Intercultural Connection:

Other Cultures – Opinions – Ways

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Across the Channel: Opposites attract

Germany and England. Two countries that basically like each other – yet still experience a mild culture shock every time they meet. It’s like watching a film with subtitles that are always one second too late. You more or less understand each other – but you’re never quite sure. And that’s what makes it interesting. Amid all the confusion, something wonderful emerges: laughter, curiosity, and a charming way of not fully understanding each other, yet still getting along.

It must be said: the shadow of the Second World War still lingers over this relationship. That doesn’t exactly make it easier to overcome prejudices and stereotypes. Add to that new challenges like Brexit and strict visa regulations. And yet, despite all historical and political hurdles, it’s worth investing in deeper relationships.

In uncertain times, human connection becomes a stabilising force. Social closeness acts as a counterbalance to external instability. But in disruptive times, closeness isn’t a given – it’s a decision. A conscious, daily choice.

It has never been easier to stay in touch with the whole world – and yet, it often feels harder than ever to truly stay connected. Contacts are plenty, but genuine connection is rare. “Let’s stay in touch.” A phrase we hear often – but one that seldom holds. People long for belonging. For trust. For real conversations in which not just language, but meaning is shared.

Language remains an adventure – especially because many Germans speak English well, but not quite fluently. And while some Brits are learning German, they’re often too hesitant to actually speak it. As a result, misunderstandings or moments of uncertainty arise, putting a strain on relationships – or preventing them from even starting.

It’s rarely love at first sight – but there’s an undeniable pull between them. Germany and England: a couple defined by contrasts. One seeks security through structure, the other values freedom through ease.

Anyone who thinks internationally knows: the most exciting developments often begin where we feel just a little uncomfortable. Where we loosen our grip on control. Where we don’t understand everything right away – and still choose to listen.

Growth isn’t just about numbers. It’s about real connection. And being open-minded doesn’t mean agreeing to everything immediately. It means being willing to be challenged – by other cultures, other opinions, other ways of doing things.

And sometimes, laughter about the differences is the best bridge of all – don’t you think?

Perhaps it’s not a contradiction at all. It’s a contrast or an unspoken pact to open up new horizons:

•  The Germans are building the scaffolding so that the world doesn’t collapse.
• The British dance on it (with control and composure), with a glass of gin and tonic in their hand and an umbrella in their pocket – just in case.

And somewhere in between lies Europe. Or at least the desire for it.

Neighbourhood: Community vs. Isolation

Here are two things the Brits are proud of: their tea – and their island. And while tea is exported around the world, the island stays right where it is: comfortably far from everyone else.

You might think the difference between island and continent is just geography. But really, it’s about the soul. It explains why the Brits cherish isolation – and why the Germans can’t quite grasp it, surrounded as they are by neighbours on all sides. In Germany, people value community. Neighbours greet each other – even if they secretly can’t stand one another.

People gather for street parties, debate proper waste separation, and organise club events with the same passion others reserve for national elections. Germans catapult themselves into neighbouring countries at over 180 km/h on the autobahn to enjoy a long weekend. Because, in the German mind, community equals security.

In England, by contrast, isolation is a basic right. The love of solitude runs deep. “It’s not that we don’t like you,” they’ll say with a polite smile. “We just enjoy being… slightly unavailable.” The island provides shelter – from continental hustle, emotional entanglements, and the terrifying prospect of someone dropping by for coffee unannounced.

While people on the continent pack into cafés, hand out hugs, and plan spontaneous visits, the Englishman sits blissfully on his cliff, gazes out at the grey sea and thinks: “Wonderful – no one’s coming over.” The island isn’t just geographically remote – it’s an emotional sanctuary. Even nature plays along:
Rain – discourages unwanted encounters.
Storms – cancel plans before they start.
Thick fog – perfect for pretending you didn’t see your neighbour.

