Germans take any kind of party quite seriously, especially the local gatherings. The neighborhood womenfolk meet several times in the weeks before the party and plan out division of labor, equipment and a rough time schedule. Somehow, Pam and I always get our wires crossed with the timing schedule. Last year, we were a couple hours late and this year we showed up at 3pm carrying our food and a salad. Silly us, 3pm was the time for cake and coffee. The crossed wires must be from the difference in European and American voltages.
Aside from the confusion over what time to show up with what food, German Strassenfests are much like American block parties: the street is roped off, picnic benches are set up and grills are brought out into the street. Many Germans live in the same duplex-like home with their parents, so the street fests really are a family affair. Three generations of a family at a picnic table is normal, although the youngest generation is usually playing in the street.
The first year’s street party was really quite amazing just for its uniqueness. Pam and I spoke few phrases of German other than “Thank you”, “You’re welcome”, “I come from Alaska” and “I’m sorry, I ordered the veal but you’ve given me Spam.” Somehow, mainly through the patience of our neighbors, we managed to communicate quite well through the evening.
A few neighbors pulled out trumpets and played various songs and then one woman decided she was going to teach me the Böhmfeld Polka. I’m not exactly sure how it goes, but it’s something like this: grab hands, hop halfway down the block, link arms and spin twice left, reverse for twice right, hop back to the beginning. Repeat until you get too dizzy spinning. Somewhere after dark, sparklers (“Sternwerfern” or “Star Throwers” in German) came out and not too much later, one of the young men put on a fire breathing exhibition. I’d only seen that stuff in the movies and circus, so I was pretty impressed, especially since 1) no ambulances were required and 2) his mother didn’t yell at him to stop before he lit the house on fire.
This year’s party was much the same, although both Pam and I spoke better German. (We’ve since added “Take me to your leader” to our repertoire) Pam sat next to the same German grandfather as last year, although he didn’t punch her in the arm after his joke punchlines this year. (I guess they take punchlines literally here in Germany) I sat next to Pam and tried to fend off the various glasses of schnapps and other hard liquors that seem to appear after the grills die down and the sun goes down.
One thing that’s guaranteed to get attention, besides the fact that we moved to Germany from Alaska, is the food we cook at the neighbors’ grills. Last year I made teriyaki-marinated chicken breasts and this year it was Thai-style curried chicken strips. Most of the neighbors scratch their heads, mumble “Sehr interessant...” and wander off.
While the adults are sitting around the table drinking coffee, eating or sipping a beer, the neighborhood children are usually playing in the street. All the kids seem to know Pam and me, probably because they spend a lot of time gossiping about the weirdoes with the huge American automobile. We’re not sure exactly what some of the games the children play are, but Pam pointed out that the stereotypical German mindset starts young: the kids seem to enjoy playing traffic cop.
Out comes the colored chalk and the children draw up a few intersections in the middle of Pfarrsiedlung street. One youngster stands in the middle directing traffic and all the other kids pedal around on their trikes or scooters and, here’s where the difference between American and German children is really obvious, actually obey the traffic director. Even the older kids dressed up in their Rollerblade roller skates pay heed. All the traffic stops when the director holds out his or her arms, waiting the arms are dropped and the director turns to the other “street”, giving permission to the first batch of kids.
At one point, I had to return to the house to grab something or other. I headed off in the direction of home and got close to the young girl playing director. She reached out her hand and I thought “Cool! The kids here in Germany know the High Five!” I started to slap her hand to return the High Five, only to be surprised as she whipped her hand behind her back and gave me an intense stare. It wasn’t until Pam pointed it out later that I realized she was attempting to assert her power and control traffic to and from my house. Now I suppose all the local kids think Americans don’t pay attention to traffic signals. Well, we don’t, but they’ve got the wrong basis for that idea.
We’re both looking forward to next year’s Strassenfest, although I’m going to try my best to get on the planning committee so I know when to show up and with what foods.