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.

Culture Shock #28: Germans go to bike school

Yes, this is a real thing.

Fourth-graders in Germany attend a month-long Bike School program facilitated by the local police department. In the program, they learn basic traffic rules, what the traffic signs mean, how to turn signal, stuff like that. 

The most adorable part is that there are actual traffic simulations built especially for German Bike School, complete with mini streets, stoplights, and traffic signs. The kiddos have many opportunities to practice biking around in these simulations, applying the traffic rules they learn. 

The last day of Bike School is a two-part test, much like a driver's test. The first part is a written theoretical part, which evaluates the kiddos' knowledge about German traffic rules. The second part is practical: they must correctly bike through the traffic simulation, obeying the signs and correctly turn-signaling. If they pass both parts of the test, they get a little bike license! 

I feel even luckier to be working in a fourth-grade classroom now, as I've had the privilege of experiencing German Bike School firsthand. I've even learned a couple things. Did you know that, at four-way intersections in Germany, the person to the right of you always has right of way? Me neither! Now I know why I've been getting such evil looks from the townspeople of Emmendingen all these months. 

P.S. Germans think the American approach to four-way intersections is very abrasive. I have never thought twice about it, but maybe they're right. 

P.P.S. The funny thing about bringing a group of Waldorf School kids to a police station is that they're still Waldorf School kids. The number of times I had to tell swarms of children to Stop Eating Dandelions During Bike School....*sighhhhh*

Culture Shock #27: Germans don't eat s'mores

I know, right?! I can hardly believe it myself. It's not that Germans are spiritually or culturally against the idea of s'mores. The gooey delight has simply yet to enter the collective German consciousness. They don't know how lucky they are to have me. As soon as the weather warms up, I will nobly take it upon myself to teach the good people of Germany what American summers taste like. 

Comment below your personal s'mores quirks. Mine are:

1. Sticking a piece of chocolate in the marshmallow pre-roast

2. Generously smearing the insides of the graham cracker with crunchy peanut butter

(Just thinking out loud here...I might have to make the graham crackers myself because they're really not a thing here. Nana, please send me your recipe. Oh and also your charoset recipe, if you happen to have a written version, because I want to make some for my kiddos on Friday to teach them about Passover. Oh god, speaking of, better send me a matzoh recipe too...)

Culture Shock #26: Germany is a Starbucks desert

I know that even the U.S. Americans reading this post will think "Oh god, this is so embarrassingly U.S. American of you, please represent us with a little more class and dignity." To which I say: No.

I. Miss. Starbucks.

There is one Starbucks at the central train station in Freiburg, which takes me about 30 minutes to reach from my house. I find this to be too long and too far. I think there's one other Starbucks in Freiburg, but I don't know where it is, and I think that's illustrative enough to make my point. In this blog post, I will mourn the Great German Starbucks Scarcity. You will read this post whether you take pity on me or not because I am funny and you like to laugh.

In college, there was a Starbucks two minutes from my house. There was also a Starbucks on State street, in case I was at the Union and needed a tall iced oat milk dirty chai between study sessions. There was also a Starbucks on Main street, in case I fancied a grande iced oat milk matcha latte on my way to the Saturday farmer's market. There was also a Starbucks on Washtenaw, in case I needed an Impossible Breakfast Sandwich ("Impossible" as in "It's impossible that this sausage patty is made of soy because it tastes so meaty juicy and delicious!") while waiting for my car to get repaired at Firestone. There was also a Starbucks on Plymouth in case my roommate needed to flirt with the barista and I needed a cake pop. (Dear reader, please know that I did not need to Google any of this. The Ann Arbor Starbucks locations are burned into the back of my brain, an integral part of my college experience. I did, however, need to Google how to spell "Scarcity". So. Two degrees baby.)

To be clear, I did not go to Starbucks every day back in the states, or even every week. I never took a Starbucks drink for granted; every Starbucks purchase was a special treat. And when a friend bought me something from Starbucks? God, what a sign of love and loyalty. I think I've received one Starbucks gift card in my life. I had a brief stint with the app but quickly deleted it after I saw it was doing more harm to my bank account than good to my Starbucks-enjoying soul. 

