Tag Archives: Hanover

Gardening in Germany: When Your Rhododendrons Won’t Bloom for Lack of Testicular Fortitude


“Alright, which one of you is MAN enough to fart out a pretty little flower?”

My wife and I live in Hannover, Germany, and back in 2014, we moved from an awful apartment building in the city, to a lovely house on the outskirts of town. Having a house with a yard gave us enough space for a garden, which I’ve discussed a little bit in my earlier rant about growing tomatoes in order to overcome my murderous hatred of them.

This past summer, my wife and I did a lot of gardening and landscaping. We were out there pretty much every day, leveling a hill, building raised beds and planting all sorts of things — including 4 tiny rhododendrons. We pampered those rhododendrons like colicky babies; they got the very best soil, perfect access to sunlight and copious amounts of fresh well water to get them started. We gave them everything, and 3 out of 4 of them showed a little gratitude by growing and blooming. The 4th one, however, just sat there doing nothing — like that weirdo brat at the daycare center you just know will grow up to own a model train store.


“Why can’t you be more like your fabulous brothers?”

My wife and I devoted more attention to this ungrateful little bitch than any other plant, until eventually we just shook our heads in resignation. Maybe I didn’t use enough planting soil, I thought to myself. Maybe I should have dug the hole deeper or something. And then my wife finally broke the silence, saying:

“Maybe it is a numb-nuts.”



Halfwit Thieves Fail to Steal Bicycle from an American Expat in Germany


This is my bike. I call her, “Chain Bang.”

Remember that glorious trip my wife and I took to Bremen not long ago? This post concerns the moment immediately after we returned to Hannover, when we stepped off the S-Bahn to retrieve our bicycles.

It was way past midnight, and our two bikes were the only ones left at this particular stop. My wife rides one of those fancy Dutch style cruising bikes, which fits her personality perfectly: beautiful, classy, and designed to make you sit up so straight it’s like you’ve got a stick up your pooper.


“Wouldn’t YOU rather steal this one?” — Photo Credit: Umberto Brayj (https://www.flickr.com/photos/ubrayj02/) — Image subject to copyright (CC BY 2.0)

Her gorgeous cruising bike was completely unmolested, while my previously-owned, €50 euro bike had obviously been the victim of a failed kidnapping, beaten, and then left for dead. Man, it makes no sense to try and steal mine, when they could have tried to steal hers. My wife takes great pride in explaining this to me, however: she uses two separate locks — a thick cable lock, and a rigid horseshoe lock. Apparently, two high-quality locks are enough to tell bicycle thieves to fuck right off, while my one, €10 euro, pencil-thin cable lock says, “Step on up and try your luck, you penniless guttersnipes.”

But my bike is hardly worth one lock, let alone two. When I ride it, I have to hunch over to reach the handlebars — real earnest-like — so I look like I’m trying to run everybody off the road and smash their children. The dynamo-powered light on the front has all the candlepower of a firefly, and the brakes are more interested in loudly announcing my arrival than they are actually stopping it. The chain creaks like it’s going to snap at any moment, and the bell on the handlebars makes exactly two kinds of sounds: a quiet, Please Ignore Me Entirely, sort of PING, and a GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY BECAUSE I’M AN ASSHOLE, BAH-D-D-DUH-RIIIIIIIIIIIING!


“Oh, she may look harmless enough, but believe me, Chain Bang cannot WAIT to end my American life.”

Aaaaaanyway, as I was unlocking my bike, I noticed the handlebars had been cranked around so hard they were backwards. Like perfectly, 180 degrees, Exorcist backwards.


“The power of Christ compels you!”

I thought that was odd; I didn’t remember trying to twist my bike’s head off before we left for Bremen. And that’s when I noticed there was also something wrong with my chain. Namely, it had been yanked so violently it no longer formed a simple loop — it had taken on a mutated “S” shape.


“I need to see my chiropractor.”

It wasn’t until the next morning, upon closer inspection, I saw the clumsy laceration in the plastic casing. This chain cost me €10 euros, like I mentioned before, so what exactly did the thief and/or thieves use to try and cut through it? A pocket knife? A pair of pliers? A claw hammer and a prayer to Thor, God of Thunder?


