One day, long ago during my freshman year at university, I got caught in a Midwestern downpour on my way to class. I ducked into a nearby shop and bought an umbrella. Outside I pushed the button on the handle and waited for my rain shield to spring into action. It sprang alright – right off of the handle and into the street. When it hit the ground, the spreader bars opened, and the umbrella head skittered away with the next gust of wind. Soaked to the bone and holding a headless umbrella handle, I swore never to use such an infernal contraption again.

…

Winter in Dresden’s baroque Altstadt (Old Town) – one of the most scenic postcards I’ve ever strolled through. Every snowy day could be the last this late in February, so Katrin and I, fans of the season, throw on coats and hats when we see the flakes falling outside. If I’m well fed and Katrin poorly watered, we can spend hours walking through the city on such days without seeking warmth or shelter.

We crossed the Elbe River this past Sunday afternoon and headed through Theaterplatz on our way to the Zwinger. As we walked hand-in-hand admiring the surroundings, something in the picture seemed odd to me, out of place. It took a few minutes to pinpoint exactly what was bothering me, but when I finally identified it, I couldn’t believe it: some of the people were holding open umbrellas in the snow.

At first I noticed just a few old women carrying them. This was almost understandable; with hairdos looking like someone’s architectural PhD project, you can appreciate that snow could very well mean several hundred euros and a full day at the hair-helmet factory.

But soon I noticed other people, younger people with hair that didn’t require a building permit, also cowering beneath umbrellas from what the local weather report described as a “light dusting”. I was beginning to think they knew something I didn’t about this falling white stuff. Was it toxic? It tasted normal to me. Then what were they hiding from? They looked so silly among a crowd of other tourists – a lone umbrella with hardly a visible flake against the stretched black material to justify its use. Hadn’t their mothers taught them to just brush themselves off occasionally?

Even more puzzling was their apparent lack of embarrassment for being in such a negligible minority. The overwhelming pressure of social conformity – as strong in Germany as anywhere in the world – would prevent me from walking around with an open umbrella on a light snowy day, just as it would prevent me from gargling my wine at the Kempinski Hotel or wearing a Speedo to teach English. Or wearing a Speedo in the supermarket. Or wearing a Speedo on a warm sunny day at the beach where everyone else is wearing a Speedo.

Speedos are just a bad idea in general.

Seriously, don’t wear them.

I couldn’t work anymore at home last night, so I packed up my translation stuff and went to La Rue, a French bar/restaurant around the corner. Why I went there to work, I’m not sure; there’s rarely been a time when I haven’t met someone I knew or was introduced by Max to someone I’d rather not know. So perhaps it’s more honest to say I went with the subconscious hope of finding a distraction. And I did. When Max came out of the kitchen and saw me sitting at the bar with my books and papers, he asked what I was doing. Translating, I said. Without another word he disappeared into the back and returned a few seconds later with a bible-sized book, which he tossed onto my work. “Well, start translating this. We’ll talk about the pay later.” The Book of Jewish Food, read the title. I leafed through it. “Max, there are over five-hundred pages here.” He put his hands on his hips and rolled his eyes to show I am a hopeless case. “I don’t need it tonight,” he clarified, “but it is urgent. You can bring it back next week if you want.” “Max, this would cost you thousands of euros to have translated.” His big cook-hand clasped my shoulder. His eyes fixed on mine. He said nothing, an indication that I should take this time to re-evaluate what I was saying, to realize that my mouth must be connected to a reservoir of stupidity.

I re-evaluated: He runs a small restaurant. I translate. He has a book in English which he can’t read. I am in his restaurant.

Yes. Yes, I understood: In the world of Max, all things are possible … if he needs them to be.

“I’ll tell you what,” he continued after sufficient pause for his reality to sink in, “you translate this as soon as possible, and I’ll prepare one of the recipes for you and your lovely wife.” I waited a bit longer for him to add “every evening for the rest of your natural lives,” but that was me being unrealistic again. His look said Well, partner? The negotiations have been tough, but I think you’ll find this offer very handsome, indeed. I didn’t know what to say, but suspected anything other than “It’s a deal” would have me struck from his list of regulars-who-get-an-occasional-free-beer.