Nevertheless, I miss the mere existence of Starbucks. I miss walking by Starbucks after Starbucks and knowing exactly what it will look like inside, what the menu has to offer. On days when I have to interact with an abnormally large number of heterosexuals, I miss knowing that I can walk into a Starbucks and immediately find my people behind the counter. I miss wondering if someone is going to clock me and write something sweet on my cup. I miss knowing at least one person in my life who works at a Starbucks, whom I can visit and get a free drink from. I miss the dread of going with my sister because I know they're going to fight to order first and use my name because "Alina" is too difficult to understand, and then I'm going to have to make up a new-and-just-as-easy-to-understand name on the spot, only to forget it when it gets called out later. I admit it: Comfort sells, and moving to Germany made me realize that Starbucks has me sold.

P.S. I'm secretly-not-so-secretly hoping that this blog post will inspire my loved ones (aka you guys) to generously welcome me back to the U.S. with a slew of starbucks gift cards. :)

Culture Shock #25: Germans pay to pee

I was thoroughly warned before moving to Europe that free public restrooms are a scarcity. If you gotta pee in public, you gotta make peace with parting with up to a Euro. It's not much money, but as someone who is accustomed to free and unlimited access to public restrooms, I find it a little insulting. 

Over my spring break, I embarked on whole lot of train travel, which involved lots of train stations, which involved lots of paying to pee. Each time I found myself waiting for my next train and needing to go to the bathroom, a tense mental battle with myself commenced. How bad do I really have to go? Can I wait the 45 minutes until my train arrives? Number 1 or Number 2?

Underlying this mental battle is the question: at what point is it undeniably worth it to pay the damn Euro? And after I inevitably pay said Euro, how can I make it go as far as possible?

I don't mean to get crass here, and I won't get into more detail (besides casually informing you guys that on March 17th I had a really epic poop in a train station bathroom and that Euro was definitely worth it). I just think the concept of "making the most of your bathroom Euro" is a truly fascinating one. Monetizing the Need To Go changes your relationship with Needing To Go. 

I miss free bathrooms.

Culture Shock #24: Germans are delighted by squirrels

 "Squirrel" is a notoriously difficult word to pronounce in German. 

Here, give it a shot.

Eichhörnchen. 

Oo, not quite. Try again.

Eichhörnchen.

Really try to sound it out. 

Eich. hörn. chen.

Okay, you know what, here. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yqEmVe1ywwY&ab_channel=Artikel-Andy

Alternatively, swing by my humble German town. You will undoubtedly get enough daily exposure to this word that you can forgoe Andy's YouTube videos altogether (No offense Andy, you are doing very important work good sir. I hope this blog post boosts your YouTube ratings). 

The first time I saw a German point to a squirrel and exclaim, "Eichhörnchen!", it was a boy in my fourth grade class during recess. I found his reaction to the squirrel adorable and savored the childish joy of the swarm of kiddos who scurried over to observe the furry creature dart up a tree. Except, it wasn't just kiddos who scurried. In pure disbelief, I watched the fully-grown adult colleagues standing on either side of me head towards the squirrel with a level of purpose, drive, and motivation I would only call upon for a fat slice of chocolate cake or a lesbian. I truly could not believe what I was bearing witness to. Grown adult teachers! On their recess break! Running towards the children they just gained respite from! And for what? A squirrel??

At first, the only way I could make sense of this encounter was by pinning it on Waldorf pedagogy. Waldorf schools value a deep connection with nature and seasons, so it would make sense that Waldorf communities would be excited by furry woodland creatures, however mundane they might be...right? This theory was soon disproven by multiple subsequent encounters with Germans and squirrels. I have since watched Germans of all ages point to trees, sidewalks, rooves, and balconies, gesticulating gleefully as they shout. "Eichhörnchen! Eichhörnchen! Eichhörnchen!". Once I saw a crowd of Germans so large I thought there was a riveting street performance going on. NOPE. JUST A SQUIRREL. (Update: I read this blog post aloud to a German friend of mine, and at this point in the post, they stopped me to present a clarifying question. "Was it one squirrel or two?" I admitted I didn't remember, but their question adds a riveting layer to this mysterious love affair between Germans and squirrels. What, exactly, is the functional relationship between Number of Squirrels Currently Present and German Joy? Is it a linear one? Exponential? Who can help me plot this?)

