Monday, November 17, 2014

Like a Tourist

The first few times I returned to Germany I was at that awkward age when I believed I was extraordinarily visible.   Every move mattered.  I didn't want anyone to think I was no longer German, or worse, that I was trying to show off  with my new American manners.  I also still believed I would someday return, so it was crucial that I pick up all the latest slang and dress.  Over the years, that charade became impossible for me.  But I still tried hard not to look like a tourist.  This became less and less possible as I dragged around Europe with my husband - I can duck into a German department store, pick up a few pieces to transform my wardrobe and refuse to wear hiking shoes for sightseeing, but my Midwestern husband isn’t going to take off his Salomons or swap his Levis for German ‘Freizeithosen’.  Nor can he disguise the fact that he needs me to translate the menu.  And while Sophie is proud of her ability to manage in German,  we are still going to walking down the street discussing where to go next in English.  I’ve adapted to these changes, and most of the time, I’m comfortable bridging the cultural divide, but once in a while I get sucked into the “I can’t look like a tourist” vortex. So it was with some embarrassment that I told my cousin Sassi what Sophie and her boyfriend, Brian,  were most interested in seeing in München.  “They really want to go to a Biergarten,” I confessed.  We laughed about it, but Sassi was game.  She’s a relatively recent immigrant to Bavaria, and often squires her friends from Berlin around the city.  Apparently they, too, associate München with beer and pretzels.  On a beautiful sunny morning, we set out to take a series of busses and subways to the English Garden.  We sat at a communal bench in the sun, listening to a Bavarian oompah band, drinking beer,  and eating Würstchen.  I had a nice chat with the tourist from Iran sitting next to me.  Afterwards we went for a Sunday stroll through the gardens, and I thought I had survived the tourist ordeal.  The next day, it turned out I wasn’t done.  After Sophie completed her obligatory foray into German clothes shopping, she and Brian needed a bite to eat.  So off we went to the Hofbräuhaus.  Really?  Really.  I watched Sophie polish off a half liter of beer and a pork knuckle; Brian’s stomach was a bit touchy, so he opted for soup to go with his beer.  The food was better than I expected, and by the time we left I decided I was done pretending.  After all, even if I lived in Germany, I would still be a tourist in Bavaria.  

Sophie enjoying her Eisbein

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