Last weekend I went to Maine to escape the heat of the city and explore this beautiful part of the US. Maine’s coastline reminded me of Norway or Sweden with lots of ragged peninsulas, charming headlands and tiny islands (to my growing frustration, I once again realised that despite an abundance of coastline, it is actually quite hard to get to the sea as most of the coast is on private properties). Near my hotel I found an island with a short loop perfect for an evening stroll. The island was so small and remote that no cars were allowed on it and there was only one private residency.
After walking past white sandy beaches, the trail led into the forresty interior of the island. Within seconds I was attacked by dozens of mosquitoes and stopped to debate how many mosquito bites I was willing to tolerate for my evening walk.
As I stood there examining my legs, a man approached with his dog. I thought I looked weird – standing there, twisting and turning to assess the battle wounds so far - and felt the need to explain what I was doing. We exchanged a few words about mosquitoes and bug spray and then he asked me where I was from. I told him and he looked at me and responded
As I stood there examining my legs, a man approached with his dog. I thought I looked weird – standing there, twisting and turning to assess the battle wounds so far - and felt the need to explain what I was doing. We exchanged a few words about mosquitoes and bug spray and then he asked me where I was from. I told him and he looked at me and responded
“Dann können wir ja auch deutsch reden”.
Another German.
Of course.
In one of the most remote states of the US, on an island at the tip of a sparsely populated peninsula, I met a fellow German. While perfectly lovely, this encounter finally destroyed my illusion that I will ever travel to a place where there are no other Germans – this place simply does not exist. We are everywhere. Fact.
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