Tag Archives: typical german

On health insurance and bicycles

We wanted to write about cycling. Now I see the head of Francesca´s post — obviously she wants to write about health insurance.


I know there was thunder and lightening in the US about Barack Obamas proposals for a new health insurance system. When we last met, Francesca got excited, too. I couldn´t. Health insurance isn´t an issue, it is a fact.

Everybody in Germany is insured, from the first to the last day of his or her life. Everybody in need is cared for. My health insurance covers medical treatment in all of Europe. I show my card, the doctor accepts it, my treatments are paid, that´s it. If I earn a lot of money, I pay more; if I earn less money, I pay less. Children and spouses without income are covered by my insurance as well.

If I earn enough money to be able to advance the medical bills before  my insurance company reimburses the bill, I´m allowed to go private. But I can decide to stay with the public system as well. In this system, my insurance rate depends only on the amount of money I earn, not on the money the insurance company spends on my medical bills. When I´m young I pay more than I cost the insurance. When I´m old I kind of get this money back, because then the medical costs are higher while the insurance rates still stay the same. There are several insurance companies in the public health system I can choose from. Each of them has a slightly different profile. But all of them have to stand by me when when I´m ill. They can´t end the contract the moment I need health insurance. They can pick me, but they can´t leave me. One of them even has to take anybody who pays the rates – no questions asked.

Pretty simple, isn´t it?

My duty done,  I can proceed to the joy of cycling.

Though this turns out to be an health issue, too. Cycling burns fat, kills stress and strenghtens the immune system.

Cycling is a natural part of German life. You will find at least one bicycle in 80 percent of the German households–there are more households with a bike than with a car!  On average, there are 1,8 bicycles in a household. Family with kids always have bicycles. Chances are fifty-fifty that their over-80 year old grandparents own a bicycle, too.

So, bicycles are omnipresent, though they are not always present. In my lifetime, from when I learnt cycling at the age of 7, I have owned and lost a lot of bicycles. Most of them were stolen. Each year, roughly 400 000 bikes are stolen in Germany, ten times as much as cars. Especially in cities like Frankfurt chances are high that you loose a good bike within a year. Therefore, city-dwellers often have two bikes: an old, dull, undesirable  working-bicycle for Monday to Friday,  that can be left outside like a horse in front of a saloon, and a sparkling sleek machine for the weekend, which is kept protected in cellars specially designed for bicycles.

To ride a bike to work is common practice in Germany, at least in the cities. It takes less time to go by bike than by car or by public transport. These bikes are practical: wide tires so you don´t get stuck in the tramway rails, a sturdy carrier for the laptop case or the shopping bag, a mudguard so you don´t end up with a strip of dirt on your shirt on a rainy day.

If these bicycles equal marriage, weekend bikes are love affairs. There is no end to how much a bicycle may cost. Though, as in extramarital affairs, men are the main actors here. Women can resist the temptation of superefficent brakes, superlight frames and superhigh gears. Men can´t.

This said, I must confess that I can´t, either. Though I don´t look the type. I learned this the hard way when, one Saturday morning, the whole family set out to get new bicycles: first my husband, then my son, then me. While the men discussed the merits of this Shimano gear system over that Shimano gear system, I strolled through the shop and found my bike.

“Which bike would you like?”, the salesman adressed me, having to leave a highly satisfying talk of experts for the mundane task of  earning some more money.

“I would like this one”,  I said.

“This one?” he cried in disbelief, as his expression of professional friendliness changed to incredulous surprise.

“Yes, this one. Is there anything wrong with the bike?” I inquired. “Can´t you recommend it?”

“It´s good. But … women  like you .. never ask for this bike.”

Maybe my black racing bike with dropped handlebars equals the red sports car middleaged men buy after their 45th birthday. It certainly offers open-top riding. But where is the blonde 20something to go with it?


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Never visit a German unannounced, guidebooks to Germany say. First, I wanted to protest.

The way I grew up, everybody walked into our house when they wanted to. Everybody was welcome and everybody got something to eat. “Fünf sind geladen, zehn sind gekommen. Schütt Wasser in die Suppe, heiß alle herzlich willkommen” runs a German saying: “When you invite five and ten people come, don´t worry. Add water to your soup and welcome everyone with your heart”. This is the German hospitality I wanted to defend.

