I open my mouth in a European market, and out comes a confusion of speech, a jumble of gibberish–here a French word, there a German, then a mischeivous Turkish phrase. I’ve lost all control over my tongue.
I’m trying to reign in this problem, but it is hard. We stepped over the border into France again Saturday, and this is where the big troubles always begin. In Germany, I speak lots of English and the splattering of German that I can manage so far. (Still studying up!) Sometimes French or Turkish words sneak into my speech, but they are the odd escapee from under the fence. I have some control over my language.
Then I step over the border, and all hell breaks loose. My brain seems incapable of releasing only the French words from their cell block. No, that would be too orderly. The gates fall and all the imprisoned words escape at once–a melee of language, a fracas of phrasing. A mess. Really. Or is it?
Mess-peranto. A new international language for people who make a mess of languages. Let’s start a movement! This could be like Esperanto for people who are enterprising enough to know smatterings of a few languages, but too lazy to actually order and develop their linguistic skills.
Bad idea?
I’m pretty sure the French cashier I practiced on thought so.
Recently, another blogger I follow took note of the Germans’ penchant for pork. Took issue with it, really. And, while I think taking aim at another cultures’ tastebuds is a thorny undertaking at best, I do feel a little sympathy for other people who are swine-averse in Germany. There’s no easy way to steer clear of the pig when in the Palatinate.
And I should know. I am not a sausage eater. I don’t mind the aroma, the spice, the bite of garlic or pepper–those are all fabulous…seductive, even.
Not sure I like the idea of sausage, but sausage is not really one of those things anyone should think too closely about, so that’s not the problem.
I’m just allergic to pork. So I avoid it. No biggie. Up to this point in my life, there have always been lots of options. In the South, I go to BBQ joints and order shredded chicken or beef. I take a pass on bologna, and I feel no great loss. However, in the land of beer and brats, you find yourself adrift on a sea of sausage… absolutely schwimming in schwine.
The boys in my family think this is fabulous, and I won’t contradict them. But it does make for some awkward moments for me. I feel funny always asking what’s in a dish that I don’t recognize–it feels a little high maintenance. And, since my German is very rudimentary, I often don’t understand the answers I get back. So there’s a lot of just steering clear–taking the widest path around anything that might possibly contain pork.
en.wikipedia.org, weisswurst
Which knocks out a lot of things in Germany. (I thought my Ritter chocolate bar smelled slightly bacony the other day…but I ate it anyway, and I’m still standing.)
So here’s the plan: Germany may be a swine-fest 24/7, but it’s also a chocolate and pastry and spatzle fest, so I will not suffer (although my waistline might). My household will savor all that Germany has to offer by the age old “Jack Spratt technique.” What I won’t eat (pork), my husband will relish; what he will only nibble around the edges (pastries), I will greedily gobble. You’ll recognize us if you sit nearby at a restaurant: we’ll be the people who’ve licked our platter clean.
Guten appetit!
A little sampler of facts about German Wurst:
*A wurst is a German or Austrian sausage–it is not necessarily made of pork, although pork is the most frequent ingredient.
*Wurst is sold both raw and cooked; it can be sold as a sausage or as cold cuts.
*If you happen to be near New Braunfels, Texas, you can go to the Wurstfest in November. It bills itself as “the best 10 days in sausage history”–the best of the wurst. Or the wurst at its best. And then, later, you can confuse people by saying, “I was once in Texas and had the best wurst.” ?! The Pocanos also advertise a Wurst fest, complete with Polka Bands, Bavarian dancing, Lederhosen, and hotdog races. The wurst at its worst best wurst …whatever. Chicago also has a three day Wurst fest. (This begs for a windy city joke, but I’m trying to be mature.)
*Bad Durkheimer, Germany (in the Pfalz, which is part of the Rhineland-Palatinate and close to where I live) has a Wurstmarkt wine and wurst festival in September. Part of the national Oktoberfest fervor, but with wine. (And, I’m told, the wine is served in half-liter sized glasses, like beer. Ouch.) The Durkheimer Wurstfest is famous for being the biggest winefest in Germany. It bills itself as a nearly 600 year old festival. (The flyer should read “the best 570 years in sausage history”–that would show Texas!)
Bad Durkheimer
*Apparently, there are over 1,500 types of wurst available in Germany. It can be found on a German table at any time of day or night. It is the subject of festival and poetry. (Well, if Robert Burns can write a poem about Haggis, then sausage is certainly fair game!)
