After the smell of burning oil, the flashing dashboard lights and, well, was that interior fog? I knew the car and I needed some serious help.

It all started one sunny August evening as I was driving home to Kaiserslautern from a weekend visit to my sister; she also lives in Germany.

The engine in our 15-year-old Outback had been rebuilt last year. So, even with some glitchy behavior, we figured we had bought another few years with the good ‘ole Sube. Sadly, this proved to be wrong and, though I didn’t know it at the time, this would be my final outing with our long-suffering car. But this isn’t just a story about my beloved family car, it’s really about how the car and I were rescued.

Only an hour from home, I started noticing a burning oil smell and glanced down in time to see all the dashboard warning lights flash on. Being on the small, two-lane route 270 meant there was no berm and a four-foot drop off into farm fields at the road’s edge. I put on my four-ways and slowed down, eyes peeled for any place to safely pull over.

After a few kilometers of over-cautious, slow, paranoid driving, hands cramped on the steering wheel, I noticed a weird fog inside and then light smoke escaping from under the hood.

I put all the windows down and started panicky talking to myself about how I NEEDED a place to pull over. Luckily, around the next bend, the sun shone on a beautiful, large layby.

Once I stopped the car, I opened the hood to allow a billow of white smoke to escape. It quickly dissipated as the engine cooled, but the damage was done. The faithful Outback, who had traversed oceans to Korea, then Spain, the U.S. and on to Germany, finally needed rescuing.

After calling my husband to give him the bad news, it was time to call a tow truck.

Since moving to Germany, my family has paid for roadside assistance with ADAC. The acronym stands for the Allgemeiner Deutscher Automobil-Club, which means the general (or public) German automobile club. It is quite similar to AAA in the States, but can be even more substantial, depending on your plan.

I found our digital ADAC card on my phone’s wallet app and clicked the three small dots for “Pass Details.” There were multiple phone options:

• Pannenhilfe Deutschland (Breakdown Assistance in Germany): 089 20 20 40 00

• Pannenhilfe Ausland (Breakdown Assistance outside Germany): +49 89 22 22 22

• Ambulanz-Service (Ambulance Service): +49 89 76 76 76

• Schlüsselnotdienst (Lockout Service): +49 89 76 76 55 77

• Service-Nummer (Customer Service, not emergency, number): +49 89 558 95 96 97

• There was also a link to the website, Panne melden, for reporting online. I discovered later, that choosing this option, and allowing your phone’s location services, will automatically send the company your location.

I tapped the first number and nervously called. My German is bare bones and the recorded message at the beginning left me feeling stressed and concerned that I wouldn’t be able to navigate the call. However, after that brief 30-second message a real person answered. “Hallo. sprechen Sie Englisch?” I asked. “Of course. I will try,” she replied in impeccable English.

I explained the situation: lights and smoke in my precious brown beast who had delivered me safely many times across the off-road wild lands of Arizona. Then, I gave her my ADAC mitgliedsnummer (membership number), and she asked the toughest question of all: “Where are you?”

I knew I was on route 270 and Google Maps placed me near a hamlet called Oberreidenbach. After unsuccessfully attempting to convey that village name (we laughed about it together), I looked around the layby and spotted an emergency sign.

Across Germany, especially in the forests, there are small green placards with white crosses. These Rettungsfahrzeuge, or emergency rescue points, have unique number identifiers and are managed by the Feuerwehr, or fire department, as a way to help locate people during emergencies.

I told the ADAC dispatcher the number from the placard, and she located me right away. My incident was officially reported! I instantly received a text with a link to the website where I could see real-time updates of my incident report.

Before hanging up, the dispatcher told me it was time to do the unthinkable: open my emergency kit!

I opened the back of the sad car and unwrapped the packaging from the emergency kit that has rolled around in my trunk for years. It was surprisingly fun to actually put on the orange vest that I have so frequently seen others wearing at the side of the road.

My little warning triangle was easy to stand up, and I walked as far as I could behind the car – perhaps 50 meters – along the layby to place it. It is intended to be 100 meters from the car, but beyond the pull-out, it was not safe for me to walk; I estimated the distance from the white and black roadside markers, which are 50 meters apart. When the first vehicle sped by, saw the triangle and slowed, I was so oddly excited that I started talking to my car. “Wow! It worked!”

Less than five minutes later, my phone rang. It was the tow truck driver who told me, in English, that he was on the way and it would be roughly 45 minutes. He asked if I had a preference for where to get towed. So, I requested drop-off in Kaiserslautern near the Pulaski Barracks Main Gate. As a Premium ADAC member, I could be towed to the workshop of my choice within 100km (standard coverage is to the nearest workshop).

The next 45 minutes found me waiting on a little embankment beside the Outback. She had been a great vehicle. I reminisced about the first big scratch I gave her pulling in to our tiny parking spot in Korea. I laughed about the time we got a nail in the tire on a dirt road in Navajo Nation, over 100 miles from the nearest workshop; lucky I had a full-sized spare, but those five nuts were hard to crack. I rolled my eyes at the thought of my toddler sliding our spare change into the car’s CD player only months after we bought it. It was nice to have moments of quiet solitude with her as the sun got low.

My phone was running low on battery, so I spent a significant amount of time dragging a nice cement block over to use as a bench. After that, I just watched the occasional car go by.  

When the pleasant tow truck driver arrived, he went straight to work getting the car loaded onto the flatbed. I went to retrieve my warning triangle and soon we were heading down the 270 toward Kaiserslautern.

We chatted for a bit – he had been to the Wacken Open Air music festival a few times and the Rock am Ring, so there were some stories to tell. Mostly, though, we sat and listened to Metallica for the hour-long drive.

My husband met us at the Pulaski gate. The driver unloaded the car and packed up to go. After he and my husband took one last look under the Outback in a hopeful attempt to identify something fixable (a lost cause), the driver turned to go.

I did tip him 10 euro. My German brother-in-law had replied to my frantic “Do I tip the tow driver?! “ text with “I’m sure he’d appreciate it! I don’t think you have to, though.” The driver was very surprised, and hesitated to take the money until I said, “It’s what we do in America.” He chuckled and thanked me; it was obviously unexpected.

We braved driving the car the short stint into Pulaski Auto Skills Center, where, a few days later, we donated her for parts. Cars donated at USAG-RP facilities are sometimes auctioned, but often end up at the Baumholder Parts Yard where community members can get used parts for vehicles.

So, if you end up pulling something from a scratched-up brown Subaru Outback with a full spare tire, tell her hi. I hope she has a nice shady spot by the trees for her retirement.

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