Till my neighbour rang the bell the other day – unannounced. I found myself standing in the doorframe, not moving one inch. I like her, but I tried to shield her view from  the mess my rooms are in.

I tell everybody that I´m a lousy housewife – but nobody believes me. No wonder, as I don´t allow anybody to see the state my surroundings normally are in. Of course I would add water to the soup and say a hearty welcome to any unannounced visitor–if they managed to pass my doorstep.

Last year I tried to introduce a kind of drop-by-if you-have time-event: a jour fixe. Every Friday night I opened the door to anybody who wanted to come – unannounced. On Friday afternoons, I cleaned the bathroom, the kitchen, the living room. I forced my son to lay the table. I sent out my husband to buy a better wine. I cooked till the kitchen couldn´t hold the food.

Nobody came.

Germans don´t like ambiguous situations. When I invited our friends saying: you are welcome every Friday night to drop by unannounced,  everybody was pleased: “That´s a good idea! No more complicated arrangements anymore, we just drop in”. Then, on Fridays, they started to worry: “Maybe Truegerman won´t be in this Friday. Or maybe there are already too much people. Did she really mean what she said?”.

Of course I meant it – but nobody believed me.

Tomorrow this won´t happen again. I invited, officially, one month ago and sent out a reminder one week ago. I asked a neighbour to help me with the cleaning last weekend: the floors sparkle, the windows let in the sun.

It took her five hours to do two rooms.

Now my friends can come.

They will find everything perfectly prepared. Of course, they will think: “If this is the state the rooms of a lousy housewife are in, German standards must be extremely high.”

This is the way myths are born.

They will live as long as nobody visits unannounced.

Sometimes it is good to act according to guidebooks.

But this is another story.



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Germans love long words. We have an easy way to create them by stitching several nouns together. A Donaudampfschifffahrtsgesellschaftskapitän works as a captain for the  Danube steamship company. Though this word isn´t used much any more (when did you see your last steamship?) the spirit of it prevails. Especially as it is a title. Nobody admits this any more as democratic Germany yearns to be as relaxed as the Americans, but titles still count.

There are the professional titles like Doktor or Professor. Once you gained them you never loose them.They stick to you like a chewing gum to your shoe. There even is a law saying that those title are part of the name. Anyone who got his or her PhD can insist to be adressed Doktor or Professor.

This would never happen in Germany today. Nevertheless, in their heart, a lot of Doktors and Professors like to be adressed as such. The use or omission of the title serves as a subtle definition of  the hierachical relationship assumed: if  the partner without the title needs the goodwill of the other, he says Herr Doktor or Frau Professor.

Titles can run wild. In the course of a successfull career, they grow in length and weight.   A very honourable man can become Professor Doktor Doktor Doktor XYZ.

His wife used to be Frau Professor Doktor Doktor Doktor. Or even better: Frau Direktor, which means that her husband is a sucessfull businessman rather than a genius in academia.

Recently, I enjoyed a DVD-session with my son. We watched the first German soap opera, the story of work and love at a little family run printshop somewhere in Hessen, called the Firma Hesselbach. A lot of jokes based on the vain attempts of the owners wife, Frau Hesselbach, to be respected as Frau Direktor. “Ei Karl”, she would say when something went not her way “schließlich bin ich eine Frau Direktor“.

Alas, those time are long gone. Therefore, I´m bare of titles. My own doesn´t count any more: Diplomingenieur. It mean that I studied engineering at university and I still need it to get the right jobs, but nobody would adress me this way. Nobody but the Austrians: If you enjoy to hear a Herr Kandidat, Herr Assessor or Frau Ingenieur, cross the border and you will be in heaven.

The lean managment policies of the last decades killed a lot of stratum titles in companies. While I still remember the  Hauptgeschäftsführer, i.e. the main CEO, as compared to the normal CEO, the chance to get a prestigious title at work are dwindling. Luckily, there are millions af associations in Germany, and all of them need a president. While Andy Warhol  promised 15 minutes of fame to everybody, in Germany we have the guarantee of a presidency at least once in a lifetime.

