Big news, I sold our car. We bought it new when we moved to Austria four years ago. She was a perfect car for us: BMW 118d, four door hatchback with parking assist. Parking assist is the best investment of my life; it's a proximity alarm at the rear of the car that assists with parking. I think it's aptly named.
The car was a diesel. My first. Loved it. It performs better than a gas engine from 0 to 60 and is more fuel efficient. Okay, it's a bit sluggish at passing speeds, say on the Autobahn when you've got a long line of American cars like Fords and Opels in the right lane and you have to get by them. Although I might struggle to get by, the old 1-er was fast enough to trigger the speed camera on six occasions. Yep, that is six times I got a personal letter from the Austrian Police. Forty euros per greeting.
Selling the car was one of my most challenging and enriching German language experiences of my time here. Is there a better way to test my skill than dazzling potential buyers with phrases like: paint good almost new, parked in garaged almost always, lots of kilometers per liter, no accidents, and my favorite: "only 3 dent". (I had to look up the word for dent and I didn't learn the plural.)
I met with all types of buyers. First was the second Mongolian I've ever met. I showed him the car on the street outside my apartment. I think all he heard was "3 dent" because he rubbed his finger on the dents every time I said "no accidents" or "good paint".
After that, I showed the car in a really dark garage.
There was a slew of Austrian father/college-aged-kid combos. These always went the same: kid loved the car, wanted the car, drooled over the car, dad offered bullshit price. They would leave and I'd never hear from them again. Same result with the with the middle-aged guy from Wiener Neustadt and the Turkish dude with the man purse.
I posted my ad online and got a handful of email offers. Email offers were always the same: "piss-low number" followed by "cash". I don't understand why people like to say, "I'll pay cash." Maybe some people plan to pay with coins. I wouldn't want that. One email offer came from James, an English speaker offering me about half my asking price. I wrote back to him:
Hi, James,
I'm glad you're interested in the car. She's a real beauty. At the price you are offering, I'm afraid I would have to keep all the doors, the tires, the seats and the engine. I do take cash. Let me know,
Greg
Never heard back from him.
Ten prospective buyers later I was no closer to a sale. I dropped my price and began refining my sales-spiel. I learned plural for dent and I always mentioned that I had two months remaining on the factory warranty. Things looked better when I had some women interested. My slick and sexy phone voice works better with women. Things looked very promising with Katia. But then things went south. Katia said she wanted to test drive the car. She said she'd come back tomorrow with her ID. I told her to forget about the ID, take the car, drive it to the Ukraine and dump it at a chop shop, I don't care, I have insurance. She asked me why I said the Ukraine. I laughed. "Don’t all stolen cars end up in the Ukraine?" Katia said, "I'm from the Ukraine."
After that, I stopped telling jokes and focused on the low kilometers and almost new paint.
Ultimately, I landed a giggly, oafy, Schwarzenegger-type kid from Graz who came with his father in-law. I was not expecting a sale. This combo was a proven killer. The car-showing went down as I expected, kid loved it, geezer wanted to haggle. This guy even wanted to "sit down and talk." I sat on the steps of the parking garage: "Let's talk." No, he wanted a sit-down at a café to get to know me. So we sat down at a café. He made some small talk. Did you know they actually use the term small talk in German? Normally they say small talks. As in, thanks for the small talks. Charming. Well, this old guy was throwing small talks my way and I learned he had traveled from Graz to Vienna to visit an important hospital on account of his heart condition. Heart condition? Did you just tell me you are here to negotiate and you have a heart condition? There are two ways I can go about this. I can grind out a marathon negotiation until you're on the brink of stressed induced death or I can jump ahead to the end and possibly save your life.
My compassion came out. I jumped ahead. "You want the car or not?"
Mr. Heart Condition turned to his son-in-law and spoke. They talked about the dents, the condition of the tires, and a few things I didn't understand. I really wasn't paying close attention. The beer was good and the kid really liked the car. The longer he spoke, the more I could see he was uncomfortable negotiating. I was guessing his blood pressure was rising.
Moments before Mr. Heart Condition dropped his sure-to-be-too-low-offer, I made my move. "Listen, my price is fair. You like the car, your son-in-law likes the car, hell, it's a great car. That's why I can't go any lower. Take it or leave it."
"Okay," said the man. "We’ll take it."
He looked relieved. I think the pressure was building up on him the entire time. He was dreading the negotiation; he had been putting it off. Getting quickly to the end probably saved his life. By now the kid was all giggly. He nearly fell back in his chair he was so happy. I think he wanted to hug me, either for car or because I saved the old man's life. There would be no hugging. I wanted to move things along so I slammed my empty beer on the table and demanded a deposit. Cash money. The deal was fixed.
But that's just the beginning. The big adventure came when I went to pay a tax on the car before selling it. (I'll spare you the reasons why I had to pay.) This meant a visit to the Austrian Ministry of Finance. I was expecting something like the DMV with lots of lines of frustrated people in front of bored government workers behind little windows. The Ministry of Finance is not like the DMV. I walked straight up to the desk at the INFO area, explained what I had to do and was issued a yellow post-it note with a floor and an office number. I navigated through the building, no escort or badge, upstairs, through a dozen office cubes, arriving at the desk of Mr. Werner, the most unaccountant-looking accountant I've ever seen. After twenty minutes of calculations (no joke, no surprise if you saw him) my tax bill was 761.97 euros. I was warned previously to bring around a thousand euros because they calculate the tax on the spot and you never know how much it will be. Plus, they only take cash. Cash money. Where have I heard that? I handed Mr. Werner eight big (that's 8, 100 euro notes, Mom) but Mr. Werner didn't take it. He handed me a little yellow post-it note with a floor and an office number. Didn't we just do this?
Fourth floor. That is where I met Mrs. Koenig, 53 or so, with pictures of little children all over her office. Grand kids or kids? I don't know. I handed her the cash. She laughed. Her desk mate laughed too. Turns out the Austrian Ministry of Finance is unable to make change. I asked how this was possible and they said everybody brings the exact amount. I tried to verbalize what you are probably thinking right now, as in how can you have the exact amount if they calculate tax on the spot. I tried but I wasn't getting through to her. I asked Koenig 53-or-so how much the last guy brought and apparently his bill was a perfect round number. Lucky bastard. My bill was 761.97 and I had only the 8 big. I looked at her and said, "Be a good Catholic, please—"
This was the first public official I've met in all of Austria with a kind heart. Koenig 53-or-so ran down the halls getting change from her co-workers: Mr. Bauer with the square glasses, Mr. Klein with the square glasses, Mr. Feldkirch with the square glasses. Even the coffee jar was consulted (even though it did not wear square glasses.) The entire encounter was comical if you think standing around bored-as-@#$@ is comical. I finally asked if maybe I should go out on the street and buy a Coke. Nein! I suggested they round to the nearest 10 euros and let me go. Nein! She insisted on the exact amount. It took another 5 minutes for her to find my last 3 cents. I told her I didn't need the last three cents.
"Nein!" she said. "We are the Ministry of Finance. These things matter."




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