Culture Shock #39: Good luck baking anything in Germany

The following is my formal complaint to the people who designed the packaging for baking soda, baking powder, and instant yeast here in Germany. (For those of you unfamiliar, see below for a helpful image of how German baking powder is sold). 

To whom it may concern:

Have you ever seen a jar before? Do you hate the environment and also everyone? Who hurt you? Why were plastic-wrapped bundles of 10 gram paper packets your solution to what could've been a very simple packaging job? Even the U.S. managed to figure this out so I really do not understand what's so complicated. We even have a little contraption built into the lids of baking powder jars to help you measure out even spoonfuls. Where and how did you Germans manage to go so horribly horribly wrong?

Most importantly, please explain the need to pre-measure 10 grams worth of powder and put them into separate paper packets that cannot be resealed in any kind of effective or productive way. God forbid you only need 3 grams of baking powder. Now you have an open paper packet of baking powder and no good options in sight. 

OPTION A: Hastily roll the top of the paper packet over on itself and shove it into the back of your pantry. The packet will eventually tip over and its contents will spill everywhere. You will not discover this mishap until you undergo your annual spring cleaning ritual six months later, at which point the paper packet will be long-gone and you'll be stuck wondering if the white powder all over the neglected dry goods at the back of your pantry is worth sniffing.

OPTION B: Throw the remaining 7 grams of baking powder away to avoid confronting the problem of an open paper packet. Fuck the environment and your bank account.

OPTION C: Transfer the 7 grams of baking powder into an old jam jar. Forget to label the jar. Continuously forget if the jar is for baking powder or baking soda. Over the next six months, empty both your half-used packets of baking powder and baking soda into this one jar. You wonder why your baked goods don't taste or look like they used to.

OPTION D: Bind the paper packet carefully with a rubber band and then place the packet gingerly in the tupperware in your pantry designated for - you know what, screw this, no one does it. 

Culture Shock #38: Let's fight en route

We are all familiar with the concept of a "Car Fight." Or "Car Disagreement" or "Car Strongly-Worded-Negotiation" if you're part of one of those families or couples who claim they never fight. Regardless, I think we can all agree on the fact that The Car serves as particularly fertile grounds for such heated encounters. It's an enclosed space with limited leg room that most likely smells vaguely of burnt rubber or old cheese. The seats in a car all face forward, which might maximize physical safety, but significantly hinders the engagement in meaningful eye contact essential for emotionally mature conversations. Not to mention, the car is a vehicle meant to take us away from places and towards other places. More often than not, when we duck our heads and scootch our butts into a car, we are either leaving a place we despise or heading towards a place we despise. Work. The doctor's office. Barbara's house, damn her smelly cats and dry casseroles. And god forbid Google Maps needs to be involved in this journey from Despised Place A to Despised Place B, or else it'll be a three-way showdown between you, your spouse, and Siri. This is all to say that, no matter if there is something to disagree about or not, we are rarely in the best of moods when we enter a car. 

Until last week, Car Fights felt like a distant figment of my imagination, something I only vaguely remember experiencing myself. I live in a mid-size town in Germany and can get pretty much everywhere I need to go on a bike. Most people in Freiburg opt for bikes over cars, meaning the whole concept of a Car Fight is something they've only witnessed on TV and in movies. This is not to say that Germans cannot relate to the urge to fight en route. The only difference is their vehicle of choice. 

"I need quiet!" 

A distinctly dad-sounding voice rang out from behind me, disrupting my peaceful sunset stroll. I turned my head to see a young father cycling, his two daughters strapped into double seats on the back of this bike. (The high biking prevalence in Germany means there is an extensive array of bicycle accessories to accomodate every kind of family configuration. The "bike seats" I am referring to here are made for children too young to ride their own bikes. The seats attach to the back of your bike, with leg rests on either side of the back wheel and a seatbelt to keep your kiddo from going flying. On this particular evening, I was witnessing my first "double bike seat", made especially for twin tykes). 

"But daaaaaaad", one of the daughters whined. 

"Why do you always have to have the last word, Lena? I need you to be quiet until we get home."

Whether Lena heeded her dad's orders to be quiet, I will regretfully never know. At this point, the father and his two daughters were too far away to eavesdrop any longer. However, I didn't care because I was busy having the realization that Bike Fights are deliciously auditorily accessible to passersby in a way that Car Fights are not. Car Fights are private - windows up, doors locked. Sure, you can peer into the tinted windows of a neighboring car when you're stuck in highway traffic, but you can't hear anything. Bike Fights on the other hand...

Ever since I had this realization, I've kept my ears nice and open on my long walks around the neighborhood, especially when I see parents on bikes with children strapped on the back. I've found that this bicycle configuration leads to the juciest Bike Fights with the most riveting topics debated. "No trampoline gymnastics tonight" was one of the best yet most tragic sentences I've ever heard a parent say to their child. I should've followed that bike home, so I'd know which house has a trampoline. You know, just in case. 

