A return to Germany means a return to a different way of life.
Four days back home in England and you immediately settle back into familiarity. You spend half your time at the pub with your Dad watching any game of football that happens to be on, a bit of rugby perhaps, but drawing the line at the Boat Race. You pop down to the bookies in the hope of winning a small fortune before developing an undying hatred for Stenhousemuir when they fail to beat Albion Rovers at home. You relish being re-baptised in the gravy that accompanies a delicious Sunday Roast that the Germans just can’t match. You go out in your unfashionable but beloved hometown, lose your phone, sing about Michael Carrick ‘til your voice is hoarse and wake up to pizza strewn all over your front lawn. You slowly remember that driving on the left is the right way to do things – whatever the majority of the World says – and that having the Queen’s head jingling in your pocket is far superior to a map of the continent. Your sudden emergence as a beer snob means you will never order a pint of British lager again, opting for bitter or cider. You go to Mass and rejoice at the fact that the service is held in English but note that the priest should really turn his microphone off during the hymns. You get to meet up with friends you haven’t seen since you were last at home and act as if you’d seen them yesterday. And most importantly you get to see your family – your bright and determined sister who will be studying Medicine next year, your parents who are willing to pay for your return just so they can spend some time with you and shower you with attention, your Grandma who, despite her frailty, still enjoys nothing more than seeing you at home and your Aunt and Uncle who elaborate on the emotions that reading a nephew’s year abroad blog can bring up.
But having said all that, there is now a place in my heart for the European powerhouse that is Germany and in particular a little town situated in the former East. Returning to my temporary home, I am constantly reminded of the quirks that make this country what it is. In the airport toilets you are greeted by a weird rotating hand towel machine that not only dries your hands but makes a clear rolling noise to inform those around you that you have indeed fulfilled your duty to hygiene. Your foreignness becomes apparent once spotted by a dog. In my case upon return it was a German Shepherd (which I assume are just called ‘Shepherds’ here), barking wildly in a throwback to 1945, highlighting to all around that despite my passable Germanic appearance, I am indeed an imposter. You buy a beer for the journey back, firstly to be reunited with the glorious taste that seemingly every German pilsner provides and secondly, because you can without fear of being judged.
On my return to FEW I am heartily greeted by the twenty or so people I work with, each one in turn semi-yanking my hand off before the factory boss goes all Goethe on me, asking ‘What’s in your heart?’ – An unorthodox greeting, but due to his uncanny resemblance to Mister Geppetto, not at all threatening. Inevitably, after questions about your family and friends, you are asked about the weather. They, as usual, expect to hear that we suffered from constant rain but in actual fact, England is just a marginally warmer version of Germany at the moment; a country that isn’t experiencing its longest and greyest winter since the Weimar Republic. Coming back to Blankenburg also means coming back to Blankenburger FV and even after just a few days without football, the desire to get back out there playing is ever present. Unfortunately, due to the snow, playing this week was kept to a minimum meaning more terrifying match-ups against the women’s handball team and lots of running. We focussed primarily on 400m laps where I discovered that Michael Johnson, I am not. Saturday, however, brought about our second match in seven weeks which was much needed. On the way there I was serenaded by Thomas who has recently turned 30. His hatred for cold weather on a par with my own and his beautiful rendition of Turn Around – the only part he knows being ‘Hey, vot’s wrong viz youuuu’ – reminding me of what makes being an Englishman in Blankenburg so great. In the changing rooms I was treated to another dose of my manager’s craziness as during the team talk he began testing me on Goethe, Schiller and Mozart in a bid to explain our tactics for the day. My position as a German student was certainly questioned as he warned me not to engage in a Faustian bargain in order to score in the game. Needless to say, no deals were struck with the Devil but I still managed to get myself on the score sheet.
It was great to go home but it’s good to be back.
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