The English don’t love their island despite its remoteness – they love it because of it. The water wards off invasions and continental drama. You can stay polite while keeping everyone at arm’s length. And when you can’t make it to the mainland? There’s always a wonderfully British excuse: “Oh dear, ferry’s cancelled. Storm rolling in. Looks like I’ll have to stay home… and have some tea.”

Other nations build walls. The English simply kept the sea. And they’re honest enough not to hide it.

Fancy a Coffee or a Tea?

There are moments in life when not just people, but entire cultures collide – and somehow connect.

My British friend Claire and I experience this regularly – usually in cafés, when we actually just want to „have a coffee.“ An innocent phrase that quickly turns into what feels like a barista entrance exam in Berlin-Mitte.

“Espresso, flat white, cold brew with oat milk, or nitro coffee with tonka bean?” the waiter asks.
Claire looks at me as if she’s just been handed an IKEA instruction manual – read backwards.
“I just want a tea,” she says – politely, almost desperately, with that subtly pained smile only British politeness can produce.

I smile back, the German way: efficient, straightforward.
“Claire,” I say, “here, tea is what you drink when you’re sick – or when you don’t care about flavour. Coffee is a staple. A life principle.”

Claire blinks. “Tea is an emotional backup system. Tea holds us together when everything falls apart.” I want to argue, but the waiter returns. I order two cappuccinos. Claire doesn’t protest. Probably out of politeness. Or fear.

We never spoke about coffee again.
But we drink it regularly – together, in silence, slightly ironically.
Friendship is when the British woman misses tea, the German woman doesn’t say anything – and both, at the same time, say: “Fancy a coffee?”

Crisps: Paprika vs. Salt and Vinegar

Crisps are a perfect mirror of the German and British soul. They deserve their own field of sociological research.

In Germany, paprika crisps represent a variety that isn’t sexy – but it works. Always. A stable, reliable classic. Like the traffic rules: universally accepted and rarely questioned.

In Britain, there’s a quiet pride in flavours like Roast Chicken or Pickled Onion – the kind that assaults your nose the moment you open the bag. Crisps here are an experience. A flavour adventure. Paprika? Too down-to-earth. Too continental. Too… solid.

I’m standing in front of a metre-long crisp shelf in a British supermarket. I’m jet-lagged and on a mission: Paprika crisps. Not too spicy, not too bland – an aromatic promise of reliability.
But the shelf offers: Salt & Vinegar. Cheese & Onion. Prawn Cocktail. Beef & Mustard. Thai Sweet Chilli.
But no paprika. No. Paprika.

I ask a shop assistant for help. She looks at me as if I’ve launched a culinary attack and demanded radioactive chilli sauce, extra hot. After a brief pause, she replies: “Paprika is just so… German. We prefer something a bit more special. Something memorable.”

The British don’t miss paprika crisps – because they’ve never had them. The Germans love them – because they never surprise them. Sometimes, snack culture is a mirror of the soul.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s what connects us:
Some seek security in flavour. Others seek adventure in a bag.. And maybe that’s what friendship is: sharing a bag – even if one of you secretly misses the paprika.

In the end, it’s not about crisps – it’s about control issues and emotional risk management. With a touch of salt.

Mon Chéri: Grandma’s Choice vs. Everybody’s Darling

There are things you can only truly understand once you’ve changed countries. Left-hand traffic. Mint sauce on lamb. And: the British obsession with Mon Chéri.
Yes, you read that right. That shiny red chocolate, usually found nestled between doilies and cough drops in German living rooms, enjoys near cult status in the UK.

In Germany, Mon Chéri used to be an elegant gift – something you’d bring to your mother-in-law or grandma. These days, the brand feels a bit outdated. Retro, but not quite cool-retro.

In Britain, however, that cultural baggage doesn’t exist. There, Mon Chéri was never relegated to the dusty corner of 80s coffee tables – it simply remained what it always was: fancy chocolate with booze. Why? Simple: in the UK, Mon Chéri is considered sexy. Decadent. A little bit naughty. Even if the packaging looks like it was designed using a 90s clipart CD.

