Dear
I apologize. Really. This is not one of those half-hearted apologies born of cowardice, convenience or diplomacy. This is an honest-to-goodness, get down on my knees, "baby-will-you-please take me back" apology. I must admit - I was wrong.
I wish I could erase all the skeptical glances, the awkward moments and the jealous thoughts, but really all I can do is apologize. It's not that I didn't find you attractive at first. In fact, I admired you from afar, marveling at your form, your intellect and resolve. But I must admit, I was also a bit intimidated by your strength and occasionally suspicious of your checkered past. I never mentioned this to anyone because it seemed a bit unfair. From what I could tell, you'd turned over a new leaf and everyone deserves a second chance, right? But sometimes you have to find out for yourself. Well, I finally did, and now I have a new secret to confess.
Germany, you vixen, you've stolen my heart. The last time I left my heart somewhere, it was in San Francisco, where both it and I have
resided for the better part of a decade now. Yet as I set out for
Germany on the eve of the World Cup, I was
unsure what to expect me upon my arrival in Dusseldorf. Come to find out, what
awaited me was a trip that was both incredibly entertaining and full of the
following epiphanies:
1. "Ein pils bitte" are three of the sweetest words in any language and also three of the most efficient. One of the glories of drinking in
Germany is that you can go into any establishment and simply say "Ein pils bitte", secure in the knowledge that you'll receive an excellent brew, generally of the local variety. (Of course, don't completely neglect the weissbeer). If this were true of American pubs, the sanity of bartenders everywhere would be preserved and you wouldn't have to wait for a small eternity while the woman ahead of you debates the merits of Heineken and Amstel Light.
2. Weltmeisterschaft and Weltmeterschaft are two different things. Both things to be proud of, but very different. Weltmeisterschaft means World Cup in German. Weltmeterschaft, doesn't mean anything really, except, maybe, world's long shaft. If you're going to confuse the two, as I did, it's best to avoid doing it at high volume in a German restaurant.
3. With a sufficient amount of trial-and-error, I am capable
of reading a train schedule, in a foreign language no less. The day I
caught the train in Nuremberg, and successfully
switched at Frankfurt (twice)
4. A man can't live on beer and brats alone. You have to toss in a donor kebab every now and then, preferably around 3 o'clock in the morning. Nothing, I mean nothing on God's green earth hits the spot at 3 AM better than a donor kebab. The first person to open up a donor kebab stand in my neighborhood will die a wealthy man.
5. Speaking of which, 3 AM is basically the crack of dawn in
northern Germany.
There'll be no sleeping in late here, unless you're from
6. "Vie Geits Alter" is apparently a viable translation of "What's up, Gangsta?, at least according to a Turkish-German hip-hop fan we stumbled into on the streets of
Cologne. Exactly how this topic came up remains clouded in a pilsner-induced haze, but this translation was confirmed at a later date by a German with a degree in North American studies. It's always good to have an academic weigh in on 50 Cent.
7. Attending football matches dressed as superheroes is a great, self-deprecating way to the edge off anti-Americanism. Consider it Justice League diplomacy. It will, however, mean a three-hour walk to the stadium as you're stopped every ten feet to pose for photos and conduct interviews with foreign fans and international news organizations.
8. In continental Europe, ATMs are not always precise when assessing how much money remains in an American checking account. So, if you ever find yourself hard up for cash in a foreign country and think there's no money left to withdraw, well, you may not want to admit defeat so easily. Just know that there will be a reckoning when you return to the States.
9. The German penchant for innovative design extends into the bathroom. While most toilets in the western world operate under the same basic principle: that your deposit either lands directly in a small pool of water at the bottom of the bowl, or make its way there after sliding down a sloped surface, German toilet technology is decidedly different. Here, your offering lands on a completely dry horizontal shelf positioned just beneath your posterior. Repeated flushings and vigorous use of the toilet brush are then required to dispose of the evidence, although these measures do little to extinguish the olfactory traces of your dirty work. Noting the German reputation for exceeding practicality and design excellence, I knew there must be a logical reason for this. As it turns out the design is meant to facilitate examination of one's stool, the better to preserve gastrointestinal health. Apparently the expression "ignorance is bliss" doesn't translate into German.
10. It never hurts to get a second opinion on the validity of national toasts. After hearing us hoist beers to a chorus of "Prosts", one native prankster intervened to tell us that while most foreigners believed this to be the standard German toast, the traditional saying was not "Prost", but "Prost-ta-ta", which we subsequently discovered means absolutely nothing or "hooray for boobies".
The mischief of this one prankster not withstanding, it should be noted that the Germans were unfailingly helpful during our visit despite the fact that our rather large traveling party - which peaked at 14 members - boasted a cumulative four years of high school German, all of which rested in the cranium of one Greg Nelson, the erstwhile leader of our merry band. Besides acting as the organizational dean of the group, Greg, a.k.a. "American Schumacher" also acquitted himself exceptionally well on the roads of Germany, negotiating the Autobahn with a car packed so full the passengers were nearly immobile and the rearview mirror was nothing but a useless ornament.
Greg was no doubt aided by the fact that our rental car was a Mercedes station wagon, a gem of a car for which the clerk at the rental agency actually felt compelled to apologize. Apparently they were all out of Ford Tauruses and late model Chevy Impalas. For our part, we were quite happy to tour in style through the German countryside, which was pleasant in a comforting, non-exotic way surprisingly reminiscent of
Central Pennsylvania. We were less pleased by the hip-hop on German radio, which was surprisingly reminiscent of the Clear Channel hegemony we're subjected to back home. Sometimes, even when you get away, you can't really get away.
