be an adventure! It turned out to be an adventure The first night after we left, we spent in the car, as there was no more ferry from Ostend to Dover. The next night, our first night in England, it initially looked like we would have to spend the night in the car again. All the hotels in the coastal town of Hastings were full. But with the help of a friendly policeman, whom we stopped on the street and asked for advice, we managed to find accommodation. He had mercy on us three young women and recommended a hotel a bit outside of town that still had a room available. The hotel was far too expensive for our taste and wallet, but we desperately needed sleep after the night in the car and a journey with obstacles. During the first miles on English soil, we had had to deal with a puncture. The flat tyre had caused my little car to lurch quite a bit until I could finally stop. Instead of complaining or grumbling, my fellow drivers immediately became active. I was enormously impressed by their skill. One set up the warning triangle, and the other pumped up the car with the jack. Fortunately, I knew where to find these things in my car, as I had already had to change a tyre myself several times. The tyre was quickly changed and patched at a petrol station, and we were on our way again. No problem. We had earned a good night's sleep in a hotel that was, unfortunately, far too expensive. The next day we travelled to London, where we parted ways, as we had different travel plans. I headed north to explore this part of the island. I chose budget options such as youth hostels and cheap bed & breakfasts for accommodation. I didn't have a set travel plan at the time, but I was open to suggestions and ideas from the many interesting people I met on the trip. In the youth hostels, I met young people from all over the world and sometimes we decided to travel together for a few days. My little car was often full of fellow travellers who shared the fuel costs. It was stimulating and very interesting, and my language skills developed because English was the language everyone used. No beer today - its Sunday So I finally arrived in North Wales yesterday, a Sunday, with a full car. After the long drive, I wanted to relax with a cold beer in the pub. But, unfortunately, I hadn't reckoned that alcohol was banned and would not be served on Sundays in Wales. So all the pubs were closed, and there was nowhere to get a beer. There was a rumour in the hostel that beer was available on Sundays at the campsite just outside the town. So a like-minded beer lover and I went in search of this campsite. Beware of the tide!! The signs led us along remote paths. The fact that there were often signs saying "Beware of the Tide!" didn't bother me in the least because I didn't know what a tide was. But the further we drove through the countryside towards the sea, the clearer the meaning of tide became to me. All around us, the water was rising. So the tide was coming in. Eventually, we were entirely surrounded by water. There was no chance of getting to the campsite, but no chance of getting back either. So keep calm and look for ways out! I drove the car up a small hill, hoping to escape the rising water. Then, miraculously, there was one of those red British telephone boxes. This meant we could let the hostel know we were stuck and wouldn't be coming to the hostel that night. The nice person at reception knew exactly where we were. It probably happened often with people who didn't know the place. He assured me my car was safe there and would not be washed away by the tide. He also described to me how we could get to the mainland and the hostel via a small path through the water. On foot, it would take a while, but he would leave the back door unlocked so we could get in late at night. A good and thoughtful man!!! Now it was just a matter of finding the narrow path through the water. In the meantime, it had become dark, which didn't exactly make the search easier. Luckily the moon was full, and with the torch from my car, we found it. A path about 50 centimetres wide stuck out of the water. That didn't look very confidence-inspiring! Should we really dare to do this? But the idea of sleeping in the car and constantly checking that the water didn't reach us wasn't very tempting either. On the other hand, the receptionist at the youth hostel sounded optimistic when he recommended the way. It was doable without falling into the water or wading through the tide. So we set off, by moonlight and with a torch, and carefully felt our way along the path. We had to cover several kilometres, but in the distance, we could see a few lights of the place, which we used to orientate ourselves. Is this Nessie beside us? We had almost reached the mainland when the water beside us suddenly became churned up. I was so startled that I lost my balance and almost fell into the water if my companion hadn't supported me. We stopped as if paralysed and stared at the water. Then, with a loud bubbling sound, three black figures with backpacks emerged from the water and went ashore. It looked very spooky! After a few seconds of shock, we realised they were divers with their oxygen tanks on their backs. Still strange at this time of day in this place! But relieved, we marched on and reached the youth hostel a while later without an end-of-day beer, but we had made it. In save haven - just about The next day I enquired about the best way to get to the island to pick up my car again. It turned out that someone would drive to the campsite in a van anyway and give me a lift to my car. However, time was pressing because the tide was coming back in. If I didn't want to get stuck again along with my car, it had to be quick. Not to panic! I quickly had my things packed, and I was ready to go. It all worked out. I found my car safe and free of water and finally drove off the island past the rising puddles and tideways. We were safe, my car and I. The journey continues towards new adventures I drove along the West Wales coastal road towards Barmouth, the next major town. With a smile, I remembered all the little difficulties I had overcome quite well. I rejoiced in life and looked forward to new adventures. Like the sea, the sun tried to come out from between the clouds and glistened silver-grey. It looked fantastic. Bang!! Bang!!! A loud boom! I banged my head against the windscreen. Completely bewildered, I sat in my stalled car. What was that? What had pulled me out of my blissful dreams?! Slowly, very slowly, I grasped the situation. I had seen the silver-grey rays of the sun and the silver-grey sea, but the parked silver-grey Rover at the side of the road had escaped me. I had hit it without braking. What bad luck. What should I do now? However, the answer to this question was taken from me. The loud bang attracted the residents to the street. Curiously, they surrounded my car. How embarrassing! Someone gently pulled me out of the vehicle. I took my handbag as a precaution so that nothing significant could be stolen. I was led into a house and sat in the living room chair. The many people around me were talking wildly. Whiskey - not tea - was offered An elderly lady, the woman of the house as it turned out later, offered me a glass of whiskey. It was 11 a.m. A bit early, I thought. But then I reckoned: What the hell! I could do with a sip of whiskey. After I had emptied my glass, I heard this woman say: "Can somebody call the police!". "Aha!" I thought to myself. "They got you drunk on whiskey so they could claim you were driving drunk. Friendliness and all that! Quite an intriguing lot!" I was upset and wanted to jump up and protest. But then a man came up and pushed me back on the chair. He was a doctor and the husband of the whiskey-giving woman and began examining me. He was very friendly, and my suspicions sank. He checked my pupils and my reflexes. But, as it seemed, I was not injured. My head hurt a bit, but I was usually tough. When the policeman finally arrived, he, too, was first handed a glass of whiskey, which he gratefully accepted. Then the people present discussed what should happen to me. That's how I learned that my hosts were the owners of the car I had hit. Fortunately, their heavy Rover had only got a few scratches. Nevertheless, I was shocked and horrified. I was also horribly embarrassed as I had never caused an accident before. But my car was severely damaged and unusable for the time being. I had ruined my beloved car all by myself. It had always been a pleasure to enjoy the freedom of the road and to drive towards some adventure. What a fiasco! A good turn I couldn't think straight, so I apathetically followed the suggestions of the people who took care of me. But, unlike me, they knew what to do. A neighbour took me in for a few days. She let me use a children's room and fed me. I ate the roast lamb with mint sauce at her place for the first time in my life. Despite all my prejudices, it tasted delicious. The owners of the damaged car very helpfully provided me with their gardener and his vehicle as a chauffeur because I had a lot of organisational things to do. With a car, of course, it was quicker to get from one place to another, and with an English-speaking companion who knew what to do, I could hope for a successful outcome. So the friendly gardener with his old wooden-framed mini-estate