A Bad German Joke
A last ditch search for meaning to our southerly vacation, we headed for the banks of Lago Llanquihue, notable for the big snow-covered Volcano looming up from the opposite shore. The first town we dropped into was the beach resort Frutilla. Like most other towns around the lake, Frutilla boasts the best view of the Volcano.
Summer tourism was peaking, it was a meat market full of flabby Chileans from all over the country. I'm talking about the upper class, that eats. So we decided to get in on the action and eat cake, which in Chile is called Küchen, which is German for cake.
The Germans colonized southern Chile starting 1850. As a North American with German ancestry, I love German culture, it's in my eugenics. But I have to say they that they hit a low point for Chile when Colonia Dignidad opened its subterranean torture chambers to the terrifying intelligence agency DINA as Chile's Prussian-modeled military, harnessed by General Pinochet, cast a dark shadow across the Southern Cone. Still, the cute Gingerbread House architecture is a major attraction in the South.
We ended up on the terrace a mom and pop Küchen joint (big house/sidewalk stand) swapping war stories with the pop. And by "swapping war stories," I mean that he told us he was a retired Colonel in the Chilean Army, and we just left it at that.
But he was nice. He was a fourth generation German immigrant, named Carlos Siebald. Interesting! He spoke German, neat! Oh, but my German is so bad, I told him. I'm just a dumb gringo, I can only say, "Hola, ein Kuchen bitte" hahaha.
He tried to teach me a German saying about the consequences of lying, but I just couldn't get it.
Back to Spanish, but I can't say that was smooth sailing either. Sometimes I just couldn't make out Herr Siebald's punchlines. The wit, he would graciously excuse himself. "Sorry," he would say, "just a bad German joke". Hahaha. I told him I also used a similar tactic for my own failures. He was compelled to use the line several times throughout the conversation, and it was funny. We hit it off.
He had about four daughters helping out and a couple women washing dishes in the kitchen that looked out onto the terrace. As we chatted, ephemeral foot traffic would come up to snatch a steaming hot empanada or a Kuchen "on the go". The Colonel intermittently call out the name of one of his daughters, followed by the order "Attend to the Customer!" and point toward the sidewalk stand where a stray tourists would be approaching.
"Wow, Herr Siebald", I commented, "It's really beautiful here, the green trees, the hills -- it looks a lot like Germany."
He grunted, unusually reticent.
"So...when was the last time you visited Germany?"
"Never," he said.
What!?
I mean, okay. That's cool.
Herr Siebald explained that while he had been the commissioner of the German Museum in Frutilla, the Chancellor (is that right?) of Germany paid a visit. During the course of his stay he befriended Siebald, and invited him to Germany. In Spanish, invitar means all expenses paid. That was 9 years ago, explained the Colonel, but he was still waiting to hear back.
Talk about a bad German joke.
The whole experience with Herr Siebald got me thinking about these weird Chileans who identify more with [insert name of European country here] than, it seems, their own Chile. Like owner of this bar down the street here in Santiago. "Where are you from?" I asked her.
"England," she said in Spanish. "I mean, Chile. But my father is from England."
Okay? Well, we don't go to that bar anymore because they've fallen past the point of no return with the icky smooth jazz that they promote with a sidewalk blackboard declaring "Live DJ, 9:00PM!" They also charge $5 for a glass of coca-cola mixed with chinsy proportions of oily, bottom shelf pisco. Speaking of which. Goddamnit, they owe me a free drink!
But that's a different story, involving the picture I took of their urinal (yes, real copper), and the haggard scoundrels over a urinal dot net who lied, cheated and stole it from me. In their defense, probably a bad German joke.
And despite their despicable business practices, urinal dot net's inspiration was present in the next city on our last-ditch tour around the banks of Lago Llanquihue. Puerto Varas opened up a big casino, and my. What a urinal. It spoke to me. A cascading cataract themed kinda blue it was the most soothing leak ever.
Once zipped up I had to snap a shot. A urinal companion saluted my tourism, drawing an apt analogy to the Iguassu Falls.
That wasn't a bad German joke, that was a good Chilean joke.
This would be a good Chilean joke...if it were a joke:
(BTW: The Chilean word for toilet is "water")
Summer tourism was peaking, it was a meat market full of flabby Chileans from all over the country. I'm talking about the upper class, that eats. So we decided to get in on the action and eat cake, which in Chile is called Küchen, which is German for cake.