At the moment, I´m Schulelternbeiratsvorsitzende, president of the parents association at school. This job runs out in summer. Then I will have to look for a new presidency–or create my own. In Germany, you need only three people to found a Verein, an association. ‘If we can convince our husbands to join, Francesca and I will be the founding mothers of  the “Verein zur Förderung der interkulturellen Weblogs”, the association for the promotion of intercultural weblogs.

In our first constitutional meeting we would stipulate that there shall be two presidents. The husbands can call themselves Stellvertretende Präsidenten, vice-presidents.

Unfortunately, we can´t make these titles hereditary, as in Truegerman, Präsidentin von und zu Lettersfromgermay.

But this is another story.

© Truegerman


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My home is my sandcastle

“Castles? Castles  … I don´t know .. I´ll write about sandcastles!”

Children all over the world build their fantasy worlds in sand, but only the Germans make the beach a construction site for temporary homes.  A ring of sand, fortified with stones and decorated with shells, tells everybody who owns the place. Invariably the family will come back to this place. Nobody else will dare to enter this holiday home, even when the inhabitants – beware – should be late one morning. My sandcastle is my home, and my home is my castle – every German accepts this.

The sandwalls on the beach are the fragile equivalent to the Jägerzaun, a crisscross fence. This special fence  of crossed and spiked wooden bars became the epitome of the middle class suburb of the 50ies and 60ies. It clearly signals: Keep out. At the same time, its low dimensions allow anybody to see what is going on in the garden. No limit of control.

As the Jägerzaun, sandcastles are all about marking the territory. Co-Germans understand the need for it: How can I relax if I worry about who might take my favorite spot? Being flexible is not a typical German trait. The insecurity that lies in not knowing where to get sunburnt the next day can spoil any holiday. Therefore the sandcastle–or the towel on the deckchair at the pool.

Of course, there are more practical purposes, too. When I was a child, my family used to go to the Baltic sea for summer break. The beaches are long, the sea is blue, everything invites to spend the day on the beach. Everything, but the constant breeze of fresh air that makes you shiver even in sunshine. As long as going to the Baltic sea was still the privilege of the rich, Strandkörbe, little movable basket huts, protected from the cool eastwinds. Later, the sandcastles took over, till Aldi, the famous German discount retailer, spread a new device: the Strandmuschel. This little half-tent does what a sandcastle never did: protect from the sun. For cancer-conscious Germans, this is it: the ultimate solution to any beach problem. And it only costs 10 Euros.

This years Strandmuschel will be on sale at Aldi next Wednesday. What a pity that we don´t go to the beach this summer break.

But this is another story.



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Turnfest or Where to look for the Real Fun

 “Today, the Internationale Deutsches Turnfest starts” I said to Francesca. “Let´s write about Turnen (gymnastics)”. 

“Okay” Francesca said “I have done gymnastics in a Turnverein as a child. Where does the Turnfest take place?”

Sometimes it shows that Francesca´s children don´t attend a public school in Frankfurt. I first heard about the Turnfest six month ago when the headmistress of my son´s school informed the parents association that in June all schools in Frankfurt would be closed for a week because of the Turnfest.

Schools in Germany never close outside the holidays. In  school life, everything is regulated. I even know the exact date when summer break will start in 2017. School is sacred. Turnen is even more sacred.

Its importance for the German lifestyle goes way back into the 19th century. Then,  part of the identity of the developping  Bürgertum-middle class based on the leisure time they could afford  to enjoy. As dutiful Untertanen-subjects to the emperor, they combined pleasure with work: to keep fit became an act of patriotism.

As early as 1811 Turnvater Jahn, the founder of the movement. opened the first Turnplatz in Berlin. He gave the movement its rules, its slogan (Frisch, fromm, fröhlich, frei) and its equipment (Reck, Pferd. Kasten, Barren).   The first Deutsches Turnfest took place nearly  nearly 200 years ago. Its aim: the battle against effeminacy of the German manhood. 

That is one of the reasons why schools in Frankfurt are closed for the Turnfest: The 100 000 participants will sleep on the floor in the classrooms and eat on wooden benches in the gymn halls. This is part of the spirit: no eiderdowns and  soft matresses, but hard floors and thin blankets. In a German sports club  hardship is part of the fun.