car guided me safely through this time. My car had to be towed by the AA (the English breakdown service) and taken to a garage in Munich that I trusted. The gardener brought an old sea chest where I could stow my belongings from the car and send them by post to my Berlin address. Finally, I bought a backpack to continue my journey as a backpacker. After my initial shock, I was full of beans again and ready for new adventures. I didn't want to let such a mishap drag me down and go home early. After a few days, when everything that needed to be done was done, including communication with the insurance company, I was ready to go. I thanked my hostess, the family I had damaged, and the gardener who had been so helpful. Then the gardener even took me to the motorway, where I wanted to continue my journey as a hitchhiker. Back on the road again A short time later, a friendly driver stopped in an old, semi-automatic Simca 1100 and gave me a lift. A Munich friend of mine also had such a car, so we talked. It didn't take long before I told him the story of my accident. The driver was very interested and concerned when I confessed to him that I never wanted to drive again after this shock. He nodded understandingly while we drove through Wales's beautiful, mountainous countryside towards central England. The car was heading in that direction; consequently, that was where I was going. I had no destination but was open to where chance would take me. After that, I wanted to see further. After a while, my friendly driver began to yawn, said he was too tired to drive on, and asked whether I couldn't take over the wheel for a few miles. After a short rest, he would be happy to drive again. Unfortunately, it was still a long way to go. I beg your pardon. Me?! After that accident, self-inflicted through inattention?! Had he not appropriately listened when I had told him about my mishap? Indignantly I refused: No! Absolutely not! But he objected, he was really very tired and the journey would still take a long time. Half an hour's rest would help him. Then he would be fit again. Well, if I could help him, then, well, maybe. So I let myself be persuaded. He stopped, and we changed places. So then I was at the wheel of someone else's car, with the steering wheel on the right, the gearstick on the left, and now I was supposed to drive through Wales on the left side of the road. I wonder if that will ever work! The nice man radiated a lot of calm and confidence. Either he had no fear for his car or trusted me to drive his English vehicle safely. Cautiously, I started the engine and set off! It was good that I had already driven a friend's semi-automatic Simca in Munich several times. So the car was at least somewhat familiar. It was also not as confusing as I had feared. Fortunately, there wasn't much traffic, and I could slowly get used to the car and English road traffic from the perspective of the driver of an English car. My co-driver was dozing off in a very relaxed manner. But, boy, did he have his cool! He made no effort to wake up and take over the wheel again. So I drove all the way to Shrewsbury in Middle England, where he was at home. He became chatty again outside the town and suggested we stop at the next service area so I could hitch a ride from there. He thanked me warmly for being his driver and then said with a grin that I had hopefully overcome my fear of driving. I stumbled for a moment - and understood. His tiredness had been but a pretence. He wanted to take away my fear of driving after the accident. What a great and generous man! That could well have gone wrong. But it didn't. He had faith in me. And that gave me confidence again. I am still grateful to him for that. (LL.)

Mexico, November 2016 My husband Dave and I are experienced travellers in faraway countries, but especially in the countries of the South American continent. In autumn/winter 2016, we undertook a two-month trip through Mexico and Guatemala. We had carefully planned the trip and had a plan B and C in reserve because we knew from experience that flexibility is necessary on such self-organised individual trips. We felt well prepared and also armed against unexpected eventualities. And yet we were surprised. The arrival had worked out wonderfully, and we spent a few relaxing days on the beach of Sayulita, near Puerto Vallarta, on the Pacific coast. Slowly we left the wet and cold London winter weather behind us and got used to the warm climate and the way of life in Mexico. We settled in and felt ready to travel around the country. We had long thought of taking the old El Chepe train to Barranca Cobre (also called Copper Canyon), the Mexican equivalent of the Gran Canyon (only much more beautiful, the Mexicans say). Travel reports about this highly recommended train trip aroused our interest. We wanted to experience it too! Our guidebook offered two alternatives for where and when to board the El Chepe train: At 6 am in Los Mochis or two hours later in El Fuerte. Quite simple! But we were not yet in Los Mochis or El Fuerte! The distance between our current location Puerto Vallarta and Los Mochis was 691 km (429 miles) by plane and 866 km (538 miles) by bus. We had to allow 40 minutes for the flight, 14 hours 47 minutes for the bus journey, and, according to the internet, it would have taken 9 hours 37 minutes by car. Spontaneously, we would have opted for a more environmentally friendly and often more exciting bus trip if our Mexican friends hadn't warned us. Travelling by bus or car in this part of Mexico, especially at night, is extremely dangerous. Criminal gangs would often attack buses and cars and rob the passengers. We didn't want to risk that and therefore decided to fly. But even that was not easy to do. There were a few direct flights, but because they were private flights, they were too expensive for us. We had a tight budget and had to manage it for two months. We didn't want to spend much money at the beginning of our trip. And from then on, things got complicated. The only alternative to direct flights was to fly via Mexico City, a distance of 1,885 km (812 miles), which meant a diversion of about 1,200 km (743 miles). Crazy, but that was the only way! Map of Mexico: The distance between Puerto Vallarta and Los Mochis is 691 km, but the flight to Los Mochis has to go via Mexico City. The flight distance from Puerto Vallarta to Mexico City was only 651 km (405 miles) and should take 45 minutes. The connecting flight from Mexico City to Los Mochis (distance 1,234 km, 767 miles) would take 90 minutes, so we found out. No big deal then - actually. However, the flight schedules showed that the connecting flights were not optimally coordinated, and besides, everyone knows that Mexico City airport is also chronically overloaded. For this reason, we reckoned that our journey time would probably be six to nine hours instead of a good two hours. And afterwards, we would have to take a taxi for one or two hours because at that time there was no longer a bus running, depending on whether we wanted to take the train in Los Mochis or in El Fuerte. And we also had to book an overnight stay. So we had a long and tiresome day of travelling ahead of us, during which we could plan and organise our onward journey nicely. Or so we thought! We had plenty of time and free wifi as we waited for our connection at Mexico City airport. So we got to work. The choice of accommodation for the coming night depended on where and when we wanted to catch the El Chepe train. Either we stayed overnight in the destination of our flight, Los Mochis, and boarded the El Chepe at 6 am, or we continued by taxi to El Fuerte in the evening and boarded the train there at 8:19 am the next morning. Sleep two hours longer or take two hours longer to get there? That was the question. Despite the extra cost of the taxi ride, we decided to sleep longer because the hotels in Los Mochis had consistently poor ratings. Booking a room in a cheap hotel, El Guerrero, in El Fuerte worked fine, and we received a booking confirmation immediately. We were delighted with our travel plans. Shortly afterwards, we learned that our connecting flight would be a little delayed. I immediately phoned the hotel and told them we would be late but would arrive by taxi shortly after 9:30 pm. All sorted! Finally, we could take our seats on the plane and expected no more delays. But far from it! Just before take-off, a man three rows before us started talking excitedly to the flight attendant and the captain. Then he quickly got up and left the plane without any luggage. His seat neighbour ran after him to give him his mobile phone, which he had forgotten. We thought perhaps he had had a panic attack and was afraid of flying. We didn't think any further about it because these things happen. Shortly afterwards, however, three security guards entered the plane and took the seats apart, not only in the row where the man had been sitting but also in the two rows in front and behind him. They only stopped their search for a possible bomb one row in front of us. Madness! Who would have thought it?! Fortunately, they didn't find one. But now they also had to search the luggage in the hold to take out his bags. This is a standard security measure when someone leaves a plane before it takes off and has checked baggage. We were getting quite nervous as