"what we did in Frankfurt"
I don't know an ounce of German. There are three phrases I know, two of which I forget are German.
1. Gesundheit (or, as Urban Dictionary spells it, gazoontight): a word for health, used when someone sneezes
2. Auf Wiedersehen (or, as I would spell it, Alf Vita-sane): goodbye
3. Danke: thank you
German I learned for our trip:
1. Ein dunkles Bier: a dark beer
2. Ich spreche kein Deutsche: I don't speak German
Number of people that were rude to me because Ich spreche kein Deutsche:
0
There were many things about our trip to Frankfurt that were absolutely wonderful. Over a few posts, I'll discuss some of them, but there was one that stood out the most. While there, I did not meet one person that was rude or cold to me because I was a foreigner. Now, granted, we were visiting a tourist town, but the kindness started before we even reached the German border.
Somewhere along the French-German border, there is a quiet town called Forbach that goes to sleep at about 8:30 each night. En route to Frankfurt, we had a two hour stop in Forbach, so we went in search of a bar.
There was one open within walking distance, and there were three people inside. When we walked in, we were overcome by 1990s American music, each song introduced by a heavy-sounding, male German voice. When we got in, the place was starting to get quiet. Shortly after we got our beers & opened our books to kill time, the customers left.
No one else was coming in. The streets were looking pretty dark. I was getting uncomfortable. When was asked, the man said yes, he was closed, what were we in town for? Instead of returning to the train station, he invited us to sit with him while he cleaned up the bar. We talked about not knowing German, about our reasons for being here and about where we could possibly find another place to sit for a few hours. The man gave us directions & wishes for safe travels; we returned to the station.
After our first day in Frankfurt, we wanted a nice bar to sit for dinner beers. I realize that bar-hunting is seeming like a hobby of ours, but after a big lunch, we weren't hungry enough to eat. Who doesn't have room for beer, though?
We found a bar near the Alte Oper, Frankfurt's old opera, to spend some time. The place was packed to the walls. We were kindly offered seats at the bar, and we took up residence for several hours. I was fascinated. The bartender was flying between bottles of champagne, beer taps & mixed drinks without ever spilling a drop. At the same speed, he was mixing cocktails of French-German-English phrases to slid down the bar to customers. Every customer seemed to be a regular; he welcomed us right into the mix.
Between pouring drinks, he'd throw glances our way. If Joe was drinking too slowly, he'd ask why he didn't like the beer. I had finished mine & decided not to order another, so he was always checking in on me via nonverbal, humorous faces that reminded me of special occasions at the bowling alley with Dad, sipping Shirley Temples.
I ordered a coffee in French; he showed me a mug. "No, the small one," I replied. "Ah, an espresso," he explained–using the same name we would in America for the traditional shot that has become "un café" in French.
"Danke," I said with a laugh.
"Merci," he replied, then added, "Et l'addition pour les deux sympas" over his shoulder to a coworker when we were readying ourselves for the cold walk back to the hostel.
No matter what language came out of my mouth (because at times, I'm not sure which did), those we were asking help from were quick to adapt–be it at the train station, museums or in our hostel. When I managed a small German phrase, they were kind enough to reply in turn, making it all seem perfectly normal.
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