If I’ve heard it once, I’ve heard it a thousand times, “So-and-so is ‘of fine German stock'”.  Like bulls, German dudes come in several breeds … studly, studlier and “whoa, you is a FINE specimen, boyfriend!”

My friend Christian is no exception.  With his flawless alabaster skin, green eyes and taut muscles, he just screams “superior race”.  It’s nauseating, really.  He loves the outdoors and always finds creative ways for me (read that: tricks me) to be “active” and “sporty”.  Try as I might, I can’t find ways to get him to be “lethargic” and “sloth-like”.  Like I said — it’s nauseating, really.

We spent two days biking, hiking and traipsing around a cute little village in extreme Northern Germany.  Spit and you could hit Denmark.  St. Peter Ording is a sleepy beach town where Germans go to relax.  (I know, “Germans relaxing” is an oxymoron … like jumbo shrimp or student athlete.)  It’s filled with street after street of quaint bed and breakfast getaways, shoppes and authentic German restaurants.  Thatch-roofed houses are the norm.  Christian and I stayed at Hus Mattgoot, a newly renovated B&B owned by friends of Xtian’s folks.  Hus Mattgoot means “House of Not Shiny Good”, which made it that much more endearing.  I don’t think they get a lot of American tourists.  I know this because the innkeeper kept bringing me bacon.

Because I am delicate Scottish flower and not, repeat, NOT a hearty German, I had trouble assimilating to the ever-changing weather.  “You’re not sugar,” said Christian.  “You’re not going to melt, are you?”  I didn’t melt, but I did feel like the wind was going to pick me up off the ground from time to time.  As you’ll note in the pictures, Germans were out in force walking the beach in light jackets and sandals.  I was wearing sixteen layers and resembled Nanuck of the North.  I had the drawstrings pulled so tightly around my hoodie that it was cutting off the circulation to my brain.  Every once and awhile Christian would take a deep inhale of sea air and say, “That constant whistling of air I hear … tell me, is that coming from between your ears?”  I think he was making a blonde joke.  My teeth were chattering too much to tell him to eff off.

We meandered our way towards a freestanding beach restaurant, high up on stilts and miles away from civilization.  Fine leather, rich mahogany and a roaring fireplace separated this place from the oceanside hotdog and hamburger joints I’m used to.  Germans were ordering whole meals, cocktails and desserts.  Because I was freezing to death, I ordered a Bailey’s and coffee, which arrived sprinkled with whip cream, chocolate shavings and light dusting of cocoa powder.  “Who lives like this?” I asked no one in particular.  “Germans!” the entire restaurant barked back at me.

I wonder if it’s too late to get dual citizenship.