time passed, and we still had a long journey ahead of us after arriving in Los Mochis. We finally set off over an hour and a half late. We calculated that given our estimated flight arrival time of 9 pm and a two-hour taxi ride to El Fuerte, according to the guidebook, we would arrive at the hotel at 11 pm at the earliest. Maybe we should cancel the hotel in El Fuerte and stay in Los Mochis instead? We looked at a few alternative hotels in Los Mochis on the internet but decided to make a decision on arrival at the airport. Fortunately, the plane was able to make up some time. At the taxi counter in the airport, we learnt that the ride to El Fuerte would be 45 minutes shorter and 50% cheaper (1100 pesos - US$50) than the internet said. So far, so good. We decided to take a taxi to El Fuerte to the hotel we had booked anyway. Our taxi driver, César, was friendly and quite talkative. So we started to relax. But only for a short while! César soon stopped at a dark car park and disappeared. It was pitch black all around, and we could see absolutely nothing. What was going on here? Had he stopped to give us up to some gang of criminals who wanted to rob us? We were apprehensive. But soon, he came back, jumped into the car and drove on. We relaxed. Twenty minutes later, the same thing happened. He stopped, disappeared into the darkness, came back five minutes later and drove on. Well, maybe he had prostate problems or a weak bladder or diarrhoea. Who knows. Who cares. He was cheerful and talkative, and we ended up trusting him. Throughout the trip, he told us how wonderful Mexico was. He strongly condemned US President Trump. He had worked in the roofing industry in the US for 12 years. All his colleagues there were hard-working Mexicans (not as lazy as the blacks - his words). Cesar said he wanted to return to the US to work and earn more money. But that was not possible as long as Trump was president, he said. This was consistent with what we would hear many times later as we travelled through Mexico. Mexican men and women had worked for years in the US to earn money and improve their lives and those of their families but saw no way to continue doing so at the moment. As we approached El Fuerte, I called the hotel again to let them know we were on our way and would arrive shortly. This time, however, the voice on the other end of the line told me that the hotel was full and there was no room for us. What?! I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I insisted on our booking, which had, after all, been confirmed. We were on our way and would arrive soon, I told the receptionist. The taxi driver was annoyed with the hotel's business practices. Concerned, he offered to help us get a bed for the night. Good man! When we arrived at the hotel, everything was dark, and the gates closed. César and Dave rattled the gate until someone came. César spoke on our behalf to the hotel clerk, who, after a while, called the manager. She said she had emailed us a while ago that the hotel was, unfortunately, fully booked. I had not received an email and was sure she was lying. Possibly, when we didn't arrive at the agreed time, she had become anxious, got scared of losing money, and so quickly rented out our room to someone else when the opportunity arose. (Incidentally, a few days later, I was charged a no-show fee by booking.com, through which we had booked the hotel room, confirming my suspicions). Our kind taxi driver César argued with her until she finally agreed to call someone who might still have a room for us. César drove us there. He wanted to ensure that the place was okay for us and that we were fine. We gave him an extra tip of 100 pesos (about £4.20 or 4.80 euros) for his efforts, which he gladly accepted. And such a man, we had assumed for a moment that he might hand us over to a gang of robbers! Our accommodation for the night was in another part of town and was indeed awful. The room was above what appeared to be a garage. It was hot and tiny, with only a small bed, a fridge that didn't work and a small shower cubicle. The walls were made of red industrial bricks and were neither plastered nor painted. The accommodation cost 500 pesos (£21 or 24 euros). However, we had no choice at this time of night and finally reluctantly accepted the room. We thanked our ever-helpful taxi driver and wished him a safe journey back to Los Mochis. The owner of the guesthouse, a young man, offered to take us for 100 pesos to the train station outside the city at 7.30 am the next day. We gladly accepted the offer. At least this question was solved. From the house across the street, we heard loud music from some drunks sitting on a truck drinking beer. Many empty cans were lying around the pickup. They must have been partying for quite a while. It didn't look like they were going to get tired soon. So we prepared ourselves that we wouldn't get much sleep that night. But what else could we do?! Stay optimistic and make the best of it! I asked our host where we could get drinking water for the evening and ingredients for breakfast the following day. He offered to drive us to the local supermarket. He also suggested stopping at the supermarket on the way to the train station in the morning. That way, we could stock up on coffee and food for the journey. That was nice of him and a good idea, and we were somewhat reconciled with the uncomfortable accommodation. On the way back from the supermarket, he received a call and informed us that our bed linen was about to be changed. He, therefore, offered to drive us around the town and show us sights such as the town hall, the main square, the cathedral, the old colonial houses and the El Fuerte Fort, where the locals had fought off the Spanish. El Fuerte is a lovely little town, and we enjoyed the drive and the history lesson. But in the back of our minds lurked suspicion again. After all, we had left our luggage, including our valuables and money, at the hotel, and I was worried if our things would still be there when we returned. Was this friendly city tour possibly just a diversion to give the thieves in the hotel time to put our belongings aside and disappear? I couldn't quite push that thought out of my mind. But when we came back, all our things were still there, just as we had left them. How terribly suspicious of us! We feared the worst, and this lovely young man went to so much trouble to do us a favour and make us feel at home in his guest house. We quickly went to bed, crawled under the fresh sheets and tried to sleep without thinking about insects or other animals that might crawl along the brick wall and bite us. The noise of the drunken people soon subsided. Eventually, we fell into a deep sleep until we were awakened very early in the morning by loud crowing cockerels, church bells and noisy engines. But that was all right because we had to get up at 6.45 anyway, as we needed to leave for the train station at 7.30. In the morning, the sun was shining. The sky was blue, and everything looked friendlier than at night. The house seemed to have been built recently and was not quite finished, hence the lack of plaster on the wall of our room. We glanced at the guests in the neighbouring rooms who were getting ready for the day. They greeted us in a friendly and curious way because they didn't often get to see tourists from faraway countries in this area. Our host was already waiting to take us to the train. His mother gave us three large grapefruits from her garden for the journey. Just like that! A kind of farewell gift out of pure hospitality. The young man was even more talkative now than in the evening. He was a car mechanic and tried to earn his living with all kinds of work, he told us. The new guesthouse was also meant to be another pillar of his livelihood, so to speak. On the way, he pointed out a rehabilitation centre for alcohol and drug addicts where he worked as a volunteer. This naturally aroused my interest because I had worked in the addiction field in London for many years. He told us about the enormous scale of the addiction problem in his home town of El Fuerte and the whole region of Sinaloa. A very popular drug in this area, he said, is crystal, which is damaging to health. People who use crystal lose weight quickly, and the body deteriorates rapidly. He also reported about the high unemployment and poverty rate in El Fuerte and that many people feel they have no perspective and no future. Therefore, there is no incentive to get off drugs. I admired this young man who, despite the desolate situation in his region, was optimistic and working towards a better life for his family and friends, no matter how hard and frustrating it was. We arrived at the station and wholeheartedly wished our host well in his endeavours and future, secretly ashamed of our mistrust. Once again, we had to admit that prejudices were also deeply rooted in our minds. And once again, people had proved us wrong. Everyone we had met on this trip in Sinaloa, apart from the disdainful hotel owner, had been helpful and friendly. Only we had thought the worst of them. But we had learned our lesson at the beginning of our trip and could now travel through Mexico and Guatemala without reservations. Regarding our train ride with El Chepe, we received a good tip from our young host that proved the internet recommendations wrong. They said you had to book your seats on the train well in advance, as the train was usually fully booked. What was not mentioned was that this only applied to first class. However, we did not want to sit between tourists but between locals. As our friendly host explained, second-class passengers usually board the train and get their seats assigned by the conductor. He then comes by later, the young man explained, and sells the tickets as soon as the train is in motion. On time and with a loud whistle, the train, El Chepe, arrived with many carriages, five first class and even more second class. There was still plenty of room. So what was all the fuss about on the internet?! Maybe they wanted inexperienced tourists to buy the much more expensive first-class tickets online. Or perhaps we were too suspicious again?! Either way, now we didn't have to worry anymore. We could relax, eat our breakfast, enjoy our big juicy grapefruits and enjoy the ride through the beautiful mountainous landscape on the old and famous El Chepe train to Copper Canyon. (LL)