I learnt this – the hard way – when  I joined a rowing club. After a year of rather dull excercise I was allowed to take part in a Wanderfahrt, a rowing excursion down the river Mosel. ” That´s great” I rejoiced and started to dream of cosy Gasthäuser, little inns,  where I would snuggle under feathercuvets in a romantic attic room, drowsy from a sunny day, a glass of Mosel wine and a hot bath in the tub to relax my sports-strained muscles.

“Do you want me to organize the rooms in the Gasthäuser?” I offered, prepared to do my share of work.

“We sleep in the club houses.”

“Oh … Do other rowing clubs offer guestrooms?”

The old lady opposite me had been a member from this club for 50 years. She had carried heavy wooden rowing boats on her shoulders to the station 2 miles away for her first Wanderfahrt before World War II. She weighed a 100 pounds– a 100 pounds of steel.

“We sleep on the floor of the boat hangar. If you must, you can bring a camping mat. Though most of us do without.”

I will do without Wanderfahrten, I swore after the trip. My muscles where sore as a grapefruit, my back ached and I wasn´t able to bend my legs for a week. When the pain faded, I realised what hardships are good for: exciting stories. How boring would it be to read  about the trip in the Vereinsmagazin, the club magazine: “The weather was good, the food excellent and the beds warm and soft.” Oh no, we could write about boats hanging dangerously above our heads, of cold-water showers, of mysterious dark corners in rooms we couldn´t switch on lights in, of spiders running down the walls, and of the difficulty of getting some sleep in a room full of people groaning because of sore muscles.

I´m sure that the people camping in my son´s school  will report in the same way: “The water fountains at the opening ceremony were great. Do you know what happened afterwards? ” And they will tell the tale how they couldn´t find their room in the middle of the night because they didn´t realise that there were two staircases, how they had to get down again to find the toilets and it turned out that they were outside, on the other side of the school court, that  they had only two showers for two hundred people and no hot water after 6 a.m, that John und Jane were found sharing a sleeping bag …. 

Depending on the size of the sleeping bag, this shows remarkable  gymnastic talents. 

In Germany, most romances start either at the workplace or in the sportsclub. 

But this is another story.


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Break fast – That´s how it feels in the morning

“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day” I said to Francesca. ” Unfortunately, breakfast time in Germany is between 6 and 8 in the morning.”

At this time of the day, I can´t imagine to eat anything at all ever again for my whole lifetime. Even to look at anything edible makes me sick.

This has been a constant cause of battle between my mother and me. When I went to school, I had to leave the house at 6:30 to catch the bus. As a good German mother she insisted on me having a substantial breakfast. As a not-so-good German child I resisted. Who can eat Graubrot-grey bread, the staple diet for breakfast in the seventies, at 6:00 clock in the morning? It tasted the way it was called: grey and muddy. My mother tried Müsli-oat meal flakes. No fancy mixes then, but pure, wholemeal plated oat. Who can eat the staple diet for horses, at six a clock in the morning?

Finally, we found a compromise: two soft boiled eggs, and nothing else. This was victory. Soft-boild eggs traditionally are reserved for Sundays. On this day, Germans enjoyed the pleasures of eating: A big breakfast with Sonntagsei, homebaked Hefezopf and cooked ham started the day. Three hours later, the Sonntagsbraten followed: roasted pork with gravy. Another three hours later, the “Kaffee und Kuchen“. Another two hours, finally, the Abendbrot, a light meal with frankfurters or a Wurstsalat, a salad made of finely chopped sausages.

As on Sundays my parents allowed themselves to sleep in, I harbour sunny memories of these breakfasts after eight. The only other time my early morning rhythm and German work ethics came together nicely was when I worked on a farm. “Pigs and cows first” – this working order woke me up at 5 o´clock in the morning. I pulled on my dungarees and went out to feed the sows, piglets, cows, calves, bulls, hens, cats, kittens, dogs  and puppets that cried for forage. Three hours later,  I happily sat down to a voluptous feast of rolls and eggs and homemade jam.

“The French work to be able to eat. The Germans eat to be able to work”. I´m not sure which nations invented this saying. but both sides use it as a diffamation of the other.  So, to skip the early morning meal means not  to prepare yourself properly for a day of work.

