According to the Oxford Dictionary, ‘German’ is both an adjective and a noun relating to Germany, its people, or their language. Mr. Oxford presented no cultural insight, and so I shut him up and threw him back into the dusty depths from which he was rescued a moment ago.
I began to ponder how the world views a German. More often than not, we’ve viewed Germans through the cinematic lenses of Hollywood flicks: tough, inflexible, grave and humourless.
Once scriptwriters grew weary of the typical gun-brandishing German, they twisted him into a deviously cartoonish, deplorable, and almost ludicrous character — to compensate for the lack of an authentic satire.
These repeated narratives have added to various fallacies, promulgating an idealized stereotype and attaching it to a German.
Such wide misconceptions turned the charm of living in Europe, back in 2017, into a fear of the ‘unknown’ — an unknown continent, an unknown country, a place full of unknown people.
It was to these unfamiliar territories that we, a family of four Indians, were moving.
What followed was something pleasantly unexpected — shattering all barriers and notions, fear and consternation about Europe, and one of its most misunderstood people: The Germans.
“Guten Tag! Ich bin Neha und ich komme aus Indien”
This was the script that I had practised repeatedly throughout my German Language course. (In all fairness to our teachers, there was more, but showcasing my language skills isn’t relevant to this article)
What our instructors forgot to mention was that a simple ‘Hello!’ would work just as well. And if you happen to live in Bavaria (which we did), a “Servus!” goes a long way in breaking conversational barriers.
Anyway, we landed in Germany and spent the early days acclimatizing from the melting heat of the ruthless Indian summer to the unpredictable spring of Munich.
The next few weeks were the usual — trips to IKEA (followed by cuss words while assembling our new possessions), and stocking up on essentials (Wurst and Beer topping the list, with cereal and milk running a close third)
We lived in Schwabing Nord, an area surrounded by young families and kids. Late afternoons were filled with parents and children hobnobbing around the park. Tempting giggles and conversations did their best to draw the mingler within me; but, my apprehensive psyche got the better of me — keeping me indoors.
Back then, I wasn’t familiar with this locked-up lifestyle (Corona was still just a popular beer brand!)
So, on one bright and sunny afternoon, breaking the shackles of social asylum, I stepped out — determined to put my ‘Ich bin Neha’ script to good use.
As I was contemplating the direction in which to hurl this prologue, I heard a long and joyful “Hellooooo!”.
Turning 45 degrees to my left, I spotted a tall, lean woman waving cheerfully at me.
My heart skipped a beat as I began to fumble for the right words.
“Will my first attempt at the German Language with an actual German include the vivacious bin, or will it be the prosaic mein Name?”
“Am I supposed to siezen it up and use the polite address Frau, or should I opt for a nonchalant vibe and duzen it, thus forfeiting the title?”
The formality of these choices troubled my mind, making a huge dent in my gut German Language score.
Struggling to find the right combination and searching for my voice, which momentarily went into incognito mode, I panicked.
“Hiiiii! I’m Stella, how are you doing?” said the lady, freeing me from my misery.
Language is an art — the strokes of which are appreciated when they fall on the eyes (in this case, ears) of someone who can easily decipher them.
English is one such universal art — the Mona Lisa of languages. Its disarming tone smiles at you, rescuing you from drowning in the troubled waters of misunderstood conversations, especially in foreign lands.
Those chummy English syllables came to my rescue.
The lively voice that introduced herself as Stella (and not Frau Neuhofen — duzen it is!) lived in the building next to ours. I had seen her a few times.
She lived with her two daughters, Victoria and Elizabeth, and husband Michael, on the ground floor. Their small garden, full of green plants and flowers lovingly tended by the girls, was where they were usually found.
Stella welcomed me to the neighbourhood. She had recently moved back to Germany from the United States, where they had lived for a few years. Having gone through a similar experience herself, she understood the nuances of living in a new country and offered to help in any way she could.
Making an acquaintance within minutes of stepping out of those self-imposed psychological boundaries exhilarated me.
Over the next few weeks, Stella took the role of my mentor. She gave me a full rundown of the neighbourhood, the community, the various supermarkets, and of course, the Dos and Don’ts of society at large.
Germans have a way of life where time and space are respected and given precedence above all. The sooner one understands, adapts to and accepts this version of their Tao, the easier one’s integration becomes.
- DO make sure that you arrive on time, and,
- DON’T step on anyone’s personal space (and shoes, even though inadvertently!)
These were the two simple principles of this space-time continuum that I had to bear in mind, having experienced them first-hand during the early days of integration.