(DE) As I have done many times in the last year, I am sitting at the bedside of my friend Inge in the intensive care unit, waiting for her to wake up. We have been friends for decades, although she is much older than me. In a way, I was a bit of a surrogate daughter for her and her husband, Martin, who died in 2009. Their only son had died early, and the grandchildren live in America. I had met Inge’s five grandsons and liked them. They are all nice boys. In the last few months, I had kept them regularly informed about their grandmother’s health in Germany because Inge’s heart was getting weaker and weaker. More frequently, she had to be admitted to the hospital by the emergency doctor. She usually spent a few critical days in the intensive care unit, where I visited her every day and hoped she would recover quickly. Time to settle the last things When Inge regained her strength, I asked her, “What’s on your mind now?” She promptly replied, “I’d like you to handle my estate. Will you do that for me? We’ll go to the notary together when I’m feeling better.” “You know,” she said sensibly, “my grandchildren have no connection with Germany. They don’t know the language. So take what you like, sell the flat and close the bank account. The proceeds will be divided among the five grandchildren.” Of course, I was to receive proportional compensation for this settlement and reimbursement of my costs. And indeed, after this bedside talk, Inge felt a little better and could soon be discharged from the hospital. My friend was a very pragmatic and realistic woman; therefore, she made an appointment as soon as possible with a notary known to her to legally secure her wish to settle the estate through me. She trusted this notary because she had already been involved in purchasing the couple’s apartment and knew their will. And yet, in the end, everything went wrong from the beginning to the bitter end, which Inge, fortunately, did not have to experience. Supposed security through notarised documents Inge dragged herself to the appointment in the city centre. She now was now very frail and could breathe only with difficulty. Nevertheless, she was expected to leave the notary’s office without achieving anything and make another appointment because the secretary had not put the appointment in the notary’s calendar. As a result, the notary was in a meeting and not available. I found this rather impertinent and insisted on waiting for the notary. When she finally appeared, she did not see any reason to apologise for the inconvenience but asked directly about the request. My friend, as always clear-headed, explained her wishes and asked for the appropriate legal documents to be issued. The notary then drew up two documents. One document named me as executor of the will. The other document was a general power of attorney, which Inge issued to me. Based on this power of attorney document, I could make decisions for her in all respects. The fee for issuing the two documents was relatively high, calculated from the estate’s value. Inge now thought she had settled her final affairs, and when she finally died, I set to work as we had agreed. A veto from the probate court But what Inge and I, with our common sense, had imagined to be a simple task, which the notary had also confirmed with her expensive professional service, turned out to be much more complicated and nerve-wracking. With my two notarised documents in hand, I first went to the bank to initiate the process and introduced myself as executor, presenting the originals. It was essential to access the account because bills had to be paid, and regular payments stopped. However, after six weeks, I received a letter from the probate court saying that I was not an executor. Completely stunned, I called the probate court and spoke to the judge in charge. She confirmed briskly that I could not be an executor because the will in question was a Berlin will, which does not provide for executors. At most, I could act as a guardian of the estate. However, I would need a power of attorney from the heirs. Martin and Inge had made a Berlin Will, which stated that the two spouses would be each others’ heirs. However, if the last of the two died, the five grandchildren would inherit the existing assets in equal shares. Background information for a better understanding of the legal situation: In a Berlin Will spouses appoint each other as heirs. At the same time, they either name a third party as the final heir or legal succession occurs. Upon the death of one spouse, the Berlin Will can no longer be changed. Therefore, it is generally advisable to include a so-called amendment clause. Source: https://www.fachanwalt.de/magazin/erbrecht/berliner-testament However, Inge’s and Martin’s wills did not contain such an amendment clause. When I asked what the further course would look like, the judge explained my role: I should inform the probate court of the addresses of the heirs. Then, the probate court would ask them whether they wanted to accept the inheritance. The heirs could issue me a certificate of authorisation, which would entitle me to settle the estate. If the heirs disagreed, the court would appoint an estate administrator. The costs for this would be paid out of the estate. Well, that was not the initial plan, but if the legal situation is like that , I had to comply with the court’s instructions. However, I wondered why the notary, knowing all these requirements and hopefully also knowing the legal situation, had issued the documents for Inge and me, which were obviously completely useless! Could it be that a professional legal expert disregarded basic legal knowledge? Unintentionally? Out of lack of knowledge? Or because of incompetence? Or out of ignorance? Or to make a profit? Unprofessionalism and chaos at the bank Now the first thing I had to do was return to the bank and admit that I was not the executor. Yet I had signed as such at the bank and everywhere else in good faith. Therefore, hopefully, I had not made myself liable for prosecution! Although the bank had the general power of attorney, given these new findings by the probate court, the bank now insisted on waiting until I could present the certificate of the heirs. This was a big problem because there were bills to pay, and I no longer had access to the account. Also, concerning the sale of the flat, the bank indicated that I would probably have to obtain a certificate of inheritance from the grandchildren. They didn’t know exactly. It seemed that the bank was unfamiliar with such an estate settlement. At each appointment, they requested a new document from me. Unfortunately, they had no list of documents needed in such cases. For me, this meant many meetings and a lot of legwork. Lawyer’s advice – but the devil is in the detail! Finally, I had enough of being harassed and decided to consult a lawyer who was an expert in overseas inheritance. Again I trusted that there must be an expert who could clarify this matter. I showed him my two legally notarised documents. It seemed that I had made a lucky choice of lawyer. He was amazed that I had a document in my hands naming me as executor of the will because this was utterly redundant in the presence of a general power of attorney. This power of attorney showed how great Inge’s trust in me had been, and legally this power of attorney overwrote everything. So why on earth had the notary issued this pointless “executor document”? She was the expert. It couldn’t be that she didn’t know the meaning of a general power of attorney! So it was profiteering, after all? I was thrilled to have consulted such a competent lawyer and went to the bank again with new self-confidence. Equipped with legal knowledge about the importance of the general power of attorney, I finally got the bank to cooperate. However, under this new perspective, the document had to be copied again. Why? I did not ask that. I preferred not to know. It was vital for me to be able to pay the invoice of the tiler who had renovated Inge’s bathroom to make it suitable for the disabled for € 20,000 only shortly before her death. However, new problems arose during the sale of the flat. The bank was now almost sure I might need the grandchildren’s certificate of inheritance. But they couldn’t tell me anything more