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Goddamn, I get controlled a lot

Heading home from my morning job yesterday, on my way to my evening place of employment, I got controlled by the cops. Again.

This has been a very regular occurrence since I got to Germany. It’s legal for the cops to just frisk anyone on the street, for any reason, and I get that treatment a lot. If I’m meeting friends some place, they’ll often give me 20 minutes beyond the scheduled meeting time, because chances are, I’m going to get controlled somewhere along the way.

What happened yesterday was that I was on the tram, in the rearmost car, and I decided I was going to get off. Typical protocol is that everyone outside the tram waits for people to get off, then they pile in. I was at the back of the line to exit, and since it was a heavily trafficked stop (Munich Central Station), there was a risk the tram was going to start moving again, and I’d be stuck having to walk a stop back.

As I reach the door to exit, two police officers are trying to get onto the train. I figure whatever they have to do is somewhat important, so I want to make sure they get on before the doors close and seal everybody in. They were rudely getting on side-by-side, as well, meaning I couldn’t walk out next to them. I hestitate and motion them inwards, they don’t respond, so I move to get out, and then they try again to come on, together, blocking my exit.

The conversation went like this:

Me: “Are you getting on or not?”
Cop #1, with one foot on the tram: “Maybe. Would it be a problem if I did?”
Me: “What? Look, I was just waiting on you. Whatever.”

Then I shouldered by them, as I had maybe a second or two left before the doors locked me in, and they followed me back off the tram, Cop #1 already donning leather frisking gloves.

I heave a big sigh and roll my eyes.

Cop #1: “Identification, please. Are you carrying any illegal substances, such as drugs or weapons, on your person or in your bag?
Me: “Of course not. I think I might have a pretzel in my backpack, but that’s the worst you’re going to find.”
Cop #2: “Identification, please.”

I hand over my Pennsylvania driver’s license and begin emptying my pockets. (I definitely know the drill by now. It’s illegal for them to reach into my pockets, so I have to empty them myself and then turn them inside out, otherwise they have probable cause to take me down to the station.)

Cop #1: “Start with the front pockets, please. Everything out.”
Cop #2: “Identification, please.”
Me: “Are you really going to keep asking me?”
Cop #2: “This isn’t identification. This is a driver’s license.”
Me: “That’s government issued. It counts as ID.”
Cop #1: “No, all it does is prove that you can drive a car. We need identification.”
Me: “In America, you have to provide a social security number to receive a driver’s license. It’s used as ID. Very few Americans have a passport.”
Cop #1: “Did you use this driver’s license at the airport when you came to Germany?”
Me: “No, of course not. I used my passport. I don’t carry that with me because it’s too valuable.”
Cop #2: “You have to carry your passport with you at all times.”
Me: “No, I don’t. I have to carry ID. That’s ID.”
Cop #1: “Next pocket, please. Turn that one all the way inside-out.”
Cop #2: “So you’re not registered as living here, are you?”
Me: “Of course I am. I’ve lived here since September.”
Cop #2: “Under what name are you registered with the city?”
Me: [bored stare]
Cop #2: [looks at driver’s license] “Where is your passport?”
Me: “Back at my place. I keep it there so it’s safe. Like, for example, if I go drinking or something. I don’t want to lose it. [I know that sounds like stiff, awkward English, but that’s exactly what my German sounded like]

The frisking process was especially laborious because I’d just come from doing a tour. I had about ten thousand sets of keys for all the bike locks, I had tools like wrenches and multitools, a mini tire pump, and a large amount of cash in crumpled bills, which I had collected as payment and needed to get to my boss.

When Cop #1 began to search my backpack, she did indeed find half a massive pretzel I’d stuffed in there while drinking at the Chinese Tower with the tour group. (I couldn’t finish it because I’d been drinking heavily the night before and hadn’t gotten my appetite back.)

The best part was when she had me empty my cargo pockets, which is where all the tools were, and asked me to turn those inside out. Have you ever tried to turn cargo pockets on shorts inside out? It doesn’t really work. I kind of just rolled my shorts up, towards the inside, so it looked like I had been really hungover that morning and decided knickers were a good idea, but couldn’t quite nail the execution.

These poor officers did not want to give up. They were sure I had something. I’d gotten off the train at a weird time. I’d acted deferentially to them instead of ignoring them, which was suspicious. I had a death metal t-shirt on, and my hair down. I had a very bizarre looking backpack.

They eventually did give up. I got my pretzel back, but I still haven’t eaten it.