Mon Chéri represents the myth of Europe – like a holiday in a box. Balmy nights in Rome. Flirtations in France. A bit cliché, yes. But charming. The British bite into it and taste: exoticism. Passion. And a dash of “I don’t know what this is, but it pops quite nicely.”

In Germany, meanwhile, Mon Chéri mostly evokes memories of grandma’s sideboard or Aunt Gisela on the couch, watching the Sunday morning show on TV.

Naturally, I explained this to my British friends. I told them that, in Germany, Mon Chéri is about as cool as an adult education class in potholder crochet. We give it away when we want to show we made some effort – but not too much, please.

The Brits just smiled, held up the chocolate between two fingers like a tiny treasure and said:
“You Germans have no idea what you’re missing.”

Maybe they’re right.
Maybe we’re just too sober for a chocolate that has more alcohol than our New Year’s punch.
And maybe it’s time we asked ourselves:
Is Mon Chéri really outdated – or are we?

Doctor of Brezel vs. Master of Tea

In Germany, education matters. A lot. A university degree is seen as essential — almost like oxygen: without it, your career suffocates. The German ideal goes something like this: The longer you studied, the better. Another Master’s? Even better. A doctorate? Why stop at one?

A classic scene: In Germany, someone introduces himself, even in a casual setting, with, “Good morning, I’m Thomas Obermayer, Dipl.-Ing., M.Sc., certified Scrum Master, and AI expert.”
In England? “Hi, I’m Tom.” That’s it. No fuss, no titles, no academic flexing.

In the UK, a degree is often useful, sometimes even necessary — but it’s rarely the sacred centrepiece of a CV. If you seem smart, personable, and vaguely competent, chances are you’ll land a decent job, even without academic stardust.

In Germany? Good luck trying to get hired as a „motivated career changer.“ The unspoken rule: No degree? No interview. No interview? No job. No job? Back to university — this time for a BA in something vaguely media-related.

And then there’s the deeply rooted German love affair with titles. A professor stays a professor, even if he’s just buying bread rolls. A „Dr. Dr. h.c.“ can cram more status into a business card than an entire armored division. And heaven help the HR manager who mistakenly writes Herr instead of Professor Doktor. That’s a one-way ticket to LinkedIn purgatory.

In the UK? Titles are almost deliberately downplayed. Call someone “Doctor” and you risk being asked for help with their slipped disc.

To summarise:

• England: Studying = you can do it. If not, then just use your contacts, chutzpah and a properly ironed blazer..
• Germany: Studying = Without officially certified written proof with a stamp, nothing works.

Perhaps the German model is ultimately the safer one — but honestly, sometimes I find myself longing for the English lightness. We crave the possibility of simply being someone of value, without first being asked to provide thirteen notarised copies of our certificates.

While the Englishman is still unwinding on the golf course, reminiscing about his gap year in Bali, we Germans are busy wondering whether the golf course is even accessible without a dissertation on turf management.

Living style: Function vs. Charme

When buying a house, you instantly realise: you’re in England. “It’s a lovely three-bedroom house!” the estate agent beams — and gestures proudly toward a door hiding a room that, in Germany, wouldn’t even qualify as a walk-in wardrobe.

In Germany, people take a more sober approach: square metres are what count. “How big is your flat?” — “92 square metres.” Efficient. Measurable. Reassuringly German. Follow-up questions typically include:
“What’s the cold price per square metre?”

German flats follow logic. Kitchen, bathroom, living room, bedroom — in a layout that makes sense. And heaven forbid the hallway is larger than the bathroom: instant disqualification, like a doping case at the Olympics.

In England, however, it’s not the size of the living area that matters, but the number of bedrooms.
“It’s a three-bedroom house!” Sounds impressive — until you realise those three “bedrooms” could collectively be smaller than a decent German kitchen-diner. English buyers ask: “Does it have original features?” Square metres? Largely irrelevant.

German flats are functional fortresses: efficient heating, sockets where you need them, windows aligned so the curtains fit like precision-cut suits. Everything planned, measured, DIN-certified. Practicality reigns.