precise. What now? Who could tell me what I was allowed to do and what I was not allowed to do? Who knew the legal situation? Obviously, the lawyer had also overlooked an essential detail in his advice, which had not been free of charge. I wrote to the notary who had started the whole misery. She was supposed to answer my questions. Perhaps my complaint to the Bavarian Chamber of Notaries accelerated her response time somewhat. In any case, she answered immediately. She explained that the flat had been initially registered in the land registry in the name of Inge and her husband, Martin. If Inge had not transferred the apartment to herself after her husband’s death, I would need a certificate of inheritance from the heirs for Martin’s share. The Berlin Will again! Now I was struggling with the experts again. The lawyer could have told me this crucial detail straight away. And the notary, who had known about the couple’s Berlin Will, could also have pointed out this legal problem in good time, i.e. before Inge’s death. What kind of professionals are they, though?! How can they call themselves advisors if they give their clients such imprecise and sloppy advice? But I began to pray: “Dear God, let me find this document, and hopefully, she has the flat changed to her name!” It is easy to forget such “little things” in pain and grief. Fortunately, at the land registry, I received confirmation that she had indeed had the flat signed over to her name. So at least I didn’t need a certificate of inheritance. Thank you, my well-organised friend! I could rely on her. But of course, I had to find the document. So again I searched the whole flat until I finally found it. Slowly things are starting to roll! But there was already a new piece of bad news waiting for me. Inge’s tax advisor contacted me to tell me that her tax return was due. The tax office insisted. I had no idea about Inge’s tax affairs. Fortunately, the tax advisor was kind enough to send me the old tax assessment as a sample and a list with the relevant information. So I sat down and finished the tax return for my girlfriend. At the same time, I had to take care of the sale of the flat, appoint an estate agent and get offers for flat clearance. I sifted through Inge’s personal possessions. She had expensive noble things and was always well dressed, but dress size 48, shoe size 36. I organised a clothing market. But nobody wanted second-hand clothes. Even Caritas got tired of the bags of clothes after a while. In between, I had to keep the grandchildren informed, document everything and disclose the costs. And all that in English!!! So I was severely challenged, especially with all the technical terms. The family arrives for the funeral. My friend died in early February, but the cremation was not until mid-March. So I contacted the grandchildren and asked if they would be interested in coming to the funeral. I thought they would want to take something or another from Inge’s home as a memory. Eventually, the daughter-in-law and three of the five grandchildren came to the funeral. They slept in the flat. After the funeral, we organised a meeting for the following day to discuss how to proceed. I asked my daughter to accompany me because her English is better than mine. The first thing the daughter-in-law complained about was that Inge’s golden earrings were missing. I had no idea where these earrings had gone or who she might have given them to. I am not interested in that kind of jewellery. Inge sometimes gave me some costume jewellery for my birthday, which I liked. I found the daughter-in-law’s question a little disturbing because I somehow sensed an underlying assumption. I vaguely remembered that Inge had given her jewellery as a gift during a visit. Yes, she admitted, but it was only the wedding rings. – Yet Inge told me that the family in America didn’t want any of her stuff anyway, only the money. But I remained professional despite this disagreement, and we decided on the next steps. Roughly speaking, it was a matter of wrapping everything up, closing the bank accounts and transferring the money to the heirs. We agreed that instead of transferring to all five heirs, I would only transfer to one son from the first marriage and one from the second marriage. The distribution would then take place among the grandchildren without my involvement. This would save considerable bank charges. My daughter recorded everything in English. The family members were pleasantly surprised by so much professionalism and flew back to the United States the following day, satisfied. I was exhausted after the trials and tribulations of probate, funeral and wake, and hours of discussion and formulation. Yet my work was far from being done. The final stages I was left with the task of wrapping everything up and bringing it to an end. Finally, I was able to sell the shares at a reasonable price and the flat too. In the end, there was only the problem of transferring the money to the USA. I had always thought Germany was a progressive country. But when it came to transferring the money, I was proved wrong. For the foreign transfers, the bank gave me A4 forms to fill out, including the account number, IBAN and the exact addresses of the recipients. Although the USA has introduced the IBAN system, it seems unknown in the USA, or the grandchildren didn’t know what it was and had to ask their bank first. So I filled out this transfer form at home and made another appointment with the bank. The bank clerk typed all the details from the transfer form into her computer. For what had I filled it all out neatly on my own? When transferring, one can mistype again, and it has to be proofread again. How tedious! There was still the question of which currency the money should be transferred in. It had to be clarified what would be cheaper and the amount of the bank charges. The bank clerk did not know. She also didn’t know the current exchange rate because it changes a few times daily. So she had to call the head office in Nuremberg first. But she couldn’t get through on the phone. She kept calling, but it was always busy. So I was sitting in the bank of a big German city in the 21st century and had to watch bank employees not being able to carry out their business because of organisational deficiencies. If this was how the German financial sector worked, I was amazed that Germany should be one of the economic powers. I spent two hours in the bank to set up these two transfers. Then finally, the line was free, and the headquarter sent through the rate via email, then I had to sign again. Eventually, that also went through, and the money was on its way to the heirs. The tax office is on its toes! After that, I was exhausted, but my task was not yet finished. I got a letter from the tax office. The tax office wanted to ensure that no unregistered assets were left, for example, accounts in Liechtenstein, other properties, etc. According to the tax office, this check can take up to a year. But I was determined to bring this matter to a close finally. With all my love for my girlfriend, I didn’t want to spend another year in a convoluted bureaucratic labyrinth! When I asked if this could be speeded up, I got a hint to call a particular tax official. I did so, and this time I was pleasantly surprised by the helpfulness and competence of an official. I confirmed to him that I only knew about the bank balance, the flat and the shares and that there were no assets beyond that. He said he fully understood my situation and dictated the sentence I should write to the tax office so the case could be closed. That worked. I thanked him quite profusely for his support. After all the experiences I gained with the experts during these nine months, I was very impressed. It was so refreshing to meet someone who had a clue and knew what he was talking about. My thoughts on the experience Many questions went through my mind when I had time to reflect on the experience. Why do I seek advice from professionals when I only ever get partial answers but not all the information I need to complete a task or solve a problem? These are experts. They want to earn money with their expertise as service providers. You are asked to pay everywhere but only get minimal or wrong information. You have to find the know-how to find customised solutions yourself. We both, Inge and I, never thought that would happen. Take the notary, for example. She was the catalyst for all the chaos. In addition to the general power of attorney, she issued me with the pointless document as executor of the will, knowing full well that this was a Berlin Will without an amendment clause. Yet, she pocketed the money for a completely useless paper. I complained about her wrong advice to the Chamber of Notaries. But nothing came of it apart from wasting a lot of work and nerves. So I filed it away under experiences. Then the lawyer, an expert in foreign inheritances. It was good that he pointed out to me that the general power of attorney would open all doors and gates for me. But the moment I told him about the property, it should have rung a bell. He did not tell me that the flat would have to be registered in the wife’s name in the land register so that I would not need a certificate of inheritance for the deceased husband’s share. This should be part of the basic knowledge of a lawyer specialising in heritage. Not to mention the bank, from which I also expected more professionalism, especially in a country that sees itself as a progressive economic power. I would do it again for my friend Of course, I would do it again for my friend, but now with a different knowledge. I would no longer naively assume that you go to an expert, a lawyer, a notary, a health insurance company or a bank, and they will tell you everything you need to do. You have to inform yourself as much as possible in advance, read up on the internet on what the task entails and then go into the meeting with the experts prepared with targeted questions. Then you can ask questions and be taken seriously as an interlocutor. You have to do your own research so that you have a certain chance of getting good and accurate advice. That means you must become an expert with minimal but legally necessary involvement from professional experts. You can’t rely solely on the experts’ competence and willingness to give professional advice. (MS)