Ironically, I breakfasted most when I worked least. At college, we established the nice custom to start each early morning study group at a kitchen table laid with everything our hungry stomachs wished for: fresh rolls, good cheese, the sausages sent by our mothers in weekly parcels full of food.  Unfortunately, politics soon spoilt this simple pleasure. Müsli-cereals-became the only accepted dish for the early hours. When I say Müsli, I don´t talk about those harmless varieties, sugarcoated, sweetened, processed.  I´m talking about the real thing: oat grain flaked by hand. Though even this could get worse. The ulitmate fad in eco-conscious nutrition was a dish made of handgrained wheat or oat, soaked in water the night before. In the morning, this slimey pulp was served with – nothing else. Only the most audacious dared to add a halfspoon of honey from freerange bees.

In the nineties, breakfast cafés became fashionable, though only in cities. In the countryside, nobody would dare to sit in a café at nine o´clock in the morning so everybody would see he/she wasn´t working. In the cities, this was the sole purpose: to be part of the in-crowd that were so smart they didn´t have to slave their hours away in a nine-to-five job.

After the seven years of  sumptuous two rolls-one croissant-ham-eggs-freshly-pressed-orange-juice luxury at eleven clock in the morning, the meagre years brought Latte Macchiato, the triumph of the dairy industry. Now, even women who are on a diet since the day they were born  drink half a pint of milk every morning.

My Latte is waiting for me. As it is after 8 o´clock in Germany, a Saturday morning and my spouse brought home a big bag from the bakery, I might dip in a croissant, the way the French do it.

Though they stick to Café au Lait, as Starbucks had to learn since it opened its first shop in Paris in 2004.

The French have very impressive ways to say Non, especially when somebody endangers their food traditions.

But this is another story.



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The story of …. Tanz in den Mai


“Now that I start to pay attention, I realize that Germans find a lot of reasons to party”, I said when Francesca proposed to write  about Tanz in den Mai-Dance into 1st of May”. 

This night resembles those Christian churches you find all over Europe, which were erected on former pagan sacred sites. When I grew up, everybody in our village spent the afternoon of the 30th of April clearing the yard from anything moveable, because the night to come was  the night of practical jokes. In the dark, the male village youth  would gather and look for wheelbarrows, carts, or machinery left alone under  the open sky. The next morning, negligent owners would find their  possessions high up in a tree, fixed to a lamppost or heaved onto a roof.

My parents always where proud of securely  stowing away  everything. Nobody could get the better of them, nobody. Till one First of May, when my mother wanted to drive to a “Kaffee und Kuchen”  invitation. At three a clock, she went out to get her car she parked on the curb. “Call the police”, she cried when she rushed back in 30 seconds later. “My car is stolen”. My  father grabbed the phone. While he dialled, he looked out of the window. His eyes hit a red object sitting on the garage roof: my  mother’s tiny Fiat 126.


In my village, this night strictly was “boys only”. Later I learnt  that the 30th of April for centuries was the night out for the women.  In mediveal belief, at Walpurgisnacht, witches mounted their  sweeps and rode to the Brocken, a montain in the Harz, where they were  to meet their master, the Devil, to a wild orgiastic dance. Goethe wrote about this myth in his  “Faust”, the  most classical of German classics. A  he did it in part 2, which nobody ever reads, this Tanz in den Mai was forgotten for two centuries.

The feminist movement dug the legend out again, dusted it off,  and made the 3oth of April a night out for the girls. This time, strictly no men. In lila dungarees I danced to Patti Smith  or listened to Ina Deter wailing: Neue Maenner braucht das Landwhat we need are new men.


As the new man still were in the making and the old type of men struck back in the conservative 90ies,  the feminist movement lost power. The trade unions tried to pick up the newly neglected date and declared it the opening night of  First of May, workers day, a public holiday in Germany. Now I drank beer for a good cause and listened  to the Songs of International Solidarity.

As we got globalization and international recession instead, Tanz in den Mai was orphaned again. Today, the Club scene adopts the idea. As I walk through the streets, posters like this announce Tanz in den Mai in many of the many hip clubs in town.

Tanz in den Mai  Maybe I will try this one and listen to DJ Maxi. I don´t know his message, but at least this club admits people over 30, as Ü30 tells me. 

