I, the wurst of all

My recent close encounter with neo-Nazism has led me to out myself (once again). I can now say it loud and proud--Ich liebe Deutschland.

It's not because of my lifelong obsessions with über-talents like Kraftwerk (which is justified) and Amanda Lear (which is not).

It's not just because I really do like sauerkraut and weinkraut and (now, now, friends) everything sausage on the menu. (That's wurst to the deutsche cognoscenti.) And a good thing, too, because if you ever visit Germany, that's pretty much what's on for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, morning, noon, and night, respectively.

It's not even because Death in Venice by Thomas Mann blew my middle-aged mind when I finally got around to reading it--for it's more than a story of a closeted geezer's obsession with a young piece of Polish beach candy; it's also an allegorical tale of an older man's futile pursuit of his lost youth. Heavy. Billy's Hollywood Screen Kiss, it ain't.

And my love of Germany certainly isn't inspired by some sad-souled, shaved-headers dressed like street trade in the Castro, who insist upon fomenting retro aggro with a bunch of old Nazi tat. Germany has moved on, boys, and so should you.

No, I love Germany because all what I experienced while visiting there was an incredibly pleasant surprise. Like so many ratings on a good employee's performance appraisal, Germany didn't meet my expectations, it exceeded them.

What's to admire, oh incredulous ones? Here's the ICE (inter-city express, Deutsche Bahn's fast train) version for your consideration:

The cities are pleasant, well laid out, clean, and welcoming, in part because so many of the larger ones had to be entirely rebuilt after the second world war and in part because, lucky us, English is a lingua franca in many places, making it possible for the monolingual to survive and thrive. The smaller towns still retain an oom-pah-pah, Oktoberfest charm but aren't precious or preserved within an inch of their historical lives. (Annapolis, anyone?) They look lived-in and livable, rather than like some historically themed development project run amok.

I could see myself living in one of the small towns near a bigger city. I imagine myself taking the train in daily to work or to enjoy the plenitude of cultural offerings in the city. And because there's significant government support of the Deutsche Bahn, the U-Bahn, the S-Bahn, and the Autobahn, as well as generous funding of the fine and performing arts--and let us not forget six weeks of vacation per year--this fantasy isn't all that disconnected from reality. (Unlike my youthful dreams of becoming a pop star, a revolutionary, and a soap opera actor, in that order.)

Germans have style. Frankfurt is not the fashionista epicenter of the country. Please, the European Central Bank and Deutsche Bank are located here, and while bankers have money, generally variations on a theme of gray suits do not haute couture make. (Washingtonians, please take note.) However, a trip down die Zeil reveals shops full of attractively designed and reasonably priced clothing. The colors du jour last fall were orange and a bright green known as "leaf" in Germany. Admittedly, it was the color of a leaf only if it had been clinging to a tree outside a cooling tower at Chernobyl. Nevertheless, the clothes were sleek and stylin'. And, yeah, I'm wearing that green these days, along with that orange (just not at the same time).

The people. Who knew? Germans are friendly, funny, diverse, charming, and quite handsome in an of-this-world, not-created-on-a-mad-scientist's-private-island way--so unlike the I-only-wear-black-and-look-tragically-hip faces you meet on the streets of some European cities. Reportedly, Northern and Western Germans are less warm and cuddly than Southern and Eastern Germans. Hard to fathom, as I thought the people of Frankfurt, Cologne, and environs, couldn't have been lovelier or more welcoming. Nonetheless, a trip to Bavaria or Saxony may need to be in the offing. It might mean for me a little more nookie and a little less clothes-shopping next time.

Now it's not like I'm some Deutschophile with a lot of specific and pedantic knowledge of Germany. I don't know which team is the most successful in the Bundesliga, or what's on Zweites Deutsches Fernsehen (ZDF) TV on Saturday night, or which autobahn routes to take for travel between Düsseldorf and Dresden. I can't even say that, other than Mann's Tod in Venedig, I've bothered to read any German literature in my lifetime. If truth be told, prior to visiting in October 2005, I'd never given Germany much thought, except maybe when listening to Deutsche Welle on the radio, catching Run Lola Run on the Independent Film or Sundance channels, or watching Mike Myers hawk the character of "Dieter from Sprockets" on Saturday Night Live.

Germany's not flawless, of course. The little bit I saw of Frankfurt and Cologne was interesting, but they didn't knock me out. While attractive, they seemed a little sterile, the result of being rebuilt in the clean-lines-meets-cheap-materials of the 1950s and 1960s. (The heavens curse you, Mies van der Rohe. You were in league with the construction industry the entire time, weren't you?) I enjoyed them, but a trip to Berlin or Munich is probably in order before passing final judgment on the German urban environment.

The home-grown pop culture scene suffers from being campy for all the wrong reasons. I wish I could remember the name of the German rock group that was enjoying a big hit while I was there. Suffice it to say that Robert Smith of The Cure is missing his make-up artist and Bad English is missing their producer.

And the town names did make me chuckle like an American idiot, so much so that I started making up ridiculously labeled communities while riding the Bahn through Hesse and North Rhine-Westphalia. "Nächste halt, Bad Schadenfreude." "Nächste halt, Weltschmerzburg." "Nächste halt, Neunzig-Neun-Luftballone-am-Main." I have to keep myself, if no one else, entertained. And blessed soul that I am, I find that I have a sense of humor that, as I once heard described of the Germans, would make a dog laugh. Thus, we're a Verbindung made in Himmel, it would seem.

But all in all, it was a prejudice-cleansing, mind-expanding trip of the non-colonic, non-narcotic variety. We live a very isolated life in the States. Many of us don't, can't, or won't travel beyond the border, even to Canada or Mexico, and when we do, we make the journey with lots of other Americans or huddle together in all-inclusive resorts, too cocooned to taste and touch the world outside our gated compounds. Which I could understand if the whole world was as money-grubbing and tawdry as Puerto Vallarta during a circuit party, full of under-aged rent boys, beach beggars, and Californians. But, thankfully, it's not.

Many of us still perceive Gemans as if they were all extras in a Danielle Steele made-for-TV movie: Dour, racist, malevolent, and prone to dress in severe, Central Casting military drag.

That was sixty-plus years ago, Mutter-Völker, and Germany has done its best to make amends. Do we still see the Japanese through Tojo-colored glasses? No. We see them as makers of great cars, even better electronics, and as our employers. So why do we insist on viewing the Germans as if they had just re-invaded the Sudetenland for old time's sake? Would a rehabilitation of the Opel help? Maybe a Grundig radio in every pot? Perhaps another Scorpions reunion tour? No?

I don't have the answers, not being a scholar, just a mere gästarbeiter in the academy. All I can say is danke schön, Deutschland, for the gemütlichkeit, good memories, and the new and improved welt-view.