I did a previous post that documented my initial encounter with Dutch Police. While they gave me somewhat of a hard time, they actually let me off pretty easy. The Police would only be a minor character in my travels if that had remained the sole encounter, something that I could merely laugh off. However, that was not to be the case, as I eventually ventured into a Kafkaesque journey into the depths of bureaucracy and powerwhoring. In other words, it was just a lovely experience.
The story begins simply enough, and with the best of intentions. I had gone away for the weekend, to Berlin I believe. I had left my bike chained outside my place for the weekend, and everything should have been fine. However, I saw a note tied to my handlebars; I presumed it was a note from a car about hitting my bike, especially since the car that was parked there had jumped the curb. I took the note into my landlord to translate it for me, and she told me I was mistaken--the story was in fact that I had left the key to the lock in place, and that this kind soul had been worried about potential theft, so he/she had dropped the key off at the nearby Police station. Well, that was quite thoughtful--I'll drop off my stuff and go pick it up in a little bit.
I walked the two kilometers to the station, only to find it closed for the night. Granted, it was past 10 pm on a Sunday, but I thought if anything was going to be open late in Holland it would be the Police (in addition to the coffee shops, sure). Fine, I'll come in the next morning.
I get up early before work, and make the trek once again before I take a shower. I am buzzed in to the reception area, and realize that the station shares space with a bank. They direct me to the officers, and I begin to describe the situation. I show them the note, and describe the missing keys. They check around, but nothing can be found. Then one officer speaks up and says "it's probably in the weekend box." Alright, can we check it? "We'll open that up in the afternoon." Umm...ok. Fine, I'll go during my lunch hour to get the key, and I'll be able to ride my bike to work no problem. Plus, I get an excuse to try a restaurant for lunch outside of my usual area.
I arrive in the afternoon and repeat once again my story (new cops had taken the originals' place). After some time spent making the usual mistakes, someone finally opens the weekend box. I describe the keys in detail--three keys, one of which is long and for a garage, the other two for the locks on the bike; the keychain was a small little clog. "Is this one it?" Indeed, that's great! Alright, we can proceed and finish this up. "Alright, we just need the registration of the bike."
This is when the story comes off the rails. The bike is not mine, it belongs to my employer--I'm only here for the summer, there's no reason for me to spend money for my own bike, and they had a spare. Perfect solution. I explain to the Police that the bike belongs to my employer, and that I was using it. "Sorry, we need the registration or a spare key." I'm wondering if they realize that if I had a spare key, I'd probably not bother with this shit in the first place, much less three times. I tell them I don't have it, but they can call my employer and they can confirm that indeed I am responsible for the bike. "Let me ask the Sergeant."
Those turned out to be very unpleasant words to hear. The Sergeant was not good people, so to speak, full of hot air and eager to show she was in control (common courtesy prevents me from engaging in potential misogynistic rants, but let's say certain derogatory terms definitely came to mind). Once again, we run through the story--the note, the key, etc. I point out that this is the key, something I was able to describe without looking. "We need the registration." Can't you call my employer and ask to see it? I doubt they even have it, but they'll clear it up. "No, we cannot call them! YOU must do that." Um, alright. But I don't know their number. "You don't know the number where you work?!?" [Fuck you] Well no, I don't have to call my work, and I've only been there a month. Don't you have a phonebook? "No, we do not." [Um, the fuck you don't] So I'm left with the task of calling co-workers to look up the office number, writing that down, and getting through to the proper representative, so to speak. I ask for the registration, and of course they don't have it--the bike's an old piece of shit (though it does work), and who saves that kind of paperwork? I tell the police that I have my employer on the phone, and they don't have the registration, but they can corroborate my story! There's some hesitation, but I hand over the phone and a discussion ensues. And we're of course left back at the beginning--no registration, no keys, even though we have confirmation, fucking confirmation, of the proper stewardship of the bike. The Sergeant continues to yell at me, and eventually storms out--"How can we tell that you are not trying to steal the bike?!" [I don't know, maybe by exercising a little fucking common sense?.]
I keep explaining to them, how would I know to pick this bike, get the note TRANSLATED, come to the police 3 times, and be able to identify the keychain exactly without seeing it. "You could have just pulled this off a random bike!" Um no, that's quite the assumption--besides, HOW DID I KNOW WHAT THE KEYCHAIN WAS?! And we did have confirmation from THE OWNER that I'm the one in charge! This is an awful lot of preparation for some foreign kid to try and steal a bike, especially considering there are 8 million bikes in the city, many of which are tied up in much less secure fashions than this one. Isn't there a Detective on staff that could help explain this?
So there goes my entire lunch hour, and I head back to work. Eventually we're able to find a spare key, and I was set to just junk this whole fucking expedition. In the mean time, the Good Samaritan leaves another note, presumably repeating the same story as before. I check to see if the key works, and...it works for the lock that's built into the box, but it lacks the one to untie the chain. Fuuuuck, I gotta deal with these assholes one more time, and hopefully I won't have to prove BOTH keys. Once again, I return, for trip number four. After 20 minutes of waiting, I show them the spare key. They check it after 8 minutes, confirming that they're identical. Of course, this was after 15 minutes of getting confused about the situation ONCE AGAIN. However, since they're identical, I'm entitled to receive my keys back...after one hours worth of bullshit paperwork.
Mindless bureaucracy, power-mad supervisors, and inconvenient hours--here we have a recipe for success. Imagine if the notemaker realized all the trouble that would have resulted from their kind gesture--do you think they'd do it again?
The lesson is: don't be nice. It's only going to be irritating for everyone in the end.
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