Bike: 1, Thieves: 0

Whatever they used, it didn’t work. My little bike chain held fast, and the thieves walked home using the dirty feet God gave them. I have to give credit where credit is due, however; they yanked on my bike so hard they managed to break off the kickstand. Seriously. Snapped it right off.


They bent the front rim so it rubs against the tire, and they even twisted the mount of my headlight so badly it snapped off completely a few days later, leaving the light itself to dangle in the air like an exhausted scrotum.


So now, I get to lean my bike against things, rather than stand it upright, and I have to use clip-on lights to ride at night. Whatever. I can put up with these things. You know what really sucks though? They stole my bike pump.

Yes, I was fool enough to keep a €7 euro tire pump strapped to the back of my bike, but I was also idealist enough to assume an item of such little value would go ignored by even the lowest of criminals. Hell, I valued the €1 euro bungee chords wrapped around the rack on the back of my bike more than the pump itself, because a new pump is available at every Rossmann in Germany. But new bungee chords? Man, I gotta go all the way downtown for one of those sons of bitches.

In the words of Vincent Vega from Pulp Fiction: “Boy, I wish I could’ve caught him doing it. I’d have given anything to catch that asshole doing it. It’d been worth him doing it just so I could’ve caught him doing it.” Can you imagine? Let’s say there were 3 of them, all visibly intoxicated. One dude is grunting like an ape, yanking on my bike chain with a pair of rusty pliers so hard he gives himself a hernia, another dude is dutifully holding the handlebars without a single conscious thought in his skull, and the third guy is throwing up in the blackberry bushes. “Aww forget it,” says the guy with the pliers. “Janez, quit screwin’ around in those bushes. We’re walkin’ home…” And then they all get drilled by a train as they cross the tracks.

Unfortunately, in good conscience, I cannot award the efforts of these would-be bicycle thieves with anything more than 1 out of 5 Merkel Diamonds:


Seriously, if you can’t steal my bike, you can’t rightfully call yourself a German. A real German would have jacked my bike with premium bolt cutters and a sleek BMW getaway car, leaving a note behind, reading: “I am very sorry to have stolen your bicycle. Do not blame the Polish. Please write a letter of complaint to your bicycle lock manufacturer.”

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Would you like to read another blog post about life as an expat? You might like this one: American Expat in Germany Nearly Killed by an Acorn, Vents His Shame upon the Biggest Spider in the Universe

Culture Shock: Five (More) Things That Suck About Living in Germany


“Go sports team! Score that goal! Make that touchdown! I mean, wait…” — Photo Credit: Stewart (https://www.flickr.com/photos/stewied/) — Image subject to Attribution 2.0 Generic License

Once again, let me begin by saying life in Germany is awesome. I absolutely love it here! I have, however, learned a thing or two about the realities of life abroad. What follows is the next list of discoveries, oddities and annoyances revealed in my first months as an expat American living in Hannover, Germany:

