Tales of the Lowly Statistic

Since the story of the trip to Austria is evidently not forthcoming yet, I'll discourse about what has happened in the meantime. If this is boring or too much information (as I was kindly but sternly told was the case with my last post), I apologize, but doubtless there is a pithy quote out there about the cumulative importance of trivial events in life, and hopefully the ones in my particular life reflect the broader human condition. Even if that were not the case, it is my blog and no one is forced to read it. (c:

My solo search for work hasn't gone anywhere and frankly I don't blame myself for it. If people don't want to hire me they just don't; and if I apply to few places it's because I genuinely try to find the right workplace and, given my inexperience, want to be especially careful. It doesn't make me feel happy, of course, to be apparently not only unemployed but also unemployable; on the other hand the things I've done instead of work are also worthwhile. So the other route I've chosen is to register with the Agentur für Arbeit (work agency) and get a job through it, since with the larger field of employers accessible through it the likelihood that one of them will find a use for me is greater.

Yesterday I went to the Agentur location at the Sonnenallee, and was told that I was at the wrong spot, but at least the women there entered the vital statistics and information about my education into the computer, and referred me to the Agentur location at the Gottlieb-Dunkel-Straße in Tempelhof. After that I went to the bank — inwardly kicking and screaming because the last times I've been there I felt under pressure, stupid, irritated, and humiliated — to take care of equally urgent business. Overcoming so many inhibitions and dislikes at once was draining, and after I came home playing the piano didn't help relax me much because my concentration was bad, and at last I unwound by reading online novels far into the morning. At some point after 9 a.m. I crawled into bed.

In the afternoon J. gently woke me up by informing me that our lunch of spaghetti was served, but I wasn't hungry and therefore dozed on. Then there was a phone call from my advisor at the bank (which I thought I had done with for at least the next two months after yesterday's splendid effort), informing me that because I had failed to sign and send in a form permitting the tax authority to access my bank records, the government has apparently withdrawn a fine from my account. At the same time she mentioned the bank's phone survey of a month or so ago. It consisted of three, of which these are the first two, questions: 1) On a scale of 1 to 10, what is the likelihood that you would recommend this bank to someone else?; and 2) Would you mind if your advisor at the local bank branch contacts you about the results? My answer for the first was 7, and for the second was "no."

At any rate, the advisor wanted to know what the reasons were for the relatively low score, and I said (truthfully) that I'd feel better talking about it in person when I drop off my signed tax form. So we have an appointment for tomorrow. First of all I have to read the form through and understand the technical terminology before I sign it; secondly I have to arrange my thoughts and decide what to tell the advisor about the score. I'll be truthful, of course — the trip to New York somehow left me convinced that lying is (usually) weaselly and cowardly, and that an integral part of courage (which I am still trying to acquire, being naturally more stubborn than brave) is the strength to speak the truth and stand to it at any cost — but I don't know how much of the truth to tell and how to be sure that personal pique doesn't colour it. But essentially I doubt I'd talk about my bank to people anyway, since I grew up thinking that personal finances are an icky but important fact of life, which is to be disposed of quickly and privately, much like going to the toilet.

After that inspiriting phone call I went to the Agentur location in the Gottlieb-Dunkel-Straße. Having unwisely decided to eschew the bus, I walked from the Alt-Tempelhof U-Bahn station for ages — not entirely certain of the route since the Google map and U-Bahn station map disagreed on some points — and, perspiring profusely, reached the building at last. I thought I'd have an hour to spare. No such luck. The lights in the foyer were already dimmed and the lady at the desk informed me that it was five minutes before closing, and that an application for unemployment status takes a long time to process. She did extend the deadline on the writ that I'd received from the Sonnenallee so that I have more time to submit the application. But as I went out again into the heat and fully realized that I'd immediately have to go back all the way I had come I was not, as a teacher at J.'s school once put it, a happy camper. Then I lost my way, but not badly, and went home with mildly blistered feet.

Once I was at home I repressed the latent urge to cry out of frustration and fatigue, and have instead been enjoying myself. I've started reading another American romance novel translated into the Spanish, and it's still going very slowly. But my vocabulary is expanding easily, and it's fun to hop from the internet browser tab with the novel on it to the browser tab for the online Spanish-English dictionary, and back again. Besides, I feel proud of myself for doing it.

Still, I'd hoped to have all the bank and unemployment paperwork finished by this evening, and instead the horrid mess is seemingly only just beginning, and I don't know how much longer I can keep up my strength and ignore how much I hate this all and how much it hates me. At first I was proud of myself and I'm still pretty sure I'll stick things out, but the cost worries me. I keep on thinking I can handle things but then they leave me unhappy and tired and discouraged for months afterwards. I just hope that I'll find a job by October, and be too mentally and physically busy and satisfied to mope. Either way, since I'm too straightlaced to deploy more powerful verbiage, I will leave the swearing I'd like to do in the meantime to our collective imaginations.