Pigeon-holing German

French is the language of love.

Italian is the language of music.

English is the language of international business.

But what about German? To what do the guttural, staccatoed sounds of Deutsch lend itself?

There is something that is special in German. The language enables the emergence of beauty, eloquence and truth to reveal itself on every street, in every town, and on every night, much to the envy of nations outside:

The public declarations of discontentment by the crazy drunk man.

No angry ravings sound as perfectly formed as with German. The vague vitriol that these inebriated tenors sing out, at the top of their lungs, to the world is unparalleled.

The clarity with which Berlin’s street philosophers express their ideas is also laudable. Every sheiße and denunciation is beautifully annunciated. And, with a passion that is rare to find in most Germans.

It is perhaps an area where our teutonic friends hold a clear cultural competitive advantage. I advice all of Eurpe's cultivated to come and explore this unexplored and hitherto unappreciated art form.

The importance of clear diction

Usually, after a drink or a meal, I ask for the “Die Rechnung, bitte” – the bill. However, saying something simple in a language can be done in several fashions, so I have decided to change my ways, and introduce a new word into my street vocabulary.

I vowed to ask for the “bezahlen” (to pay) in the future.

The problem with languages, though, is if you are a bear of little brain, you become easily confused. Such a lapse was highlighted after a particular lively and rather fruity German conversational class, in which I was introduced to a new word: stillen.

My mind, being the broken wreak of a thing that it is, then asked “Kann ich bitte bestillen”.

My waitress stopped in her tracks and gave me a steely look. What? I though, I’ve only had a few, a few more than I intended, I grant, but I’m a innocent, baby-faced kind of guy. I wouldn’t do anything wrong.

The only problem is, that “stillen” means to breastfeed.

The march of the Nu-Nus

To those of us who still feel like five-year olds, and are mentally trapped in the ephemeral topicals of days gone by, the Berlin anti-snow authorities hold a special place in our collective, tiny hearts.

But, much to my surprise and secret joy, I was nearly run-down and killed by a deranged Nu Nu on my walk to work this morning.

Of course, the Germans being German, five weeks before the snows began, the streets were covered in grit (which they have in abundance here – all that “planning” they do) and the roads were constantly combed by large snow mobiles.

Yet even the capillaries of the German transport network are also serviced. Every little street around my area has been swept, shovelled and snorted by these little Nu Nus, ensuring that all pedestrians are liable only to suffer mild breakages on their way to the shops.

Of course, the main feature of these ditsy machines is how fun they look, or, at least, to drive. The driver certainly enjoyed himself today, as he slowly attempted to run me down, or suck me up his dexterous trunk.

Naughty Nu Nu!
[Does anyone else feel that Dipsy is putting on an unusually masculine pose on this one?]

Gruene Gruetze

German food.

What can you say. They don't mess about over here. No poncing about with any of that fancy "presentation" mallarky. Just stuff it down, quickly now, Dieter.

I am assuming that, continuing in this vein, the manufacturer's simply called this unique delicacy "green guts". Saying all that, it didn't taste bad, but...

...really now?

Going first class

I have happy memories of first class travel.

My previous such journey was enjoyed between London and Edinburgh. Because of a delightful quirk of the train operator’s usually enraging computer, a first class ticket northwards was remarkably cheap.

Upon seating myself in my sofa, my attractive hostess offered me some food.

“No thanks” said I

“It’s free” said she.

“Pile it on” said I.

Later on, she returned from her angelic duties to offer me a drink.

“Tea or coffee?”

“Er…”

“It’s free.”

“Mine’s a gin and tonic.”

Occasionally, her increasingly heavenly form would return to endow me with top-ups, or chocolates, or whatever it was my fluttering heart desired.

By the time I reached Scotland, walking was a serious problem, but the cloud of joy and contentment that I floated upon was ungroundable.

So, when the Deutsche Bahn suffered the same electronic blip, my expectations soared. German trains are the masters of Europe, far superior to any clapped out old chugger the British can produce. First class travel in Germany will be like travelling with Louis XVI.

Oh my brothers, how wrong I was.

Invited on to a 1970s, flea-bitten carriage, I surveyed the grey and red stripped seats with some trepidation. A five hour journey spanned before me, was this décor tolerable for such a length of time? Could any man be expected to survive these conditions?

Never mind, thought I, I would deploy the patented Flying Scotsman technique, and a cheery myopia of delirium tremens would mask the ugliness about me. However, being English, I decided that, given the hour, a tea was an immediate necessity.

A women, led-footed and led by her rolling shoulders, hobbled towards me.

“Yes?” Said she, not the jolly greeting that I expected, but presentation has never been Germany’s strongpoint.

“A tea, please!”

“Yes.” The creature hobbled away to some lair to concoct a brew.

I peered out the window. I was strangely cold. Surely…surely I cannot be feeling a draft. A draft? In Germany? Yes, my brothers, a draft indeed: on the German transport system. My reliable English scarf was recalled from its slumbers, and brought back into duty.