Culture Shock #37: Germans can put on their own shoes

I would like to start this blog post by commending myself for being very brave. Granted, the incident I am referring to is not an act of conscious bravery. At the time, I didn't have the capacity to internalize the fact that going to a store in Freiburg that exclusively sells hiking equipment might be a bit of an undertaking. It was just an errand. Something to check off my To-Do list. 

The many bearded bespectacled employees at ADCO ("Adventure Company" - nice and vague there, makes ya look twice at all that rope they've got hanging around the place) seemed to immediately notice that I had not yet internalized the fact that shopping at their store would be an undertaking. Within five seconds of me entering the place, the youngest of the bearded bestpectacled employees approached me. "Kann ich Ihnen helfen?" He wanted to know if he could help me with anything. I took a quick glance around the store, walls covered in every color, brand, style, and shape of hiking shoe a German could ever wish for. "Ja." I said dumbly. "Ich brauche Wanderschuhe." 

The employee stared at me expectantly. Apparently telling him I needed hiking shoes was not enough information. Perhaps this much was already a given. Unfortunately, this is all the information I had for him. Or so I thought. As soon as he realized I wouldn't be saying anything else in the near future without being further prompted, we entered a rapidfire back-and-forth that made me deeply question the ADCO employee training manual. 

    Where would you like to go hiking? (Greece)

    During this time of year? (In August)

    In AUGUST? (Yes, in August)

    What kind of hiking boots do you have now? (I don't have hiking boots now)

    You don't have hiking boots now? (I don't have hiking boots now)

    *Moment of Silent German Disbelief*

    What kind of hiking boots do you want? (Uhh, boots that go up to here? *I point at my ankle*)

    *Another Moment of Silent German Disbelief*

    Okay I'm just going to bring some options. (Yeah that sounds good)

At this point, I felt like I'd just jumped into a pool I expected to be pleasantly warm but instead was shockingly cold. I thought I knew how to shop for shoes. We have shoes in the United States. I have frequented many a shoe store, bought myself many a pair. This experience was clearly going to be very different. Although...maybe the worst was over? I survived the Formal Interview, now the rest should be smooth-sailing. I know how to try on shoes....right?

He measures me. Blows a lot of air out of his mouth. "This should be interesting", he says matter-of-factly, in reference to my tiny feet. I watch him lumber down to the basement to see if he can find anything in my size. He comes back up with his arms full of boxes, sets them on the ground. I kick off my Birkenstocks and pull on the pair of socks I stuffed in my tote bag that morning (no, I'm not rocking Birks and Socks in 90 degree heat, thank you very much). I open the box nearest to me. It's exactly what you'd imagine a hiking shoe to look like. He kneels down to look at the shoe with me. I stick my foot out. He looks at my foot. I look at my foot. I look at the hiking shoe. He looks at the hiking shoe. I look at him. He looks at me. 

Jesus fucking christ of course Germans put their own damn shoes on in a shoe store. What the hell are we doing in the U.S., letting shoe salespeople put shoes on for us? Who do I think I am, Cinderella?

My cheeks burn as I scramble to pull the hiking boot onto my foot. Wrong foot. Fuuuuuuuuck. I wanna get out of here. It's too late. I'm in too deep. There are so many boxes. It takes me three eternities to finally figure out how to lace them up correctly. I stand up, ready to at least nail the part where I take me and the shoes on a walk. 

    Ready to try them out? (Uh, what?)

    Follow me.

We make our way through the store. What does he mean "try them out?". Is he taking me and the shoes on a walk? We reach the back of the store. I spot a metal ramp with widely-spaced rungs, slanted at a steep 45 degree angle. Behind the ramp, a patch of cobblestone set into the floor. Beyond the cobblestone, literal rocks glued to the floor, in varying sizes comparable to eveything from grapefruits to watermelons. Finally, at the back wall, logs stacked haphazardly atop each other. 

    Okay, go for it.

Lord have mercy on my soul this is a hiking simulation. That I am about to do in front of Young Bearded Bespectacled Employee like a child scampering around a playground in front of their parents. I feel ridiculous. What do you do with your arms when you hike? Pinned by your sides feels like a no-go. But holding them at 90-degree angles gives me Karen On A Speedwalk 'Round The Cul-De-Sac In Her Juicy Joggers energy. I approach the ramp with limp arms.

    Oh, go up the ramp backwards. It helps assess the fit of the shoe.

OH GOOD. BACKWARDS RAMP CLIMBING! Just what I had in mind for a Saturday afternoon in a very public setting. Because yes, other customers are now watching me. Shouldn't native Germans be used to this? I must be doing something wrong. I feel like I'm doing everything wrong. 

Somehow, I make it up the metal ramp of doom, across the sea of cobblestone, over and under the stones of various fruit sizes, and through the lumberjack lagoon. The boots hug my ankles and secure my tred. Hell, I almost feel like a real hiker. I jump off the last log proudly, looking at Young Bearded  Bespectacled Employee for feedback. He raises his eyebrows at me, points to the pile of shoeboxes waiting back by my seat. 

