This was about ten years ago, when I was getting my driver’s license. I already passed the theoretical (written) test and have finalized an appointment with my driving instructor and the examiner for my actual driving exam, and paid for it up front. I have been repeatedly told that if I cancel the appointment less than twenty-four hours in advance, I will not get a refund on my examination fee – several hundred Euros!

The day before my driving exam, I came into work (retail) and saw that the schedule had been changed so that, despite requesting the next day off, I am suddenly scheduled to work the day of my exam, while my boss (the store manager) has taken the day off herself. I immediately seek her out. 

Note that I’m still in vocational training and quite young. My boss is only a few years older than I am, so she sometimes feels like she needs to go on a bit of a power trip to remind everyone of the hierarchy at work.

Me: “Boss, I’m sorry, but the new schedule doesn’t work for me. I requested tomorrow off for my driving exam, and it was approved weeks ago.”

Boss: “Well, I wasn’t told. You need to let me know these things in advance. I have plans with my boyfriend tomorrow that I can’t cancel.”

Me: “I can’t cancel my exam on such short notice either. I’ll be out several hundred bucks if I do!”

Boss: “Well, you can’t go. Figure something out.”

Me: “But the only excuse for me to cancel at this point would be with a doctor’s note.”

Boss: “See? It’s that simple. Get one of those, and then you can come into work.”

Me: “Um… I’m not sure that’s even legal. I won’t be insured if I come into work when I have a doctor’s note.”

Boss: “It’s not like anything ever happens here; you’ll be fine.”

I decide to drop it and do, in fact, get up super early the next morning so I can just walk into my doctor’s office before all the appointments start. I explain to him exactly what is going on and that I’m not actually sick, but my boss is making me do this so I won’t lose the bigger part of my trainee wage (which is FAR below minimum wage, I might add).

Doctor: “Okay, I get where you’re coming from. And while I don’t approve of the method, you’re in a real s***ty situation due to no fault of your own, so I will make an exception this one time. Here’s your doctor’s note for today, so you don’t lose money on that driving test your boss doesn’t want you to take. But I also don’t want you to go into work, got it? If your boss gives you s*** about it, tell her to call me, or you can call your HR and tell them to call me. I’ve got you covered.”

So, I call into work (and the driving exam) sick and spend the entire day quietly panicking about my boss’ reaction. 

When I get back to work the next day, she is seething, but subdued. Turns out she had to cancel her plans with her boyfriend and cover for me. But she can’t fault me or write me up for it because then she’d have to explain herself to HR, and that would get HER into trouble more than me – HR really doesn’t like hearing that a store manager forces people to come into work despite having a doctor’s notice, I’m told.

My boss never talked to me about it again, and the next time I requested a day off for my new driving exam appointment, it was quietly approved, and no changes to the schedule happened the entire week.

CORRECTION: A swear word has been censored.

I, an Italian, was studying in Germany for a while.

When talking with a German friend, we were going through how he could not understand the Italian obsession with not ordering a cappuccino after ten in the morning. Despite my explaining that it was something associated with breakfast and thus perceived as odd when consumed outside of breakfast times, he could not understand why coffee and foamed milk were fine or not fine according to what the clock displayed.

Not too long after, the same friend was introducing me to a Bavarian delicacy: white sausage with sweet mustard and a pretzel. When he explained to me the proper technique for eating it, he also pointed out that it is meant to be eaten before lunchtime. 

Remembering the cappuccino discussion we were having, I told him:

Me: “Oh, like cappuccino!”

Friend: “No, this is different! These are sausages!”

I dropped the argument, flabbergasted by the brain somersault needed to make that statement.

Related:
Never Sausage A Thing Before, Part 8
Never Sausage A Thing Before, Part 7
Never Sausage A Thing Before, Part 6
Never Sausage A Thing Before, Part 5
Never Sausage A Thing Before, Part 4

I was working as the ringside physician at a boxing cup tournament; the person whose job it is to decide whether fighters are medically fit to continue, and who occasionally has to be the bad guy.

Between two bouts, I was called into a locker room. One of the boxers, a minor, had started vomiting after his previous fight and was complaining of a headache. His trainer and his father were with him and asked me whether this was something to worry about.

Under normal circumstances, a healthy teenager feeling unwell wouldn’t be particularly alarming. However, this teenager had just taken quite a few punches to the head. Best case, a mild concussion. Worst case, an intracranial bleed. Either way, this was clearly a “go to the hospital” situation.

I called an ambulance and stayed with the boxer until the paramedics arrived. Unfortunately, because I was the only doctor on site, this meant the tournament couldn’t continue while I was away from the ring, which annoyed quite a few people.

Clearly, boxing schedules are more important than brains. 

About fifteen minutes later, the paramedics arrived. They examined the boxer themselves and came to the same conclusion: he needed to go to the hospital.