Stella and her daughters were social butterflies, loved and adored by everyone in and around the neighbourhood.
Victoria, the elder one, spoke some English and became pals with my boys.
Elizabeth, the younger one, took on a different role — that of my language instructor. She enjoyed making fun of me when I got it all wrong!
“Neeeha, du bist lustig!” — Neha, you are funny, she would say.
I beamed at this compliment she often showered on me. Months later, as I became better at picking up the conversational cues, I realized that ‘lustig’ wasn’t meant as a compliment!
Children never treat something as frivolous as language as a social anathema.
‘Elfmeter’ (German for penalty kicks in football) was the only language my boys needed to learn to start kicking the ball — and with it, exchanges around the neighbourhood.
Through Stella and her family, we were introduced to the others — a mix of residents of varying age groups and sizes. They came from Frankfurt (like Stella), Hamburg, Berlin, and, of course, Bavaria. Some were from Eastern Europe, Britain, China, and so forth.
There were a few temporary residents, like us, traversing the professional waters of Germany. My good friend Linnet, a mother of two equally notorious boys, was one of them.
Linnet came from South Africa. Her family had recently relocated to Munich. The strand connecting us was the incessant hair-pulling we were subjected to by our respective babies. This shared pain became our glue.
(Linnet now lives in Utrecht, Netherlands, and we often exchange messages, keeping each other abreast of the latest shenanigans. The boys, one way or another, are still a reason for our hair loss!)
All of us would assemble every afternoon to discuss the trials and tribulations of motherhood — a common thread that binds mothers everywhere, regardless of national boundaries.
We used to look forward to these fun afternoons of bonhomie.
Then came the neighbourhood Stammtisch or summer parties, where German Wurst made way for not-so-spicy Indian kebabs!
Beer and wine kept the dialogues flowing as cultural dynamics of the two nations were discussed and age-old stereotypes (about Germans and Indians alike) were erased.
Germans were amazed to learn that beyond the usually publicized summer heat, traffic and rush of Indian life lie beautiful snow-capped peaks, serene backwaters of lagoons, lakes and canals, majestic forts and palaces, and much more.
Through us, they also got a glimpse of the beer-drinking, non-veg-eating Indians!
These social gatherings were the perfect platform to shed preconceived notions and gain insight into our respective cultures.
And what’s a party without travel recommendations, accompanied by the universally favourite ice-breaker — the dreaded weather?
‘Winter is coming,’ they informed us, in a very Game of Thrones way.
I wondered what the big deal was — only to find out on those snowy winter days when I had to struggle with a stroller, a baby, and a bag full of groceries.
“Es gibt kein schlechtes Wetter, nur schlechte Kleidung“ — There is no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing.
That was the sartorial rule that we were advised to follow — always.
With such seasonal and routine tips, integration felt natural. By the end of the first year, it was as if we had always lived there.
Germany and Germans didn’t seem threatening — at all!
And it wasn’t just a pleasant neighbourhood that we were blessed with. At work, my husband’s colleagues went out of their way to make him feel comfortable.
One such person was a tall man who went by the name George — the 6-foot-4-inch, sturdy Bavarian with a deep-set voice.
He, along with his equally tall girlfriend Johanna, towered over my minuscule, almost 5-foot frame whenever they greeted me with a hug. It was fun to witness their struggle. My hugs, other than love and affection, surely gave them a few back aches.
At first glance, George seemed extremely intimidating. But a few minutes into the conversation with him, the only overwhelming thing was his heavily accented Bavarian!
A high-spirited man who adored kids and couldn’t resist cracking jokes at others’ expense, George was a passionate conversationalist, full of funny and interesting anecdotes. He defied the stereotype of a classic, serious German!
While Stella became my local mentor, George became our guardian angel designate.
He was instrumental in converting us to a typical DIY IKEA family. Introducing us further to MediaMarkt, Bauhaus, and Real, George ensured that we got the right appliances, the right hardware — and let’s not forget, the right cleaning agents!
Thanks to him, our corner household cabinet was transformed into a window display of varying fragrances — the pungent, acrid, and poisonous cousins of the flowery, fruity and woody family.
George and Johanna loved having us over — whether it was on Easter to make sure that our little boys experience a never-ending egg hunt (stocking up on a year-long supply of chocolate eggs!), or for Johanna’s daughter’s communion at the beautiful church in Freising.
George was a serial traveller; up and about in his caravan every holiday. He even took us on long and picturesque drives exploring the hidden wonderlands of Bavaria.
