Things I've learned since coming to Bremen - Part 2

1) My kitchen sink drips...and that's normal.
After expressing concern over my malfunctioning faucet, I was informed that there was no need for alarm. The sink has its own water heater, and in order to relieve pressure that builds up while the hot water waits to be used, a valve opens enough to release a few drops of water. Brilliant.

2) Food here is a lot different than food in the U.S.
I eat lots of things here that I wouldn't touch in the U.S. Like brussel sprouts, which really are very good when they're cooked right. And white asparagus (I still don't like the green variety, though). And for some reason I don't mind potato salad anymore. It's weird.

I've also realized that I like Turkish food. I guess that's good, considering how much Turkish food you find here.

Of course, trying new foods is another part of the whole adjusting-to-a-new-culture thing, but food here really is different. Produce, for example, seems to be fresher, doesn't have all the preservatives and hormones, and isn't coated with pesticides. All together it seems to be healthier.

If parents bought organic peas and broccoli, would more children like to eat vegetables? The world may never know.

3) You never know where you're going to see a dog.
People here really love their dogs. They take them everywhere. You see dogs on streetcars, busses, and trains. You see dogs in department stores. You see dogs in the bank. Ingrid and I were in a Christian bookstore one day when a dog walked right up to me and licked my hand. It's taken some getting used to.

There are a few places that don't allow dogs inside, such as bakeries and grocery stores. The dogs wait right outside, though, while their owners shop. Most of the dogs sit very quietly on the sidewalk, many without a leash. Maybe all Germans are required to take their dogs to obedience training or something.

4) People generally can tell that my native language is English.
This really surprised me at first, but it's true. When the telephone technician came to my apartment, he asked me a question in German, I responded in German, and he responded in English. The other day a young man stopped me to ask for directions (to the nearest McDonald's, of all places). As I began my explanation, he interrupted me and said, "Is English better for you?"

What surprised me even more, though, was the fact that while they may know what language I speak, they don't always know where I'm from. Karen had told me this might happen, but it wasn't until I actually had a woman ask me if I was from Great Britain that I really believed her. I guess only native speakers can hear the differences between English accents?

I think the funniest case of mistaken citizenship, though, happened to Mark and Karen. They have a favorite Italian restaurant in town called Prima Pasta, and the cook/waiter/manager knows them well. He even hugs them when they come in the door. Their daughters are here visiting right now, and the other day the four of them went to Prima Pasta for dinner. Mark and Karen introduced Elizabeth and Maranda, and the man said, "Are they also from Russia?"

5) My apartment was apparently damaged during WWII.
On Friday the Abercrombies were over and helped me hang a coat rack in my hallway. As Mark was drilling holes in the wall, sand poured out onto the floor. Walls of houses here are usually filled with concrete, but, according to Wolfgang, after the war concrete was too expensive. So, they resorted to using sand as a filler while they were rebuilding.

The walls of the church building are also filled with sand. I've been told that during the war most of that street was destroyed. They tried to reconstruct the buildings to resemble the originals, so even though many of the buildings look like they could be about 100 years old, they're actually replicas built in the late '40s.

Finding out that my apartment was a war casualty kind of gave me the creeps. My brain started creating a montage of all the war movies I've ever seen, using my apartment as the setting. Maybe the Gestapo raided the building. Maybe someone was killed here. Maybe there were Jews living here in hiding, Anne Frank-style.

In a sick and twisted kind of way, though, it was a bit exciting to think that my current home was involved in such a tumultuous period in recent history. It gives my apartment more character because now I've heard a snippet of the story this building has to tell (even if the details of that story are figments of my imagination). It's more than my apartment. I'm just one occupant in a long history of renters, and this building has played a role in a lot of peoples' lives.

I'm quite sure at this point that I'm the only person you know who ponders things like this. :-)