I had no plan for Hamburg, my first stop in Germany. I had just heard that it was a bustling port town, one worth visiting for a few days. I arrived, ready to explore, knowing nothing other than where I was staying and the number of nights I’d be there.
I enjoyed learning about the city in real time, stumbling into experiences without sticking to an itinerary. On a whim, I visited the local chocolate factory and museum, where I ended up being the only person on the English-speaking tour, which my guide and I were concerned would make it awkward, but we soon settled into a repartee that made for, what I hope, was a fun experience for the both of us (the Oompa Loompas, on the other hand, were not so happy). On recommendation from one of my hostel roommates, I went to the Miniatur Wunderland, an enormous model railway that recreates several countries with small, intricate details you can spend hours exploring (for instance, in Italy, you look through a window into one of the houses and you can see Pinocchio’s nose growing – this is the attention to detail we’re dealing with here). I also wandered through the Elbtunnel, walked around the Planten du Blomen, and checked out the food stands along the waterfront, treating myself to a Backfisch sandwich as I looked over the water.
The spontaneity had served me well and I found myself thoroughly enjoying Hamburg. So far, the only downside was the blanket of heat that was being spread across the continent, tucking itself tightly in at the corners, the beginning of what promised to be a stifling summer. In the hostel, we opened the windows, but, instead of inviting in any cool air, we invited in noise from everyone going out or coming home from the local bars.
We were in the St. Pauli neighborhood. Vibrant in its grit, I could imagine all the moms back home being skeptical of the area. Graffiti was on every building, people were in the parks drinking beer at every conceivable moment of the day, and it was home to the Reeperbahn (the sinful mile), Hamburg’s red-light district. Alongside the standard fare of shops, bars, and restaurants was the simmering spirit of rebellion. Everywhere I looked were flyers, stickers, graffiti, and signs championing social and political movements.
And it was into St. Pauli and the heat that a group of use ventured into one night. The group would later include a group of guys from the Netherlands staying in the hostel, but initially it was just five of us women: three Germans in Hamburg for the weekend and two Americans, myself and a college girl from the states. My fellow American, let’s call her Ali, had been working in a hostel in Eastern Europe but had grown bored and was now traveling west.
We walked around, dodging groups of locals, students, and tourists alike as they headed between bars with bottles of beer in hand. My eyes kept getting drawn to the different signs, the most prominent and frequent being signs for NOlympia!, a movement opposing Hamburg’s bid to host the Olympics. The referendum took place the day I left, and Hamburg’s residents voted against continuing the city’s Olympic bid.
We drifted from bar to bar, Ali finding fault in each one. We’d order a drink, or sometimes even before we had the chance, she’d say, “We are not staying here,” often before, I felt, we had a chance to get a decent read on a place. I will agree some of these bars were nothing spectacular, but it’s a truth universally acknowledged by bar hoppers that not all bars are created equal, and when you decide to bar hop you consent to an element of risk that you will just have to spend more than five minutes in a less than stellar bar.
All the shifting made it difficult to luxuriate in the differences between the bars here and the ones I’d been going to back home. I liked scanning the menu for the local beers, reading the promos on the bulletin boards even though I couldn’t understand them, and witnessing people take their bottles of beer with them as they made their way to the next stop. There were some bars where smoking inside was still permitted. In these places, patrons used the ashtrays provided as though they were as rightfully there as the sticky spots on the tables. I hadn’t seen anyone smoke cigarettes in a bar or restaurant in a decade, not since I went to a diner in my ex’s hometown, where they made pancakes so large they spilled over the edges of the plate and the milkshakes clung to their glasses like geckos. A pair of old men sat at the restaurant’s counter, puffing away, their teeth and the walls stained with nicotine. Even back then, smoking in businesses was practically extinct and it felt like seeing an endangered species strutting nonchalantly through the savannah. Now, in Europe, seeing people smoke cigarettes more than vapes was a novelty in itself – seeing that there were places to smoke indoors was, by this point, otherworldly.
But Ali did not appreciate these small treasures. At every stop she complained, not liking the drink options, the people, or just not liking the overall yet oh-so important vibe of a place. She shuffled us in and out of places for what felt like hours, despite our objections and visible irritation.