(DE) It's that time again. I am sitting at Inge's bedside in the intensive care unit, holding her hand. She is breathing heavily, has her eyes closed and is asleep. As so often lately, the emergency doctor took her back to the hospital. Her heart, damaged after a heart attack a few years ago, was giving her more and more trouble. She then had difficulties breathing and had to be taken into medical care. In the last few months, the intervals between her hospital stays had become shorter and shorter. I was always by her side. I stayed with her this time, too, waiting for her to wake up. A good life and the willingness to go I have known Inge for decades. When I came to Munich as a young woman in the 1960s, she and her husband Martin looked after me like their own daughter. Their only son Andrew, who was only a year older than me, had worked as a chef in top restaurants until he met a young art student from the United States, married and emigrated to the USA after the birth of their first child. Professionally, he was successful there too, but the marriage broke up. His second marriage in America to a teacher also ended early because, at the age of 42, he suffered a heart attack and died. He left behind two sons from his first marriage and three sons from his second marriage. Not only did my friend's five grandchildren live in America, but also her two sisters. Despite frequent visits to the United States to family members in Denver, Colorado, and Florida, they were happy to maintain their long-standing friendship with me. A bit of a family substitute, I guess! But age, with all its difficulties, did not stop at my friend's. Inge's friend's husband, Martin, died of cancer in 2009, and her damaged heart became weaker and weaker, and so did my friend. Nevertheless, I always cared for her because she had no one else in Germany, and we were close friends despite the age difference. As friends who dared to face the facts and talk about them, in the last months, we often talked about dying. Inge was illusionless and pragmatic. "I am 86 years old. I've had a great life. When it's over, it's over!" she said again and again. Without regret or bitterness and with a clear mind, she repeatedly spoke out against life-prolonging measures, not wanting to suffer and waste away. But, of course, she had also recorded her wish in a legally valid Patientenverfügung, known in English as Advanced Care Decision*. She was composed and ready to die when the time came. *What in Germany is known as the "what'sPatientenverfügung "is a document that an individual can use to express their wishes concerning their health care and medical treatment in case they cannot communicate this information themselves. Such a Patientenverfügung combines documents known in the UK as Living Will, Advance Directive, Advance Care Directive or Advance Decision to Refuse Treatment. In it, an individual will determine what medical treatments or care they will or will not consent to in a medical emergency, a terminal condition, or persistent unconsciousness, regarding treatments or life-sustaining measures that medical professionals may use to care for a person in that condition. The Advanced Care Directive is often ignored One day, I was sitting at her bedside, and she didn't wake up. She was already in a coma in the intensive care unit for over a week. She was artificially ventilated. This was precisely what Inge had never wanted. And it was up to me to stand up for her and her will, which turned out to be extremely difficult. I presented Inge's Advance Care Directive document at every emergency admission. Every time I had to make a copy because the staff couldn't find the documents submitted earlier or didn't even look for them in the first place. I went to the clinic every day to check on her and accompany her. Every day I spoke to the doctors and tried to make them understand that my friend did not want any more pointless life-prolonging measures. At least five copies of her Advance Care Directive were somewhere in the hospital filing cabinets, but none of the junior doctors I dealt with knew about it – on any of those ten days in intensive care. The absurdity of this left me stunned, and the massive pressure from the doctors to keep Inge on life support left me helpless. Yet, on the other hand, I couldn't help but feel hopeful when they argued that the new high-dose antibiotic might again turn the tide. I found it hard to fight against this wall of denial and manipulation by the doctors. I saw clearly that on each of these days, Inge had to experience and suffer what she had wanted to avoid through her Advance Care Directive. I was torn. But at a certain point, I knew what the only right thing to do was. Her kidneys were barely working. She had water retention in her legs and throughout her body. She could no longer breathe independently and had not been conscious for days anyway. I insisted that the machines should be switched off without any ifs or buts. A doctor finally agreed to do so. But on the way home in the underground, I received a call from the consultant of the intensive care unit. He could not agree with my decision. I was overcome with bewilderment and anger. How should this intervention be understood?! What right did he have to ignore the explicit will of my friend? It was her decision and not his! She could not express herself now, but she had written down her wishes in a binding document some time ago! She had talked about it again and again with her friend, namely with me, and never doubted her decision! So, why did this consultant believe he could wipe away and ignore her wishes with the stroke of a pen? I also found it inappropriate to talk about such a severe issue on the phone in the underground, surrounded by crowds of people. So I asked for a face-to-face meeting the following day. Needless to say, I was so upset that I couldn't sleep all night. I tossed and turned, trying to think of the best way to argue. But, of course, it would be best to remain calm and rational. At least, that's what I resolved to do. However, my good intentions were tested the next day when I arrived at the clinic and saw that Inge was connected to the dialysis machine. When I expressed my bewilderment at this ignorance and disrespect towards a dying person, one of the doctors admitted that Inge had even been resuscitated several times during the night. She would have wanted to go! She should have been let go! – But they didn't let her die, even though it was her time to go. Conversations from person to person Then there was the conversation with the consultant. I was angry but then considered that I wouldn't get far with a confrontation. An attack and accusations, which I felt like doing, would only provoke resistance. The doctor was young, around 40, but quite understanding. I told him about the many conversations Inge, and I had had about dying. I assured him that her intention was not to have pointless life-prolonging measures. I described to him Inge's willingness to die peacefully and with dignity after a fulfilled life. I again pointed out that Inge had written the Advance Care Directive for this purpose and in this spirit. Then I asked him: "Imagine you are 86 and have been in a coma for almost two weeks. Soon you will be sent from the hospital to a care home. Your muscles will deteriorate, and you will no longer be able to move. You will no longer be aware of what is happening around you and will waste away in bed until you eventually die. My question to you is: do you want to die like that?" He looked at me and said, "No, I don't want that." I then pleaded with him to switch off the equipment. Finally, he agreed and promised to initiate everything immediately. So, in the end, it was a good conversation. But the fact that it only took place at this point and only due to enormous pressure on my part does not correspond to the expectations one has when issuing an advance directive. After this conversation, I stood at my friend's bedside and said goodbye to her. Then, when the nurse came to switch off the equipment, I left. I was sad, completely exhausted, but also relieved. Ten minutes later, my friend Inge was finally allowed to die. The nurse had probably also observed my arduous struggle to ensure that my friend died with dignity. When I returned to the hospital the next