I can’t understand a word these people are saying. But I do understand them on other levels.
They stack wood like it’s an art form. I’d probably do the same if I had wood to stack. Their toilets have a little shelf so they can examine their poop. I get it—I’ve been known to have similar interests. They’re highly attuned to mustard, my favorite condiment (and maybe even my favorite food). Anyone who’s lived with me knows I put it on everything. They’re also unashamed—especially when it comes to their bodies. Changing into a bathing suit in full view of others? No problem. I felt liberated slipping on my swim trunks alongside them.
What I’m trying to say is that I get these people. I just don’t understand a single word they’re saying.
Apparently, there are German classes at my software company, and Alison can attend as well. The classes are conveniently located near the kids’ school—for now, at least, since the company is moving across the river in November. If our schedules align, we can learn together and ride home with the kids on the tram.
I start work on Monday, but I visited the office yesterday for sausages and beer to celebrate someone’s paternity leave. My coworkers speak English fluently—so fluently, in fact, that their dark sarcasm could easily leave most Americans in the dust. One memorable comment, involving my mother and the brothel down the street, was particularly impressive.
My workmates have a favorite beer—Freistadt, brewed in a small town of the same name. Everyone in the town owns a share of the brewery, thanks to an ownership contract signed in the 1700s. At the end of the year, when the brewery distributes profits, you can choose to take Euros—or your share in beer instead.