* Holzhausen, Germany boasts the Deutsches Bratwurstmuseum–yes, a wurst museum– which houses documents that can date the beginning of wurst from the year 1404. So there you go; plan your pilgrimage now.
**If this is the wurst post ever, I apologize. Consider the subject.
We went to the Getranke Markt Saturday and bought some beers we’d never seen before. We were amused by a few “Hell” labels, so we snapped some bottles up. (Sometimes amusement is as good a motivation as any.)
Popped open a cold “Hacker-Pschorr Munchner Hell” last night. YUM! It was fabulous!
Helles beers are a Pilsner-like class, so if you like the lightness of a Pilsner, you should give Hell a try!
Guten Appetit, Bottoms Up, and see you at confession in a few days!
I’m sure there is some sort of Universal Karmic connection between my children’s behavior and the long history of border disputes between France and Germany. Just hear me out.
We made another jaunt over the border into France this weekend. (I’ll write more about that soon.) We live less than an hour’s drive from the border…but the border wasn’t always the border. In fact, given the history of the French-German border, I think they should just call it the Sorta-Borda, because (if history is any predictor) it will be shifting again any decade now. It’s like the San Andreas Fault in California—once the pressure builds, it will shift. It’s like my kids that way too…but more on that later.
About the “borderlands” of Germany and France: I recall some long-ago history class lecture about the Alsace-Lorraine region of France being passed back and forth between German and French hands over the centuries. The cuisine, town names, and architecture make this blatantly obvious.
But I’ve only just learned that this geographic game of “hot potato” has continued into the 1900’s, and included some areas of the Rhineland-Saarland in Germany. In the 1870’s, the French lost much of the Alsace region—as far in as Metz—to the Germans, and it wasn’t returned again until 1918. On the flip side, my husband tells me that parts of the present-day German Saarland were only “re-Germanated” in the 1950’s.
About Snarky Siblings: This historical perspective makes me feel a little better about the “border disputes” that have been going on in our family since we moved into our Scooby Doo castle-house—we seem to be stuck in the “Hassle in the Castle” episode. The kids are constantly arguing about which room is better, who gets which room, who then lays claim to the room that falls between the two rooms, who gets dibs on the top floor of the house, etc.
Holy Crum! I think we are heir to two legacies here—the teen/preteen gimmees, and the French/German borderland disputes. That equals “land-grab squared,” and it ain’t pretty. Whatever developmental/hormonal forces are at play with my kids are ramped up by some sort of historical/geographic energy field that is beyond our control.
That’s how it seems… and it makes for the better story. Who’s to say that it’s not true? With a little parental intervention, our in-house border disputes seem to be slowly working themselves out. Let’s hope they hold more firm than their European historical precedents.
If you are considering house hunting at a distance–a considerable, oceans-apart distance–just stop right now. It is impossible. We’ve spent weeks trying to do the same. And we should have known better. We did this years ago before moving to England, and I found the perfect house. A beautiful, stately, Victorian row house that was huge and elegant. We didn’t put the money down, but we booked an appointment to see it within a day of landing in the UK.
What we saw online looked vaguely like this:
And the angels sang.
What we saw in person looked more like this:
Only smaller.
(The angels broke into a mournful dirge while I wept.)
It was still adorable, but any hopes of getting our four poster bed through the front door were futile.
Nevertheless, we’ve tried to peek at houses online again before this move to Germany. Just to get a feel for what will/won’t be out there. We’ve been told that the housing market is tight where we are moving. We’ve been told, leave furniture at home, the houses are small and there are no closets. We’ve been told, no worries, there are plenty of large, great houses. We’ve been told dogs are no problem. We’ve been told dogs may be a problem. The sky is blue; the sky is orange. Take your pick. It’s truly impossible to do this at a distance.
Nevertheless, we look at online ads.
Here’s what we hope to browse through:
Adorable!
But you wouldn’t believe how many German sites post mostly these photos:
This worries me only slightly less than it baffles me. If the owner is proud of his bidet, I’m happy for him. However, I can’t understand why we are shown so many bathroom photos and so few living room photos, so few exterior photos. Does that famous German orderliness beget a national obsession with bathrooms? I’d rather not think about that. And I’m sure there is a simple, and more appealing, reason for all of these bathroom photos.
My theory: it’s a sign from God that house hunting at a distance is a potty-brained idea. *Sigh.*
So, here’s the plan. We wait until our feet are on the ground in Germany in mid June, and we scramble as fast as we can to find a place. It’s worked for us in the past–here’s hoping the luck holds.
Travels and Tomes: One Expat's Amblings and Ramblings 