English houses, by contrast, exude charm: creaky floorboards, slightly slanted walls, open fireplaces (rarely used — too draughty), and windows that stubbornly refuse to open or close properly. And then there’s the bathroom — often downstairs, tucked behind the kitchen, chilly and delightfully inconvenient.

In Germany? Unthinkable. The bathroom is sacred: underfloor heating, towel warmers, everything a temple of functionality.

In the end, both styles have their charm:
In Germany, you live practically — in England, you live poetically in too little space.

German kitchen: Rationality vs. Emotion

There are a few things Germany is famous for around the world: cars, punctuality — and kitchens.
Or as an English friend once sighed: “When I see a German kitchen, I feel safe.”

To the British, a German kitchen is more than just a room where meals are made. It’s a symbol. A place of longing. A high-tech fortress against the chaos of everyday life.

While the classic English kitchen often feels charmingly improvised (“The microwave’s on top of the washing machine, the coffee maker’s in the hallway, and the fridge? Just outside, next to the garden shed.”) a German kitchen is entered with something close to reverence. Like stepping into a temple of order.

Everything has its place. The oven sits at ergonomic height. The bin system has at least three compartments. Drawers close with the soft purr of a Rolls Royce. And the worktop? Built from a material that could survive World War III.

No surprise, then, that London property listings proudly boast: “Fitted with a genuine German kitchen!”
Buyers react as if they’ve secured a private bunker in the Alps.

Why the hype? Because the German kitchen embodies a rare blend of logic and utopia. Even if the world outside is collapsing, the coffee inside will still brew — precisely — at 92 degrees.

Of course, Germans themselves don’t quite understand the reverence. For them, a kitchen is just… a kitchen. Functional. Unemotional. A place to boil water, chop vegetables, and — ideally — not have to assemble the oven themselves.

But in England, the kitchen has become a symbol of hope.
Hope that there might be a life where drawers glide, countertops align, and the tap doesn’t get hot by running over the toaster.

For the English soul, the German kitchen is silent proof that somewhere, out there, a world exists in which everything works. And who knows — maybe one day, the English will even start letting Germans design their bathrooms.

But that would probably be too much happiness all at once.

The Flow of Conversation: clear Structure vs. dynamic Boost

I always thought the British were the undisputed masters of politeness. In my imagination: a polite nod here, a thoughtful murmur there — tea in one hand, composure in the other. But then I found myself right in the middle of it. And my perception shifted.

The surprise?
The British interrupt – constantly.

An English conversation is like a friendly game of cricket: people shout, comment, encourage, nudge the dialogue along — always energetic, but never too direct.
German interruptions, by contrast, feel more like handball: Ball taken! Possession claimed! Change of direction!

While Germans are already glancing nervously at their watches after the third interruption, the Brits are thinking: “Lovely! The conversation’s alive. Another cup of tea?”

In the UK, interrupting is a way to keep the rhythm going. It’s conversational jazz — overlapping voices, bursts of laughter, a shared sense of flow.
In Germany, by contrast, an interruption often signals: Now I’ll speak. Now I’ll correct. Now let’s straighten out that crooked idea.

The German interrupter is on a mission to restore structure.
The British interrupter wants to preserve the mood.

At some point in a British conversation, everyone’s talking at once, no one’s entirely sure what the topic was — but everyone feels fantastic.
“Interruptions aren’t rude. Silence is.”

In Germany, if two people speak at the same time, the first step is to determine who has the floor officially. Then comes a brief lecture on discussion etiquette. And ideally, every thought is neatly wrapped up before the next begins.

A British friend once summed it up with a smile:
“Interruptions are just our way of saying: we’re still awake – and we love you.”

Awkward situation: What’s that vs. End of the World

Manchester, Piccadilly Station, 08:17. Rush hour. I’m standing on the escalator. On the left: Fast lane. On the Right: standing lane. That’s the unwritten code of British public transport etiquette — a sacred rule.
And of course – I’ve forgotten or maybe I never quite internalised it. I’m standing on the left – just like in Germany. Blocking the traffic.