day to collect her belongings, the nurse approached me and said, "I have to tell you something. You did very well." You often forget about the nurses because you don't perceive them as medical authorities. Still, because of their many years of experience, they know how the patients are doing. They can see when nothing more can be done. He seemed impressed that I fought and insisted on switching off the equipment. That pleased and confirmed me because you are damn lonely in such a situation. What if you don’t have anyone? I was sad, but a heavy burden fell from my heart at the same time. I had fought on Inge's behalf and pushed through her wish to die against the medical profession! Later, when I tried to come to terms with what I had experienced, a terrible thought came to me. If you have no one to take care of you and fight for you to be allowed to die and not slowly waste away, then the interests of the doctors and hospitals are in the foreground, not your wish for a dignified death. Do you then become a source of income? Will expensive treatments be carried out on you? Do you serve as an object for medical training on which procedures can be performed and tested? If medical equipment is not used to full capacity, will it be given to the terminally ill? Once the health insurance no longer wants to cover the hospital costs, will you be discharged and sent to a care home? Then you'll die, depending on how long your heart can take it and how much money you may have left. Inge had supplementary health insurance in addition to her compulsory health insurance. The money might have been enough to keep her alive for a while. And something else became clear to me when I thought about it. One should not underestimate how emotionally involved one is when accompanying a sick friend in death. Fortunately, my friend didn't negate death, which greatly benefited me. We often talked about what she wanted. And this helped me to finally make the decision for her to switch off the devices. I can only advise everyone to talk to their children or other close people and sign an Advance Care Directive or a similar document. It makes a big difference whether the person concerned has put down their wishes themselves or whether someone else is faced with the decision to have life-sustaining equipment switched off or not. It's a very emotional situation. When the doctors argue that you could try a new antibiotic, you have hope again and are conflicted after all. But when everything has been discussed and written down, it's easier. Of course, it can happen that, as in Inge's case, the Advance Care Directive is ignored by the doctors. But even then, it gives the person who is forced to make a decision the necessary moral and legal backing. (MS)

(SAU/IDN) Riyadh, Saudi Arabia’s capital, is fascinating for visitors for a short time, but after a while, during a longer working stay, one misses the uncomplicated and free lifestyle of the West very much. No alcohol, no cinemas, no bars, the local women veiled beyond recognition and the mutabas, the religious guards, always on the lookout for sinners who go against the local customs. After a few months, you come to terms with the situation, and after a little longer, you get used to it and in a way you have arrived in this society. Then you can live better in Riyadh than in many other big western cities. Lonely and unhappy in Riyadh That’s how it was for me and that’s how it was for my German colleague Walter (name changed by the narrator). We lived in Riyadh for seven years. For the first four years we even worked for the same company. Then we parted ways. I was not sad about it, because Walter was a difficult personality. He worked around the clock and seemed quite friendly at first sight. However, he could also be quite arrogant and would often resort to any shabby intrigue to use opportunities to his advantage. His Balinese wife Sindi (name changed by the narrator) only lasted with him in Riyadh for a little less than a year. Then she preferred to return to Bali, where she lived in the house they shared. Walter had a hard time coping with the long-distance relationship. Especially in the evenings, he was on edge. He worked even harder, drugged himself with drinks and withdrew more and more from his circle of friends. Something was tormenting him, maybe a depression or some vague anxiety. We couldn’t get through to him. Only when he spent his annual holiday in Bali with his wife would he liven up and the obvious pressure of suffering seemed to leave him. We always noticed him a bit more relaxed when he returned. So it surprised me when I was passed on an e-mail from a friend with whom he was still in contact, which Walter had sent during his holiday in Bali and which seemed a bit strange to all of us, especially against the tragic background, which I will report on at the end. Walter’s strange email: Escaped from the jaws of death On the night of 30 November to 1 December at around 04:30, my wife and I only narrowly jumped off the cliff of friend Hein. Only a chain of truly miraculous circumstances saved our lives. And that is how it happened: We had a German friend in the house who was supposed to leave on Sunday. Around midnight we went to a small farewell party at “Lips”. Sindi at the wheel of the Toyota Corolla. Because it was finally raining steadily after days of sultriness, President John kept the “Lips” open a little longer so as not to have to let the guests out into the torrential rain, as there were no taxis to be seen far and wide. When the rain thinned out around 4 a.m., Sindi and I headed home, thinking that the new, slightly longer bypass to our house would be safer. Which was confirmed at first. The only disadvantage of this decision was that neither of us knew the area and its topological features. And so it happened. Somewhere in Kerborakan, which is a little north of Kuta in the direction of Denpasar, the water partially reached the bottom. Suddenly, there was a Toyota Kijang in front of us in the middle of the road: lights on. However, its wheels were already up to the rubber coating in the water. Because the Kijang was not moving, I said to Sindi: “Man, the cart has been abandoned, make sure we pass by on the other side of the road”. This new road in front of us was higher and quite visible in the darkness of the night. What we didn’t know, however, was that here the road crosses a small branch of the larger Kerborakan River. Obviously, this relatively small overpass had already been washed away or breached. As we passed the Kijang, our Toyota suddenly started to float and immediately a powerful current across accelerated us faster and faster towards the river. It was clear to me in a flash: the current always looks for the shortest way to the sea, so out, out, out of the cart. Sindi screamed desperately, but my calm voice calmed her down enough to keep control of the Toyota and not to stall the engine. That was the prerequisite for opening the automatic windows at a favourable moment and flooding the car for the exit. And so the current carried us about 25 m down the river, until the Toyota first hit a house wall with the rear end, and then touched down on something in the water. Later it turned out that it was a motorbike under water. Now the water on the outside was already up to the height of the windscreen, and the front part with us and the heavy engine sank relatively slowly, with the rear end floating up. From the scraping noises coming from the chassis, I realised that any moment now the entanglement on the ground would loosen. So, as calmly as I could, I said to Sindi: “It is time to leave the car now! Open your window”. Thank God the engine was still running and the window opened. Sindi was on the side downstream. I guessed that was the only place we had a chance to open the door. On my side it would have been impossible against the pressure of the current. The water shot inside, over Sindi’s lap. I climbed over the back of my seat to open the window and possibly grab the ledge about a metre above us. But the back window wouldn’t open; the motor had stopped working. By now the water in the car was up to our waists. The Toyota began to tip over onto Sindi’s side. I pushed Sindi’s door open with both feet and slowly let myself be pulled out by the water suction, feet first, above Sindi. And now something extremely miraculous happened. A whirlpool had formed behind the Toyota on Sindi’s side. From the side of the wall, it slowly sucked in a metal rack. A rack like the ones the small shops use to store bottles of moped petrol. This metal frame gave my feet some support for a few seconds, until it was caught by the current and swept away from under my feet. However, those seconds were enough to free one hand, grab Sindi by the scruff of the neck and pull her headfirst into the water. I had to let go of the Toyota and we were already hurtling downstream. In the process, I lost my grip on Sindi’s neck and then on her sleeve. So we shot downstream at breakneck speed. I really don’t know how far. And again something miraculous happened: Suddenly I saw bushes in front of me on the left side. My first thought was to immediately try to scramble in that direction to maybe grab a branch. And after a few failed attempts, I succeeded. Then, after drifting frantically downstream like a spider monkey, hanging on