I specifically remember our trip together to Neuschwanstein Castle, where he showed us the art of cutting lines!
In the excitement of it all, he ordered the wrong set of Audio guides for himself and Johanna (English instead of German) and struggled to match the exhibits to the descriptions!
Spending evenings and afternoons together, whether at home or the nearest Biergarten, we soon became George’s adopted family!
As I sit and write this piece, I can’t help but feel a pang of nostalgia.
This German hospitality wasn’t limited to these few friends of ours.
There was the employee at the local Metzgerei(Meat shop), who spoke in the common language — ‘Salami’ — with my younger son. A kind lady who once paid for my coffee when I had forgotten my wallet. Strangers on the U-Bahn and S-Bahn, helped me with the stroller and often with the package inside it.
And this warmth wasn’t limited to Germany. As we travelled around Europe, we bumped into many wonderful and interesting individuals.
I remember the accomplished (octogenarian) professional boxer from Florence, Italy, whose picturesque Airbnb we rented.
I was curious why the doors to his house were always unlocked. He brandished those rock-solid hands of his and said something in Italian — roughly to the effect of, “Nobody dares!”.
A look at his wall of fame – with pictures of professional bouts from the ’70s and one with the great Mohammed Ali himself — made me take his fists at face value (and, to my husband’s delight, away from his face).
Then there was the charming waitress at the hotel in Budapest who held my crying baby so that I could eat a morsel or two before they closed for breakfast.
“Hang in there, it gets easier”, were the heartfelt words doled out by an elderly couple, sitting across from us. They had witnessed a battle of pasta and fries and seen the remains sprinkled with some red wine across our table. (Years later, I’m still waiting for the ‘easier’ phase to kick in!)
Random gestures of compassion and upliftment made such travels enjoyable and memorable.
Everything was not hunky-dory all the time, though. Of course, we had our fair share of encounters with the unfriendly kind.
The world is made up of some very surly and unpleasant individuals. Obnoxious people are everywhere — even in our homelands. So why view the majority through a narrow lens of disapproval?
We chose to ignore occasional antagonistic behaviour and move on.
Through these travels, I noticed that Europe is extremely family-oriented, maybe more than I had imagined. They value relationships. Not everyone will be personal with you, but once they are, that’s a friendship that will last a lifetime. I have proof!
Last summer, we visited Munich, after a four-year hiatus, thrilled and excited to be back.
Stella invited us over for some Kaffee und Kuchen. As we made our way towards the familiar neighbourhood, I was taken back in time. The place smelled and looked the same – the street, the buildings, the trees. Even the weather behaved in its same old whimsical fashion (the sun and rain gods were in a constant bout).
We were welcomed with the typical cheery “Heeeellllllooooooo!”. Stella and Michael were just the same, whereas Victoria and Elizabeth had both grown well beyond my vertical measurement.
While the kids reconnected over a game of Twister, the adults picked up right where we had left off. We shared stories from the lost years (especially the COVID ones), indulged in a bit of ‘neighbourly gossip’, all while relishing the delectable cake the girls had baked.
The ‘schlechtes Wetter’ kept us from meeting everyone else, but at least we managed to catch up with Stella and her lovely family. As we left, we wished them well and held on to the hope of meeting again in future.
Over the next few days, the weather threw us a kind window, allowing for more reunions. George, though, owing to the seasonal travel bug, was away.
While we caught up with our lot, my elder son went over to visit his old school friends.
The younger one was simply happy to take a trip down memory lane as we walked through the parks and streets we used to frequent, the ice cream shop he loved, and the spot where we once built our first huge snowman (which was stolen the very next day— it’s a tradition, apparently)
The short nostalgic trip to Munich was filled with exactly that – nostalgia. It evoked feelings of belonging — a home away from home.
We might not live there anymore, but the bonds and memories we created will stay with us forever.
By sharing this personal experience, I hope to challenge the age-old prejudices and stereotypes that shape how we perceive different societies and their people.
As Indians — just like Germans — we have had our fair share of such conventional portrayals, stereotypes and misconceptions.
The pulse of any nation or region is measured by its people and the goodwill they offer to outsiders. We felt this pulse beating with compassion and kindness, turning our experience of living in Germany from fear to the thrill of the unknown.
So after all these years, what can I say about Germans? — They are like all of us. They laugh like us, joke like us (!), drink like us (maybe a tad bit more once a year — Oktoberfest!).
I’ve come to understand Germany and Germans for who they are today, not who they were years ago — and I hope you will too.
Prost!
Discover more from THE EMPTY TALK
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
