An Outsider No More

by Abbey Hopper (New Zealand)

Making a local connection Germany

“Eins, zwei, drei!” The verbal signal was given. Throwing my head back, the sweet, sickly liquid greeted my throat, warming the pathway as it descended. All around me the others were doing the same. Like a babe on the boob, they latched on without a beat. All in succinct unison. I, the trainer-wheel rookie, lagged behind on execution, placing my shot glasses down in completed solitude. Lüttje Lage is Hannover’s famous celebratory drink. Like a modern-day coming-of-age ritual - although I imagine that age is not clearly defined - Hanoverians master this old-time tradition imbedding their stereotype as true German drinkers, thickly weaved within local custom. A lesson in balancing a shot glass of beer with another shot glass brimming with schnapps in the same hand is no easy feat, let alone performing the juggling act of mixing the two poisons together, mid-air, before the concoction safely lands in one’s mouth. I embraced the challenge zealously. Denying the first-timers requirement of a bib - after all, it wasn’t my first time - I still managed to bow down in grace on the other side. A quick undeterred wipe of the rogue, malty drops clinging to my chin, a coaster mop of the puddle formed on my bar leaner, and I was ready for round two. I was spending the evening with friends, mingling over broken English-German dialect in Hannover’s Weihnachtsmarkt. Neatly situated under the towering Nativity pyramid, the bustling affair danced in the heart of Kröpcke. Circling me was an overwhelming chaos, intoxicating everything in its path. It was the third, forth… I had lost count of the times my legs had roamed around these stalls by now. Waiting by the entrance, my fingers clasped my phone nervously anticipating the arrival of my friends’ tribe of companions. Albeit my word count in German had increased these past few days, my conversational ability lingered in the non-existent. Fleeting pensivity surged through my core. I entertained childlike thrill of the Christmas wonderland, hindered only by outsider insecurity welling in my stomach. Introductions were made. Familiarities from our brief meeting a few years before resurfaced, as we clung on to polite niceties bridging the gap of awkwardness. The luminous lights captivated me from above. Lines of people wrapped in oversized jackets narrowing the walkways. The thing about the Christmas markets, was the grasping atmosphere one was obliged. Even as a spectator opposed to a purchasing participant, you couldn’t escape the enchantment. Wading our way through to a stall, some of the group veered off in various directions to line their stomachs. Unease stirring beneath my verbal limitation, I attempted cursory sentences offering communication between a soul, or two. I prayed the evening’s magic would not be dulled by my fearing irrelevancy to the group. Numbers increased within the confines of the market. Moving on, we found refuge in a cross-section of stalls offering steaming glühwein that floated across my face, moistening the edges of my woollen head covering. Bread rolls punctured by bratwurst begging to be plundered from the sizzling hotplates found mercy in my clutched hand. Finding laughter, my guarded shyness dropped duties and the trading of stories and jokes began to flow. With the smashing of a glass, excitement boiled over, illuminating our huddled conversation. We were marked by a polite urge to shuffle along by the stall-keepers’ subtle nuances, switching off lights as night entered a new day. Entrusting our pack leader, we hurried on in a new direction. My boots bumping along the cobblestones, shaking off the consistently chilling bite. It was then that we sort asylum in the pub. As the first tray was cleared, two shots remained. Encouragement swelled as my fellow patrons’ wall of wariness towards me faded. We were now on the same level. I one of them. Barriers dissolved. The outstanding glasses were thrusted into my hand, eyes firmly gazed on my anticipated performance. An outsider no more.