Bitte Schön

Imagine (just imagine) you don't know any German, except "thank you", "danke." You move to Germany and order some food. You get it and you say, "danke." They reply, "bitte." It's a good assumption that this means, "you're welcome."

Great, now you know two German words.

Next, you try "danke schön" (thank you very much). You get back, "bitte schön". You figure that means "you're very welcome." Aw, that's cute. You start to hear it all the time. "Very welcome, very welcome, very welcome."

Only, the next time you order your Döner, you forget to say anything. You still hear "bitte schön"." Is he being smart with you? They start to say "bitte schön" before you have time to say anything "thank you"s at all. What's with these people? Are they being spitful? Imagine hearing "you're welcome" without saying "thank you".

Turns out, this is one of many phrases that doesn't translate between cultures. From what I've experienced, it's something like, "glad to have helped you." "Bitte schön" is just one of many endearing things about this culture that I'm going to miss. I'm already nostalgic.

The Luckiest Unlucky Day of my Life

15 July 2011. Scheduled to leave Frankfurt Airport at 17:20 for Madrid, Spain. Everything’s planned the night before. When I get out of school, several options for catching the train to the airport, when my plane leaves, when it arrives, and when and where I find my hostel. I get out of school at 13:00. I have the option of catching a train at 13:04 (too early), 14:04 (too late), or 13:34 (just perfect). 13:34 was so perfect, in fact, that I had time to run by the bookstore and pick up a special order (a French-German picture dictionary – what? Don’t give an aspiring polyglot access to pretty reference books.)

So I parked my bike outside the Hauptbahnhof and strolled inside, contemplating whether I had time to grab something to eat or if I should wait for the train. I stayed put and the train ride went smoothly. I arrived at Frankfurt Flughaven at 14:45. I boarded my plane… oh, wait, no I didn’t. Because there are two Frankfurt airports. The other one was only accessible by a 13 euro bus.

I wasn’t even in the right terminal to catch the bus to go to the right airport. So I hopped a shuttle to the other terminal and went inside to look for a red-shirted employee to ask for directions. Couldn’t find one. Minutes go by. Go back outside. Ask a man. Says, “yeah it’s the N-25 and it blah blah blah, oh that’s it, right there! (Points to one of many white buses). It’s the white bus.” Guh. I get in line for the bus he pointed at. Wait a few minutes. Not the right bus. Head to the correct bus; walking not running. If I miss it, no big deal, right? Buses come every 10 minutes, and I have two hours. Only, the sign says this bus ride is 1.5 hours. That can’t be right? Read it again. It’s right.

So I get to the Frankfurt Hahn Airport (the most liberal use of the word “airport” that was ever blogged) five minutes after my gate closed. Found the German TSA-inspection. Hand over my boarding pass. “You must go through Passport check.”

I hate planes.

17:07. Gate closed seventeen minutes ago. Thirteen minutes to departure. Line for passport check hasn’t moved in five minutes. Stop an employee. Explain to him my situation, and he expedites the check. Run to the TSA. Run to the gate. The “closed” gate is still open with 20 people in line. I made it. I made my plane. I cannot explain how unhopeful I was. For a good 30 minutes, I really thought I was going to have to catch a bus back to Frankfurt and a thirteen hour train to Madrid or not go at all. I made it.

So. Much. Win.

Weekend 6: Amsterdam Part II

Amsterdam was a blast the second time around, despite being a shorter trip. We left Saturday morning (I and two friends, Kelley and Shelby) by train. One of them didn't have a train pass for the second leg of the trip, so there was some sneaking around, but I won't go in to detail about it. It was thrilling, though. Looking for some playing cards, we met three German guys, all around 20, and started playing Circle of Death, explaining the rules in broken German and slow English, at about 10 in the morning with warm Jäger. They got a little too rowdy and starting yelling German obscenities at the top of their lungs, but bless the little train people, they didn't bat an eye. We dodged them as we got off the train.

We walked around the city. I was quite cocky, as I had been there before. We made a point to the I AMsterdam sign and we got lost on the way. It was a short day, as Kelley left that night, and Shelby and I had a hotel outside of the city. All in all, we had a good time. I really like the city.

Amsterdam Part II Pictures

Amsterdam Part II BGs

Spaghetti-Eis

This is spaghetti-eis, a typical treat here in Germany, from what I gather. It is vanilla ice cream, run through a spaghetti maker, with raspberry topping and shaved white chocolate as the parmesan cheese. As it is quite a novelty, I wasn't expecting it to taste that great, but I was so wrong. The best part was the secret stash of homemade, not-too-sweet whipped cream under the ice cream. Going back? You bet.

Taking Pictures

When I take or crop pictures, Professor Oak's voice pops in my head with advice about the placement of subjects. Also, how many birds are in the background and if there are any Pokémon-shaped smoke clouds in the background.

Die Noodle Sind Grün Noch

I love being able to have remedial conversations in German.

My host brother, Yasin (age 3): I'm making noodles. (points to a pot of rainwater and grass in the backyard).

Me: Oh cool! May I have some?

Yasin: No. They aren't done yet. They're still green.

Me: When will they be done?

Yasin: Four minutes.

Me: (begin making ticking sound)

Yasin: No, you are not the clock! That is the clock! (points to a Spongebob ball)

Bananasaft

Banana juice is delicious. Banana juice and hefeweisen is even better.