That was when Random Boxing Guy™ joined the discussion.

He wasn’t the boxer’s coach, wasn’t related to him, and wasn’t part of the medical staff. He was just there. I believe he was some other boxer’s coach’s assistant.

Random Boxing Guy: “Nah, he doesn’t need a hospital.”

Me: “Excuse me?”

Random Boxing Guy: “He’s just excited. That happens. I can tell it’s not a concussion.”

Me: “He’s vomiting and has a headache after a fight. That’s an indication for hospital evaluation.”

Random Boxing Guy: “No, no. I know these things. It’s probably because he ate cornflakes before the fight.”

Of course. The well-known medical emergency: Acute Cornflake Syndrome.

By this point, both the official ringside physician and a trained paramedic were in agreement.

Me: “He needs to go to the hospital.”

Paramedic: “Yes. Now.”

Random Boxing Guy still disagreed.

Instead, he handed the boxer a cup.

Random Boxing Guy: “Here. Ayran. That’ll fix it.”

Yes. Ayran. The salted yoghurt drink known for curing potential brain injuries.

At that point, we decided we had spent enough time trying to reason with this guy. We gently but firmly moved him out of the way and continued doing our actual jobs.

The boxer went to the hospital. He did not drink the Ayran. The tournament resumed. 

I’m still wondering who this guy thought he was to interfere with the official ringside physician, a trained paramedic, and the boxer’s own father.

Seriously. What the h***?

This happened a few years ago. At the time, I’m a twenty-eight-year-old woman living in Germany, a country famous for its punctuality, orderliness… and not exactly for warm fuzzies. For reasons unknown to me, though, people often find me “adorable.” 

It’s not always helpful, especially professionally, but occasionally it comes with unexpected perks. Also worth noting: tipping here isn’t as common or expected as it is in the US; rounding up a bit is normal, but big tips are rare.

My boyfriend at the time and I are strolling through a Christmas market when I spot a cotton candy stall. The prices are listed clearly: the smallest size is €3, the largest €8.

Me: “Ooooh, cotton candy!”

Boyfriend: *Grinning.* “Would you maybe like a cotton candy?”

Me: *Enthusiastically.* “Yes, please!”

The vendor has clearly seen and heard our little exchange, because as we walk up, he’s beaming at me.

Vendor: “Hello there, sweetheart!”

In Germany, calling a grown woman “sweetheart” like this is not typical. At all. It’s something you’d say to a toddler or your significant other, not a random adult customer.

Me: *Playing along.* “Yes, please, mister!”

Vendor: “What size would you like? Like this?” *He holds his hands fairly close together.* “Or this?” *A bit further apart.*

Me: “Hmmm… like this, please!”

I hold my hands apart, signalling a reasonably large size. The vendor laughs and spreads his arms even wider.

Vendor: “You mean like this?”

His arms are now stretched as far apart as possible, like he’s about to give me a massive bear hug.

Me: *Laughing.* “Yes! That, please!”

Vendor: “Say no more.”

He proceeds to make the biggest cotton candy his machine can possibly handle, easily larger than the €8 option.

Vendor: *Handing it over with a flourish.* “Et voilà! That’ll be €3. Merry Christmas!”

My boyfriend, who’s been laughing the whole time, pulls out a €20 note.

Boyfriend: “Keep the change. A very merry Christmas to you, too!”

I worked at a fast food place in my teenage years, but I worked at a unique one, on a military base inside a large US military hospital in Germany that treated many of those hurt in wars. I was working there during the surge in Iraq.

I started to notice a soldier come in. He had intense burns all over his body; most of his face was wrapped up. You could tell he had burns everywhere, and every step was painful.

He would come to my fast-food place every Sunday and order an original chicken sandwich, with onion rings, everything fresh.

Quickly, I recognized he always orders the same thing, so one day I made a deal with him. If he sees me working, he sits at the closest table, and I’ll punch in his order, get his food, and take his payment at the table.

No, of course we weren’t set up for this, this is fast food, but I did it.

I did it every time I saw him.

Then one day, my manager was working on Sunday and saw me do it, he told me I can’t do that. I basically said, “I understand, I don’t care, I’m going to keep doing it.”

My manager tried to explain the reasoning (which I understand), and I cut him off and said I plan on continuing to do it. That was the end of that conversation.

I would even make customers wait if they weren’t also hurt. I remember one time I made a colonel wait for his food so I could get this soldier his food.

The colonel saw me do this, gave me a coin, and asked me what my name was and asked me where my dad worked. I was nervous. I just told him what I knew.

That night I came home, and my dad said the colonel called him and told him what I was doing.

At the time, my dad was an NCO, enlisted, so a random colonel calling him and giving him props over something his son is doing made him proud.

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