“Ich bin ein bleistift auf dem flughafen [ick bin eye-n BLIE-shtift off dem floog-hoffen],” my dad chanted through the streets of Berlin with a cheeky grin on his face. His eyes shifted to my brothers and I, seeing if he could get a reaction. Usually Ryan would snicker, Camden would roll his eyes, and I would make some comment about how he is literally so embarrassing. This was the goal. To poke the bear until it attacks.
“Ich bin ein bleistift auf dem flughafen,” he repeated. Two years of German in college and this was all he could remember. “I am a pencil in the airport.” Over and over, for everyone to hear.
When I was a kid, my dad told me that he could speak German. He would say these same words in a different order as if he was fluent. “Ich bin ein bleistift.” “Ich bin ein flughafen.” “Ich bin auf dem bleistift.” It was all gibberish to me, but I was fascinated. These words are engrained into my memory like a lullaby sung to me as a baby.
When I was 15 years old, I bragged to my teammate’s German mom that my dad could, too, speak German. She spoke to him with words that meant nothing to me, probably saying, “Wow! Where did you learn?” And he answered how he knew.
“Ich bin ein bleistift auf dem flughafen.”
She howled from the pit of her stomach, laughing so hard that other conversations broke to observe this one. It became clear that I was the chump of a 15-year-long joke. He is the same person that he was five years ago, prancing on the pavement, repeating an illogical phrase that makes him happy.
“Right here,” I turned to my family. “Let’s eat here.”
Our lunch spot, Augustiner Am Gendarmenmarkt [ow-GOOST-ee-na om joon-DAH-MEN-mahkt], sat in the heart of Berlin, but it didn’t look like a German restaurant. It looked like a restaurant you’d find in America that was trying to look German. The exterior was concrete, a faded tan, like everything else in the city. It sat on the corner, so two sides of the restaurant faced out. Tables and chairs lined the sidewalk on both sides, with large blue umbrellas perched on top.
The umbrellas read the name of the restaurant in a gothic-looking font. The letters were thick with spurs hanging off of each stroke, as if it was written in block script using a calligraphy pen. I’ve never liked this font, and I especially didn’t like it here. Berlin is a rather modern city, and this primeval, Germanic font gave the illusion that Germany is still that way.
The building walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling windows, all open. I walked around both sides of the restaurant looking for a large black door or a hostess stand, but there was no clear entrance. I concluded that the front door was the same design as the windows, so the eight, open, glass holes were all possibilities. I chose one which led me to the back of the dining room, clearly not the front door.
It was busy, which meant it was good. The tables were made of wood and had blue, checkered tablecloths on top. It was classy enough that the waiters wore suits, but not so classy that it was lit by candles. The fanciest restaurants are dark. Their only sources of light are flames from candlesticks or small yellow bulbs. The window in Augustiner Am Gendarmenmarkt provided plenty of natural light to go along with the hanging chandeliers. A sigh escaped me, because it wasn’t too posh for my loud, silly family.
Our waiter, a large German man who spoke broken English, led us to our table. One side of the table poked out a window, almost touching another table outside. I sat closest to the opening, across from my dad. My mom, two brothers, and my brother’s girlfriend, Shannon, filled the rest of the seats with stomachs growling as loud as their scooching chairs.
In all my life, I’ve never felt a strong desire to be in Germany. But here I am. Every few years, my family goes on vacation, and this year’s pick was six countries across central Europe. Berlin was the first stop of fourteen – a mere introduction to a chapter book.
The menu was one page long with a handful of options. Weisswurst [vice-vorst], rostbratburst [rhoast-brhat-vorst], currywurst [curry-vorst] – everything was a wurst [vorst]. It was written completely in German. While my family worked on translating it, I watched the people around me. The absence of English translation didn’t bother me like it would for my brothers. They’re homebodies. They’d rather eat the same food their entire lives than try something unfamiliar. I’m the rogue child, content with living somewhere different every week of my life.
My two brothers ordered the currywurst with fries, which were skinny, dark sausages with spiced ketchup. My parents and Shannon asked for the mixed grill, a series of sausages with sauerkraut.
