Nothing Personal

Some countries like France or Italy entice the potential traveler with images of sensual lusciousness – ripe fruit, brimming wine glasses… pretty girls. Some countries like England or Greece inspire with vistas evoking the majestic past…Acropolii and Thermopylae…Stonehenge. For Germany, things are not quite that easy: German food has a middling reputation, and German history, while peppered with interesting events (have you read about the Frankfurt parliament of 1848?) is - well, German history. It is therefore not surprising that the powers have taken a different course of action and have decided to market their fair land as - “Germany: Land of Ideas”.

Pretty sexy, isn’t it. Of course, that is not the point – “Germany: Land of Ideas” is portentous, solid and impressive, and these things are very important to the Germans. One would not want a slogan that minimized the importance of the German geist, or spirit. One would not want the world to think that the Germans were not earnestly struggling with their identity or thinking about the nature of their country, themselves, and their relationship to the world. But in the end, I would much rather go for the glass of wine – even a pretty girl. Wouldn’t you?

Germans have always loved ideas. Ideas are perfect. They do not disappoint, like people tend to do. To be fair, the Germans have had some wonderful ideas –like inventing the printing press, or coating marzipan in chocolate. They have also had some not so wonderful ideas: lederhosen, for example…or using pesticides to massacre children. It is unfortunately the latter which most people recall when they think about Germany. I do not blame them.

But there is something heroic in the German quest for the ideal, something noble that is all too often lost in our world full of intellectual and moral compromises sent from an iphone. And while this adherence and search for the “ideal” is wonderful when it comes to the representation of romantic art, it is a bit of a pain when it comes to buying stamps or paying a parking fine. Living here, I sometimes wish the Germans would just “let one go” and bend a rule, just once in a little while – just to let me know that within them the human heart still beats…maybe just this once my certificate of good conduct wouldn’t be required in order to rent a movie about the Baader-Meinhof gang. Maybe this time I will not be scolded for exiting from the front door of bus. Oh, who am I kidding… it is never going to happen and the sooner I realize that, the happier I will be.

I first came to this realization last summer when I had a day off of rehearsal and decided to treat myself to Kaffee und Kuchen at KaDeWe. In the formerly divided Berlin of yore, KaDeWe, short for Kaufhaus des Westens (Department store of the West) was the preeminent symbol of all that was right, or wrong with capitalism - depending on your point of view, for at KaDeWe you really can buy anything – for a price: fresh crocodile meat? -Done. How about a bag of loose diamonds to go with it? - But of course. And why not a 10 dollar can of imported Campbell’s Soup to stave off the home sickness that strikes us all? Would you like it gift wrapped? A friend of mine who had grown up in East Berlin told me that he had learned all about KaDeWe in school – that store over there where you could buy whatever your heart desired, but only if you had the money. But not everyone had the money – far from it, so wasn’t it better to live in a society where everyone did have money but there was nothing to buy?

As always, my desire for chocolate trumped any questions of a political nature, so I went to the Lenôtre pasty counter on the 6^th floor – that place where you can believe that life is just that much better when things are dipped in sugar and put on display. It had been a pretty long week so I decided to treat myself and order a latté in addition to my usual gateau Marly (kirsch-soaked genoise filled with champagne butter cream, coated with pink marzipan and topped with fresh strawberries tantalizingly glazed with red currant jelly - served with vanilla flavored whipped cream on a china plate with a silver cake fork by a woman named Ulrike who had perfectly manicured nails and a charming demeanor until your friend asks in a loud voice for a glass of tap water….)

I need not tell you that the experience was sublime. I was in Berlin, after all, and I was an opera singer. What’s more, I was being paid for the privilege. I had left my comfortable bourgeois life behind me and was really living the dream, as it were. It goes without saying that the cake was exquisite – a symphony of tastes that seemed to validate the choices I had made in life. I sat there for a moment, trying to capture what the moment meant to me – that synthesis of fulfillment and pleasure; yet another sign that I was doing the right thing. With sugar-enhanced bravado, I asked for the receipt in German – a master of fluent nonchalance. I reached for my wallet. It was not there.