The Germans colonized southern Chile starting 1850. As a North American with German ancestry, I love German culture, it's in my eugenics. But I have to say they that they hit a low point for Chile when Colonia Dignidad opened its subterranean torture chambers to the terrifying intelligence agency DINA as Chile's Prussian-modeled military, harnessed by General Pinochet, cast a dark shadow across the Southern Cone. Still, the cute Gingerbread House architecture is a major attraction in the South.
We ended up on the terrace a mom and pop Küchen joint (big house/sidewalk stand) swapping war stories with the pop. And by "swapping war stories," I mean that he told us he was a retired Colonel in the Chilean Army, and we just left it at that.
But he was nice. He was a fourth generation German immigrant, named Carlos Siebald. Interesting! He spoke German, neat! Oh, but my German is so bad, I told him. I'm just a dumb gringo, I can only say, "Hola, ein Kuchen bitte" hahaha.
He tried to teach me a German saying about the consequences of lying, but I just couldn't get it.
Back to Spanish, but I can't say that was smooth sailing either. Sometimes I just couldn't make out Herr Siebald's punchlines. The wit, he would graciously excuse himself. "Sorry," he would say, "just a bad German joke". Hahaha. I told him I also used a similar tactic for my own failures. He was compelled to use the line several times throughout the conversation, and it was funny. We hit it off.
He had about four daughters helping out and a couple women washing dishes in the kitchen that looked out onto the terrace. As we chatted, ephemeral foot traffic would come up to snatch a steaming hot empanada or a Kuchen "on the go". The Colonel intermittently call out the name of one of his daughters, followed by the order "Attend to the Customer!" and point toward the sidewalk stand where a stray tourists would be approaching.
"Wow, Herr Siebald", I commented, "It's really beautiful here, the green trees, the hills -- it looks a lot like Germany."
He grunted, unusually reticent.
"So...when was the last time you visited Germany?"
"Never," he said.
What!?
I mean, okay. That's cool.
Herr Siebald explained that while he had been the commissioner of the German Museum in Frutilla, the Chancellor (is that right?) of Germany paid a visit. During the course of his stay he befriended Siebald, and invited him to Germany. In Spanish, invitar means all expenses paid. That was 9 years ago, explained the Colonel, but he was still waiting to hear back.
Talk about a bad German joke.
The whole experience with Herr Siebald got me thinking about these weird Chileans who identify more with [insert name of European country here] than, it seems, their own Chile. Like owner of this bar down the street here in Santiago. "Where are you from?" I asked her.
"England," she said in Spanish. "I mean, Chile. But my father is from England."
Okay? Well, we don't go to that bar anymore because they've fallen past the point of no return with the icky smooth jazz that they promote with a sidewalk blackboard declaring "Live DJ, 9:00PM!" They also charge $5 for a glass of coca-cola mixed with chinsy proportions of oily, bottom shelf pisco. Speaking of which. Goddamnit, they owe me a free drink!
But that's a different story, involving the picture I took of their urinal (yes, real copper), and the haggard scoundrels over a urinal dot net who lied, cheated and stole it from me. In their defense, probably a bad German joke.
And despite their despicable business practices, urinal dot net's inspiration was present in the next city on our last-ditch tour around the banks of Lago Llanquihue. Puerto Varas opened up a big casino, and my. What a urinal. It spoke to me. A cascading cataract themed kinda blue it was the most soothing leak ever.
Once zipped up I had to snap a shot. A urinal companion saluted my tourism, drawing an apt analogy to the Iguassu Falls.
That wasn't a bad German joke, that was a good Chilean joke.
This would be a good Chilean joke...if it were a joke:
(BTW: The Chilean word for toilet is "water")
posted by Chileno @ 4:33 AM
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3 Comments:
Frutilla is a strawberry.
Frutillar is a strawberry-sounding town in the south of Chile.
jeje,
Tomás
Umm in modern Chileno terms "invited" means all expenses paid. Other South Americans are never as "conchudo" as Chilenos.
Chilenos have a nasty habit where your nice to them and you "extend your hand" and "they grab your whole the arm". :(
You should go back to the south around January when they sell the rare white strawberry. Much more yummier and are only available for short time.
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