Those age-brackets  sprang up during the last few years. As nobody wants to get old but gets old anyway, the entertainment industry adapted to unchanged habits. Recently I even spotted a Ü40 sign, for all those who lived through the Ü30 parties of the last decade and still don´t want to give up on partying.

I´m one of them, though for a long time I didn´t go dancing because I wasn´t energetic enough any more to go out at 11 0´clock at night, dance till 2 0´clock in the morning, and then go to my office the next day – and even work there.

For people like me, the club owners invented the after-work party: it opens at 5 o´clock in the afternoon, dance starts at 8 o´clock. Thus, I can leave, pleasantly  exhausted by hard dancing, at 10 o´clock. Sometimes I even can kiss my son good night. 

Though I would prefer a Ü40 option here too. Last time I queued to get in the guard told me: “If you are here to get your son, maybe you would rather call him on his mobile.” 

But this is another story.








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Le Car C´est Moi

“I have to sign Untruegerman this time” I told Francesca when we discussed this weeks topic. “We haven´t got a car”.

While the Abwrackpräme, the 2500 Euro the government grants for getting rid of your old and buying a new car, makes the first page  every day, my family is dreaming about getting money for handing in our old bikes. We do have a more than nine year old fridge as well, and how about my 30 year old skis?

By having no car, our family is most untypical German. There are a lot of good reasons for non-ownership: we live in the city, the Underground stops in our cellar, the last time we owned a car we used it an average of 2000 km per year, it is much cheaper to go by train and taxi than to maintain a car, at night we don´t have to circle our block ten times to find a parking spot and we can drink a glass of wine at a party. Those are reasons but no excuses. As Germans, we should own a car. And we should buy it now, to help the ailing industry.

I quite like to buy something to further a good cause. At the annual Kindergarden party, I indulge in selfmade cake and salads to support the playground funds. I eat my Bratwurst with more delight if I know the profit goes to the Good Samaritan. Therefore, when I passed the local Mercedes-Benz dealer on my bike yesterday, I was really tempted to go in. “Save 7500 Euro”, the letters on the showroom said, “we add another 5000 Euro to the government grant.” 

“Oh Lord, won´t you buy me a Mercedes-Benz” Janis Joplin sang and in the seventies, everybody in Germany understood. For decades, the car with the star symbolized success, the German way. It stood for good craftmanship, security, solidity, power. BMW was acceptable, too. Though it signalled a slightly more relaxed lifestyle and more taste for risk than the majority approved of. A Porsche Carrera meant wanting to show off and was only acceptable for showbusiness people and their like. 

In Germany, the make of your car defines who you are. It is more important than the place you live or the schools your children got to. After the Fall of the Wall, the first thing to vanish in the East was the Trabant, the  GDR-version of a Volkswagen: it was small, it was slow, it was made of plastic, and nobody “weint ihm eine Träne nach”, nobody misses it. 

Though, a few years later, the media praised a new type of car: it was small, it was slow, it was made of plastic. As, this time, it was produced by Daimler, this car became quite fashionable with the fashionable people. But it never sold in masses.

Maybe this “Smart” was too smart for people. Everytime I tried to drive a Smart, I ended studying the manual. The first time, I couldn´t figure out how to start. The oldfashioned way of turing the ignition key didn´t work. I tried and tried and tried. Had I been a member of the German Auto drivers association ADAC, I would have called for help immediately. As I´m not, I fished for the manual and learnt that I had to turn the key first to the right for a few seconds and then to the left–or vice versa? This served as a Wegfahrsperre – so nobody could bypass the ignition and drive away. It certainly stopped me to drive away.

Another time I panicked because I was afraid I had broken the key. When I wanted to get the key out of the ignition, the lower half was stuck. Incredoulous,  I stared at  the plastic upper part I held in my hands. Only my trust in “Made in Germany” gave me the idea to fish again for the manual in order to find out what this might serve for. It served to …  I forgot, but at least I know the page number where I can find this vital information. Unfortunately, this didn´t help me when I decided to drive a convertible Smart to some business meeting last summer. I pushed a button, opened the ragtop and enyoed the sun. When clouds started to cover the sky on arrival, I decided to close the top. As I was already 15 minutes late, I jumped out of the door, grabbed my suitcase and pushed the button I had pushed before.  Nothing happened. I pushed again. Nothing. Frantically I looked for another button to push. I didn´t find one. And I didn´t find the manual, either. So I left the top open, hurried to my meeting and spent the afternoon sitting on the edge of my chair, in case it should rain.

