Germany! Part 2 - Needing A Sticking Plaster (Band-Aid) And Getting Something Altogether Different

09 June 2011

Story #414

R. Linda:

After my dinner had gone awry, I knew me time wouldn't be very successful in Germany because it didn't end well with my assignment. The man I was supposed to interview never showed up, and the one who did (conveniently) knew nothing about the subject I was covering. I was near frustration level with several phone calls back to the States on being told to contact this other person, and THAT person wouldn't talk to me! So, getting nothing, I left for the airport, and that's when everything went pear-shaped completely.

I had a hangnail that I bit off. I know it was a stupid thing to do, but it bothered me, and I had no nail clipper, so YES, I USED ME TEETH! The result was me finger was bleeding from where I ripped the stupid hangnail off with a good bit of skin. I asked the woman at the ticket counter where I could get a sticking plaster (band-aid). She told me she didn't know, that I should go to the bake shop, get a napkin, and make due? I could see it now, me in the bakery bleeding. I was like, WHAT? I went to the men's room, and by this time, the thing was bleeding buckets in the sink. I got one of those stiff paper towels and wrapped it in that, but I was still bleeding like a stuck pig. I returned to the concourse and saw a woman with an official I.D. on a chain around her neck, so I gathered she must work there. I told her about me problem, and she asked me in broken English how it had happened. I tried to explain, but she didn't understand me, so I gestured a ripping motion, and she looked horror-struck. She grabbed me by the arm and held onto me while she talked German into a walk-talkie she had.

Within minutes, I was surrounded by the police! With machine guns. I was like, WTF? I pulled away from her and asked them what was going on, but they didn't (any of them) speak English, and SHE was regaling them with some story of my bloody hand. Later, I found out she told them I had been knifed in the men's room! Oi, oi, oi, oi! So I missed me flight to London because I was in a room being questioned about an alleged attacker. And I had to wait around another two hours for another flight! I was left seated at the gate, me hand wrapped in several stiff paper towels from the men's room.

Just before I was due to board, an official-looking German gentleman approached me with a first aid kit. 

"Guten tag! We are putting joke on you, you zink? But I take pity on zilly Americans," he said, kneeling and carefully unwrapping my finger. "Ackt, look at zaat you have rhipped off nail, zkin, every zing, tsk, tsk."

"Irishman, I be Irish," I said, not meaning to correct him necessarily, but still.

"Inglese?"

"No, Irish."

"Vell, zame zing." He cleaned and put a large bandage around the finger. "Zere, you are goud as new . . . Irishman," he smiled getting up and collecting his kit.

"Thank you, dunka shane?"

"Nein, danke schon! And now I bid you auf wiedersehen."

With that, he went off, and there I was with a bandage three times the size of my finger. He had told me to keep it elevated until the bleeding stopped, so there I was with me index finger high in the air, as if I was saying WAIT A  MINUTE, and don't you know I was asked how they (the air attendants) could be of assistance once I boarded the plane. Every single person in the flight crew asked me that, not once or twice, but many times. I guess it could have been worse; the middle finger would have really gotten me in trouble. I felt like an arse. And, of course, just before take-off, the finger stopped bleeding. But then, as soon as we got up to 11,000 feet, it started again. I was getting slightly panicked. What if I bled out on the plane? One of the flight attendants told me it was nothing more than the pressure, and as soon as we descended, it would let up. Meanwhile, "keep zee finger in zee air," and well, for one and half hours, I did.

I waited for everyone to clear out so I wouldn't re-injure the finger. But something happened; me arm had gone numb, and I could not get me carry-on down from the overhead compartment. I used me good arm and could not reach it very well, so I batted at it, and it hit me in the forehead as it came slamming forward. One of the flight attendants came running to my aid and went all German on me. I couldn't understand her, and she couldn't understand me. So before she had the police boarding because I seemed suicidal to her, I shook her off, picked the carry-on up with me good hand, and took off at a good pace for the terminal. Oi!

So ended me German adventure. Here I come, London!

Gabe
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