  1. Shameful public artwork is everywhere. It seems like every corner is home to a bronze sculpture featuring a pair of naked Germans, heads hanging in shame, mumbling to one another, “God we suck.” Yes, I understand the travesties of the world wars. I totally get the need to remember, to learn and to honor the dead, but I’d like to take at least one leisurely stroll around town without feeling like I just took a shower in dog poop and shame sprinkles.
  2. Soccer fans are scary. There are few things I enjoy less than being surrounded by drunken soccer fans, hooting and hollering as they stumble through the train station after the big game. Hell, any game. I’m not convinced the fans I’m seeing even go to the games; I think some of these guys just put on their team jerseys and scarves and go watch whichever team happens to be playing on TV at their favorite watering hole. And there’s something about a big German man wearing a scarf striped with his local team’s colors, swaying as he walks toward me with an empty beer bottle about to tumble from his fingers, which I find — on an instinctual level — absolutely terrifying.
  3. Germans are downers. This may have something to do with point #1, but a great many of the Germans I’ve encountered are depressing as hell. Nothing is ever awesome. Even if something is mostly awesome, like having a job as a wealthy, internationally respected beer taster, the average German will focus on the one part of that job which blows, and feel the need to tell me all about it. “Yes, I have a good job as a beer taster, but there is only one electric car charger at the brewery; it is indicative of a larger problem within our educational system and our government as a whole, and demonstrates the fact that our entire country is about to implode in a morbidly depressing vacuum of apocalypse.” I mean, sure, Germans have been through some crazy ups and downs throughout history, so maybe even now they’re afraid to get their hopes up, but Jesus; let’s turn those frowns upside down, Deutschland! Look, you have dirndls and beer all around you! Dirndls and beer, God damn you.
  4. Everybody is tall as hell. I’m sure someone out there can explain the correlation between height and colder climates, but all I know is here in Germany, I’m like Frodo Baggins in the land of the Silvan Elves. I’m about 5′ 10″ (or 5′ 11″ — when I’m totally lying), and I always thought my height was pretty average. Not here. In Lower Saxony, I’m surrounded by these elongated, angelic beings with wonderfully straight hair and wings sewn of Jack Wolfskin polyurethane.
  5. Even in Germany, there are assholes. Of course I am aware there are jerks in every country, but I’d hoped Germany would be different. Yes, this was my own cultural bias, but I didn’t want to let it go. Not even at the immigration office (Ausländerbehörde), full of snorting pencil pushers, who calmly lost my residence application and then told me not to worry about it. Or that sad little beer tent at Oktoberfest, where the waitress shut down my attempts to order in German, advising me, “Just speak English, it is the language of business.” Or those drunken soccer fans on Georgstraße, who passed my wife and I, asking, “Is this your boyfriend? No? He’s your husband? Are you sure?” But finally, reluctantly, I had to admit there are a few jackpipes in my beloved Germany. Luckily, for each one I meet, there seem to be 10 warm and wonderful Germans just waiting to brighten my day here in Deutschland.


If you’d like to read more of our Things That Suck About Living in Germany lists, check out our previous posts:
Five Things That Suck About Living in Germany
Five (More) Things That Suck About Living in Germany
Even More Things That Suck About Living in Germany


Culture Shock: Five Things That Suck About Living in Germany


“Thanks for the pic, Hans! Now where can I get me one of them giant beers?” — Photo Credit: Bruce Tuten (https://www.flickr.com/photos/savannahgrandfather/) — Image subject to CC Attribution 2.0 Generic License

Let me begin by saying life in Germany is awesome. I love it here! I have, however, learned a thing or two about the realities of life abroad. What follows is a list of discoveries, oddities and annoyances revealed in my first months as an expat American living in Hannover, Germany:

  1. The common American advice, “Don’t worry about the language barrier in Germany; everybody speaks English,” is not helpful. Everybody speaks a little English in Hannover, and they are terribly self-conscious about using it. There’s no getting around the fact that you really should learn the German language if you’re going to stay here. That said, younger Germans are more likely to speak English, and I’ve met several who are fluent. However, if they aren’t fluent, and you desperately need to locate the nearest restroom, you’ll soon find yourself gesticulating wildly as you try not to make pickles in your pants.
  2. There are pharmacies on every goddamn block. Seriously. They’re called “Apotheken,” and they are everywhere in this city. You can go to the nearest Apotheke and get your prescription filled. You can also purchase a wide variety of over-the-counter medications which do absolutely nothing. It goes like this: you must convince the pharmacist you have a cold and then intimately describe your most disgusting symptoms, after which time, if they believe you, they hand you a box of herbal tea. “Thank you Sir! I was going to drown my symptoms in a near-lethal dose of NyQuil, but this lemon-flavored tea should prove just as effective!”
  3. Germans are impatient. They have zero tolerance for delays, lines or traffic of any kind. They operate at top speed, which is why, in the cashier line at the grocery store, you better pay for your items and get the hell out of the way, because Dieter von Shufflestein is right on your ass. The first time I tried to put my change away before taking my groceries from the counter, my items were suddenly overrun with those belonging to the person behind me. His pickled herring and canned hotdogs were all up in my situation, and he didn’t even care a bit. I wanted so desperately to turn to him and scream, “Bitch, I am going to throw your nasty shit all over the floor if you do not get off my Kool-Aid!”
  4. Craft beers and dark beers have yet to really catch on in Germany. I’m from Portland, Oregon, so I’m accustomed to an amazing variety of beer, but over here, I mostly see pilsner and hefeweizen. I’m not complaining, mind you; the pilsner here is rather strong, and my wife can always tell when I have, as she puts it, “a pilsner-buzz” on. Oh, and liquor is super cheap here. Like, $7 for a fifth of rum, type cheap. I mean, hell, that’s not just cheap, that’s cheap as balls.
  5. Recycling is a monumental pain in the ass. (I’m only speaking of apartment living with this one, and specifically, apartment living in the city of Hannover.) Glass can only be returned in these round tanks on the sidewalk, which look like giant metal boobies. And just like real boobies, they’re nowhere to be found when you need them. Recycling makes absolutely no sense to me here. You have to put your organic compost, or “Bio” garbage into plastic bags — yes, plastic bags — and take them down to the dumpster. Random items (like cotton swabs, tissue paper and tampons) go into clear plastic bags and are taken to an entirely different dumpster. Regular paper goes into blue plastic bags, while metal and plastic go into yellow bags; both of which are picked up from the street once per week… by different companies. Oh, and if you buy a bottle of water at a certain grocery store, and you want to recycle it and get your deposit back, you have to take it back to that exact same grocery store. So, with all of these convoluted rules and the counterproductive use of plastic in the recycling process, I kind of want to make a German flag out of rubber tires and hairspray bottles in the middle of a busy street and set that shit on fire.


