I would just like to tell the world that I have found my soulmate.
We met on my first day in Berlin. His name is JJ. He is half terrier and half amazing. It's only fitting to anyone who knows me personally that my first study abroad column is about a dog.
JJ and I share an incorruptible bond over one special connection: neither of us speaks any German. This bond transcends the linguistic complexities of our world. I feel as if JJ knows my plight. When he looks longingly at my schnitzel from beneath the dinner table, he is saying, "I know, Jen. I know."
When I first arrived, JJ was appalled at the idea of temporarily bringing another member into his harmonious family. Clearly, he was used to being the purveyor of non-verbal communication. I would only provide a distinct challenge to his authority, as we would both struggle to have our needs met without using the German language. He must have sensed my Americanism before I entered the door. After some strategic dogwhispering, JJ and I soon saw eye to eye.
My grasp of the German language has somewhat improved in this first week. Perhaps it's because of the fondness the German people hold for dubbing over popular American films (there is no greater treat than classic movies like "Godzilla 2000" and "Super Mario Brothers" getting Deutsch-ed). I have a rudimentary understanding of what I hear and read but I can only speak in a crude version of the basics: "eine kalt cola-light, bitte," is perhaps my most often-used phrase.
To blend in, I gesticulate passively at grocery checkouts and restaurant menus, hoping the locals think I'm quiet or just snobby. Little do they know that I'm actually a dumb American who feels like an idiot when she whips out the phrasebook only to butcher basic sentences like "Haben Sie eine englische Speisekarte?" It's only a matter of time before people start to assume I'm either a jerk or just illiterate.
This plan for feigned language mastery backfires almost daily. The other day I found myself in what could be considered a comforting standby: Dunkin Donuts. Now, my abhorrence towards fast food still applies in Germany, but sometimes a chocolate cr?me doughnut is essential. My fellow students ordered and received at registers down the line with the greatest of ease. I pointed directly at the tempting confection and said "Eine chocolate cr?me, bitte." Simple enough.
Not so! The cashier launched into a verbal assault of very fast German and I was dumbfounded. Where did I go wrong? I afforded her a blank stare until she finally shouted, "DO YOU WANT COFFEE WITH YOUR DOUGHNUT?" in English better than my own.
At the brink of communication breakdown, I felt as if I had that giant, red "A" on my chest - only this time I wasn't getting busy in an international version of "The Scarlet Letter." As the United States remains on the international front burner with this utter catastrophe along the Gulf Coast, I grapple with how I feel about this American "A." Do I apologize for the intrinsic privileges of my citizenship while literally no one in Europe feels sorry for Americans having to pay $3 for a gallon of gas? How do I explain to my befuddled host family why the world's alleged "superpower" continues to refer to and treat its citizens like third-world "refugees?"
I recently came down with a nasty cold and spent an entire weekend sitting in my room, watching BBC World and pondering the complexities of my role as a student abroad in the midst of an American crisis. At one critical point, JJ leapt onto my bed, and those big brown eyes had but one thing to say: "Chill out, Jen. Isn't it time for walkies? Do you happen to know the location of some schnitzel?"
Jen Turner is a junior in the College of Arts and Sciences, the former Eagle Music Editor.
