Four Things I Miss About Europe

Here are four more things I miss about life in Europe:

1. Mass transit. Subway trains that come every 3-5 minutes during peak times, at least in major cities like London, Paris and Berlin. Subway stations that look halfway clean and decent – unlike New York’s, with crumbling paint, foul odors and rodents. Buses from which people disembark only from the rear door(s), to keep things moving. And signs, on both subway platforms and bus shelters, telling you how long you have to wait for the next one!

2. Taxes being included in prices. I had forgotten that nothing is quite as cheap as it seems here, since you have to add tax to most items. It’s easier to calculate what you’re spending when it’s included upfront.

3. Straight men who dress like gay men. Okay, it poses a challenge to your Gaydar, and can make for some awkward stares, but it’s still nice to see other guys regardless of sexual orientation looking good on the street, in fashionable jeans, tight T-shirts and the like. Just not enough eye candy on this side of the Atlantic!

4. Good beer. I had forgotten how awful and watery American beer is until I had a Coors Light at Yankee Stadium this week. It shouldn’t even be in the same category as the good stuff!

Some Final Thoughts on America and Europe

I have been surprised to discover that one of my biggest takeaways from a year living in Germany is a newfound thankfulness that I was born an American – not just that I now live in the United States, but that I was raised with American values and in the American way of life. After a year in Europe I appreciate much more than ever before the open attitude of most Americans – their openness to change, to different cultures, to new ideas and new people. I appreciate a mentality that lives in the present and thinks about the future far more than it lives in the past (even if that means, on the downside, living in debt and beyond our means). I appreciate people who generally don’t take themselves too seriously.

I appreciate an American society that, with a dwindling white majority and a black president, has no one all-powerful racial or ethnic group. I appreciate a society in which people generally bend over backward – sometimes a bit too far, perhaps, and admittedly with lingering exceptions – to be politically correct, to ensure that everyone feels like an equal and respected member of society. I appreciate the fact that the vast majority of Americans would agree that no person is any more or less an equal citizen because of skin or hair color, religion, or where his or her parents or grandparents were born.

I appreciate a less religious culture and society; even if individual Americans are more religious than Europeans, official holidays are almost uniformly secular, stores are open every day and the wall between church and state remains relatively strong. I appreciate an educational system that is structured, at least in theory, to give every American youngster a fair chance at achieving his or her potential regardless of starting point. I appreciate a country that contains within its borders so many different geographies, subcultures and ways of life, unified above all by a set of political principles and institutions, much more than by a shared history or national culture. I even appreciate the English language more – its simplicity, its beauty, its usefulness around the world.

Some of these principles and values hold true in Germany, too, but are far less ingrained in the national consciousness and character. I imagine this holds true to some extent, in varying ways, across Europe.

Lest this sound too much like a national anthem or campaign speech, however, it must be said that there are many ways in which life is actually much better in Europe. For starters, I will miss (and would like to import back home) the environmental consciousness, where recycling is a universal way of life, lights and escalators only go on when you press a button, bikes are a commonplace mode of everyday transportation, and there is absolutely no debate about the importance of taking major steps to combat global warming and clean up our air and water.

I will miss living in a society that knows and cares about the rest of the world – living among people whose knowledge and consciousness about world affairs is deep and abiding. Europeans may not be smarter than Americans, but on average, they seem better informed, more cultured and better-traveled. Relatedly, I will miss living in a place where you can hop a bus or train and be in another country; where dozens of other nations (with their attendant languages, cuisines and cultures) are literally a short and often cheap flight away. (A weekend in Boston, Chicago or D.C. just can’t compare with one in London, Paris or Barcelona – let alone Istanbul, Tel Aviv or on the beach in Mallorca.)

I will miss the small business culture – living in a city where my options for a cup of coffee don’t consist of Starbucks, Starbucks and Dunkin’ Donuts, but instead any of literally dozens of cafes within a 10-minute walk from where I live, and where I can go, order a great espresso for little more than 1 euro, and sit for hours without anyone disturbing me. (Not to sound like a Republican, but weren’t small businesses once an American hallmark?) I will miss drinking out of real china, rather than paper cups – even in subway station snack bars! I will miss cheap beer, and being able to drink on the streets and in parks (though on public transport is, I think, a step too far). I will miss living in a place where newspapers and magazines are still well-read, in hard copy.

So which is better, America or Europe? It remains too big a question to answer. But I know one thing now: I’m glad I was born an American, with American values and beliefs, and I’m glad I had the chance to live in Europe this year, where life is in many ways simply better. I might well again do so in the future. In some ways, it’s the best of both worlds.

