For everyone who takes the time to read our stories, today’s one is for a laugh. This time I’m switching to first person—because everything that happened that day was entirely my fault.
The scenario was this: I had successfully completed a trade fair day at “WIND” in Husum and was supposed to run a cocktail workshop for hotel guests in Zinnowitz the next day. In our phone call beforehand, I had tried to ease the F&B manager’s concerns about the long drive with a joking remark—“I’m already at the coast” (Husum)—and didn’t take her irritation seriously enough.
That morning I had a relaxed breakfast at the hotel in Husum and even took care of a few small things in my mobile office—always assuming I didn’t have a particularly long drive to Zinnowitz. When I finally got into the car and entered the destination, the navigation showed an arrival time at which the workshop would already be underway. After a brief moment of shock—and double-checking that I hadn’t typed something in wrong—I set off.
By pushing the legal speed limits where possible, and with the small bonus that my (back-then) navigation system didn’t yet know the newly built motorway, I managed to make up time. At the best possible moment, I had corrected my mistake and would have arrived on time. But it really wasn’t my day—and underestimating the travel time wasn’t my last mistake.
As the drive went on, the navigation started suggesting I should leave the expressway and head in a direction that made no sense to me. I stubbornly kept driving toward Rügen, assuming that because the device didn’t know the expressway, it would be proposing the wrong route anyway. To this day I don’t know why I believed Zinnowitz was on Rügen—and why I only pulled over to check everything again after I had already crossed the bridge to Rügen. In any case, the time I had gained was gone, and I was behind schedule again.
On the way toward Usedom I had further problems with the navigation, because the device truly no longer knew where it was and started showing “OFF ROAD”. Despite all that, I still just barely managed to arrive at a time that didn’t delay the start of the workshop.
If you think the story ends here, you’re mistaken. For the workshop—on the topic “making non-alcoholic cocktails yourself”—two older ladies and one older gentleman had signed up. The man excused himself as soon as he realized there would be no alcohol. With the absurdity of my journey still in my head, I spent the next two hours giving the two ladies a few tips—and listening to stories about strawberry punch and celebrations from years past.
A bit exhausted by everything so far, but relieved to have made it at all, I still got through the client meeting with the ambitious F&B manager, let myself be treated to some food, and set off on my way home. No—the story still isn’t over… the day wasn’t done yet.
During the turbulent drive earlier, I had only made a very short stop at a petrol station due to time pressure, and like in Formula 1 I only filled up with what was necessary to arrive. The plan was to take the next petrol station calmly on the way back, fill the tank, and then drive home. Now you need to know that on the route from Usedom to Berlin (at least back then) there simply wasn’t a petrol station. And even the navigation (which had already been to blame for so much) couldn’t help at the time by naming one.
What did work was the fuel gauge—showing more and more clearly, the longer it took, that the tank would soon be empty. Little by little I started to panic and pictured myself stranded on the motorway with no fuel. I decided to leave the motorway, hoping to find a petrol station out in the countryside.
By then it was dark, and the country road only made the situation worse. If I broke down here, I wouldn’t even have a shoulder to pull over onto. I don’t know what the small Brandenburg village was called that I reached, but it felt deserted and lifeless. Desperate, I rang several doorbells until someone—very suspiciously—opened the door just a crack and answered my question about the nearest petrol station. One village further on…
I felt like I coasted into the saving grace of a station, filled up, and then managed to finish the trip home without any further incidents.
After that day I knew: route planning is a very important thing—one that requires all your senses to be fully alert, and something you should do at least the day before. As a “Wessi” traveling through the new federal states, there’s a lot to learn; petrol stations aren’t a given even on motorways; the continued development of mobile navigation is a blessing—and…
Zinnowitz isn’t on Rügen :-)
Yours,
Markus from moving bars