Never Throw Away Your Fan in Germany
Moving from Berlin to Frankfurt is, logistically, a nightmare. Moving as a married couple? That’s a different classification entirely — somewhere between “natural disaster” and “diplomatic incident.”
I had to leave behind my beloved ergonomic chair. The one I’d spent an unreasonable amount of time researching. A throne. Meanwhile, Simi refused to throw away a roll of tissue paper. Not a box. A single roll.
This established the philosophical framework for everything that followed.
I also had a cheap €15 fan from a discount store — the kind that sounds like a motorcycle with a bad cough every time you turn it on. I’d been meaning to toss it for months. When Simi started wrapping it in bubble wrap for the move, I saw my opportunity. A debate ensued. It was spirited. I won. The fan stayed behind in Berlin, presumably relieved to be free.
Cut to: Frankfurt.
39°C today. 41°C tomorrow. German apartments, in their eternal architectural optimism, do not come with air conditioning. We began quietly cooking inside our new home.
I was suffering too, obviously. But I maintained my composure with the ferocity of a man who absolutely cannot be the first to admit he was wrong. Because the moment I said I was melting, it would happen. You know the sentence. It starts with “Didn’t I tell you…”
So I said nothing, sweated profusely, and rushed to Amazon to order a replacement. This time I was getting a proper fan — no rattling, no diesel-engine soundtrack. I found the perfect model. 4.7 stars. Near-silent. Powerful. Arrives in three days.
Ships in August.
August.
I stared at my screen. It stared back.
We went out looking. Small shops, big shops, sketchy shops, every shop in Frankfurt. Nothing. I walked into MediaMarkt — the biggest electronics chain in Germany, a store the approximate size of an airport terminal — and asked for a fan.
“Sorry, sold out.”
Fine. “Which Frankfurt branch still has some? We’ll go there.”
The employee looked at me with the gentle eyes of someone delivering difficult news.
“The entire city is sold out.”
My brain buffered for a full second. And then, from somewhere beside me, delivered with the comic timing of a seasoned stand-up:
“Didn’t I tell you to bring the fan? You never listen to me.”
I don’t remember the next few moments. My ears went offline in self-defense.
Eventually, I found one. Used market. Black market, really. The exact same rattling €15 fan from a discount store. Listed for €45. I paid it without negotiating, without dignity, without regret.
I carried it home through Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof, grinning like a man who had won a great victory, while every person on the platform stared at me — half envious, half pitying.
The fan hums. The apartment is survivable. Simi hasn’t said “I told you so” again. She doesn’t need to. The fan says it for her, every time it starts up.