A cough behind me. Then another one. A pointed throat-clearing. Still, no one says a word. Naturally.
But the tension rises like steam from a forgotten kettle. An elderly lady behind me starts to remove her gloves — with theatrical precision. Everyone suffers. Silently.

In Germany, I’d have been briskly brushed aside within seconds: “Excuse me, can I get through?” Direct, efficient, done.
In England? People suffer – but gracefully. With elegance. And deeply held, passive-aggressive conviction.

I learnt that the biggest challenge in Manchester is not the left-hand traffic, but theemotional slalom around embarrassment.

In England, awkward social moments are considered the worst kind of accident. Not traffic jams. Not spilled drinks. No – social awkwardness. It triggers cold sweats, flight instincts, full internal shutdown.
Emotional earthquakes, shaking loose everything carefully tucked away beneath the surface.
It’s like losing your trousers in the middle of a pub: total loss of control.

The Englishman will go to great lengths to avoid such moments. Feelings? Best avoided.
Physical contact? Only if someone dies on a zebra crossing. Emotional honesty? Maybe. After five Guinness. At a stretch.

That’s why the British have mastered the art of small talk like samurai master their swords.
“Lovely weather, isn’t it?” A universal phrase. A social force field. A shield against discomfort.

But if that shield fails and awkwardness breaks through – they’re left exposed, metaphorically naked, and now they must actually talk. Nightmare. They’d rather apologise for existing than risk putting someone else in an uncomfortable position. An awkward pause triggers a tsunami of apologies — no one knows exactly what for, but they’re offered anyway. Just in case. And then again, for good measure.

Sometimes I wonder how an English person would survive a German family gathering.
Twelve people squeezed into the kitchen, one in tears, two shouting about capitalism, and Grandma casually bringing up the funeral.
The English guest would quietly climb out the window — backwards — and apologise on the way down.

And me?
I’m still learning.

Logic: Secret religion vs. feeling for the situation

In England, ordering a cappuccino goes something like this: First, you pay at the till. Then you’re sent to the bar. Then someone calls your name. Then someone else asks what you ordered. I stand there and think: Why is there no clear system? No numbers? No logic? The Brit behind me grins and says:
“Just go with the flow, mate.” Perfectly normal for him. For me, it’s an assault on my inner system of order.

When a German says, “That’s not logical,” it’s a dead giveaway. Logic isn’t just a way of thinking – it’s practically a state religion. Discussions follow a structure like mathematical proofs: hypothesis, argument, conclusion. Expressing an opinion without airtight reasoning? Social suicide.

In England, things work differently. There, logic is often replaced by something more… fluid. A feeling for the situation. “It doesn’t have to be logical – it just has to work,” is the unofficial motto.
Rules? Gently suggested. Contradictions? Part of the charm.

While the German stands frowning at a sign that says both “No Parking” and “30-Minute Parking”,
the Englishman leans back, shrugs and mutters, “Oh well, it’s a bit of a mess, isn’t it?” – and parks right there.

The difference shows up beautifully in humour. German jokes follow a logical arc: setup, structure, punchline. If the ending doesn’t connect, confusion reigns instead of laughter.
British humour, by contrast, thrives on the illogical. The more absurd, the better.
Monty Python made an entire career out of jokes that don’t resolve — and somehow, that makes perfect sense. Just not the German kind.

Relationship: Loyal vs. Flyty

Some people build relationships like half-timbered houses: solid, well-planned, with load-bearing beams, stable foundations — and the firm belief that it’s built to last for decades.

Silke is one of those people. For her, a friendship is a generational contract – entered into with care, commitment, and quiet determination. Friendships, she believes, are like plants. They need light, air – and a little water now and then. Silke is the kind of person who checks in regularly, hosts friendship brunches, and relies on an Excel-based reminder system when birthdays approach. She’s the gardener who doesn’t forget her garden.

