Only 28 days left. And Ölvis is getting nervous.
Since his suction cup has apparently entered an unbreakable relationship with the windscreen, he now has to witness everything — every tiny task, every mistake, every “minor issue”, every new problem that appears out of nowhere. Not that I confess all my sins to him, but from today the countdown is official — and there’s a big white to-do board in the workshop.
Well… white-ish. It didn’t stay virginal for long. Five minutes later it looked like a crime scene in black marker.
Task after task — and the board filled up fast. So fast you could get dizzy just looking at it. Because from today it’s 28 days. That’s not a “month”. That’s a threat.
What makes me nervous is the small detail that the Porsche still has no registration, no inspection, and hasn’t even done a proper test drive. Minor details. The kind that only become important when you’d like to drive to Africa.
Registration is going to be “fun”, because I have to register the car in Poland — my new old home. Fun, but not the laughing kind, because different rules apply here. After more than 40 years in Germany you get used to something vaguely resembling logic. Here it’s… different. To be honest: very different.
Registration is mandatory. You must register your car. You can’t just leave it in the garage or take it off the road and chill. You have 30 days for the whole process — no matter what state the car is in or how you acquired it. You have to be quick. In 30 days you must be finished. Finished for the inspection (the local TÜV equivalent), which is required for registration, just like in Germany.
So I sprinted to the registration office to clarify everything.
Clueless, green behind the ears, and dangerously optimistic. “This won’t be a problem,” I thought. I’m just transferring my own vehicles. My property. Registered to me.
Oh sweet summer child.
Here, nobody cares. Here, you have to prove everything. You start again from Adam and Eve — as if you’d just bought the car yesterday. And since I want to register three vehicles, I also have to take three queue numbers. Fair enough. Logically painful, but fair.
I sit down in the waiting room and behave like a civilised person for five minutes until my first number is called. Off I go into the lion’s den. A room with three service desks. At each desk: one chair for the customer.
Fine — if you have one issue.
I have three.
And now it gets good: I’m expected to rotate between the desks and chairs like a bureaucratic version of musical chairs.
Desk 1: hand over papers for vehicle 1. The clerk starts processing.
So I jump to desk 2: papers for vehicle 2.
Desk 1 has a question. Sprint back to chair 1. Answer.
Then dash to desk 3 before desk 2 or desk 1 invents another question.
Whether I like it or not, I start thinking of musical chairs — except there’s no music, just questions. A mix between a travel game and “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire”, but with less prize money and more paperwork.
Eventually I just stay on chair 2. Central position. Slightly confused. Surprisingly cheerful — because you can only laugh. A couple of dumb jokes from me and the whole room warms up. And I think: “Thank God I’m not only capable of talking nonsense in German.”
Sadly, the group entertainment doesn’t help much. In the end I leave the arena empty-handed — no registration, but with freshly renewed hope.
They say: “No registration if nothing is translated.”
So: thank you and goodbye.
I head to a translator. Luckily it’s close — about the same number of steps as I did between chairs in the registration office. Two buildings down there’s a forwarding company, a customs agency with interpreter service. Perfect. I’ll gladly use it, provided it’s fast and not expensive.
The woman behind the counter says: “Sure. 200 złoty, ready tomorrow. We’ll contact you.”
Perfect, I think. Let’s do it.
I go home. Back to the garage, back to the front line. Because time is running. Not second by second — sometimes it feels like time has shifted gear and now jumps in ten-minute blocks. One moment you’re starting the day, the next it’s the weekend.
At this point I don’t even follow a normal calendar. I follow the bin collection calendar. That’s how I know: today is Wednesday — take the bins out. That’s my anchor. My zero point. My lighthouse in the storm.
Wednesday was the day I met the registration office. So Thursday should be the day I pick up the translation.
Thursday, however, became the day I turned into a chameleon. Not because I matched my surroundings — well, not entirely. The later it got, the redder my face became. Anger painted a delicate shade of crimson across my expression.
But the chameleon comparison wasn’t about my complexion. It was about my eyes.
One eye on the Porsche, working, focused, thinking.
The other eye glued to my phone all day, slowly bulging out of its socket. Nervous. Puffy. Unblinking. Half chameleon, half lunatic.
After 4pm it was clear: “No problem, ready tomorrow.” Right. Lovely.
If it’s not ready by Friday noon, I won’t be able to keep the pressure in check. The safety valve will fail.
It’s cold these days, so I’m wearing a hoodie. In rage I pull the drawstrings so hard the hood slides over my eyes and nearly covers my whole face. I retreat — literally — into my hoodie.