We made our way into yet another bar, this one blaring German music. I was instantly enthralled with the place. The establishment wasn’t particularly noteworthy, just a standard bar, dimly lit with wooden floors and tables, and the music that erupted around us was accompanied by the voices of everyone on the dance floor and around the bar. A guy jumped up on the table and glass of beer in his hand, leading the crowd in singalong. One of my German companions instantly began to sing along with every song, booming out each word. Her enthusiasm was contagious and soon we were dancing. Though I didn’t understand what my friend, the band in the speakers, or the what the crowd were singing, the language of joy was universal.
But Ali came over to us halfway through the first song.
“I want to go.”
“No!”
“I hate this music.”
“Why?”
“I don’t speak German.”
“You’re in Germany!”
Everyone’s patience was thin at that point. Everyone else in the group loved this spot and decided we were going to stay.
“This place is great!” I insisted.
She looked at me, disappointed and annoyed. She had clearly hoped that I, being the other American in the group, would feel similarly and would back her up.
“You don’t speak German either.” As though I might have forgotten.
“I don’t care,” I said. I was truly enjoying being here, with this group, experiencing a night out with Germans in Germany, but I’d also felt like the group had already been accommodating enough to us that night, speaking English the entire time to ensure we felt included, never speaking German amongst themselves. The least we could do is let them enjoy this bar for some time.
Ali stood near the bar, sulking and arms crossed as we danced nearby. We had been joined by the guys from the Netherlands at this point, and some of them tried to talk to her and cheer her up, but she wasn’t having it. They bought us a round of Astra, but she turned it down, saying she doesn’t like beer.
We danced for several songs. When a series of “oh, oh, oh, ohhhhs” occurred in a song and I could recognize the pattern, I joined in singing with the group. I drank my Astra, crisp and light on my tongue, refreshing and cool amongst the heat from the crowd. Every now and then Ali floated into my eyeline, and I felt pang a sadness for her as well as a relief for myself that I was enjoying the moment.
Ali was young and, from what I had gathered from our conversations, had traveled a lot. But in the comfort and security of resorts and pre-packaged experiences, where her needs and wants were catered to and prioritized. From what she told me, her travels so far had given her curated, comfortable experiences, the types that are just enough to get outside of your comfort zone to feel like you can tick off a place from your bucket list without really having to engage with it, without having to risk being uncomfortable, never having to leave your understanding at the door and realizing what you know and what you like has no relevance.
Now, she had taken off across the continent, making it all up as she went, staying in hostels, and encountering new things.
As frustrated as I was by her constant insistence we keep moving bars and her attitude at the German music, I wanted to understand her discomfort. She was in the process of building up the callouses needed to embrace a new place that wasn’t designed with her in mind. She’d also been away from home for a bit at that point. Maybe she was tired, uncomfortable, and wanting the familiar. But when traveling, you don’t always get that. Sometimes no one speaks your language, you don’t know what the food is, and sometimes you encounter things that just don’t make sense to you, but all you can do is be open and accept it. Sometimes it’s uncomfortable, but this is where you gain experience. Not to say each encounter with discomfort is growth opportunity, but there is rarely growth without some discomfort. And, while I think making yourself uncomfortable now and then is an important part of travel, it can be overwhelming and not pleasurable. Like all growth spurts, they ache and suck in the moment, and you only see the positive effects once that discomfort has eased, then you realize it was good for you.
In my own ways, I’m guilty of similar attitudes, just manifesting in different ways. There are times I get tired and uncomfortable. My reaction is to tuck myself away and isolate, decline invitations, walk around with eyes down and headphones in, and keep to myself when I should reach out. I’m just glad that night I didn’t have my eyes down. One of the most fun nights I ever I had in Hamburg, one of the best experiences, was in the simplicity in dancing to a song I didn’t know in a language I didn’t understand, drinking a beer I’d never had, with people I’ll likely never see again.
I hope, as she continues traveling, that she learns to welcome the unfamiliar instead of reject it, to understand that sometimes it’s best to embrace what another culture is offering instead of trying to force it to accommodate you. I hope when she matures more that she’ll embrace those chances for growth, even if they are uncomfortable.
And I hope that for me too.