Author: zoedarsee

In recent conversation with some German friends, I was told that most “German” food is not actually specific to Germany itself, but rather imported from its surrounding countries or regions. The steam sauna, routine to many Berliners as a health practice, has its technical roots in Sweden and Turkey. Schnitzel, too, commonly perceived by US-Americans as a stoutly German tradition, is rerouted to Austria as its origin point. I wonder whether this particular humility continues as a negation of nationalism in modern Germany — and I’m curious what that means for the German identity — being more of an amalgamate of European states than a unified and distinct culture of its own. 

Yet there are also small dishes that seem to be regionally specific to Germany’s states. Take Knödel, a kind of dumpling made of potatoes, stale bread, and a certain filling. The word itself denotes knoten, “to knot” or “to knead.” The little dough knots involve an economy of ingredients easily sourced from the standard household, are equally as easy to make, and are a filling meal — they can be added to soups and sauces, too, to bulk things up. I’ve been informed that this dish emerged as a quick fix for poorer households during difficult periods. 

My partner and I visited a small Knödelwirtschaft in Berlin to try them. The restaurant had only a few things listed on the menu — five types of Knödels, served with three types of salads (beets, pickled cucumbers, and greens), and some traditional soups and appetizers. The restaurant was quite small, and we ate outside at a small bench and table. The knödels themselves were delicious — we ordered the mushroom sauce to go with and two alcohol-free beers — and rather humble as a dish. The most interesting of the four types we ordered was the Liebstöckelknödel, made from the bitter green herb similar to parsley, lovage. In Germany, I’ve always appreciated the frequency and availability of herbs — they may not have the bounty of fresh produce or citrus as in California, but the herbs are everywhere, and used often. The dill here, for instance, is fabulous.

Before coming to the MFA at Notre Dame, I worked as an ESL teacher in Berlin. It’s interesting to be on the other side of the classroom as a student and to experience first-hand certain topics and ensuing emotions that arose in my own classrooms in my B1 classroom at Goethe Institute. 

One afternoon in the classroom, the topic was “globalization” — I and another American, an undergraduate student from Michigan, were getting into it (lacking the precise words can often lead students of a foreign language into defensiveness when speaking about complicated issues) about the negatives of globalization and capitalism, as we have experienced them in the USA, citing the difficulties and inequalities that occur as a result of an intensely individualist society. Meanwhile I noted that most of the white, western European students had positioned themselves on the side of pro-globalization, citing the privilege of travel and multi-culturalism as first and foremost positives of the concept. I agreed that travel was important for the expansion of perspective and in some ways an antidote to ignorance. Yet — I also offered — not many Americans have this privilege, due to flight costs and the distance between continents. Instead, in the USA, we consume the corporatized and commodified appropriation of foreign culture, a tangible effect of global capitalism.

When the teacher came to our table to listen and discuss, she proposed her own opinion in response: “I hate when Americans come and study abroad and are so negative about globalization” — which felt harsh in the moment, though I can understand her pointing out the privilege that we as white US-Americans have to travel and study abroad. My sister, who was recently accepted to a Masters program in Berlin, also received the following treatment at the visa office in California: “You’re American, you’re privileged, you don’t have to worry.”

During the break, I discussed with another student from Palestine how the stark inequalities and extreme poverty in the USA feel to me often overlooked by western Europeans, who operate under a more socialist capitalism, and who, in general, have a little more trust in their government to provide for their basic needs — who have a more reliable relationship to health insurance or comfortable allowances for maternity leave, for instance. She said she had no idea what the USA was like, having never visited. Actually, she seemed a little skeptical.

In general, there seems to be a mixed view of Americans in Europe, and in the years I’ve lived in or visited Europe (2008, 2014-2022) I’ve noticed that the views have become increasingly negative post-Trump, distilling many qualities of our culture into those perceived in reality TV. One word often used in Germany to describe us is “oberflächlich”, or “superficial”, denoting the style of complimentary socializing — the exaggeration of small talk and yes-culture — done in American society. However, this also reveals a mistrust of positivity in Germany. I was once told that a compliment, in German society, is the absence of critique. 