Then it dawned on me. “Max, this book’s in English. I only translate from German into English.” He seemed to accept this, but insisted that I at least translate his favorite recipe, Madame Lehmann’s Cured Salmon. I hope Katrin has some spare time; it’s worth an occasional free beer.

When Katrin and I were in Israel last November, we spent a day traveling through the West Bank with a group of German journalists. The tour was sponsored by the German Development Service Palestine, who wanted to demonstrate how German tax money is used to improve the deplorable living conditions of the Palestinians. In Ramallah, a small man in a dark suit powerpointed us through the introduction of a new administrative system serving four local municipalities. It’s called the “One Stop Shop”, and its purpose is to streamline citizens’ administrative needs by reducing bureaucracy and gathering the various municipality offices under one roof. The small man in the dark suit stated with pride the One Stop Shop’s goal to improve its service to the people of Ramallah, “We do not have many resources, but our objective is quite simple: we want to eliminate our presence in people’s lives as much as possible.”

At this point, our friend Johannes spoke up, “I think I speak for all of the Germans standing here now when I say what a great day it would be when our own country introduces such a system.”

There was laughter. There was much laughter. Even the small man in the dark suit got the joke. Johannes – what a funny guy.

…

It is 8:10 on a Friday morning in Dresden. To my own disbelief, I am already at the German immigration office. I am not in bed. I am not in the bathroom brushing my teeth. I am not walking through the Neustadt or over the Augustus Bridge into the Altstadt when the morning rush-hour peaks. I have already done these things, executed them with a sense of military urgency. I am in control. I am prepared.

Yesterday Katrin and I located, arranged and copied all the necessary documents for extending my visa. A woman on the phone from the immigration office tells me everything I need to bring. With the receiver cradled between my shoulder and my ear, I write these things down, furrow my brow and respond with a business-like mmm-hm after each item. I will take no chances. I scan the website of the immigration office and write those things down as well. I need a biometric photo of myself. For this I go to a professional who tells me with professional confidence, “I’ve done three of them already this week.” She instructs me not to smile. She spends half an hour eliminating the glare from my glasses. On Thursday evening, after double-checking the list, I place my well-arranged documents into two separate folders: Originals and Copies. Satisfied that everything is in order, I go to bed early.

I am number 2. That I did not pull number 1 from the ticket machine is a small jab to my ego. I seat myself directly across from room number 152, where last names beginning with A, B, C and F are processed. As I sit in the drab hall, my eyes see the sign “German Immigration Office” hanging on a wall. My brain finds this mildly amusing, “You are an immigrant,” it tells me. In case I don’t know what an immigrant is, my brain furnishes for me a disjointed collage of images depicting historically inaccurate scenes from Ellis Island in the early 1900s: a long line of women each holding three small babies in one arm with a suitcase hanging from the other, men with mustaches the breadth of albatross wings, young boys with dirty faces and defiant looks in their eyes. My brain then places me somewhere at the end of this line, appearing particularly tired, poor and huddled. “There you are,” it points out. “You are an immigrant.”

The electronic display board in the middle of the hall makes a sound like new-age wind chimes. I look up to see that number 2 may now enter room 152. With my Originals and Copies folders in hand, I, the second immigrant of the day, march into the room, confident, ready, determined.

…

Approximately three minutes later I am back in the hall, bewildered, angry, confused. “You are not well prepared,” she said to me. “Your documents are not in order.” Things were missing. The head in the biometric picture was too small. With new instructions she sends me out of room 152. I must try again next week. As I place my jumbled papers in my bag, the hall fills with new-age wind chimes. The third immigrant of the day stands up. “That was fast,” he says with a hint of hope, then disappears into the room.

But not fast enough. Next week I must be number 1.