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This happened a couple of months ago, but it is the kind of thing could only happen in Germany, so I thought it is worth relaying, even much after the fact.
One day, I was, well, lets just say 'busy' (hint: kids were at school, M works at home). The doorbell rings. I hurriedly make myself presentable and run downstairs to answer, swearing under my breath that if this is a klingelstreich (kids ring and run) I will wring some little German necks.
I open the door, and the postman is there. He starts to interrogate me auf Deutsch. My confused stare goes unnoticed for a while, and I am picking up bits and pieces, such as he seems to be asking about the former occupants. I stammer something that I think means they do not live here anymore. I still don't quite know what he is talking about, but his tone is admonishing. "Verstehen Sie?" Ah, now that one I know. He is asking if I understand. "Uhhhh.... No. I mean, Nein." Now he looks angrier. More harsh Deutsch. "Ummm.... Wie bitte?" Deep sigh from the postman, he hands me two pieces of mail, points to the mailbox and says:
"No Name, No Post!"
And he leaves. Ohhhhh! It was starting to make sense. M had painstakingly put our names on a strip of paper, then had taped them very carefully over the names of the owners (and most recent residents) on the mailbox. The ink had faded away, due to - you guessed it - The Rain. I really had wondered why on earth he would bother with such a thing, but M often gives great attention to weird things that I find unimportant (mopping floors, arranging furniture, making the bed, for example), so I just put it into the 'ok, whatever' category. Turns out, if you want mail in Germany, you need to have your name on the mailbox. I guess that is so important mail doesn't fall into the wrong hands. I look down at the items in my hand:
A flyer for the local supermarket and some Burger King coupons. Whew. That was a close one.
We had a similar thing happen in Freiburg, except I was already presentable because I was outside (and Stefan was at the University rather than...*cough*...working at home with his...*cough*...busy wife...upstairs; personally, I wouldn't have interrupted that kind of work to answer the door). Anyway, for us it was a neighbor in the apartment building, who wanted the row of mailboxes by the door to be proper. I ran into him as we were both going into the building, and he gruffly told me to blah blah blah MAIL blah blah blah IMPORTANT blah blah SHOULD HAVE blah blah. All I was able to tell Stefan later was that one of our neighbors was pissed off at us because of the mailbox, but that I clearly must have misunderstood because that didn't make any sense. Stefan, of course, knew exactly what was up and put our names on the box.
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