Henry, on the other hand… builds treehouses. Spontaneous, slightly wobbly, strung with colourful bunting.
Charming — but when it rains, the roof leaks. He’s more of a climbing vine: fast-growing, unpredictable, beautifully messy.
He pops up out of nowhere with lines like: “I thought of you three weeks ago — it’s late now, but honestly.” Reliability isn’t his strong suit.

And yet — they’ve been friends for over ten years. How is that possible?
Maybe because Silke never expected Henry to reply on time.
And Henry eventually realised that Silke doesn’t ask if he’s free — she’s simply there when it counts.

Last autumn, after his fifth breakup in three years, Henry called. “I think I’m incapable of having a relationship,” he said. Silke didn’t answer immediately. She finished her coffee first.
Then she said: “Maybe. But you’re capable of friendship. That’s what matters.” Henry was quiet — a rare state for a Brit. Then he said: “You’re like… my German constant.” And Silke, who normally avoids sentimentality, replied: “And you’re my endearing uncertainty.”

Friendship sometimes means accepting that the other person is different. One builds for the long haul – the other doesn’t even know what they’re having for dinner. But real friendship doesn’t require constant harmony. It requires trust – that even a fluttering heart can beat reliably. If you let it.

Soul Striptease: Deep dive vs. Teatime

In Germany, it’s not unusual for a conversation that begins with ‘So, how are you?’ to end two hours later in a deep dive into childhood traumas, existential questions and the question of why, at 49, you still try to impress people you don’t even like.
Silke loves these kinds of conversations. For her, ‘How are you really doing?’ isn’t a polity formality – it’s an open invitation. An offer of presence. A cue for soul-baring, if needed. She believes in depth. In honesty. In conversation as a place of growth. She has no problem deep diving – and diving quickly.

Henry, on the other hand… believes in tea. Ask him how he’s doing and he’ll say: „Fine“ or, at most „Can’t complain.“ Even if he has just lost his job, written off his car and is walking around with a slipped disc. For him, small talk isn’t superficial — it’s a coping mechanism. A polite umbrella that lets you navigate emotional weather without getting drenched.

One evening, during their now well-established intercultural ritual: “Gin & Genuine Feelings” Henry sits on Silke’s sofa, stares into his glass, and after the third sip says quietly: “I think I’m lost. In life. So… metaphorically.”
Silke takes off her glasses. Now it’s getting serious. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Henry shrugs. ‘Can we make another brew first?’ Silke breathes in. Then out. She gets the teapot. And waits. Twenty minutes later, when the tea has taken the edge off the world, Henry suddenly says: „You know, it’s not that I don’t feel anything. I feel too much. I just don’t always say it straight away. That’s what makes it real.“

Silke nods. For the first time, she truly understands: Henry needs the detours. The tea. The jokes. The weather reports. Not because he’s shallow – but because he dives more slowly.

It takes patience – and a lot of tea – to travel the distance between “How was your day?” and “Who are you when no one’s watching?” And when you get there, it’s pretty deep.
Even at teatime.

Sauna: It’s relaxing vs. the forecourt to hell

I had the brilliant idea of introducing my English friend to the German sauna experience. “It’s relaxing!” I promised. “Completely authentic!” Looking back, I might just as well have said: “It’s mildly traumatic – but character-building.”

The first shock came right at the entrance. “No swimwear allowed” was written on the sign. My friend read it three times as if he was hoping for a typo. Naked in company – for an Englishman about as imaginable as fish and chips without vinegar. While I was already shedding my bathrobe layer, he stood there like a cornered gentleman struggling between escape and politeness.

Inside, the legendary towel question. Germans spread out their towels in the sauna like they’re claiming territorial rights — meticulously, edge to edge, not a single inch of wood left uncovered. No sweat shall touch the bench!
My English friend, meanwhile, folded his towel neatly beside him — and sat down directly on the wood.
I heard a collective inward groan. It was clear: he had broken the secret sauna code — without ever knowing it existed.

