Hello Germany

The hum of das Flugzeug had been steady for hours, and I had officially read the same page of my grammar book three times without learning much more than the fact that German has three genders and I... have zero patience. The book was full of stiff phrases like “Guten Tag, mein Name ist…” and while technically correct, sure, it felt like practicing lines for a play I wasn’t sure I’d ever perform.

A few words whispered under my breath: Hallo… Tschüss… Danke… Bitte. Practicing greetings for countless conversations I was sure I wouldn't understand. The words bounced awkwardly along my tongue, like rolling large and heavy Gepäck over bumpy European cobblestones. Who was I kidding, even if I could remember all these odd words, would my pronunciation be good enough? Would anyone know what I was saying?

Doesn't matter. Regardless, I was determined. Learning even a little bit of your host country's language can go a long way, so I had been told. And there is only one way to know if that saying would ring true. To try.

Servus went in the margins next, scribbled alongside a little Bavarian checkered flag. I'd read online that this was a common greeting and goodbye in and around Munich. Now, they'll think I'm a local for sure! Morgen and Abend got added beneath Guten Tag for time-specific variations. I practiced them in whispers: Guten Morgen for the passport officer. Guten Abend for der Flugbegleiter passing by with hot towels.

"Would you like one, sir?" he said.

"Nein, danke," I replied. See? I was learning something after all.

The truth though, is that I was far more interested in the voices coming from the row beside me than on my old grammar book. Two German women were chatting nonstop, with the effortless rhythm of people who had known each other for decades.

1 "Oh, der Urlaub war so schön! Aber die Zeit verging viel zu schnell."

2 "Ja, ja. Immer so."

1"Wir haben diesen netten Mann kennengelernt, der Deutsch lernt und spricht, so freundlich."

2 "Es ist schön, wenn Leute Deutsch lernen, sogar auf Reisen. So macht Reisen viel mehr Spaß!"

I didn't understand every word, but I caught a few: Urlaub… vacation. Zeit… time. Freundlich… friendly. And then, from the second woman, a little sigh of agreement: Ja, ja.

My brain tried to keep up: Vacation… time.... learning German. Were they reminiscing about their holiday? Talking about a traveller they had met who was practicing German? The thrill of recognizing just one or two words was enough to sit me up straighter. I can barely sprechen a sentence yet, but it will definitely be worth a try to get in on the gossip.

I glanced back at my book and mouthed another phrase: Entschuldigung, bitte. Excuse me, please. A good phrase to know, I thought, if I accidentally tripped over someone's Tasche while stumbling through the airport. The title on the cover made me smirk again: Ben Begrusst Bayern: A Puzzling Adventure with Near From Home. It promised that I would lernen some Deutsch, but at this moment it felt more like a puzzle than a solution. I put the book down again and instead reached for my notebook. In here I had been collecting all of the information I could find on Bavaria in preparation for my journey.

Sure, the language wasn't exactly coming to me quickly, but the architecture, history, and culture of Bavaria most definitely was. Before going anywhere, for any amount of time, I love nothing more than pouring myself into the nitty gritty details of everything I'm about to explore. Zooming around on Google maps, digging through dusty historical guidebooks, discovering where the city walls once stood, what foods have endured the test of time. This is what I live for, and it was all scrawled down messily in my worn out Reisenotizbuch. I practiced the word out loud, clumsily tripping over every syllable: Rye-zuh... noh-TEETZ... boohk. Reise (travel) + Notiz (note) + Buch (book). Literally translating to travel note book, just with no spaces in between. Why does German make everything a compound word, I grumbled. Are spaces really that terrible?

Then, with a polite chime, the captain's voice filled the cabin. First in English:

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are beginning our final approach into Munich, Germany. Please return your seat to its upright position, fasten your seatbelt, and turn off your electronic devices. We hope you've enjoyed your flight today, and we wish you a pleasant holiday. Thank you."

and then again in German:

"Sehr geehrte Damen und Herren, wir beginnen mit dem Landeanflug und Ankunft in München. Bitte stellen Sie Ihre Sitzlehne aufrecht, schnallen Sie den Sicherheitsgurt an, und schalten Sie Ihre elektronischen Geräte aus. Wir heißen Sie herzlich willkommen und wünschen Ihnen einen schönen Urlaub. Danke und bitte."

This time, I caught more: Ankunft… arrival. Willkommen… welcome. And there it was again: bitte… please… or perhaps… you're welcome. I still wasn't sure which one it meant. Maybe both.

I looked down at my practice book. Suddenly, it felt a little less like dead weight and more like a survival kit. These words weren't just ink on a page anymore. They were alive, buzzing around me in conversations, announcements, little flashes of recognition. I was starting to verstehen. Not perfectly. Not even close. But something. Maybe this was what real lernen looked like. Not drills and worksheets, but catching words as they flew past in real life, adding context and meaning to everything around me.

I smiled, tightened my Sicherheitsgurt, and looked out the window. The patchwork fields of Bavaria were sliding into view, green and golden under the spring sun. In a few minutes I'd step into der Flughafen. Shuffle through with my Reisepass in hand. Pick up my Gepäck at baggage claim. And when I did, I’d be ready with something simple, something I knew I could say.

Servus Deutschland.