Yet people interested in new-age spirituality, as a French friend of mine here in Berlin is, still look toward California as a beacon of promise, open-mindedness and self-realization, and as an antidote to the hyper-rational negativity of European discussion… Yes, many Germans I’ve met really love California. Maybe it’s a bit like a spa treatment, maybe even escapist.

…from Berlin, just after a stint with covid and a redistribution of my summer plans, I visited München, where I, as part of my publishing press TABLOID, had been invited for a small residency and exhibition in August, just following my German classes at Goethe Institute. I was to visit the institution in München to get a tour of the space and meet the curator.

I want to write a little about some of the visual and verbal differences between München and Berlin, which were immediately static and stark in their remove from each other. München lies in the western part of the country, in Bavaria/Bayern, and is known for its money and a capitalistic, aristocratic vibe. As I met with the curator and described my shock at the European-ness of the city, she mentioned that München was often called the “northernmost city of Italy.” Then she laughed and asked if that was the correct way to say it in English. She herself had lived in Berlin for many years, and München was likewise a strange, cultural shift for her — from the graffiti-laden streets in Berlin to manicured royal gardens (now available to the public, though previously guarded) — in which the art institution had, for 200 years, been housed.

I had arrived at the hotel after a 10 hour train ride from Berlin on the 9-Euro ticket, a new, nearly-free experimental ticket that includes country-wide public transportation and regional trains, and spans all three of the summer months of tourism. I was sweaty and still dazed by the recent sickness and the long transit. The room I checked into was intensely European, decked with an ornate moulding of cherubs in each corner of its ceiling, as well as a chandelier. A standing claw-foot tub, about which I gasped. Piano keys from the cafe downstairs rippled through the tall windows. I was flattered and shocked to be given such an aesthetic demonstration of care by any institution.

Walking through München in search of Essen, I immediately noticed a softer, wealthier atmosphere than what I experience most neighborhoods of Berlin — no graffiti, no music playing loudly in the Platz — and began to listen to people speaking German for cues on this shift. In the two days I spent there in that city, the phrase I heard the most was “Ich habe es eilig!” — I’m in a rush — at least four times that first night.

Interesting, already, to note that the speed and intention of the city was so different to Berlin, which holds more of a molecule of socialism at its core, so that less often present is that streak of individualism that seemed to be communicated by these rushing passersby. One had to do things in München. Berlin’s tempo, on the other hand, is relaxed in spirit, and the leisure does not always seem a product or result of wealth, but rather of an ethos. At the same time — Berlin is much dirtier as a city, its aesthetics don’t always impress a romantic American looking for the flair of European architecture… But much of it, of course, was destroyed in this country.

Meanwhile, bis nächste Woche — I’ll fill in more about my specific experience in Berlin, and comment on some of the classroom dynamics emerging between Western and Eastern Europeans and Americans in the loaded, muted atmosphere of an intermediate course.

I lived in Berlin for five and a half years before I was accepted as a candidate for Notre Dame’s MFA in Creative Writing. The city is my home and foundation. It is where I spent the formative years of my adult life. In 2014, I co-founded a small, experimental poetry press, TABLOID Press, with artist and poet Nat Marcus, in Berlin. We have since developed an internationally recognized publishing practice. I’m learning German this summer in steps to begin publishing works in translation and communicating with German-speaking poets and artists. I hope to be of better aid to Berlin’s communities as a bilingual publisher and translator.

In all the time I lived in Berlin, I have been underconfident in German. Demands on my schedule when I was working full time as an ESL teacher didn’t allow for a lot of extracurricular freedom or devotion to the German language. It didn’t always matter although it was often an irritation. Berlin is an accepting place when it comes to English speakers, almost to a fault. But I’ve hit a wall in terms of movement and cultural access. Learning German will change my relationship to the city and let further light in, opportunity, eavesdropping, chatter. After two intensive courses at Goethe Institute this summer, I will become more confident speaking socially, I will have a command of grammar that is grounded in daily usage, practice, casual application. My main goal is to move out of doubt.

One thing I will miss is being anonymous in language. The experience of silence when one doesn’t understand the ambient language of a place stills and distills thought. This silence made me a writer. But with more and more recognition of German I hope to find more material in my mundane environment, to develop a compassionate and curious mode of daily listening that lends to the archival act of gathering material. Learning German will blend into the creation of texts, amplify awareness of language as a structure for understanding self, aid a transcultural sense of being.