Germany or Netherlands: You Decide?

Ah, Geilenkirchen, Germany—lovingly referred to as GK. It's the kind of place where you land with jet fuel in your veins and leave with schnitzel, stories, and maybe a mild hangover. For Guard members like me, GK meant two-week trips filled with international mishaps, beer-fueled bonding, and a strong chance of ending up in a country you didn’t plan on.

My job in the Air Force? Get the airplane ready to fly. And once we land somewhere, it’s also my job to “put the airplane to bed”—tuck it in, kiss the fuselage goodnight, and pray it doesn't throw a tantrum the next day. When you arrive at the base in GK, tradition kicks in immediately: meet at the maintenance shack, grab a beer from the self-help bar (yes, that’s a thing), and toast to international diplomacy. The first one’s on the house. After that, it’s back to babysitting the aircraft. A little self-control goes a long way... usually.

After the plane was finally snuggled in, we headed to our dorms to ditch our gear, change, and hit the town to pick up our rental cars. Of course, I drew the short straw and had to be the designated driver. The lady at the rental agency grilled me: “You do know how to drive a manual, right?” I nodded like a pro— “No worries, I got this.” Naturally, I got an automatic. The car gods were clearly drunk.

Now, this was around the time when electronic dance music (EDM) was all the rage. It just happened that there was a festival on our off weekend, and a few of the guys scored tickets. Keyword: few. I was the odd man out. Ever the team player (and maybe a little salty), I volunteered to drive them to the show—which was somewhere near Belgium. My plan? Drop them off and head to a beach in the Netherlands for a solo adventure. It was going to be me time—sand, snacks, and a few well-earned beers.

So, I packed a backpack with the essentials: phone charger, pocketknife, chips, beers, and rocked a swimsuit, tank top, and sandals. Picture peak beach bum energy. Unfortunately, we had to take the backup car — a clunky, wheezing stick shift that sounded like it was dying one gear at a time.

I dropped off my friends, cranked up Google Maps, and headed for the coast. But just as I was entering a roundabout, the car sputtered one last cough and gave up. Transmission? Gone. Location? Middle of nowhere. Vibe? Mild panic. Oh, and did I mention it was a Sunday afternoon in the Netherlands? Everything was closed except my anxiety.

I called the rental agency on an international line – because why not burn money while being stranded – and finally reached their emergency line. Good news: a tow truck was coming. Bad news: it’d take two hours, and I wouldn’t be getting a replacement vehicle because, well, Sunday. In Europe, Sundays are sacred. No car for you.

As I sat in my broken chariot, a kind local (whose charming house is pictured above, if you’re reading this on the blog) stopped by to check on me. Not only did he ask if I was okay, but he returned later... with pizza. Legend.

Still bleeding time, I called every Marriott within a 50-mile radius (platinum member perks, baby) until one answered. The catch? It was a 5-star Marriott, of course. They said they’d send a driver in about an hour. Nothing but time and beer on my hands now.

Naturally, I decided to crack open a cold one. Small problem—I forgot a bottle opener. Big solution? Use my pocketknife. Smarter idea? Don’t use a pocketknife. One twist and boom—blood everywhere. I looked like a frat boy who lost a bar fight with a Heineken.

Five beers in, finger wrapped in napkins, I was a mess. That’s when a sleek black Mercedes-Benz pulled up. My ride had arrived. The Marriott sent a VIP-level vehicle… and I looked like a back-alley castaway in a bloody tank top, swim trunks, and flip-flops.

For a solid 10 seconds, I considered skipping the ride out of pure embarrassment. But pride is no match for air conditioning and a real bed. Sixty-five euros later, I rolled into luxury.

The light at the end of the tunnel? Free drinks at the hotel bar—open for ten more minutes. I limped in, bleeding, sunburnt, and buzzed, just in time for one last drink before calling it a night.

I woke up the next morning in my 5-star hotel suite, wrapped in luxury... and regret. My phone—an old relic even by 2010 standards—hadn’t charged overnight. Turns out, it only pretended to charge like some kind of retired government worker. Dead phone. No GPS. No contacts. No way to call for help if things went sideways—again.

But then—hope! While aimlessly wandering in my same grungy beach attire, I spotted a familiar sight just down the block: a rental car agency. Jackpot!

I practically skipped there—flip-flops slapping the pavement—thinking my troubles were finally over. But no. Of course not. Because the car I’d broken was rented in Germany, and this was the Netherlands, where apparently cross-border rental solidarity is not a thing. The Dutch agency politely told me: “We don’t work with them.” Translation: “Not our problem, sweaty American.”

So now, I’m standing there with a dead phone, blood-stained tank top, and a backpack full of candy and soda like some kind of underprepared Halloween hobo. I didn’t have money. I didn’t have documentation. But you know what I did have? Bribe material.

I looked at the lady behind the counter and just... went for it.

“Look,” I said, unloading Skittles, Gummy Bears, Coke bottles, and one suspiciously warm Red Bull onto the counter. “It’s not much... but it’s all I’ve got.”

She paused. Looked at me. Looked at the sad snack pile. And then—miracle of miracles—she gave me a car.

Another manual, naturally. Because the universe is consistent, if nothing else.

By some stroke of luck (and the sugar gods smiling upon me), I made it back to base with no issues. Well, driving issues, anyway. As soon as I rolled in, still wearing the same stained tank top and flip-flops from the day before, I was hit with a barrage of questions.

“Where the hell have you been?”

“Why are you covered in what looks like blood and melted Gummy Bears?”

“Is that... a Dutch license plate?”

All I could do was smile and say, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Moral of the story, Part II?
A dead phone will ruin your day, but a backpack full of junk food might just save it. Also, European rental agencies clearly run on vibes and sugar bribes.