A Little Misunderstanding

The only museum in the world dedicated to gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender history is located in Berlin. Called the Schwules Museum, the museum sits on two floors in the back hof or courtyard of a large building on Mehringdamm in Kreuzberg, directly above the legendary gay club Schwuz. For a couple of months this spring, I volunteered at the museum once a week, checking tickets, selling books, postcards and posters, and dispensing information from the front desk.

The museum is relatively small—one can see the entire permanent exhibit in a couple of hours—but it draws visitors from around Germany and the world. About half of the museum’s visitors seem to come from other countries, including especially large numbers from England, France, Italy, Spain and Brazil. For these international visitors, the fact that I’m a native English speaker proved quite useful. But the fact that my German isn’t perfect also caused some confusion. People would come in and naturally expect that the person behind the desk in a museum about gay German history is, well, gay and German. As it turns out, I fit only half that bill.

Sometimes people would come in and start speaking to me in German so fast that I could only nod and smile back. Others would come up to me with questions I barely understood, forcing me to simply say, Es tut mir leid, aber ich weiss es nicht – I’m sorry, but I don’t know. Other visitors would approach the desk and ask me, usually very tentatively, whether I could speak English.

My funniest interaction happened on my next-to-last day staffing the exhibit. About twenty minutes after he came into the museum, an older German man came up to me and started speaking in a quite urgent tone. I didn’t catch any of what he said except for the last few words, kleine Jungs, or little boys. Just minutes before, I had been thumbing through an old gay guidebook to Berlin, in which I had read a section about men’s therapy groups – including one focusing on pedophilia. So I was particularly taken aback by the question from this friendly-looking old man.

“No, I am sorry,” I informed him somewhat sternly. “We don’t have anything on that subject here.” The man said something back to me which I also didn’t understand, but then he started to make a gesture indicating he had to use the toilet. Suddenly a light went on in my head—perhaps he was simply asking if we had a “Little Boys’ Room”! Ach so, meinst Du die Toilette? I asked. “Oh, do you mean the toilet?” He nodded and, our mutually evident relief, I pointed him toward the restroom door just behind him. All in a day’s work at the Schwules Museum.

A Party Every Night

There’s a nice concept in German language and culture called der Feierabend. Because the word “feier” alone translates to celebration, festivities or party, when I first heard people saying this, I thought it must refer to either a special party-night of some kind, or perhaps the evening before a holiday.

But it turns out that for Germans, every night after work is a “party night”!  The Feierabend is simply the time after work ends, when people are free to do as they please with their lives until going back to the office the next morning. It’s quite a nice concept, and one we don’t have a direct translation for in English. (The online dictionary suggests, among other things, “leisure time,” but that has a more sociological feel, and is something we think of on a general basis–not as a fixed part of our daily schedules.)

The Germans take their Feierabend seriously. Last week I was volunteering at the Gay Museum in Berlin. At 6 pm I locked the doors and was heading out when a man arrived hoping to deliver some pamphlets to the museum. I told him I would not mind reopening the doors–it would not have taken more than 5 minutes–but he refused. “Mach Feierabend!” he said; he would come back Monday to make the delivery. I didn’t protest too much. I’ve gotten used to taking closing time seriously, too!

I’m thinking of trying to import this concept into my own life back home. I’ll be in grad school in the fall, and it would surely be healthy to declare at, say, 7 pm, and end to a day of studying and the beginning of Feierabend. Work and study have their place, but free time is important too!

An American Over His Head

Here’s the saddest reason I am looking forward to returning to the U.S.A. in three weeks: I am tired of feeling inadequate in comparison to those around me.

Most Germans I have become friends with speak — in addition to German — fluent French, great English, and between one and three other languages. They have traveled extensively, and often have lived abroad. They bike all over the city like pros without a helmet and have been skiing since they were toddlers. They are well-versed in the arts, literature and history. They know a lot about politics and discuss it fervently over and, especially, after dinner. They have opinions and are not shy about expressing them.

It will be shock, but a relief, to go back home and hang out with people who maybe remember a little Spanish from high school, but basically just speak English. Who may know how to bike and ski but basically just ride the subway or take cabs everywhere. Who may know a thing or two about art, or music, or history, but don’t display their knowledge unless they really have to. Who would rather talk about their jobs, or their dating lives, or Britney Spears, than about the prospects for peace in the Middle East or U.S. policy in Afghanistan.