Yes, I drive cars, though I don´t own one. In my wallet I carry a “Stadtmobil”-smartcard. This is my magic key to more than a hundred cars in Frankfurt. Whatever I need, a small city car, a sports car, an SUV, I can get it through my car sharing organisation. I book through the internet, pick the car up, and drive. My sole responsibility is to be back on time, and to fill the gas. Once a month, I get a bill.  I´m charged for time and kilometers, but not for minimum time or insurances. 

Unfortunately, I can´t hand in my Stadtmobil-card to get the Abwrackprämie. Therefore, like Janis Joplin, I have to rely on God to get my Mercedes-Benz. And even to her, I learnt at the Rock Museum in Cleveland, he delivered “only” a Porsche.

But this is another story. 

© (Un)Truegerman

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Time to arrive

“She comes in her own time” an interculturally trained friend said when Francesca came late. Last time, she didn´t come at all, because she had mixed up two dates.

As a German, I should be upset. I still am when I have to wait in a business context. In my private life, by now, I´m regularly 15 minutes late. Which means, I arrive 3 minutes before Francesca. And to find myself on the wrong date at the wrong place is nothing new to me.

Once I even lost a day. My spouse and I were on a camping holiday in the Everglades.  We spent Christmas there, and New Years Eve. On the 4th of January, we had to catch our flight back to Germany. Reluctantly, we packed, drove to the airport and handed in the rented car. Then we wanted to check in:

“You can´t fly today”, the man behind the counter said.

” Why not. Is the airline on strike? ”

“Your flight is on the 4th of January. Today is the 3rd” he replied.

Flabbergasted, we tried to figure out what had happened. We had left our remote campground on what we considered to be New Years Eve to have dinner in the local pub. There even were fireworks  though we wondered why there weren´t many. Spending the real New Years Eve on the campground where fireworks weren´t allowed, our misunderstanding wasn´t corrected. 

Fünf Minuten vor der Zeit ist des Kaisers Höflichkeit- the Emperor is polite by coming five minutes earlier”, my grandfather always said. He had seen the Emperor as he served in the Leibgarde of the last German Emperor Wilhelm II. We children were trained to be on time, always, no exceptions. Only later I realized the arrogance of this saying: Am I the Emperor? And five minutes earlier aren´t good style in doing business, either. Five minutes before the set date, people in the offices realize that somebody is coming and start to get ready: they look for the files, check their material and go to the bathroom. To be five minutes early is considered a nuisance. To be 5 minutes late, too. Those are the minutes lost, when I don´t start a different work because I don´t know how long I can stay with it, when I can´t call somebody, and I become slightly annoyed. Bad luck for my visitor, who has to work hard to make up for his blunder. 

Though I blundered myself badly when I had my first business appointment. I had just started to work as an editor in training at an agricultural magazine, when my boss and I were invited to a press dinner in some faraway castle. We set out on time, but then we got lost out in a wood. Nobody in sight we could ask for directions. In this pre-GPS, pre-mobile phone age, this was it. We just had to keep driving and to hope that by chance we would find the castle. Finally we did, late, and stormed into a hall. We hardly looked at the people, but rushed to the man sitting at the head of the table, thus trying to save some seconds.

“Sorry we are late” my boss said, “but we are happy to join you”. The man looked surprised. After a few seconds, he asked us to sit down and help ourselves. We sat and a waiter brought us a dessert. Now we were surprised: Yes, we were late, but not too late to have missed a complete four course dinner. As we were so ashamed to be late, we didn´t investigate further, but started a small talk with our neighbours.

After the mandatory five minutes of talking about the weather, the nice landscape and the difficulties to find the castle, my boss asked:”What to you think of the new XYZ tractor?” The lady thus adressed looked puzzled: “Sorry, I don´t know anything about a XYZ tractor” “Didn´t they present the information yet? This is a strange press conference” my boss said, annoyed. “This is my uncles bithday party”, the lady replied, equally annoyed.

