My Mother's Son and Lessons Learned

If there is one character flaw that I inherited from my mother, it is what I like to call "temporary forgetfulness." It basically means that we can walk out of the house to go somewhere and then suddenly realize we left something inside. I can occasionally make it all the way to my car, or even start driving down the street before I remember whatever it was that I forgot. But more often than not, it clicks immediately when the door shuts behind me and, while this can be extremely annoying, it's not usually that big of a deal. Usually. However, when your apartment has a self-locking door and the seemingly trivial thing you left inside is the key to said door, it becomes a very big deal. And so the story goes...

One Thursday evening after work, at around 7:30, a young man arrives back at his apartment. Out of sheer habit, our protagonist empties the contents of his pockets - money clip, keys, cell phone, coins, receipts - onto the nearest flat surface (in this case an ironing board) and then removes his jewelry - watch, ring, necklace - and adds them to the pile. He has recently moved into a new apartment with all tile floors so he also removes the dress shoes that echo through the rooms and likely disturb his downstairs neighbors. It's at this point that our young man remembers the gym bag that he took to work and left in the trunk of his car. Knowing that he would eventually need the contact lens case and glasses that were in the bag (and thinking he might even go for a run this evening), he decided to retrieve the bag before he changed down to his "lounging around the house" clothes. Instead of putting his dress shoes back on, he simply wedged a pair of sandals onto his still-socked feet, grabbed his car key and cell phone, and walked out the door. Click.

The first thought triggered by the clicking of the door was oh, sh*t. He looked in his hands. Car key? Check. Cell phone? Check. Apartment key? Negative. Pockets? Empty. Door? Locked. Spare keys? Also inside (ironically enough, they had just been removed from his car when he arrived home this evening as the keys to the postbox were attached and he decided to check the mail on his way upstairs).

F***!

Now what? Think, think, think... Windows? Balcony door? I only live on the 1st floor (note: 1st floor in Europe = 1st floor above ground level). Could I somehow climb up and "break in?" Does the balcony door even have an exterior handle? Damn it. There's no way.

Fortunately, our young man is addicted to his Blackberry or the situation could have been much more dire. He bites the bullet and calls his relocation consultant, admits his stupidity and asks for advice. She is kind enough not to laugh and says the landlord has an extra set of keys. She is still at work and says she will get his phone number for the young man to call him. Then everyone remember that the landlord doesn't speak English. The young man's French is bad, but his Luxembourgish is non-existent so the consultant offers to make the call.

After thirty minutes of sitting in the hallway, playing games on his Blackberry and trying to decide what he could possibly say that the landlord would understand, the landlord arrives. Using hand signals and not understanding anything the other was saying, this odd couple has a very confusing exchange about the door and then about the sink that the landlord repaired earlier in the week. Though he smiled the whole time and seemed nice enough, one can only imagine exactly what the landlord was saying about the stupid American in dress clothes, socks and sandals.

Needless to say, I returned the spare keys to my car and I take a diligent inventory of my pockets before I leave the apartment now. I'm also considering making additional copies of the apartment keys to give to friends/co-workers or to hide/bury in various locations around the neighborhood.

Let's just hope I'm a quick learner and it only takes one time to learn this lesson.