If you’d like to read more of our Things That Suck About Living in Germany lists, check out our previous posts:
Five Things That Suck About Living in Germany
Five (More) Things That Suck About Living in Germany
Even More Things That Suck About Living in Germany


Writing and Blogging: Expat Blog Awards 2012 – Germany

Expats Blog

On December 14, 2012, the Expats Blog will determine their winning blog for the country of Germany. That’s this Friday! Would you mind leaving a quick vote for our blog to improve our chances of winning? Comments and votes directly influence this award!

To help us out:

  1. Go to http://www.expatsblog.com/blogs/1129/oh-god-my-wife-is-german.
  2. Scroll to the bottom of the page.
  3. Fill out the fields under, “Leave some love for this blog.”
  4. I know it sucks to give out your email address. I did it already, and I know I can unsubscribe from Expats Blog whenever I want. If you are uncomfortable with the email address part, don’t even worry about it; just keep reading our blog and know how much we appreciate your time and attention!
  5. If you don’t care about the email address part and you actually leave us a good vote? THANK YOU! If our blog wins, we’ll likely write a special post to thank you for your time!

Thank you for reading and have a wonderful holiday season!

Oh God, My Wife Is German.

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Culture Shock 3: American Man Experiences Blind Rage Using Shower in Germany

Shower stall in a bathroom in Hannover, Germany

“Look, Mr. Shower, you don’t like me and I don’t like you. Let’s just play nice in front of The Wife, okay?”

Let me begin by saying I love our apartment here in Hannover, Germany. I love it! My wife did a spectacular job finding us the perfect living space in the perfect neighborhood. I’ve been living here since September and I have no complaints whatsoever. No complaints, that is, except one: the shower.

German bathroom ventilation

Neither one of these holes are into ‘fresh’ air.

There is no fan in our bathroom. You see that window in the picture above? It doesn’t open. See that fan-looking hole on the right? That’s not a fan; it’s a simple duct connected to each apartment in our building from the ground floor all the way up to the top. It is the reason we catch whiffs of cigarette smoke drifting into our apartment from time to time. (I suspect it comes from those old, sour-faced cancer-donkeys living beneath us.)

Without proper ventilation, our bathroom fogs up something fierce whenever one of us takes a shower. To compensate, The Wife and I plug an oscillating fan into the wall and set it precariously on top of the medicine cabinet. It doesn’t do much for the condensation on the mirror, but it does a fantastic job of reminding me I will someday be electrocuted as I scrub my pink parts.

I suspect this design stems from the Iron Maiden.

Not only is our shower stall tiny, but it has no shower curtain; only the cold, unforgiving sliding glass walls you see in the picture above. Before arriving in Germany, I never realized how much space I really need in order to cleanse my American body. I mean, I knock my elbows into everything. The sliding walls, tiles, mirror, bottle racks, shower handle… I’m like the Tasmanian Devil in there.