A friend of mine even missed her own divorce. She arrived on time at the trainstation, but then she took the wrong train. 

 But this will be another story.







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On Lent, lentils and Maultaschen

“When I hear Lent I always think of lentils” I told Francesca when we discussed Fastenzeit, the 40 days between carneval and Eastern.

In the catholic household of my upbringing, lentil soup was the staple diet for a Friday, the day on which religon demanded not to eat any meat. We ate it with Wiener Würstchen, a kind of Frankfurters, instead, which didn´t count as meat. This lentil soup was served enriched with Spätzle, a special kind of regional pasta, and flavoured with a tablespoon of vinegar. I loved this lentil soup, maybe because it was the only not-homemade dish my mother ever served. In a household reigned by homemade marmelade, self-pressed raspberry juices and handpicked peas, the taste of a pulverized soup with freezedried vegetables and probably an unhealthy amount of glutamat spelled  luxurious pleasure. 

Only when I worked in the kitchen of a Gasthaus in our local ski-ressort, I learnt that lentils are more than a brown mass of powder.  Each night we poured kilos of the brown protein bombs into a 40 liter pot, and covered them with water. The next morning, we  got up early to let them simmer on the stove for two hours.  We added Speck, lard, and cooked it for another hour, to get the smotth texture and the rich taste of lentils and lard combined. Then I would prepare everything for a rush of 200 hungry children. I carried the pot outside into a wooden barrack reserved for the ski classes and heated another big pot of Wiener Würstchen. This was the most delicate part of my task, as their skin tended to burst when overheated, and even then, in the 70ies, children didn´t eat burst sausages. Today, lentil soup still is served in my own family, homemade. I like the idea of a dish that only needs to stand overnight and cooks for hours without me..

Another favorite dish in my family originates in Fastenzeit as well: Maultaschen, literally translated as mouth-bag.

Schwabians invented Maultaschen to cheat on the obligation of fasting. They took a chunk of meat, minced it finely, mixed it with spinach and covered it in pasta dough. Thus, God was cheated twice. If he looked at the dish, he would see only the pasta dough. In case he might be able to look beneath the surface, he would see a green mass and take it for a vegetarian dish. God obviously doesn´t taste. 

For a long time only the Schwabians enjoyed Maultaschen. For me, the pleasure of Maultaschen in der Brühe or Maultaschen geschmälzt made up for the otherwise ascetic lifestyle in Stuttgart, where people enjoy not to enjoy.  “Mir geht es nicht so gut, dass ich klagen könnte – I´m not so well off that I could complain” describes the general attitude in an ironic way.


Surprisingly, this regional dish opened the door to my first intercultural friendship. Once, at university, I tutored an exchange scientist from Inner Mongolia. I was paid to show him Germany, to tell him about our customs and thus to help him  to feel more at home in a foreign country. For a long time I didn´t succeed. He missed his wife, his children, his friends, his status at his home university and we didn´t connect. Then, one day, on a trip to Tübingen, I invited him to Maultaschen in der Brühe. First he declined, as he always declined the food I offered him. This non-acceptance of food always offended me, because in my understanding, offering food means to offer hospitality and to decline it equalls rejection. This time, I insisted. Luckily, our neighbours at the next table were already eating their Maultaschen. “Look”, I said “those are Maultaschen in der Brühe”. He smiled for the first time since I had met him:” Oh, you mean Wan-Tan-soup”.

Das Eis war gebrochen-the ice had cracked. Over Maultaschen and the Wan-tan soup he prepared for me the following week, I learnt about similarities and differences between people and culture. I learnt about  his lactose allergy that made it impossible for him to partake in our students diet of bread, cheese and milk.

Though Lent is part of our religious and cultural tradition, the fasting rules don´t count any more. The only people I know who seriously obey any fasting rules out of religious reasons are islamic neighbours and friends during Rhamadan. Others decide to make Fastenzeit the time of the year when they test if they can live without the daily pleasures of chocolate, coffee, cigarettes or a glass of wine. It´s like a second New Years resolution, though within  a limited time span which makes it much easier to keep. With an chocolate Easter bunny as a reward, even I can deny myself a chocolate bar. 

But this is another story.


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