Just to be completely clear, German squirrels are not purple and sparkly. They do not fly. They are not rare. They are not abnormally large or abnormally small. They cannot talk. They cannot swim. They eat nuts and seeds and dry crusts of bread. They look like and behave just like U.S. American squirrels (with the obvious exception of the Squirrels of Ann Arbor, which are so magnificently fat, they have inspired entire Facebook groups, newspaper articles, and clubs. God I can't imagine how a German would react to an Ann Arbor squirrel, now that I think about it. One Ann Arbor squirrel probably inspires the same amount of joy in your average German as three normal squirrels, though don't quote me on that. It's a rough science.)

I'm at the inevitable point where I'm starting to think...am I the problem? Why am I not excited when I see a squirrel, like the good people of Germany? I feel like a downright cynic, watching a group of excited people make towards a squirrel while I stay behind, arms folded, unimpressed. Did something in my childhood, in my U.S. American upbringing, rob me of my ability to experience delight at the promise of a squirrel? Or, on the flipside, is there something distinct about German culture that breeds such captivation at such small furry nutty things? I wouldn't mind if I assimilated into German culture enough to jubilantly cry out "Eichhörnchen!" at the sight of one. 

At the very least, I now know how to instantly summon a crowd of excited Germans. I'll try not to abuse this newfound power. 

A Parisian interlude

I celebrated my birthday in Paris. Here are the culture shocks I experienced during my five-day stay in the city of love, brought to you by my favorite literary format, The List.

1. Parisian pigeons are fat and brave.
2. Parisian restaurants give you free water and it is delicious.
3. Parisian men are very angular.
4. The Parisian dress code (Leather Jacket, Scarf, Sunglasses) is stubbornly independent of weather conditions.
5. A Parisian day begins at approximately 10am. Any earlier and the "city of love" is a "city of ghosts." 
6. Parisions are admirably indifferent towards their responsibilities as working adults. A 15 minute chat with a coworker takes priority over a ringing you up for a single item of thrifted clothing. When you ask an employee at a shoe store for a different size, you will wait 40 minutes before they finally come back and tell you they don't have that size. You will never be sure if they actually checked.
7. Paris has a booming enough economy to support a store that only sells Lebanese sweets. You think every city should have a store that only sells Lebanese sweets.
8. Paris is constantly swarming with police. You think it's a little much.
9. Parisians are unfamiliar with the concept of a smile (what it is, how to recognize one, why one would engage in such a frivolous expression of joy). You are made to wait 20 minutes outside a club event you bought tickets for ON YOUR BIRTHDAY because they think you are too drunk to go inside. You were actually just smiling. 

Culture Shock #23: Germans clap when the plane lands

I've only experienced this phenomenon once before, when I flew El Al. I remember the feeling of surprise as the roar of wheels on tarmac was suddenly underscored by a burst of applause from my fellow El Al passengers. The surprise I felt on my El Al flight was a delighted kind, as I figured the overnight flight from Chicago across the ocean to the holy land warranted such a celebratory reaction. Who was I to take this flight for granted anyway? I might've even clapped along.

That being said, never in my 23 (!!) years did I ever expect to hear applause upon the landing of my $80 two-hour RyanAir flight from Alicante, Spain to Karlsruhe, Germany. This time, the surprise I felt was more out of disbelief than delight. Why were my fellow RyanAir passengers, almost exclusively German, clapping after a two-hour flight? I felt an overwhelming sense of embarrassment for them. It was one of the first times since moving to Europe that I hoped I'd get clocked as an American who knows better.  

I don't mean any offense to RyanAir, you were deliciously affordable and thankfully punctual...although now that I think about it, what more could one want in a flight? Affordability and punctuality? Did you know that 90% of RyanAir flights were on time last year? A flight attendant announced this little factoid over the plane's loudspeaker after we landed, like a fourth-grader holding up a report card full of A's, itching with pride.

As dedicated readers of my blog already know, Germans love punctuality. Now we know they'll even clap for it.