I can tell you from experience that losing one’s wallet is an anxiety inducing experience. By extension, losing one’s wallet in a foreign country where one only has a basic grasp of the language could be considered to be the catalyst for a full on panic attack. But I did not panic. I was in Berlin, and I was an opera singer, and if these two things had taught me anything, it was the ability to exhibit grace under pressure. Besides, I was not about to let Ulrike see me sweat. Luckily, at that precise moment I managed to find 5 euro and 90 cents in my coat pocket. Since the bill came to 7 euro (it would have only been 5.50 had I not ordered that verdammte latté), I was only out about a euro, and who would care about that?

With a mixture of sweet relief and the last vestiges of my enhanced self confidence, I calmly informed Ulrike of the situation: Oh silly-but-well-meaning-foreigner-me, forgetting my wallet at home but doing the proper thing by informing the authorities…oh, couldn’t you just please just let this one go, Ulrike? You see, I have almost enough, and I owe only a little more than a euro, and you know I will come back – I really will. How could one go for more than a week without a slice of Gateau Marly? I mean, it is like communion for me! Ulrike? Why are you making the tap water face? Why are you telling me to wait right here while you dial a number into the slim line telephone with your beautifully manicured nails?

In retrospect, I wonder why I didn’t just ask a fellow customer for a euro or two and be on my way. I did think of this, but I was more embarrassed by not being able to formulate the correct German word order needed to do so than I was by being - for all intents and purposes - a shoplifter (but is it shoplifting if you eat what you steal?). I could have also just taken my chances and left as fast as I could, but at the time I thought - “what’s the worst that could happen?”

And so I did just as I was told and sat there while a pride of impatient Charlottenburg matrons cooled their very high heels. I tried to explain to them that I could not actually leave the counter because I was being detained. This was perfectly understood, and they agreed among themselves that being held against one’s will was quite a logical state of affairs. What they could not understand was why I had elected to address them using the informal you and they pointedly told me so, as did Ulrike – brandishing a silver cake fork.

“You are the man who lost his wallet, ja?” I bolted upright and spun around to find a very trim man in a very trim suit – my accuser. He was flanked by two larger men in baggy tracksuits. I guess this was security. I nodded, not really able to speak, not wanting to be corrected again.

“You see,” he began, “I must detain you until the exact amount of the bill has been paid. The fact that you only owe 1 Euro and 20 cents is not the point. If I were to let you go now, then this would set an impossible precedent and eventually people would be able to just steal whatever they liked, and then what would the state of the German economy be?”

To say that I did not care would be a gross understatement. I asked him what I could do – perhaps I could phone my friend and he could provide the store with a credit card number. Perhaps they could just trust me to return later in the day with the outstanding money. Or, perhaps they could stop acting all crazy-ass and spend their time trying to catch the people stealing the designer underwear on the 4^th floor instead of interrogating me over a partially paid for piece of cake. Nope.

“You said you have a friend?” He was intrigued. “Well then you must call your friend and inform him that he must come to the store with either your wallet, or with the exact amount owing. At that point, I can let you go, but not before. You must understand, sir, that this is nothing against you personally – I am sure you are a very competent member of society who pays his taxes and directs his complaints about public order to the appropriate ministries, but perhaps as a visitor to our country you need to better understand that in Germany, we have rules.”

No shit

Saying that Germany has rules is like telling someone that Canada has snow while they are waiting for the bus in Winnipeg in January – that is to say that it is so painfully obvious that you begin question the sanity of the speaker. If I had been at a bus stop, I certainly would have written this man off as crazy. I certainly would have ignored him, but sadly I was not at a bus stop, nor was I in Winnipeg for that matter.

I was in Berlin, and this was not personal, only ridiculous. Ulrike handed me the slimline telephone and I called my friend.

…Nothing personal