And there is this one special moment — it happens during every shower — when my vision goes red and I experience a perfect, poetic sort of blind rage. It’s after I have managed to smash my extremities into every single object around me. After I have dropped my razor for the third time, bent over to retrieve it and knocked a bottle rack from the wall with my forehead, sending my wife’s girly hair products clattering to the floor. It’s right when I am standing back up, about to take a deep breath and count to ten… when I bonk the back of my head against the hot water controller.

Instantly, scalding hot water sears my flesh and sends me up to Rage Level: Bill O’Reilly (Warning, video contains awesome swearing). That’s when I slap the lever back toward cold, which hoses me down with an arctic blast so cold my plums shrivel up and let me know they won’t be making another appearance until spring.

German shower stall

German Shower: 1, American Body: 0

There is one good thing about German showers, however; the shower heads are mounted on handles. I haven’t seen too many showers with handles in the States — mostly in fancy hotel rooms — but Germans love ’em. And I am forced to admit it is quite nice to direct the flow of water wherever I want it, even though the rest of the shower makes me so angry I could flip off a box of kittens.

But let’s not kid ourselves here; shower handles are unnecessary. The only reason Germans like shower handles is because they let you spray warm water directly on your cinnamon ring.

Click here to learn more about the term “Culture Shock.”

For another great article complaining about German showers, check out The Adventures of Heidi Hefeweizen.

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Author of “Oh God, My Wife Is German” Expatriates to Germany



Contact Information:
Alberto Fummelotz
VP Communications
Oh God, My Wife Is German.
(503) 123-4567

“Oh God, My Wife Is German” Actually Moves to Germany

“Oh God, My Wife Is German,” a snark-ridden marriage blog founded in Portland, Oregon, is moving its base of operations to Hannover, Germany.

PORTLAND, OR (September 2, 2012) — “Oh God, My Wife Is German,” an ostentatious and wildly sarcastic blog highlighting the misadventures and near total communication breakdowns occurring between an American husband and his German wife, is packing up its imaginary office in Portland, Oregon, and moving to Hannover, Germany. The blog’s author is a native of Portland, where he works as a full-time graphic designer and copywriter. “This is a huge change for me and I’m really nervous,” stated the author. “In fact, I’m about 99% sure I’m going to throw up right now.”

“Oh God, My Wife Is German” revolves primarily around the author’s spouse, referred to only as The Wife. According to the blog, The Wife is a fun, smart and (unintentionally) hilarious German woman. She also happens to be gorgeous. “Seriously, she looks like Shannon Elizabeth from that movie American Pie, minus the fake hooters,” said the author. The Wife holds two Master’s degrees and is currently attaining her Ph.D. while working as a Gymnasium teacher in Hannover, Niedersachsen, Germany. She is cited frequently in posts categorized as “Denglish,” which feature direct quotes providing insight into her experiences with the English language and her unique sense of humor at large. In one such post, as the couple was shopping for baby gifts, they observed a small outfit apparently intended for a newborn. With her characteristically matter-of-fact tone of voice, The Wife observed, “Look how small it is. Definitely for a fresh baby.”

The couple has been apart since mid-June, when The Wife returned to Germany after a year-long stay in the United States on a work visa teaching primary school students. She has spent the past few months setting up their new apartment in Hannover. “She found us an awesome apartment there,” said the author. “She furnished it all, from floor to ceiling — literally — because apparently Germans take everything when they move out. Like, when she said we needed to ‘buy a kitchen,’ I thought she meant a dishwasher and a couple of plates or something. Oh no; she meant our kitchen would begin with four walls, an electrical outlet and a couple of water pipes. I have since learned that when a German moves out of an apartment, that motherfucker takes everything. Even the light fixtures.”

While The Wife readies their new home in Hannover, the author has been frantically dismantling their previous life in Portland. As a homeowner, he prepared their house for a future renter while selling extraneous furniture, clothing and appliances on Craigslist. “Why would you haggle over a $15 weight scale?” asked the author. “It’s basically free; you’re just moving it out of my house for me. Do you really need to know its exact measurements, usage history and feng shui potential? God I hate people from Craigslist.”

The author will board his flight to Germany on Sunday, September 2nd, and arrive in the arms of his loving (and inexplicably patient) spouse the following day. Once settled, he intends to resume regular blog posts to “Oh God, My Wife Is German,” in which he will write about life as an American expatriate in Germany and mercilessly needle all things Teutonic… especially The Wife.

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