You want the truth?

Having known many Germans and now being married to one, one thing I’ve learned is: never ask for one’s opinion if you’re not prepared for an honest and possibly blunt answer. 

It’s not that they’re being rude; actually it’s quite the opposite. You ask a question (e.g. What do you think of this outfit I just spend two hours putting together?) to which your German conversation partner will assume you’d like to hear the truth. Anything else would be illogical. So imagine your partner’s surprise when his honesty prompts a response of several indignant words, a couple of dismayed gestures and a good door slamming (of which Thomas may or may not have been the recent recipient of).

As weird as it sounds, this honesty thing took me a little while to get used to. But I’m finally learning to appreciate it (most of the time, that is). After all, who wants to be told they look awesome when they actually look like a color-blind hippo that got dressed in the dark? Which reminds me, never tell a German you like something or that something looks good if you don’t mean it. If your true feelings came out later, the damage caused by your little white lie would far out-weigh any good intentions you had.

On a related note, Germans also tend not to ask questions unless they care about the answer. But who asks questions for the sake of asking, you…um…ask? I submit for your review Exhibit A:

....................?

Wait that wasn’t exhibit A. That was just an incredibly awkward picture of a plush Penguin frolicking in the forest. Here’s Exhibit A:
 

A hastily and poorly drawn Exhibit A

 That's right...the supermarket.

When you hit the checkout counter in the U.S., the cashier will generally initiate a series of routine questions. How are you doing today? Did you find everything okay? Any plans for the weekend? You are of course expected to respond with something like: Good, and you? Yes. Nothing special. She doesn’t want to hear about the colonoscopy you just had, that you in fact do need help finding something, or a long-winded account of your weekend gardening strategy.

In Germany, on the other hand, the cashier will acknowledge your existence with a simple Hallo or Grüß Gott (depending on the region). After that, the only sound you hear for awhile is beep, beep, beep as your items pass over the scanner. Then cashier’s voice resumes: €32.85 bitte. You hand over the money, she mutters how much change you get back, and then throws in a hasty Schönen Tag or Tschüß. And that’s it. No superficial small-talk, no fake smiles. Just another efficient transaction of food acquisition.

The story repeats in German clothing stores, book stores, postal offices, banks, etc. It’s no wonder many Americans perceive German salespeople as a bit cold. They just don’t share in our mentality that pseudo-friendless equals an improved customer experience (which is debatable conclusion in itself, I might add). On the other side, it’s no wonder that many Germans are turned off by chatterbox salespeople in the U.S. They’re just not used to someone “pestering” them as soon as they step foot in a store.

There’s coffee…and then there’s THIS

What do you get when you send a fairly-illiterate-in-German -and-fresh-off-the-boat-expat grocery shopping? This:

Caro, the coffee alternative

Sure, it looks normal enough with its gold and blue label and image of a delicious cup of coffee. But what’s inside is most definitely NOT delicious coffee. In fact, as I later learned, it isn’t even coffee at all.

Let me back up. I’ve been in Germany for about a month and a half now. And one of my favorite things about living in another country is grocery shopping. Stores are filled with excitingly different items and brands. But all this newness (and my low German vocabulary) comes with a price: you don’t always know what you’re getting. But then again, how else would I have learned I actually do like stinky sheep cheese?

So a few weeks ago, I went in search of a good instant coffee to hold me over until we bought a machine. I stood in front of the coffee shelf for about 10 minutes trying to decide between brands based solely on product labeling aesthetics. From the impressive line-up, I selected a perpetrator, er canister.

As soon as Thomas got home that evening, I performed my ceremonial “showing of the day’s purchases” like a kid proudly holding freshly made macaroni art. Usually it goes well. Today, the macaroni was didn’t go over so well. Here’s the transcript of what followed:

Thomas: Wow, you…uh… you bought Caro, huh? he asked cocking his head to one side as if the angle would make my imminent reasoning clearer. (Since then, I’ve received this same reaction from numerous people.)
Me: Umm…yeah. It was a really good price, and the label was prettier than the generic brands. (I could feel my speech beginning to get slower and slower) Besides, it’s made by Nestle. The other Nestle coffee was twice as much.
Thomas: Do you know why that is?
Me: No…..wh—
Thomas: Haha, no, no. You’ll find out.

The next morning I made my first cup of Caro and slowly took a sip. What the –!?!

I ran to the computer to research the odd black liquid in my cup. Caro is actually a caffeine-free coffee substitute. The ingredients listed on Wikipedia, best describe the flavor: “Caro is made up of soluble solids of roasted barley, malted barley, chicory, and rye.”

Yum?

But since I bought it, I was determined to drink it, so I’m down to half a canister (which, because I bought the biggest one, makes 50 cups).

While the taste kind of grows on you, I’m happy to report we bought our new coffee machine last night. So starting today, it’s good-bye Caro and welcome back Joe.

My knight in stainless steel armor has arrived