Egor returned with the refreshing, warming potion not a moment too soon. Well, she probably could have returned a little sooner, had her legs been the same length.

“Here. Tea.”

“Why thank you kindly, my dear…woman.”

“That’ll be €3.50.”

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t quite hear you. Something ridiculous drowned out your previous remark.”

But it was true. A stingy, lukewarm, rubbishy German tea sat before me, slopping over the rim such was the ancient locomotive’s gait, as my innards numbed themselves, leaving only an ill-prepared shell of skin and shock to absorb the full horror the situation.

No. There was to be no free tea. No free hours of boozing. No leisurely journey. Not only was first class only distinguishable from the other compartments through its rancid livery, but it also inflicted upon its prisoners the most expensive cuppa west of Tokyo.

Alone, frozen, hungry and disturbingly sober, the appalling truth of the next hours discomfort and boredom began to sink in like the cold tea stains into my thin English trousers. Never go anyway in Germany again.

Silvesternacht insanity

There are many times in my life, where words have failed me. It’s not as if there isn’t ample opportunity to pontificate freely on whatever freely floats into my ill-considered little mind. The problem is one of semantics – language disconnects experience from sematics, there are sometimes no adequate words to convey the strength of the feeling.

So, if you will indulge me, I would like us to, temporarily, with do away with words and punctuation, and ask you to imagine, if you can, fear. True gripping, overwhelming fear.

Hold that emotion in your mind for a moment. Swirl it around your mind, and allow the tremerous evocations to lap over your reasoned and sane mind, and let deranged, babbling terror take over.

Well then. You are now in the correct mindset to appreciate an Auslander’s impression of the German New Year celebrations.

Weirdly, 2009 started off with a Spanish tradition. Being in the company of Madridans, I was required to stuff an unlikely amount of grapes into my mouth within an unlikely timeframe. After the whole business of the pips, the timing and the appalling state of the champagne situation, if was time to head out and face the world. Feeling sufficiently queasy after my Spanish indulgences, I decided to lead the way onto the street below.

Now, this is where the above fear training has come in handy.

Upon opening the door from my apartment to the street, I bumped into a man. A man holding a firework in his hand. A lit, primed and ready firework. He was holding enough explosives to blow his arm off, and he was standing three feet away from me. He considered me gormlessly as I tried not evacuate.

The madness that followed will be a unique experience in my life. I sincerely hope.

Every family, from every house was on the street. And they were armed. Fathers let off fireworks, with pleasing horizontal trajectories reminded me rather of Exocet missiles, at least they did after I picked myself up from cowering on the floor. Small children chucked out fizzing grenades. And mothers considerately met you in the eye before they threw deafening, terrifying death-crackers at your feet.

The run, from my house to the underground train station was an adrenaline fuelled gauntlet through roaring explosions, a fog of blinding gunsmoke and crowds of weirdly calm people.

The sure power of the experience was overwhelming. The noise, The smell, the dizzying quantity of explosions about me was simply too much to take in. It was as if every last Berliner, coolly and meditatively filled their houses with gas; set their hair on fire and jumped in.

Anyway, I survived. The fireworks continued at the same Somme-like intensity until three in the morning. Germans: utterly, utterly crazy.

Differences between the South and North

As with most countries, there is a North South divide in Germany. Generally, the South is better than the North. The North, in all the best countries, is composed of wild, impoverished yurt-herders, capable only of monosyllabic grunts whilst stumbling towards the nearest kebab van.

Although some of these elements are applicable to Germany, it’s much harder to determine which of the country’s two compass points is preferable. Unlike everywhere else.

The North, or, at least, what I’ve seen of it, which consists of some months in apparently “different” Berlin and flashed past the window whilst bombing it Southwards from Denmark as my mother’s navigational skills accidentally landed us in the wrong country on a family holiday, appears to be a civilised sort of place.

As does the South.

Which leaves a key indicator of evaluation useless.

However, I did notice some other, less relevant factors:

1. The people in the south are nicer. (This is a reversal of the UK’s orientation; but you must remember “nicer” does not mean “better”. In fact, normally the opposite is true.) Unlike in Berlin, people do not stare at you. When Southerners do occasionally make eye-contact they do not continue their intimidating glare, but break out into a smile, and may even add a cheery “Groß Gut” (German for “alrite, ducks”).

2. The people in the South say goodbye properly. Since I arrived in Germany, no one has once said “Auf Wiedersehen”. Instead, Berliners prefer the more informal “tschüss” or, almost sickingly, “ciao”. Then, all of a sudden, all these Bavarians chirp out the formal farewell. I thought they were all Geordies.

3. The shops are completely different. True, that.

4. The beer all has different names, but, despite the completely different labelling and different brewery, tastes much like beer in the North.

5. The sun always shines in the South. It’s much like England in that way.