“I’ll have the Weisswurst please,” I voiced towards our waiter. I didn’t know exactly what a Weisswurst was, but it was the first thing that I read on the menu.
“Are you sure?” He looked up from his notepad hesitantly. “Boiled?”
“Yes,” I answered confidently. I’ve had boiled eggs before, and I’ve boiled water. I liked boiled, and I now understood a piece of what I’d be eating.
I sucked on the pretzels and gulped down beer to settle my churning stomach. German beer makes American beer taste like water. I could barely finish the glass without the salt from pretzels to complement it. Waiting for food to come out of the kitchen is like waiting for a proposal. You’ve talked about it, you’ve picked out the ring, you know it’s coming, and every time you see someone with the joy you’re about to experience, you get a little less patient.
When I saw the waiter exit the kitchen with a large tray, I shuffled in my seat with excitement. The bowl was mine – I knew it. I had ordered soup, or a chowder, or some kind of risotto. When the dish hit my placemat, my jaw dropped.
Shit, I thought. Is that a –
Two sausages wobbled in the water-filled bowl. They were short but girthy – pale white, like an eggshell or worn-down paint. They looked like they were once a healthy brown but had been soaking in water so long that all color faded. Skin casings surrounded the meat, breaking open at the rounded ends and creasing in the center. The creases reminded me of veins running up and down someone’s arm. Under the skin sat small, black dots like a sidewalk with faint sunspots.
The bowl water wasn’t exactly clear but had a yellowish tint to it. It felt lukewarm, like a cup of tea that had been sitting out for too long. Both sausage tips reached the edge of the bowl, sitting side by side. It didn’t necessarily smell like sausage, but like the leftover aroma of sausage in the oven, hours after it had been cooked.
I felt my nose scrunch and brow furrow. My brothers pursed their lips at me while my mom hid a smile through closed lips. I didn’t look at my dad. I didn’t want to know the face he was making. The waiter grinned at me presumptuously, and fellow diners aroused in their seats. No one said a word, but we were all thinking the same thing.
“Let me show you how to eat it,” said the waiter. He used two sticks to pull one sausage out of the water and placed it on a nearby plate, but my eyes were stuck on the sausage left suspended in the bowl. Scallions swam in the cloudy water, bobbing in unison with the sausage. They caressed the sides of the meat, tickling the skin like a paintbrush stroking a canvas.
He continued, “You can’t eat the skin. You have to peal it back.”
I looked around for a knife, but the only utensils on the table were wooden chopsticks. He waited patiently, staring at me, as I decided how to proceed. It definitely wasn’t a finger food, but using my hands seemed like the most unassuming option at the time. I stuck my blue, acrylic nail in, and began slowly unrolling the skin. I stopped a fourth of the way down, revealing the tip. It wasn’t hot, but lukewarm like the water. The meat was spongy. I could have pushed down with only a finger, and it would have molded to my touch.
My family’s sneering subsided into silent curiosity, and they waited for me to take the first bite. I gripped the sausage with the chopsticks like I was about to eat sweet and sour chicken from P. F. Chang’s. I took a breath, closed my eyes, and bit off the head.
A small “squish” escaped my lips, and I jerked my face away, like an intimate moment had just been exposed. I only had to chew two or three times before it softened in my mouth. It tasted like a hot dog, not the kind on Chicago street corners, but the kind served in a high school cafeteria. It wasn’t necessarily good or bad. It was just…in my mouth. My stomach gurgled, but not from hunger. It was the kind of gurgling where your body is yelling at itself. The kind that precedes a stomachache. The taste lingered in my mouth. I exhaled through my nose, knowing my breath had taken up that old oven-sausage smell. I bit off a little more, and more, and more, and after my fourth bite, I was emotionally incapable of finishing.
I left the second one floating in the bowl for the waiter to take back. I hate wasting food, and usually I’d mush it up to make it look like I tried to eat it. But there was no point. He knew. He approached the table and chuckled, accepting my white flag. In that moment, my dad’s mindless German mantra became my persona.
I am a pencil in the airport.
Weisswurst, I now know, translates to “white sausage.” But to me, it will always mean “penis in a bowl.”
