Berlinglish

When a good German boy goes to the motherland, he is expected to speak the mother tongue. So, here in Berlin for the past week, I have had a similar experience to that which I had in Denmark – namely, people expect me, based on how I look, to speak the native tongue. Palace guards come up to me and tell me in Deutsch not to take photos, old ladies ask in Deutsch for my seat on the train, people come up to me in clubs and ask in Deutsch to buy me drinks (in my dreams). Everywhere is Deutsch, Deutsch, Deutsch. And unlike the play-fake-stupid language that I faced down in Copenhagen, I actually feel bad about not knowing the word eingang, which prevented me from promptly entering lots of doors in my time here.

Despite the copious amounts of beer available, German just isn’t like Spanish – I can’t fake it (drunk) to make it. I just don’t know the language. So in one of my authentic German conversations with a local there always came that pretty awkward moment when I let them know “I don’t speak German, sorry,” after about three minutes of nodding and laughing at what they had been saying in their native language. They are good sports about it, however, and better at English than I am in German, on the whole.

And despite the missing words, there is still a connection I feel to the Germans that persists. Whether it’s driving on the autobahn at 120 mph or eating lots of meat, I have seen how Germany connects to Amerika. Berlin actually feels more American than any city I’ve been to so far (granted, there hasn’t been much competition). I thought I came to Europe to escape the land of drive-ins and shrink-wrap, but found myself most at home in its closest European cousin. Time to go to Paris and shake it all off, with the help, no doubt, of the stuffy Parisens. Can’t wait!