a relatively thin branch, my backside with my water-heavy jeans down, gasping for some oxygen, I was overcome by real panic for the first time: “Where is your wife? My God, now she’s drowning!” My thoughts raced: just let go, then it’s over, then you don’t have to experience this pain too! And then something wonderful happened again: somewhere above me, upstream, I heard Sindi’s voice in the dark: “Walter, Walter, Where are you? I am alive, don’t worry!” My God! That gave me the new energy. I have to describe my position in the rushing current: So I clung with both hands to the relatively thin branch, which cut rhythmically under the water due to my weight and chased the surge of water, which was more oil than water because of the moped filling stations, over my head. So I only ever had tiny windows of time to catch my breath. And it dawned on me: you can’t keep this up for long. And again a miracle: indistinct voices from the side of the bush. Sindi kept shouting, “Tolong sini, Tolong sini (help here, help here)”. And I yelled – whenever my breath allowed it:” Tolong, ada orang dua (Help, there are two of us)”. The time became interminable because in the darkness and with my head mostly under the spray, I saw nothing and heard nothing. My ears were constantly exposed to the pulsating water and hurt like hell. All I could think was: save your strength, don’t let go! And then I felt it, more than I heard it: crack, crack…! The small branch began to splinter at the fork. My thought: You have to pull yourself towards the branch fork against the current. You have to reach the mother branch. Otherwise it’s over. I really don’t know where I got the last bit of strength to do that. The new position was even more unpleasant, though, because this thicker branch caused an even bigger gush, so that my head cut more under water than before. I had had to swallow a lot of oily water, but thank God nothing was in my windpipe yet, so I didn’t have a coughing fit. Eternities passed until I suddenly heard a voice next to me: “Misterrr, perempuan sudah ada (We already have the woman)”. My brain signalled: hold on now, now more than ever. For the first time, I felt warm blood in my body again and my heart began to race with happiness. What I was to find out later: Sindi had been driven a little deeper into the bushes about 30 metres behind me and was able to hold on there. At this point, the rescuers were able to hand her a bamboo pole from the relatively firm hold, as there was one of the many temples, and pull her out by it. I, however, had been driven – probably by my greater weight – further downstream and relatively far away from built-up areas. And here again a miracle: Where did the rescuers organise such a long plastic part under these conditions? (As I was to see later, their own huts were about 1.50 m deep in the water and almost everything they owned had been destroyed). In any case, two of the Balinese on this rope let themselves be carried by the current near me at the risk of their lives and now pulled themselves from branch to branch into my reach. And then the moment came: I saw two outstretched arms of two people and now simply had to find a moment to let go. To find a hold on these brown Balinese arms. – It succeeded. – The men called out to me with gasps at the top of their whistling lungs, “Sindi masih hidup! Sindi is alive.” The rest was backbreaking work, but now without fear of death. One by one, the rescuers pulled the three of us against the current on the rope to the temple. The Toyota was not sighted until the next day, half a kilometre further downstream. Salvage is not to be thought of until the rains subside and the river returns to its normal width of a few meters. However, today, Sunday, December 2, 2001, at 5:00 p.m. Balinese time, it is still raining now and then. Finally, dear reader, some reflections. Everyone who knows me knows that I am neither inclined to superstition nor exceptionally religious. Can anyone explain to me how just in this situation only life-saving conditions were on our side? To name only the most important ones: 1. who gave my Indonesian wife Sindi the inspiration to visit the Kuta Gym every day for four weeks before my visit and do fitness training? This gave her the strength to withstand this inferno. 2) Why did the alcohol not taste good to me at all that night in the “Lips”, so that I only more or less reluctantly sucked down a few “Bintangs” and spurned the offered “Jack Daniel’s”? So I was relatively sober and still strong enough to save my body even at almost 60 years of age. 3) Why was there something on the bottom that kept our Toyota stuck to the ground for about 1-2 minutes and prevented it from drifting? This is exactly what allowed us to get out 4) Why did the Toyota engine run for exactly the time it took to operate the electric windows? 5) Why did the vehicle lie across the current in such a way that on Sindi’s side there was no pressure, but on the contrary the suction of a whirlpool that facilitated the opening of her driver’s door – if not made it possible in the first place? 6) Where did the metal frame suddenly come from that gave my feet support for a few seconds while I was getting out of the car to pull Sindi out? 7. why were there so many bushes, trees and bamboo growing there of all places? 8. why were there so many helpful people around at this very spot at about 04:30 in the morning? 9. where did the 20-metre-long rope for the rescue operation come from? Such a thing is an unaffordable possession for poor people! Questions upon questions. I don’t even try to look for answers. My attitude to life and to God changed decisively that night. Walter Bertram (name changed by the narrator), Just escaped from the jaws of death Denpasar, 2 December, 2001 at 7:11 pm Balinese time. A mysterious end When I received this email, Walter was already dead. He had died two or three days after sending what was probably his last message. What exactly had happened, I do not know. According to the scant information that filtered through to me from Bali, he had suddenly fallen seriously ill. Maybe he had swallowed too much harmful or even poisonous stuff in the river. After all, he had written himself that the water was contaminated with oil, probably also with petrol, because of the flooded petrol station. The rumour spread that his wife had desperately tried to raise $10,000 USD for treatment at a clinic, which she apparently had not succeeded in doing. Others told that since he obviously could not be treated in Bali, his wife had tried in vain to have him flown out to Germany. The fact is that Walter’s life still could not be saved after this great rescue from the river. He stayed in Bali with his new attitude to life, whatever that may have been. Aftermath – shock and reflection Walter’s sudden death came as a shock to all of us in Riyadh. We puzzled over the cause of death, Walter’s sudden belief in a higher power, the kind of change he must have envisioned, the irony of dying of a mysterious illness after this great rescue – and we finally went about business as usual – without Walter. I didn’t miss Walter, but I still think of his last email telling his story, unaware that life no longer held a future for him. Alongside this enigmatic narrative, I am also moved by the thought of how it would have felt to have walked part of the way together, not as adversaries, but as friends. (NS) Note from the editors At first, it was not easy for us to assign this story to a category. Actually, it is a classic experience, as life often has in store. On the other hand, this story also gives an insight into an unusual life path that ends abruptly. Walter’s life crisis, as described by the narrator, had actually been heading for a climax or turning point for some time. Where did his constant restlessness come from? His life as a workaholic with drinks to compensate? He seemed to be compensating for something. Was it Riyadh? The foreign country? The foreign culture? But then what was Bali for him as a German? A new home? Familiarity and security? But he was also cut off from that for most of his life. Did he feel his uprootedness and hardly see a chance to put down roots again? When, after surviving the fear of death in the floods of the river, he realised that he and his wife had been incredibly lucky, he could not leave it at that. A higher power must have arranged all this for their good fortune. What for? A second chance! A new life! A U-turn! The way out of the crisis, whatever it was, was suddenly recognisable to him. He obviously felt confidence and joy in life again, as well as the need to open up to friends and share his insights with them. This seems almost biblical. What is really tragic is that there was no time left for him. In any case, this story has reminded us that life has many different rational and irrational “pushes” in store that can or even should move us forward. This can be a mental or physical illness, an encounter, an arduous learning process or even a happy or terrible experience. Even the relatively uninvolved narrator has not let go of this story for 20 years. Perhaps other readers would also like to tell about strange, puzzling or “terribly happy” experiences that have led to a turning point in their lives. It would be interesting to read about them. Our blog is at your disposal. (LL/TA)