On the night before I left for Germany, Christine came to my apartment to hang out and sleep over. She had a flight the next day too, and this was a last-ditch effort to see each other since our primary interaction last semester took place almost entirely online. I had only been home for a few hours, following my almost-got-stranded-in-New-York-before-a-final fiasco. I was fully exhausted from delayed trains and crowded Chinatown buses and had no desire to hop on a plane (or three planes, in this instance) for even more claustrophobic fun with strangers. Christine felt similarly.

Our boyfriends were both out of the country and we were each traveling alone, which was a topic of collective lamentation. We’re both petite, not terribly strong, and absent-minded — not in a cute way but in a once-lost-a-Macbook-in-a-cab kind of way (that would be Christine, who is cute, but for reasons other than her obliviousness). These are really inconvenient qualities in a travel companion, and I advise you now to never travel with people like us. When it comes to getting my suitcases from origin to destination in one piece, I’m much like Blanche DuBois: I have always depended on the kindness of strangers. And by “strangers”, I mean the person who I tricked into flying with me.

When Patrick and I started dating, I landed a permanent travel companion. As a result, the last time I worried about how to move luggage was in 2008. He also takes care of little details like renting cars, getting Hamlet’s travel documents, and making contingency plans in case of delays. During travel fiascos, my job is usually to watch our stuff, locate wifi, and look pretty. I assure you that I am not incompetent. When I was single, I traveled alone and got along fine, but my inability to speak German means that Patrick ends up doing a lot of the above by default whenever we go to Europe. And since I’m not used to handling this stuff anymore, I’m a nervous wreck when I go at it alone.

Anyway, this is a rather long preface to the following anecdote: last week, when I was briefly in Nuremberg with Patrick and friends, I blogged that we had managed to get our luggage locked into an elevator without us. What I didn’t mention is that I managed to get myself locked in the same elevator the day before.

Because of severe cramping (due to my rediscovery of my lactose intolerance), I decided not to tour the city and instead took a cab to where we were staying. All I had was an address; I’d never seen the place since I left for the city center straight from the train station, but Patrick was there waiting. Upon arrival, I rang the front door bell and received no response. I then walked up four flights of stairs to find another door bell, which I rang to no response. At this point, I was wondering if I was even at the right place while simultaneously pondering the propriety of passing out in the stairwell. I started to bang at the door wildly. No answer. I then walked all the way back down to ring the downstairs bell again. When nothing happened, I decided not to take the stairs again and got in the elevator. It stopped on the fourth floor, but when I tried to slide open the door, it wouldn’t open.

I sent an email to Patrick from inside the elevator, informing him that I was trapped in an elevator on the fourth floor. I then pressed the Alarm button, which, instead of alerting the local fire department, made a faint buzzing sound. Needless to say, no one came to my rescue, despite the presence of two businesses in the same building. I was also pretty doubtful that Patrick was checking his Blackberry at the moment, and yet, I fully expected to be rescued. Did I mention that I ate Comté for breakfast and my stomach felt like it was going through a garbage disposal?

I wanted to cry.

Then I got violent. I slammed my fist into the door repeatedly, kicked it a few times, and wondered how long I could stay in an elevator, while dairy was melting my insides, without going completely batshit insane. I have never been so certain that cheese and small spaces could induce one to commit suicide.

About fifteen minutes after I entered the elevator, I realized a crucial error. The outer elevator door was supposed to be pushed, not slid, open. After freeing myself rather undramatically after the aforementioned outburst, I successfully secured entrance into the residence with more door-pounding and located boyfriend and couch just moments later.

In conclusion, I am an idiot, but at least, I’m still capable of getting myself out of idiotic situations of my own doing.