Bagsy
Eine geistige Heimat
Yesterday I returned from Germany, the best trip of my life.
Before the trip I did not hesitate to voice my fears about being mistaken for an American, whether that indicator be my wardrobe, gait, or, most importantly, my German. Why I had this fear I cannot say; after all, I have studied German since I was thirteen. However, it is one thing to lead a conversation with a language partner for a few hours but entirely another to live and breathe the language, engaging with strangers.
To my delight I was mistaken for not an American tourist but rather a local.
My flight to Germany was a disaster. A hydraulic leak delayed the journey from Newark to Munich by five hours. We all boarded the plane, ready to depart until the crew announced the bad news: a hydraulic leak. We begrudgingly dragged ourselves back into the airport, where the gate was reassigned. The boarding time was pushed back another hour for what felt like an eternity until the crew finally recruited a new aircraft.
I was exhausted by the time I arrived in Hamburg after rebooking my connection from Munich. I lost an entire day thanks to United Airlines. A piercing migraine lingered as I headed to the nearest supermarket to find my hungry and dehydrated self something to eat. I had not left my accommodation for more than five minutes before a stranger addressed me.
She asked for the time. I was caught so off-guard that it took me a few seconds to retrieve my phone so that I could answer.
“Viertel nach,” I said. All I could think about was whether I had said it wrong – not wrong in the sense that I could not say the correct time but rather if that is not how someone in Germany would say it. I wondered if she could sense my self-doubt.
I don’t think she did. She thanked me and continued on her way.
Truthfully, although I was immersed in the language, soaking up every public transit announcement and eavesdropping on every conversation within my vicinity, I did not spend much time speaking German on the trip. I was alone nearly the entire time except when one of my language partners traveled from Braunschweig to Berlin and spent the day with me. That was awesome.
Otherwise I spoke only when necessary. That is not to say I was disappointed. I rejoiced in these small moments.
I had to go through passport control in Munich. The worker was a bit taken aback that I started explaining myself in German given that many of my fellow passengers were American. She asked what I was doing in Germany, how long I had studied the language, and finally if I had already spent time living in Germany. That early win was sealed during my first minutes in Germany but was earned through many years of study.
That was not my only win, however. Aside from ordering at restaurants without issues and relying on German audio guides in museums, other moments still stick out to me.
I joined a walking tour on my first full day in Berlin. After hearing my name, the tour guide informed me that the activity would be conducted in German rather than English. Of course I knew this; I wanted to avoid English tours.
“Ja, ich spreche Deutsch,” I assured him it was fine. Of course such a simple sentence does not indicate how well I spoke it, but that was okay.
The tour was wonderful, but the true cherry on top was when the guide caught up with me afterwards. Initially I did not recognize his voice, as he said in English to be careful in the warm weather because the sun will burn his head. We stopped to speak with each other in German, and I explained how I ended up standing there speaking to him. He seemed genuinely touched by my background and interest in Germany. With his hand briefly on my arm he wished me the best for my travels and expressed his excitement for me to be here. It was such a kind gesture.
Yet I still wondered if I stuck out as Other in the streets. To my delight I was asked for directions – the pinnacle of Looking Like A Local – not once but several times. One exchange was lengthy; a middle-aged couple needed help navigating on their phone to a restaurant nearby.
I even found joy as sadness simultaneously struck me in the Berlin airport on my way home. Although the security checkpoints were the most stressful I ever experienced in my life, I reveled in the fact that I was able to work things out with the staff in German.
My bag was subject to further search at the first checkpoint. Apparently my safety razor triggered the system. After the worker rummaged through my bag and found the culprit, I assured her I did not have any razor blades. “That is wonderful,” she replied, and I was on my way again. I had a goofy grin underneath my mask for a few minutes after that.
I underwent a more invasive search at the second security checkpoint, which included an awful pat-down. Another worker noticed my American passport before digging into my bag.
“English or German?” she asked.
“Beides,” I responded. This pleased her. She then asked questions in German. She helped me as I scrambled to return all of the things she extracted to their proper place in my backpack.
And then I went back to America.
I know my German is great, so I would not say I had imposter syndrome. But I wanted affirmation from Germany that I could speak its language well enough. Any doubts faded early on the trip, thankfully.
What makes less sense on the surface is why I wanted to not stick out as an American. Granted, sometimes this is quite practical depending on the location and one’s demographic. For safety reasons I do not want to publicly indicate that I am a foreign solo female traveler. And as much as I myself avoid stereotyping others, a part of me wanted to not seem like the typical and unlikable American tourist.
But my reasons changed as the trip progressed. I found myself absorbing the German lifestyle so much that I wanted to feel like I was part of it. I loved using the Deutsche Bahn and the local transit, whose infrastructures laugh at the United States. The number of languages I heard in the streets delighted me. I swapped a world of automobiles, fast food, humidity, mass shootings, and baseball for one with public transportation, better weather, a gritty history I adore, and proper football.
I felt that difference when I returned to the Newark airport yesterday. My sense of belonging faded.
My trip culminated with a visit to the Reichstag building on my final night. What an architectural feat.
More importantly, that sense of belonging seeped into my bones more at that time than at any other. I imagine some Germans would scoff at this, as Berlin is arguably the least German of all places in the country. But I think that this is precisely why I felt like I belonged: I am not German, and neither are many who call Berlin home. Instead they make Germany their home. That is never a way I felt about America.
Germany is not my Heimat. But I walked around and realized eine geistige Heimat.