Fortunately, our friend, Christian Manders, had the foresight to bring along an iPod adapter that plugged neatly into the car stereo, allowing us to insulate ourselves in a cocoon of carefully constructed playlists. As we sped along to the nostalgic sounds of old school rap, the freshly minted warblings of indy rockers and the reassuring strains of all-time road trip classics like "Country Roads", I couldn't but help but notice the contrast between the crisp organization of our impromptu sing-alongs and the ragged, if spirited, chants belted out by US supporters at the matches we attended.
While the sizable number of US fans in Germany, a contingent that dwarfed the turnout for Korea 2002, was a promising indicator of the sport's growth stateside, development of the game's cultural component is lagging far behind fan interest. This much is clear: we need a new song. Actually, we need a song, period. Really, we need three or four, but as the wise man said, long journey begins with first step.
The old standby U-S-A, U-S-A conjures up fond memories for the 35-and-over "Miracle on Ice really means something to me crowd" and is suitably militant for international misadventures. However, it is also decidedly unmelodic and lacks the creativity befitting a country that was the birthplace of bluegrass, jazz, show tunes, rock-n-roll, hip-hop and Ashlee Simpson. It's times like these when the
US could benefit from the type of cultural commission that prevails in countries like France. If the French were in this predicament, they would simply authorize a taskforce to oversee the creation of a catchy new national tune.
On the other hand, similarly bureaucratic measures in America would
most likely result in something completely inoffensive and absolutely
unlovable. The
I think it's fair to say that the US will not have arrived as a true
soccer power until we have a repertoire of songs that fans know by heart and
can belt out effortlessly. When that day comes, we'll know that a true
soccer culture has taken hold in the
One of the great things about these songs is that they provide an easy way to
bond, but also a means of inspiring your side without taunting the other.
This is important because it's extremely difficult for an American sporting
crowd to celebrate the home team without demeaning the opposition.
There's an undercurrent of antagonism to most chants in the US - even our songs are called "Fight
Songs", which I suppose neatly captures the unlikely blend of friendliness
and aggression that is so characteristic of
As I took to telling to the group in my rare sober moments, "At the World Cup, we are all diplomats". This pronouncement inevitably preceded some act of boorishness that did more to reinforce the Ugly American stereotype than 20 years of foreign policy fiascos, but at least my heart was in the right place. Being an American soccer fan abroad puts you in the precarious position of the prettiest woman at the bar, or the celebrity dining at a restaurant in some mid-sized American city. Everyone else has already formed an opinion about you and one false move - even in the face of a hundred good deeds - will serve to reinforce their negative impression. Fail to return the glance of the lush who has been staring you down for the past half-hour, or honor the 137th autograph request of the evening and that pretty much confirms your status as Grade-A jag-off. Similarly, all it takes is one ill-advised comment to stoke the fires of anti-American sentiment and erase the efforts of hundreds of your compatriots who are struggling mightily to find the right mix of bonhomie and humility.
Thus, supporting the American team can at times be a delicate balancing exact between passionate embrace of the national team and whatever concessions to diplomacy sports fanaticism allows. Or, alternatively, you can just adopt the old English football chant "No one likes us and we don't care", as one group of supporters did before the US-Italy clash in Kaiserslautern. These fans were, however, decidedly in the minority. For the most part, the American contingent managed to offer spirited, yet inoffensive support of the national team. You'd hope someone would notice favorably, but there's just no pleasing some people.
Two days after the US-Italy match, the Guardian, one of the
Americans have never been shy about flying the flag , or wearing it, but the
same can't be said of Germans, who have taken an understandably muted approach
to patriotic displays - until now that is. Walking around a German city
during the World Cup was to bear witness to a national coming-out party.
Everywhere you turned, the red, black and gold of the German flag was in
evidence and the air was filled with the boisterous chants of "Wir gehen
nach
Dortmund to Hamburg to
Still, even though the mood was decidedly festive, there was also an undercurrent of feeling that suggested the celebration was more than just a party. It was as if the entire populace was throwing off the shackles of restraint and enforced humility and joyously announcing, "We've arrived and we're not going to hang our heads or speak in hushed tones any longer." For a few weeks, it was almost like the American fans and the Germans switched places. A fan in Hamburg summed it up best. The man, who was in his early-to-mid forties, recalled the discomfort he sometimes felt when traveling abroad as a youth, noting that years ago, "People would ask where we were from and we would say "Oh, we're German (in a whisper), now we say "We're German!" (booming voice and emphatic fist pump).
From my perspective, Germany has good reason to shout: bars that stay open to all hours, liberal open container laws (or the complete lack thereof), a plentitude of good, cheap beer, attractive women, friendly, helpful citizens, a wealth of inviting outdoor cafes, good, cheap beer, attractive women, an amazing mix of architecture that artfully and successfully weaves daring new buildings amongst structures hundreds of years old, good, cheap beer, the Autobahn, attractive women, marvelously efficient public transportation, a thriving art scene, some of the best graffiti I've ever seen anywhere and good, cheap beer. It's true, the toilets could use a little work, but when that's the worst thing you can say about a country, you know it's doing something right. Prost Germany, I'm sorry I ever doubted you.
Prostata is German for prostate gland (see www.leo.org for a good German/English dictionary.
Posted by: Dianne Feldermann | August 03, 2006 at 08:29 AM