I exaggerate, but just a little. I think I am a fairly serious person, but I often feel I can’t (or just don’t care to) keep up with the earnest, accomplished Germans. I am ready to go home to silly, superficial, lazy, likeable Americans!

Which Chances Are Worth Taking?

I saw “Revolutionary Road” a few months ago and was quite affected by it. The movie touched on some themes that I found highly relevant to my life this year — namely, what risks are worth taking, and how do you decide?

If you haven’t seen it yet, the movie is about a woman (April, played by Kate Winslet) who dreams of a way out of a domestic routine she never wanted for herself, and which she considers herself better than. She wants to take a huge risk and move abroad to Paris, leaving behind the trappings (quite literally) of the comfortable life, in order to feel alive again. But her husband (Frank, played by Leonardo DiCaprio) is (not unreasonably) afraid to pass up a promotion at his bland day job, and the chance for an even more secure life that comes with it. His decision seems especially fair since the couple has two kids, and since April’s Parisian plan does verge on the fantastical.

April’s dream may indeed have been unrealistic, as many characters in the film think, but turns out to have been also clearly essential to the couple’s happiness, and thus a risk they should have taken. Indeed, the really sage advice in the film comes from Frank’s boss, who tells him, referring to the offered promotion, “You only get two or three chances in life and you’d better grab them by the balls.” Frank doesn’t apply this advice correctly; the chance he passes up–going to Paris–is the one he should have grabbed.

The really hard, interesting question raised by the movie is: How do you know which chances are worth taking and which you should let pass by? My mother died when I was 13 and didn’t leave me much advice, but one piece of advice she did tell me that has stuck with me is “Always do” — don’t let chances, opportunities pass you by.  But you can’t always “do” everything that is offered to you, and nor should you. That is a recipe for misery.

The movie had special relevance for me because I’ve been here in Germany this year precisely because, like April, I was trying to shake up my life and feel alive again, live up to some special potential I believed I had. But I’ve had a decidedly mixed experience this year, and I can’t honestly say I made the right decision in taking this fellowship. It was an opportunity I didn’t want to pass up–I felt that I had passed up too many opportunities in the last few years, and this would be one too many. I wanted to take a risk. But I wonder whether I became in fact too willing to take a risk, any risk, to change my life, without doing the due diligence that could have helped me make sure the year abroad would actually be a worthy endeavor. In this particular case, perhaps I was a little too much April, not enough Frank.

Or perhaps the real lesson here (and which did not occur to me at the time I saw Revolutionary Road, but which now stands out clearly) is that old saying and self-help book title: “Wherever you go, there you are.” Perhaps had I not come I would have regretted that decision; perhaps had I not applied I would have regretted never having lived abroad, never having done a fellowship. Perhaps, had April and Frank gone to Paris, their lives would have ended up in more or less the same tragic way. In the end, the best we can probably do is try to make the best decisions we can, and then make the best of the situations that ensue.

To Be Jewish in Berlin

It’s not always easy being a Jew in Berlin. Just being here, feeling the weight of history around me, takes a toll. It’s not the presence of the Holocaust memorials big and small all over the city and country, per se, or the fact that WWII footage is shown on TV history documentaries all the time. It’s just being here, where it all happened, hearing the language, seeing the faces and wondering — what did their parents do? What did their grandparents do? What would they do today, if a Hitler were rising to power?

It’s also the place names. It hit me one winter weekend when I was in the train station waiting for the local train, and a regional train to Dessau came through. Dessau–I didn’t know anything about the place at the time, but it just sounded like a place where something bad happened. Later, I researched the town’s history. Although there was no K.Z. (the German term for concentration camp) there, and while the town is best-known as the home of the Bauhaus college of architecture shut down by the Nazis, there was a factory in Dessau that produced Cyclon B, which was used to kill Jews and others in the Nazi gas chambers.

But it doesn’t even matter what actually happened there. The point is the subtle mental toll living here takes. There might be — probably is — more anti-semitism today in Spain. But if I were living in Madrid, and saw a train departing for Cordoba, I wouldn’t get a kind of queasy feeling (despite the Spanish Inquisition).

Indeed, there isn’t a lot of overt anti-Semitism here. I have seen a couple of graffiti swastikas on walls and buildings around Berlin over the last year, but not many. I’ve heard about the rising tide of neo-Nazism in certain parts of Germany, particularly the poor sections of the old East Germany, but at least in the liberal, mixed neighborhoods of Berlin I spend time in, it feels safe to be openly a Jew.

