If German bureaucracy were a neighborhood block, I would know my way around that block pretty darned well. There are two types of unfortunate souls whom these bureaucrats take particular sadistic pleasure in batting around with their bloated paws: foreigners and freelancers. I am both. Like the milkman, the mailman or the beat cop, I’ve made my rounds* in this paperwork neighborhood enough times to know the ins and outs, the dos and don’ts, the cans and can’ts. But even I was surprised recently when I discovered my sixth sense is more keenly developed than I’d thought.

Katrin and I were sitting in a modern glass cubicle at the Deutsche Postbank to open a cheaper online bank account. When the woman behind the desk asked for our IDs to photocopy, I got that panicky feeling I always get when I realize I’ve forgotten something important. In this case it was my Anmeldebestätigung, a document confirming registration of my current residence with the local police and one of the most valuable pieces of paper in all the land. It used to be I wouldn’t take it along for registering at this or that office, because, I reasoned, my residence visa in my passport is a valid proxy. To get the visa, I must be registered. I was soon abusively disabused of this faulty assumption through a couple of frustrating experiences. Always bring the Anmeldebestätigung with you!

And now I’d forgotten it. This, of course, would mean returning on another distant day when the planets of our free time and the moons of their opening time once again align in bureaucratic convergence. I handed the woman my passport, flinching with pavlovian anticipation of a disgruntled employee tongue lashing. Instead, she took it. And copied it. And gave it back to me. Finished.

We’ll receive our account information within the week, she told us as we stood to walk out of the office. I was in a mild state of shock, certain she would realize her mistake and drag us back. I kept looking over my shoulder expecting to see a great white dorsal fin slicing through the blue linoleum in our direction. Not until we escaped the building entirely did I fully understand what had just happened: I was wrong. As we walked back to our apartment, I told Katrin as much. “I was wrong. I was so sure I needed the Anmeldebestätigung, but I didn’t,” I said, like I’d just lost a bet that the sun would rise this morning.

My poor wife, patiently tolerating my I-hate-this-country temper tantrums when things go pear-shaped, which, in my mind, occurs daily. All that crying about a system that is clearly out to get me, and now I see it’s not true. I’m just a baby.

[Here it comes…]

The Natural Order of Things was re-established two days later. “Look at this!” an exasperated Katrin said as she handed me a letter she’d just opened. It was the Postbank. They needed my Anmeldebestätigung before they could continue processing our application. I looked at Katrin, who was already busy hiding anything within arm’s reach that could become a projectile during my I-friggin-knew-it tirade. But I couldn’t get mad. I was too relieved.

* Minus the occasional neglected-housewife-in-a-skimpy-bathrobe adventure.