    Next pair?

Guess I found my workout of the day. 

Culture Shock #36: I almost forgot what a plunger looks like and here's why

I don't know why it took me so long to realize I haven't seen a plunger since moving to Germany. Plungers are simply not a staple of The German Bathroom, public or private. Needless to say I have a lot of questions. They are listed below, in no particular order.

• Do Germans know what plungers are?
• Would a German know how to use a plunger if they were handed one?
• What do Germans do if their toilet gets clogged?
• Has a German toilet ever gotten clogged?
• Is the German toilet-flushing system better equipped to handle the average German bowel movement than the U.S. American toilet-flushing system is for the average U.S. American bowel movement? 
• Is this because the German toilet-flushing system is heartier? More robust? Elite?
• Or might this be due to the fact that the average German bowel movement is, like the German backpack, more conscious of the appropriate amount of space it should take up in the world than the average U.S. American bowel movement?
• Do German plumbers exist? Do they use plungers? 

Any insight on this matter would be greatly appreciated.

Culture Shock #35: It's about windows again

This is more of a public service announcement than a blog post. I'm here to spread the good word that German windows are NOT UV protected. In fact, most German windows were built before the invention of UV window protection. Who knew????

Sincerely,

my red and crispy face

Culture Shock #34: German vs. U.S. American Backpacks (A Research Study)

The first time someone called me a turtle in this country, I blushed. How cute!

The second time someone called me a turtle in this country, I halted, perplexed. Huh? Again?

The third time someone called me a turtle in this country, I wheeled around and stomped my foot, demanding answers. The answer I received was not one I was expecting.

    "Your backpack! It makes you look like a turtle!"

Up until this exact moment in time, I considered my backpack to be the most ordinary backpack known to mankind. A Jansport. Heathered grey and brown trim, striped blue ties knotted around each zipper, with enough pockets and flaps to escort me through sixty flowcharts worth of high school history, four years of double majoring, and a transatlantic emigration. I never expected to receive a single comment on my backpack. Its stubborn commitment to inconspicuousness was the main reason I bought it in the first place. This backpack would match every outfit I wore, every mood I was in, every stage of life I progressed into. It was timeless. And placeless. Or so I thought.  

Upon receiving the third comment comparing me to a wrinkly vomit-colored reptile, I decided to conduct some informal observational research. Nothing to prove here, no variables to manipulate, just indulging in some good ol' American curiosity. 

Here were the two truths I kept close to me as I began conducting this observational research:

    I. The mere fact that I wear a backpack is not enough to warrant a Turtle Comment. Many Germans wear backpacks, as they are by far the most practical receptical for biking. Must I stress the importance of practicality in this country yet again?

    II. There is, however, something fundamentally different about my backpack and a typical German backpack that inspires Germans to make a Turtle Comment. Through my research, I would identify this fundamental difference. 

My research primarily took place in the context of public transportation. I found trains to be the ideal context because they are generally 1) full of people 2) wearing backpacks. After being sensitized to my backpack's Outsider Status, I immediately began to notice what differentiated mine from those around me. The backpacks hugging the shoulders and spines of Germans, well...did just that. German backpacks are streamlined, long, elegantly stretching into the available vertical space behind German heads. German backpacks do not proudly protrude into infinite horizontal space behind their owners' buttocks, like my backpack tends to do. The thin and compact design of German backpacks allows Germans freedom and ease of movement on bikes and busy trains while taking the safety and comfortability of others into consideration. If a German fancies a 90 degree bodily turn in a packed street car, they can proceed with their desired turn without even glancing over their shoulder. Meanwhile, any sudden movement of mine with my buldging Jansport directly threatens the lives of every human in my immediate surroundings. I suppose you could say that my backpack has a very U.S. American way of going about the world. I DESERVE TO TAKE UP AS MUCH SPACE AS I WANT GODDAMMIT. YOU ARE ALL JUST PINS TO MY BOWLING BALL OF A JANSPORT. GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY BACK PROBLEMS.

Honestly, I should feel lucky that the worst name I've been called is "turtle". 

Culture Shock #33: German children also play the recorder

I thought this was a U.S. American elementary school thing. I have since learned otherwise. I am so desperate to know why music teachers across the globe choose this sad excuse of an instrument to teach their students. What the hell did that conference look like? Let me think.

Global Elementary School Music Teacher Conference

Alright everyone, we need to decide what instrument we are going to teach the children.

Piano?

Lovely, but good luck affording 30 pianos, let alone finding a large enough space to put them.

Guitar? 

Great idea, but good luck affording 30 guitars, let alone finding a large enough space to put them.

Saxophone?

Solid plan, but good luck affording 30 saxophones, let alone finding a large enough space to put them.

Drums?

You're joking right.

The recorder?

...yeah, guess that's our only real option. But good luck affording good noise-cancelling earplugs, let alone finding a safe space to put them. Meeting adjourned.