Off The Rails: A Run-In With German Bureaucracy
The Berliner Verkehrsbetriebe (BVG) — Berlin’s citywide public transportation system — boasts an sprawling web of trains running with cold, calculated efficiency. A moment’s tardiness leaves your arms struggling to stretch the closing doors. A Google search reveals a link to its website, which bears the slogan: “Because we love you.”
Evidently, this love only applies to the native and the lucky. As with any bureaucratic bunch, alas, the company’s true love remains the almighty Rulebook. German culture in general reveres tradition, so the guidelines of their businesses prove tighter to squeeze through than their departing train doors.
When I arrived in Berlin after 16 restless hours of international travel, I scoured the BVG ticket dispenser for the student option. I was desperate to end the day, but both I and my travel organizers had done our research. The website listed the 61 Euro “Ausbildung” (“education”) ticket as the one for students and nowhere did it state any specification beyond possessing a student card, so I bought the ticket and left.
A week passed. I grew infatuated with Berlin, its cosmopolitanism broadening my perspective on what a big city could be. Worried that if I didn’t lower my gaze from the high rises to my laptop I might miss my deadlines, I ventured off to the nearest U-Bahn station, aiming to write at a local café.
I boarded a U-Bahn remarkably devoid of people. Over that last week alone, I’d shared more physical intimacy with fellow train-riders than in many long-term friendships, so any room to breathe was precious.
The second a BVG officer boarded, however, all air left the train car. A heavyset, bald man, clearly born for this role, he bore a black vest thicker than any soldier’s. Beneath this riot gear he wore a black T-shirt, with the skull logo of Marvel Comics character The Punisher imprinted on its sleeve.
I was sure that I had no reason for concern. As the train left the station, he whipped out his scanner, demanding that all passengers present their tickets. A few good citizens later, he reached me, scanned my ticket, and stared me down.
“Let me see your student ID,” he said. I obliged. Staring at the UC Santa Barbara logo, he remarked: “This is not the ticket.” Confused, I emphasized that I was indeed a student studying here. Shaking his head, he replied: “You will get off with me.” As he turned to continue scanning, I made nervous eye contact with The Punisher’s skull.
Stepping off, I found my pitiful German akin to a fist in a gunfight. He claimed my ticket was solely “for job education” and set me an appointment to pay it the next day. Having conveniently reached my stop, I hobbled off, defeated, to the coffee shop.
The next day, I trekked over to the BVG headquarters for my appointment, with Vanessa — my trip-appointed German translator and true hero — by my side. The front of the building, complete with LGBTQ+ rainbow colors displayed, seemed inviting enough. Quickly, however, we were directed to a crude little crevice in the building’s back corner.
A bouncer-type at the BVG customer office bellowed orders from the front door. We sat together, awaiting our turn. I expressed confidence in our success.
Okay, you absolutely shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. But when I tell you my confidence melted the second I saw the man behind the counter, please let me off this one time. His eyes teemed with dissatisfaction. Mercy was not in this man’s vocabulary — nor was any English. Funny how this was the only place in Berlin I’ve been where no one has spoken English.
Vanessa fought valiantly, but it was a losing battle. The facts of the story — I am a student studying in Berlin and I had bought a ticket at the student ticket price — meant nothing to this man. “You wouldn’t go to Thailand and use your student ID to buy a ticket there,” he repeated. I am neither sure why that’s something I wouldn’t do, nor what his focus on Thailand was about. But we were chipping away at stone.
“You cannot buy this ticket as a foreigner,” he said. We emphasized that nowhere did the website specify this. “Go online and write a complaint,” he responded.
Vanessa looked at me sympathetically. I sighed, knowing the war was lost, and paid the fine. The 60 Euros aside, I felt robbed of the wide-eyed earnestness I’d brought in my suitcase. There was something potent in that initial Berlin buzz, the excitement of believing this new place might be better than back home. But now I felt disillusioned.
Make no mistake, I’m still loving my time in Berlin. You could spend weeks peeling back this city’s layers — the boundless events and different cultures it hosts — and still never find the end. Any place this large and bustling needs a public transit system, so one must deal with the BVG. Still, I wanted to issue this warning, just in case The Punisher tries to track you down.
Go online and write a complaint, huh?
Fine, man. Here it is, for the entire world to read.
Nick Blair is a California college student majoring in Film and Media Studies. He is in Berlin this summer reporting as part of ieiMedia’s “Berlin Beyond Borders” journalism team.
