Expanse

Culture shock can easily be defined as being so inundated by the differences present around you in a foreign culture that you seem at times overwhelmed. Mostly, the term refers to moving to a different country, where the foreign language, food, people, or lifestyle can seem so different as to destabilize one’s comfort level. Moving to Berlin was by no means the same as moving to a different country. But, strangely enough, the culture shock that I now feel seems as great if not greater than when I had moved to Germany.

I guess there were limitations in living in such a small town in southern Germany. I tended to have either overlooked these limitations, glossing them over, or simply exercising my talent for boundless rationalization in order to come to grips with where I was. I must have, as, by the time I left, I had no idea that they were as pronounced, or, for that matter, that they even existed. Even now when I try to identify what those limitations were in Pforzheim, there is a strong commentary that wells up within my psyche insisting that I either never really needed those things I longed for anyway, or was content to live with some variation of the original. But, these commentaries, borne out of necessity, seem to shrivel when I walk into my local Berlin supermarket, and find myself, slack-jawed, standing before the “American section” where I can buy Betty Crocker cake mixes, Hellmann’s mayonnaise, or Pam cooking spray. There is always some heavenly music that plays when I remember myself stunned before the marketing that was before me as I beheld the almost-forgotten foods of my homeland: trumpets, organs and harps play the Music of the Spheres, as the rest of the market is dimmed by the spotlight shining down from the heavens on me and those beloved products, its radiance forcing the other shoppers into some kind of suspended animation. For this one remembered moment lasts but a few moments, just time enough for me to change into my tutu and prance a quick pas de deux with the macaroni and cheese. On one hand, learning to bake cakes from scratch was a skill that Pforzheim forced upon me, one for which I am grateful. On the other hand, was it really necessary to go 4 years without Root Beer or Doritos?

This limitless expanse which is Berlin, culturally, gastronomically, socially, is at the heart of my culture shock. I would equate it to a Neolithic cave dweller, perfectly happy having lived his life within the forest, suddenly finding the point at which the forest is forest no more, and, as he walks through the tree line, finds himself before a seemingly endless plain. How I imagine I would feel at this enormous surprise cannot be the normal reaction, as some free spirits, I would think, would simply run off into the distance, at last feeling free. I, that is, the Neanderthal I of this story, would probably look for a while in amazement, and simply walk sheepishly backwards, retreating to the shade of constant twilight, at least for a day or two, until I worked up enough courage to wander out into the nakedness. The Berlin of endless possibilities is, to me, disquieting like that first glimpse of the plain. Yes, it is a wonderful disquieting, but disquieting none-the-less. Just forgive me for a couple of weeks while I look my urban gift horse in the mouth, and quietly back away. I will wake from my slumber and realize soon how lucky I am. Until then, though, I will just have to accept my powderpuffness, floating around, eyes full of wonder, praying silently that a stiff breeze doesn’t just blow me away forever.