What I’ve heard from Jews here, in fact, is that the biggest threat to Jewish life in Germany and Europe today is not overt anti-Semitism, but a fading away of Jewish practice. This is due to secularization, due to the immigration of Russian Jews who don’t know anything about Judaism, and, above all, to intermarriage. In this way the challenge facing Judaism in Europe seems similar to, if more urgent than, in the United States.

… to be continued

What We Do With Decisions

In German, one says that decisions are “met” (Entscheidungen treffen). I’ve been thinking about how this suggests a very different mental process from the American English, where we usually say we “make a decision,” or perhaps “come to a decision” — but we certainly don’t “meet” them. The German can be read to suggest that the decision itself, or some other power in the world, is meeting us halfway. It’s a reassuring notion in a sense, even as it seems to remove a little of our autonomous decision-making ability. What if decisions are not solely ours to make, but rather ours to meet?  It reminds me of friends of mine who talk about “listening to the Universe.”  It’s as though you’re not choosing freely from a wide-open range of options; instead you’re taking in information, including your preferences/will, and arriving at a point at which these key factors meet.

Then there’s the British English “take a decision,” which is another story. From the American English perspective, this sounds like you’re really either receiving a decision from the outside world, or perhaps taking a decision as one would take a number–you’re choosing to do it, but only in a very mechanical sense, in order to achieve some other end (getting served at the bakery, say). Again, the element of world-making or life-shaping that comes to mind when we talk about “making” decisions is minimized. (Although at least as far as making and taking decisions goes, I’ve read that in British English circumstance may also be relevant–decisions are “taken” when there is a pre-determined set of options, whereas one “makes” a decision in other situations.)

I think I’d be happier if I started thinking about meeting decisions, rather than making them.

The Capital of Europe

I spent a week in Brussels last month–the first time I’d been there since I was about 12. I’m not sure which came first–Brussels being the home of most of the major European Union institutions, or the city’s pan-European character. But it’s something I could not get over. Walk down one street, and it feels like Paris, what with the French in the air and the chocolate stores everywhere. Turn a corner, and you’re in a pedestrian shopping mall that looks just like what you see in any German city. Walk a few more blocks and you’re in the government and business district that feels a bit like the City of London. Then you turn into a side street with little kids playing football in the street–could be in Spain or Italy. Indeed, throw in the crazy drivers and notoriously inefficient government and you have what has been called the northernmost Southern European city.

I also learned in Brussels that the country of Belgium is falling apart at the seams. This is not something that gets much press coverage in the States, but there is practically a nonviolent civil war going on between the Dutch-speaking Flemish region in the north and the French-speaking Wallonie in the south. Apparently neither region wants to continue to form a nation with the other–they are barely on speaking terms, being held together in one nation only by the City of Brussels itself, which is French-speaking but lies within the Flemish territory. One solution that has been proposed is turning Brussels into an independent EU territory, and allowing the two regions to become their own countries. But neither one is willing to let Brussels go.

Incidentally, the fact that Brussels is technically a two-language city (French and Flemish, though apparently English is spoken more widely than Flemish) makes for some absurd signage. Every street sign and subway stop is written in the two languages, and for absolute equality, the order of the two alternates. I saw the most absurd example of this in the hotel gym. The treadmill I was on had all of its text written in French. Whew, I thought, at least they didn’t go to the trouble of double-labeling exercise equipment! But then I took a glance at the treadmills to the left and right of me, and sure enough, their labels were in Flemish. Looking down the line of about eight treadmills I saw that they, like the subway stop signage, alternated between Flemish and French. Perfect equality, even in the gym.

A Window on the Dutch

I spent a week in the Netherlands at the end of March/early April. One of the most interesting things I learned was that there is a tradition there of not closing the blinds on your windows (or not having any blinds at all). I went for a jog along a canal one afternoon and enjoyed peering into the living rooms of just about every little house I ran by. Most of them were very neat and no one was home. Apparently this is a vestige of the days when the Dutch were quite concerned with proving their religious rectitude by means of having a simple, tidy home.

I also learned that the Dutch have a tradition of discussing everything to death, which can often lead to political paralysis (see the recent interesting NYT Magazine article, “Going Dutch,” which touches a bit on this history). Not something I had heard about before.

Finally, I learned that the Dutch are a much more attractive people than their German neighbors! One legacy of the Dutch Empire is a population that is much more diverse (especially common are people of Inonesian and Surinamese heritage). Although Germany has its immigrant populations, the Dutch seem to have intermarried a lot more, leading to a lot of very beautiful people. Will the Germans ever learn?