My Time in TYSKLAND Part Drei (You're supposed to yell it, regardless of the language you're saying it in) More cultural differences! Hooray for what's different from us!

I’m not sure exactly how much mileage I’m going to get out of this whole “Germany” thing, but I’m just gonna keep rollin’.  (Why is ‘gonna’ not a word?  For the sake of informality and literary voice, you will have to pardon the non-words. [Not to mention the excess punctuation.]) 

So last post I talked about one of the major differences between German and American culture, probably the most well-known one: children’s playgrounds' design. (The conclusion we came to was that abstract thinking, aggressive behavior, and escapology/parkour training are the biggest priorities, displacing the boring American standbys “fun” and “safety”.)

Now that I’ve gotten that one out of the way, I’d like to talk about one of the more unexpected differences which, quite frankly, we were astonished to encounter.  I’m speaking (Woahhhh, just a sentence ago I was expressing a desire to talk about something, now I’m “speaking” already? I need to slow down a little bit!)  I’m speaking of the German culture’s general attitude towards alcohol.  (You might want to sit down for this one.)  

First off, the drinking age is 16 for beer and wine, and 18 for liquor.   Now that I’ve covered the basics, I’m going to approach this discussion as I approach every cultural analysis, intellectual debate, Q & A session, press conference, life-changing decision, family member, and justice of the peace: anecdotally. (I’m going to leave a minute/a blank space here to give time for that sentence to soak in/for my brain to recollect its marbles)

Storytime #1: 

Actually some of this is still exposition; I’m really bad at organizing stuff.

So you know how you always get water in American restaurants when you’re trying to be cheap?  Well in Germany you either let yourself thirst (I’m using it as a verb like “starve”) or you get beer.  It’s everywhere; very few restaurants do not sell any.  

New game/idea for blog post: start a post and then periodically put in random google images and make it relevant somehow. (That's not what I'm doing here, I promise.)

I didn’t realize exactly how “everywhere” (figuratively) the beer was until I ate at a restaurant named Tiffanys’ in Berlin. (There was no breakfast food, and not a trace of Audrey Hepburn or Deep Blue Something memorabilia.)  Unbeknownst (Holy cow that’s an amazingly spelled word) to me, *gulaschsuppe* in German is a direct translation to *Campbells chunky beef soup*.  So needless to say, the meal was not entirely satisfactory.  What made it really interesting was my beverage choice. So I was perusing the beer menu, (What a great sentence fragment) and I saw 2 options titled “Berliner Weisse”. One was labeled “rot”, and one was labeled “grün”.  This meant to me that there were two white/pale beers that were apparently made in Berlin, and that they came in two different colors.  I wanted to try something regional and unusual (like green beer), so I got that one.  

I immediately realized something was wrong when my beer came in a short stubby glass and had a straw in it.  I remember it saying something like “Berliner Kindl Weisse” (Which google translator gracefully turns into “Berlin white children”.)  There was also a picture of a beer mug and a child’s face peeking out over the top. (Which, now that I think about it, seems to be endorsing childhood intoxication; Why else would you climb into a big old beer mug? It's probably sticky.)  I tried to maintain my composure and ignore the snickering wait-staff as I slurped (I may’ve blown bubbles in it too) my half beer, half green soda, 100% delicious beverage.  

OMG THAT'S WHAT I HAD.

My apologies; Story time #2 about alcohol in Germany will have to wait for next week. I've already spent an inordinate amount of time researching children's beers and even more trying to figure out what font this text is in. (Georgia.) And why it's smaller than in other posts. (Voodoo.) 

Rest assured, The wait will be worth it. It, the story, will be worth the wait. (There will be actual story-relevant pictures from my trip!)

DEUTSCHLAND parte deux. Some obvious differences, interesting similarities, and unexpected variations between German and American culture. Or: If M.C. Escher and Josef Stalin were locked in a room and told to design the perfect jungle gym.

So I don’t really feel like taking the simple way out and chronologically going through my adventure in Germany.  Instead I’m just going to highlight some specific stuff that I saw and interesting things that happened.  Today I’m going to talk about some random and some not-so-random comparisons of German and American culture. I’d like to start with the less obvious random option.

On Wednesday and Thursday of our time in Germany, we stayed in Wittenberg, a city in eastern Germany where Martin Luther studied, taught, and preached for many years.  I am incredibly inept at judging the size of a city, but Wikipedia says it has a population of 50,000…so, yeah.  That’s how big it is.  We were in the city center, which was a beautiful area of streets with shops, restaurants and random canal-like things.  There was also a lot of green area around it and numerous Martin Luther monuments.  There was a river/drainage ditch in one part of the green area, and it was gross.  It smelled slightly of sewage, and looked pretty bad.  Whenever it went underground there was a cool stone entrance where it drained down, and it had beer bottles and trash all over it.  In case you didn’t catch it, this is similar to America, and it also has very little to do with culture. (Or maybe it does.  I don’t know.)  

The most awesome thing in this area that I’ve been attempting to get around to, however, was the playground.  It was totally unlike any conventional playground I’ve seen in America, and I’m so sorry that I have no pictures of it.  I will attempt to find somewhat vaguely similar pictures on Google images, use them, and pray that they are not copyrighted. (Aborted, there are none that will not give a false impression.)

It was a very hilly green area, and the playground was basically built on two hills and the lower valley around them. (haha, “valley”)  The hill in the center of the playground had a layered terrace-y thing around half of it, making it possible to climb up it?  Its purpose was unclear.  At the top of this hill was a bridge to the main playground structure.  It was a ridiculously long bridge and it was one of those bridges that is obviously safe, but manages to be unbelievably rickety.  Scariest experience of my life on a playground structure.   (Nevermind; scratch that, I still have nightmares about the slide in 1^st grade; that girl was vicious, and she knew how to use that windbreaker like a brutal weapon.)

*Tremble*    The "real" reason I hate the cold: memories...

The bridge connected to what appeared to be a conventionally shaped wooden playground.  Connected to this, however, was a long series of rectangular wooden poles, plastic ropes connecting them, and oddly shaped wooden blocks providing a small amount of space to walk on.  No firefighter poles, no tic-tac-toe game, no swings, no animal shapes anywhere; Just a rickety bridge and a lot of extremely dangerous, oddly spaced, and seemingly aimless and unorganized climbing equipment.  (And one lone slide on the other hill, completely separate from the rest of the playground.)  It was unclear for a while whether we were on a playground or had simply wandered into an abandoned, poorly-thought-out obstacle course.  (The architect must have written half the plan, scribbled over the entire blueprint, then gave it to the builders and insisted that they do it exactly as written.)  We were able to climb all over it, but this was only because we had longer, adultish legs, and we still only narrowly escaped death.  The obvious conclusion to be drawn here is that German children are raised from infancy to be agile, ruthless, and easily-entertained guerilla fighters.

Next week I’ll discuss more differences. :D

(Bonus: My favorite part of that day was when a friend and I raced down the slide and ran off, much to the obvious exasperation of an older German lady and her child.)  (Our immaturity was apparent, even to the < 8 year old)