Germans Don't Laugh
March 2012
Cologne, Germany
My friend informs me, without much preamble, that Germans don't laugh. We pause in front of our dorm’s entrance. Just as I begin telling him how silly he sounds, my thoughts turn to the gentle, quick-witted boy a few doors down from me.
I enjoy the bluntness of his phrasing, the ludicrous way he connects topics, and the even facial expressions that comically contrast against the wild things he says. He is, quite simply, a hilarious person. Still, I can’t easily recall a time when he’s laughed out loud with the rest of us. He allows only a quiet, acknowledging smile as the chuckling and howling erupt all around him.
Except for a few distant relatives and the boy down the hall, my exposure to Germans has been minimal. We swipe our cards, and climb the stairs, moving in and out of rhythm with the other students.
A few months later, Aunty and I stand in front of Cologne’s Catholic cathedral. The impressive, looming structure overwhelms my senses. I am lost in the pointed pinnacles, amazed by the elegant arches. I’d come to visit Aunty in Belgium for Spring Break. We’d taken several road trips to neighboring countries. I’m thrilled to be in this lively city, experiencing Germany for the first time.
Hundreds of people traverse the square in front of the cathedral; a businessman chats on the phone and checks his watch, a group of young schoolgirls huddle on the periphery. I’m wondering what their lives might be like when, suddenly, a massive gust of wind overcomes the square. It goes as quickly as it comes, taking with it my Aunty’s wig.
She takes off, running frantically. I follow her and the renegade wig, pressing my lips tightly together and breathing sharply through my nose. The corners of my mouth seem to turn up against my will.
The wind picks up speed again, taunting us. We’ve nearly reached the wig’s new landing place when I spot them a few yards away. Two men collapse into each other, roaring with laughter. I can no longer hold it in. I start to shake, silencing the riptide of sound against my jacket sleeve. Aunty turns, takes one look at me, and releases a deep belly laugh.
We finally come to a halt in front of the wig, lying inconspicuously among a few leaves and twigs, blown clear across the square.
“Well, that was something,” Aunty sighs, shaking it out and placing it in her bag.
The men slump to the floor. They half-lay-half-sit there, gathering strength and catching their breath. They crane their necks in our direction. I can’t help but grin at them, relieved and delighted. I was beginning to believe that Germans don’t laugh.
Photo credit: Lucas Carl @lucas_carl
