Michael A topic that will likely become relevant in Germany soon, because everything eventually crosses over, is the business practices of American retailers. Everything always has to be cheap; that's very important in America. While in Germany people somewhat look down on you if you visit several stores for a small price difference, here someone who pays more than absolutely necessary is considered crazy. At a party, you can certainly brag about having bought a particular product at a very low price.

Accordingly, local department stores advertise offers, such as TVs for $100 -- but they only have one in stock. When you arrive at the store, it's naturally gone, but the friendly salesperson is happy to show you the slightly better -- but also more expensive -- model. Or when buying a car: the dealer advertises with a super cheap offer: $9,995 for a small car. But what is actually available is a single car in a completely impossible color that only a crazy person would buy.

Once you arrive at the store and find out that the single item is either already gone or terribly equipped, a salesperson is immediately available to show you the more expensive models. Since you've driven 30 km to the store, you naturally take a look, because since you're already there... that's how it works: customers are lured into the stores with methods that would probably be illegal in Germany, and then end up buying products that are not cheaper than elsewhere -- out of frustration or boredom. We've gotten so used to this circus by now, I think I would be genuinely surprised to walk into a store where the advertised product actually costs as much as the ad indicated.

Michael Or, when you want to rent a car: The newspaper says that the rental car costs $19.95 per day. Man, that's really cheap, you think, and call the number provided, but when you reach the call center, which is usually staffed by people from parts of the USA where no one else ventures (like Iowa, for example), and who speak with a terrible dialect, you might find out that the offer is only valid in Florida, or only if you pick up the car from a specific airport.

If you don't mention that you read the offer in a newspaper, you'll be quoted completely different prices: $34.95 is common. However, if you provide the so-called Ad-Code (the code printed in the advertisement, something like "Q-95" or "ZX"), the people at the computer suddenly find the cheaper price. Immediately after, you're informed that the car for this price is, of course, only an "Economy Car," something like a VW Golf, and you're advised to take the "Full Size Car" instead, with more horsepower and a larger interior.

If you're smart, you stick with the small car, get your reservation number, and can visit the car rental company on the agreed date. There, the whole process starts again: The best line I ever heard came from a salesman at Alamo, who tried to convince me that the car I ordered only had a three-cylinder engine and that we couldn't possibly manage the hilly routes we had planned -- to which I replied that it would be fine as long as all three cylinders were in good working condition. The gentleman didn't find that very funny, though, because, after all, people in car rentals are paid for so-called up-sales, meaning if the customer drives off the lot with the car they ordered instead of upgrading to a larger one -- of course, for an additional fee -- something went wrong, and the manager will come down hard on the salesman if it happens too often. Funnily enough, those who insist on their small car usually end up getting a large one without any extra charge, as car rental companies often don't have small cars in stock since almost everyone gets talked into paying for a larger one. When we didn't have a car of our own, we rented one every few weeks, and we regularly watched German tourists getting ripped off by this scheme left and right.

Michael A kind of love-hate relationship has developed between me and the computer superstore "Fry's Electronics." This is a chain of stores that offer computer products on sales floors the size of football fields and regularly place six-page color ads in the "San Jose Mercury," the newspaper in Silicon Valley. On one hand, their prices are quite low, but on the other hand, everyone knows that they operate with dubious business practices, such as repackaging returned goods in the original plastic wrap and selling them as new, among other tricks.

The pricing is also dubious, and the price tags on the shelves often show a much lower price than what the cashier then rings up. One day I found myself at the checkout, suddenly expected to pay $30 more for a $200 hard drive. Naturally, I kicked up a fuss, as you might expect. Eventually, the manager came over and said that if I insisted, an employee would accompany me to the shelf to show me the price tag there--and I said that's exactly what I wanted. A Fry's employee then accompanied me back through the entire store to the shelf where I had found the hard drive, showed me the price tag, and lo and behold, beneath the large, prominently displayed lower price was a bunch of fine print. After stepping up to within 50 cm of the sign, I could read that the lower price was after a mail-in rebate, meaning you had to pay more at the register and then send a coupon to the company, which would then mail you a $30 check. I was, of course, quite embarrassed, so I apologized profusely, went back to the register with the guy, and bought the item at the higher price.

At that time, we didn't have a car yet, so I had ridden my bike and taken the train to Fry's in Palo Alto after work. When I got home, I opened the package and was horrified to find that there was no coupon for the mail-in rebate. Oh, the misery! I didn't go to Fry's for quite a while after that and had almost forgotten about the incident when it happened that, while visiting our friends Syllus and Richard in Portland, I stopped by a Fry's branch. I saw there that the mail-in coupons were handed out to buyers by the employees. I waited until a salesperson left their post and grabbed a coupon. Unfortunately, a few months had passed since my purchase, and the new coupon was only valid for purchases in the current month. You had to send in a copy of the store receipt with the coupon, so I made a deliberately poor copy where the date couldn't be clearly seen, sent in the stuff--and, behold: six weeks later, the check arrived. My triumphant roar could be heard all the way to Palo Alto.

