Warning: this blog will offend those of German origin or those who have cultural sensitivities.
German Tourists
If Angela Merkle needs to know where her constituents are – she need only look to the marinas and beaches of Croatia. Forget Berlin, this is the centre of the German populace.
I know they are German because:
They are constantly yelling commands at their children, who very sensibly ignore them.
They are wearing every form of Birkenstock available to the market – the old blokes with their Teutonic square heads wear them with shin-high socks.
Their faces are iridescent red. If they stand on street corners, cars would stop. Cooking their bodies appears to be their primary reason for driving all the way to Cro-land.
Not matter what colour hair the parents have – that of their children is white, fine white fairy floss. Their heads are like buoys as they swim in the ocean. Any day now they will get tied to a boat.
Inevitably they wear blue shirts – must be government issue
The grown-ups look cross – even when they smile they look crabby. They smile, then they yell at their kids; they take a selfie, then they yell at their kids. No wonder their voices are so gruff – their throats must feel like sandpaper.
They only speak German – 100% of the time, no matter who they are yelling at. To Merkel’s mob, German is the international language.
Finally, they must have invented both the backpack and the bum-bag. They all wear both – in fact their bodies a completely weighed down by nylon and Velcro. I saw a fraulein yesterday who had a backpack on the front, one on the back and a bum pack. She was a vision in Samsonite. How did I know she was a German? She was yelling at her kids!!
Conversation between two Cro-men in their 20s
They were sitting by the Port. Two young men looking out over the plaza to the fishing boats being unloaded – about 10am. Their bodies were draped on the wooden bench. Backs rounded; legs extended. Arms were laying along the back of the seat, so floppy they looked boneless.
This is with the exception of their 2 middle fingers – they clenched cigarettes. I don’t mean clenched in the way that suggests hanging on, using muscles. It was more a loose reflex that held the ciggie between the first and second joints. Every so often the arm moved – slowly and only enough for the ciggie to reach flaccid lips that opened just enough to grab hold. The cheeks slowly suck in – in a feat of anatomical impossibility their lips don’t purse. I’m assuming they have adapted over time to take into account the lack of effort that is actually required to smoke (reference Darwinian ideas on physiological change). Some sort of mechanism in the boneless arm moves the ciggie away and it flops back on the seat. Smoke expels itself from nostrils. 3 minutes later, the process is repeated.
The conversation (in Croation) went thus:
Man 1: “rubarb, rubarb, rubarb”.
Man 2: “Da”
Man 1: “rubarb, rubarb, rubarb”.
Man 2: “Da”
Man 1: “rubarb, rubarb, rubarb”.
Man 2: “Da”.
This went on in exactly this fashion for 10 minutes, in such slow tones, words just ran into each other. What was wrong with man 2, I thought. Maybe he had only ever learnt one word in Cro. More likely, this was the day Man 1 was due to talk. It was probably Man 2s day to talk on a Thursday.
Until next time…….
