Sept 16, 2024
Greetings from the ambassador,
When I got back from this trip, a friend asked, “Does Germany hate us? I know the French hate us, but what about Germans?” He was joking, mostly, but later I thought a little about how we think of people in other countries, and the impression I made as a visitor from the U.S. If there is a stereotype about Americans being too friendly, or laughing too loud, or not taking time to understand the culture they visit, I probably lived up to those. Plus, I blithely assumed that everyone would speak English.
I could have spent more time learning German before we traveled there. That is to say, any time. In truth, my two-year-old grandson knew more German by the time we landed in the Bavarian Alps.
Thankfully, nearly every person we interacted with spoke enough English to satisfy our needs and theirs. The few exceptions were barely inconvenient, and we navigated directions and pastry purchases and even being trapped in a parking garage in Salzburg.
I’ve been sitting here for half an hour with my third cup of coffee and thought of a dozen examples of how friendly, welcoming, interested, the people were in Germany and Austria. Admittedly there were a few hesitations, and what I took as reticence I realized later was the little lag that comes with translating in your head. As if I knew what that was like.
There were a few people who I had a conversation with, enough where I could say we got to know each other. It was as inspiring and as beautiful as seeing some of the wonderful mountain ranges. There was the man who owned the little biergarten by the river, who I’d seen open each morning, setting up tables and umbrellas, opening his little wooden bodega. He told me, after those first few minutes of skeptical exchange, how he’d retired ten years ago and taken the place on. It was more than a business; it was where he liked to be. It was also where his friends liked to be. Me too.
In Salzburg at a charming little coffee shop, I offered to pay for the coffee of three policeman waiting in line. One looked at me, very suspicious: “Why would you do that?” she asked, pointedly, in English. “For your service,” I answered. Minutes later we were all talking like we were at a class reunion.
Most mornings I went running down a crushed stone path that followed a jade green river that flowed through town. A few miles up into the mountains, the river poured out of Lake Konigssee, a pristine work of art that served as a beautiful place to pause before I turned back toward the village where we stayed.
The path was framed in forests. There were patches of pasture, with indifferent cows browsing along the fences, a few modest hotels, a delightful coffee spot. It was a popular trek for through-hikers and local explorers, but in the early hours I had the path mostly to myself.
One morning I spotted an older man coming toward me, tapping walking sticks with each hand. I nodded as I approached him and said “Guten morgan.” Typically this would evoke a simple “Morgan,” in response, but the man stopped and said something much more complicated in German.
It happened a few times when a local person would begin a conversation with me, mistaking me for someone who knew the language. This was not because of my sterling accent, or my masterful command of the vocabulary, and certainly not the intelligent look on my face. In a way it was worse to have to confess: “Sorry, ‘hello’ is all I got.”
As I drew close to the man, I stopped running, tried to say something apologetic in German, which came out something like “I don’t, uh,…sprechen sie Englisch…sorry I,..” It helped that I was flailing my hands in front of me like some pathetic mime.
The man wagged his head a little and smiled, and raised one hand, saying something in German, but holding his thumb and forefinger to show the universal sign for a small amount. He was smiling, but I could see him struggle for a moment and then he gestured at me with the same hand, the walking stick dangling from his wrist, and said: “You are a nice man.”
I laughed so hard it startled him a little. I don’t know what the other choices were in his limited lexicon, but somehow this simple gift delighted me. And then because I knew we had the words in common, I said: “You are a nice man.” He laughed, also delighted, and waved to me and turned to continue his walk.
A mile or so later I leaned on the railing of an old wooden bridge and watched the water play among the stones and thought of the astonishing things I’d seen in just the few days I’d been in the Alps. In fact, the people we met were on that list. The man I had passed on the path took what little he had to express one thing in passing, and he chose the kindest message he could share. You are a nice man.
So, no, the Germans don’t hate us, and in fact, neither do the French. Even given the tumult in the world, I would even venture to say that no one person in any country hates me, or you. They simply have not had the chance to meet us, and to learn what kindness we are both capable of. It is not the only bridge, but having the language to express our best selves, is a start.
I intend to travel to other countries, and I will make a stronger effort to learn more of the languages. It is a naïve ideal, a man of my advanced years learning anything new. But I will begin with the same offering I was given on that bucolic trail in Berchtesgaden.
Du bist ein netter mann.
Hope this finds you friendly,
David
Copyright © 2024 David Smith
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