Michael I have another story: About two and a half years ago, when I moved into our current apartment in San Francisco -- Angelika was still in Germany -- there was a bit of a musty smell in the space. Later, we found out from our neighbors that the previous tenant had cats that had probably peed on the carpet. After I signed the lease, I asked the real estate agent if I could have a carpet cleaning company come in, and he said yes. He had just read in the newspaper that the company Sears (a large department store chain in the USA, similar to Karstadt in Germany) had run an ad that promised they would clean any apartment for $19.95.

I called them, made an appointment, and the carpet guy came, looked around the apartment, made a face, and said in all seriousness that we had an extraordinary carpet, a "Berber carpet," which required special treatment, and that $19.95 wouldn't cover it. I should mention that our carpet was probably the most average carpet in all of America. I wasn't an expert in the field, new to the country, and relatively relaxed since the landlord had promised to cover the costs anyway. The carpet guy asked a few more questions about whether I wanted the carpet super-deep-cleaned and specially perfumed, and I said, "Yes, yes, yes, I want it all, the full package!" The bill then came out to $120 -- I laughed so much! And the real estate agent paid for everything.

But wait, the story doesn't end there. About a year later, we received a letter from a lawyer who had apparently had a similar experience. He had sued Sears for these business practices, won in court, and included a form with his letter that you just had to fill out to receive a share of the large compensation amount that Sears had to pay. Not everything is allowed, even in the land of unlimited possibilities.

Michael Angelika recently completed her earthquake course with the fire department and, like a responsible firefighter, immediately put everything into practice. She packed two earthquake boxes (as she calls them) and included old shoes (in case you're surprised in your sleep, you need to quickly put on shoes to walk through broken glass), water for three days, some food, clothing, and emergency sleeping bags made of aluminum foil. If there is no earthquake, the boxes are also good for the turn of the millennium, as many people fear that electricity or water, or even worse, my internet connection, could fail--or everything at once--because everything is controlled by computers, which, as is well known, could have difficulties entering the new millennium due to potential programming errors. Experts call it the Year-2000 or Y2K bug. A colleague told me that he bought barrels of mineral water--along with a gun to defend his supplies if necessary.

Michael My book "Perl Power," which has been lingering in the bookstores of English-speaking countries since January, is enjoying increasing popularity. More and more often, people at Netscape pass by my cubicle and want me to sign their copy, which I am, of course, happy to do. Whenever we pass by a bookstore on our weekend outings, I naturally have to take a look inside -- and check if they have "Perl Power." Usually, there are two or three copies somewhere, which I quickly place in the "Book of the Week" shelves when no one is looking. If you don't take care of everything yourself... Recently, I received, no kidding, an email from a Mr. McKenzie from Reykjavik, Iceland, who complained that one of the programs printed in the book wasn't working for him. Probably a power outage in the igloo... no, he just hadn't installed a module correctly.

Michael I also enjoy biking and taking the train to the Netscape office in Mountain View, as it allows me to read all the computer magazines and books that pile up at home. And that's one hour each way! Plus, there's always something to laugh about on the train ride.

As I've mentioned before, each train can carry 24 bicycles, and the conductors usually make sure that no more than that get on. At each stop, conductors rush to the so-called bike car and stand at its door to turn away any cyclists trying to board, if the car is already full. Some conductors, who are the favorites of the cyclists and celebrated like heroes, avoid confrontation and simply never show up in the bike car when the train stops.

As a result, new cyclists board at every station--I once experienced a situation where there were 35 bicycles inside, and you could hardly breathe, but whenever that happens, there's a great atmosphere in the bike car. The cyclists in San Francisco and Silicon Valley are an oppressed minority, and a nice sense of camaraderie develops. Stories are shared about who had the most spectacular accidents and how clueless car drivers are.

However, one conductor, who is called the "Bike Nazi" by the cyclists, is particularly strict and insists that everyone places their bicycle in the exact spot he assigns. The Bike Nazi bases this on some obscure calculations, claiming it's more efficient if the person getting off first has their bike at the front. I always chuckle to myself and say nothing, but recently, a passenger lost his temper and angrily insulted the Bike Nazi: He, the conductor, was the only one enforcing this "nonsense," and the passenger threatened file a complaint, predicting that the conductor would soon receive his "pink slip" (termination letter). I had to smile as I continued reading my book.