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. 

Culture Shock #32: Germans are masters of the knife and fork

I grew up hacking at my food with a fork in my fisted hand. I don't want this to reflect poorly on my parents. I don't think it's their fault. If the manner in which I ate was embarrassingly poorer than my U.S. American peers, I would've surely done something about it. Which leads me to believe that most U.S. Americans hack at food with forks in fisted hands.

Meanwhile, you wouldn't catch a German dead without a knife in their hand.

Alright that came out wrong. Lemme try again.

Germans approach their meal with the tender love and kindness of a fork and a butter knife. The fork rests in the non-dominant hand, flipped upside-down, as to aid the knife (in the dominant hand) in the process of cutting food. What food, you may ask? All foods. Potatoes and meat. That much you expected. Salad. Yep, now it's getting interesting. Pizza. Ah, I've got your attention now. Ketchup. Now you're confused. Don't worry, I was too. 

Upon moving here, I found the sudden introduction of the butter knife in my life irritating. Superfluous. Just another thing to shove in the dishwasher. Plus...Pizza? Good god, did the Italians know about this?

Then I started eating warm meals with kids. (Like, at my job. Not just like for fun.) I watched seven-year-olds pick up their butter knives to deftly smear ketchup onto hot dogs. I watched them carefully cut their casseroles into teenie perfect bite-sized pieces and place these pieces on their teenie perfect pink tongues. My irritation transformed into envy. Why do these pipsqueaks look like little princesses eating their bland-ass casseroles? And why do I look like an ogre eating mine?

I am slowly starting to appreciate the beauty of the butter knife. Its sweetly serrated edge. Its gentle slice. More importantly, I've learned that the butter knife doesn't undermine the work of my beloved fork, but bolsters it. Celebrates it. Allows the fork to do what the fork is supposed to do - stab. Provides sweet relief to the the side of the fork, which I'd been using as a makeshift knife for as long as I can remember. I've learned that the butter knife and the fork are teammates, not enemies. I don't have to choose one or the other, I can choose both. Except, of course, when I eat pizza. Then I choose neither. 

Culture Shock #31: Bugs enjoy biking Germans

I didn't know that biking on the regular would involve so much intimate physical contact with bugs. I can't say I'm the biggest fan of having a bug fly straight into my eyeball. Or down my throat. Luckily both haven't happened to me simultaneously. Yet. 

Culture Shock #30: My first German nightmare!

The other night, I had a series of back-to-back nightmares.

The first nightmare involved me dying in a mass shooting.

The second nightmare involved the Deutsche Bahn going on strike in the middle of my vacation.

Now that's what I call bilingualism, baby. 

Culture Shock #29: Germans trust the experts

When you walk into a German drug store, the first thing you'll see is a big long counter. 

The next thing you'll see is people in white lab coats (usually women, though I don't know why) behind the counter. 

The next thing you'll see is the shelves behind the women in white lab coats, stocked with all sorts of medicines, from the beloved homeopathic herbal remedies to antibiotics. 

Importantly, all of these medicines are located behind the counter behind the women in white lab coats. You cannot pluck a brand-name box of medicine from a shelf and turn it over to read the ingredients list. You cannot pluck the generic version of the same medicine off the neighboring shelf to compare the ingredients list to the brand-name version. You cannot deliberate at your own dazed leisure about what kind of medicine might relieve your cold symptoms the fastest without making you drowsy, palming bottles and boxes and syrups and tablets before deciding on the thing your mom always used to give you because at least you know what it tastes like.

If you seek medicinal relief in Germany, you must find a drug store. You must walk up to the counter. And you must speak to the women in white lab coats. 

The first time I sought medicinal relief in Germany, it was for a hangover. I was walking home, squinting at the concrete beneath my feet, full of hate at the way it reflected Saturday morning sunshine straight into my retinas. My head pulsed with need. I-bu-pro-fen, I-bu-pro-fen. 

I stumbled foggily into the first drug store I came upon, shuffling through my mental filing cabinets for the German word for what I was desperate for, only to stop dead at a big long counter. I looked around. Where were the goods available for purchase? I made eye contact with a woman in a white lab coat. She smiled at me. I slowly shifted my gaze to the colorful array of stocked-shelves behind her. My groan was involuntary and audible. I was going to have to talk to someone to get Ibuprofen. 

I still don't know how to feel about German drug stores. There's a big American part of me that doesn't trust these women in white lab coats to give me the right medicine. I want to be able to touch all of the products myself. I want to spend 45 minutes narrowing down my options, fighting with CVS free WiFi to Google differences in brands, comparing lables and prices from an endless assortment of drugs at my disposal. At least if I end up making the wrong choice, it was my choice to make. 

But there's a growing German part of me that appreciates the lack of choice in German drug stores. The humbling experience of walking up to a counter and admitting out loud what I am looking for, what is ailing me. Empty hands, cupped and pleading. The surrender to the women in white lab coats.