Friday arrives. And I surprise myself: I wake up in a good mood despite the ticking clock. Over the first coffee I swear not to get angry and set the deadline for 10:00. After that I’ll call. That was the plan at 7:30.
At 10:10 the plan was dead and the pressure was back. Not only because of the translation. But one disaster at a time.
No call, no message, nothing. So I ring them.
And what do I get?
“It’s been finished ages.”
“It’s been ready since yesterday.”
“Nobody informed you?”
“Didn’t you get an SMS?”
No. I did not.
Anyway: no time for discussion. Finished is finished. I’m coming.
I just need to get out of my work clothes, wash my hands and — ideally — use the toilet. And then I’m off.
And what can I say?
We have no water.
Water has been turned off without warning because they’re installing a hydrant right outside my house. No hand washing. No bathroom break. Dirty hands, full bladder, I drive into town at warp speed. It’s Friday. Every minute counts.
I arrive at the customs agency desk almost like I’ve been teleported — and I see a sign:
Cash payment only.
And what do I have? Loose change and a bank card. Of course.
Pressure rising.
Where’s the nearest ATM? I don’t even allow myself to think about a toilet. No time. Money first. Phone out: 500 metres.
Walk or drive? The great question. I choose driving.
Three loops around the block and the phone says: “Your destination is on the left.” Brilliant. I find a spot, cross the road — and there it is:
Out of order.
Pressure now in the red zone.
Phone again: next ATM — another 500 metres.
“Good thing I’m not walking,” I think. “The lid would’ve blown by now.”
Back in the car. Three streets later: destination on the right. This time: no parking. Everything full. The only gap is a no-stopping zone.
Fine. It’ll be two minutes.
It wasn’t two minutes.
It was twenty.
There’s a queue at the ATM. Not huge, but everyone is older. Shouldn’t they be at the doctor at this time? Is Poland different? Instead of visiting the doctor, they visit ATMs?
I stand at the back, wriggling like Ölvis to calm the bladder, and witness a phenomenon:
Every single person in front of me is shocked to discover it’s their turn.
You know what I mean: you wait, and when you finally get there — what happens?
Search for glasses.
Search for wallet.
Search for card.
Yes, even the little paper with the PIN.
As if preparing thirty seconds earlier would be illegal.
It happens four times: two grandmas, two grandpas. And now I don’t just have a full bladder — I’ve developed an irritated bowel. Either from the theatre at the ATM or from the thought: “With my luck, my car is being towed right now.” No idea.
When it’s finally my turn, my bank card is basically pre-heated.
Eyes locked on the slot.
With surgical precision I insert the card so quickly the ATM itself seems surprised.
It almost feels like it’s thinking: “Oh… someone came prepared.”
Twenty seconds later I’m done. Faster than a robbery.
Now the question: is my car still where I left it?
Luck. It’s still there. No ticket. No clamp. I jump in, drive back to the customs agency and collect the documents with cash in hand. That it ended up being 300 złoty instead of the promised 200 is something I’ll mention only in passing. With a full bladder and an irritated bowel you’re not in a strong negotiating position — especially not under time pressure.
With a thick bundle of papers, I head straight back to the registration office. This time I take only one queue number. I’m not opening three fronts today. Not now. No chair-hopping. The Porsche has priority — that’s today’s theme.
When it’s my turn and I enter the room, even the staff seem relieved: one topic, one number, one chair.
I hand over the stack. After a brief check: “OK.”
An “OK” which meant absolutely nothing.
“OK, we’ll take the documents, but we need to contact the German authorities.”
Sorry — what?
Why? You have the vehicle title, the deregistration certificate and the purchase contract. Original and translated. What’s the problem?
The answer comes instantly:
“And where is the old registration document?”
There isn’t one. In 2001, when the car was deregistered in Germany, that document was simply taken in. Instead the owner got a green paper — the deregistration certificate.
At this point my understanding hits a wall. In 2026 you should be able to check what rules applied in which country and what documents existed back then. But that’s not how it works here.
They have time — and not much idea.
I have neither time, nor understanding, nor patience. And certainly no nerves left.
So yes… it’s probably time for me to adjust, even if it’s going to be a challenge. Forty-two years in Germany leave their marks. Not in a bad way — quite the opposite. But here the world is simply different.
Poland isn’t just a country.
Poland is a state of mind — with all the positives and negatives that come with it.
Project Marrakesh – Part 7 of 8
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