And then… the silence. Not just the absence of sound – but a statement. An atmosphere.
Bravely, he tried to start a conversation. But the glances around him said it all: “Talking? Here? This isn’t a pub.” I watched him swallow his questions and stare intently at the wood grain instead.
I watched him swallow his questions and stare intently at the wood grain instead.

Then came the infusion. The sauna master entered like a high priest, armed with a bucket of water and a towel soon to become a weapon of wind. Water sizzled on the stones, steam erupted – and the great waving began.
My friend narrowed his eyes, hunched his shoulders – he looked like a man who thought he was going for a casual walk and suddenly found himself in a fire ritual.

Afterwards, he stumbled outside, stood in front of the cold plunge pool, and looked at it as if it were the North Atlantic. His face clearly said: “They actually jump in there?”
Before he could retreat, a stocky gentleman threw himself in with a victorious gasp. My friend chose the towel. This time, wrapped tightly around himself – for safety.

Later, over a beer, he leaned back, looked at me long and hard, and said: “That was… an experience.”
I raised my glass.
German sauna: a relaxing ritual for us – for him, an epic test of survival. Almost naked. Almost cool.
But: he made it.

Gin Across Time Zones:
London Calling, Munich Stirring

Thursday evening, London, somewhere in Mayfair. 5 p.m.
 
Stylish hotel bar. I order a gin and tonic. The bartender – think James Bond side character with precisely folded pocket square energy – nods subtly.
 
“London Dry?” he asks. I nod.
Just gin.
And tonic.
And a single, discreet ice cube. So Britishly restrained it almost apologizes for being in the glass.
Elegantly served, with a hint of understatement and the unspoken promise to later discuss either Oscar Wilde or premiership.
 
I sit down in a chair so deep I briefly consider my spinal insurance, and observe the other guests. They too are drinking gin and tonics – with complete indifference. In London, it’s not a lifestyle statement. It’s a civil right.
 
By the third sip, the gin and tonic starts to take effect. I feel sophisticated, cosmopolitan – and slightly tipsy, but in a way that hides exceptionally well beneath a cashmere sweater.
 
In England, the evening begins with a gin and tonic. Gin o’clock isn’t coincidence – it’s a social institution. It marks the fine line between I worked hard today and I deserve this.
In London, no one drinks gin and tonic to stand out – but to blend in.
 
Friday evening, Munich, bar in Maxvorstadt. 11 p.m.
 
I enter the bar – or let’s call it what it wants to be: the “Botanical Experience Lab.” The drink menu is linen-bound, the staff wear aprons made of waxed organic cotton, and somewhere in the background plays a Vivaldi remix with forest sounds.
 
I order a gin and tonic. The bartender – a bearded alchemist type with a geometric cucumber tattoo – nods knowingly.
 
“Which gin would you like? We’ve got 42 kinds. More floral, citrusy, or juniper-forward?”
Me: “Uhm… sure.”
 
He reaches for a bottle that looks like a perfume flacon, drips some into a glass, adds exactly three perfectly symmetrical peppercorns with tweezers, then a lemon twist, a (flamed!) sprig of rosemary, and finishes it off with tonic – but of course, not just poured in. It’s applied by pipette.
He sets the glass in front of me and says, completely straight-faced:
“This is our ‚Gingko Nimbus‘. With a hint of Alpine mist from the Berchtesgaden region. Please inhale the aroma before drinking.”
 
I sniff. It smells… like concept.
 
At the next table, a man in a designer shirt explains to his date that his gin was distilled with wild Bhutanese gentian – “but only in years with below-average monsoon.” She’s impressed. He’s impressed. The gin is too.
 
I take a sip. It tastes good.
 
The German gin and tonic is not an aperitif. It’s an epilogue. The gin finale begins when someone at the table says, “One last drink?” Gin and tonic is a bar-survival beverage. You stand there, glass in hand, in a trendy lounge, quietly hoping a taxi might eventually pass by.
 
I kind of miss the English gin and tonic.
No lavender.
No world tour in a glass.
No aromatic fog.
Just gin. And tonic.
Maybe I’m old-fashioned. Cheers!