Over the summer, our neighbours asked my wife and I to look after their garden while they went on holiday, and we happily obliged. Our readiness to take over the twice daily watering duties was prompted by our desire to be good neighbours, but there was also a less than altruistic reason behind the decision, namely the opportunity to pick whatever we wanted from our neighbours bountiful crop of fruit and veg as payment. Our own lacklustre attempts to grow tomato plants on the patio had failed miserably earlier in the summer, and their lifeless carcasses remained on full display as a reminder of our horticultural ineptitude. Though our failed attempts were mostly due to too much sun and a serious lack of commitment, there was also the mitigating factor of the birth of our son slap bang in the middle of tomato season. Sleep deprivation and tomato cultivation, it transpired, did not make a winning combination.

As if the reward of free fruit and vegetables wasn’t incentive enough, there was another ulterior motive for helping our neighbour in need. My wife is an avowed botherer of neighbours, a habit she’s had as long as I’ve known her. Her stated aim wherever we’ve moved, is to ingratiate herself, and by extension me, into the local community as quickly as possible. Some people collect stamps, or Panini football stickers, but my wife seemingly collects neighbours. On the whole, her efforts had met with success and we quickly got to know all the people living on our little row of houses. However, the people who lived behind our house were total strangers, and the garden sitting was the perfect chance to get to know them, and if things went really well, be allowed to address them by their first names.

Now, for English speakers, there’s no particular power in first names, in fact, someone usually offers their first name within about 30 seconds of being introduced. Other times, people may not even need to introduce themselves, they might have a name badge that just silently offers up their names to anyone willing to check. In Germany, things are very different. First names especially have power, and being offered a stranger’s first name also means you can use a different grammatical form to address them. The grammar changes, as does the form of “you” that can be used, with the formal “Sie” or Siezen being replaced with the less formal Duzen or “Du”. The former is used with people you either don’t know, wish to show respect for, or who perhaps have a hierarchical position higher than your own. Duzen is the form used for family members, friends, and people younger or below you in some form of hierarchy. To be offered the Duzen by someone, such as a neighbour, is a good sign a relationship is progressing positively. That being said, some like to maintain their distance and may not want to be addressed informally, nor offer their first name to be used. In these instances, they are to be addressed with Herr/Frau (Mr or Ms.) or by another official title.

The various people who lived beyond the end of our garden fence were unknowns, and therefore strictly in the formal Siezen camp. Aside from a polite “Guten Morgen” or "Guten Abend” we barely interacted, and if we did find ourselves in conversation, we made sure that we never strayed over the Duzen/Siezen line. Well, I say that, but I’m far from a perfect German speaker, and there were occasions where I accidentally screwed up my sentence and slipped into the informal. On those occasions, a slight grimace would be noticeable across the faces of the neighbours, and I would quickly backtrack with servile levels of apology. Despite my occasional slips, my wife’s patented charm offensive began to see results. I was able to track her success over the weeks and months, as one by one, Frau so and so, and Herr what’s his face, became Petra and Hans.

Watching this process unfold, I was struck by how different things are in Britain when it comes to formality, and also how loose the British must appear to Germans as they willy-nilly offer their names within a few seconds of meeting anyone new. This need the British have to be informal goes hand in hand with an inherent sense that everyone is on the same level, enforced egalitarianism if you will, which must seem doubly mad given the one thing most people know about Britain is the rigid class system that permeates all aspects of life. We can pretend it’s not there by rushing to first name terms, but we know it’s in the background, dictating how we speak, how we dress, our hobbies, and even our holiday destinations. Yet we still force informality on each other, which in turn creates issues that are near impossible to navigate.

For instance, British people will go to elaborate lengths in order to maintain the illusion of a friendly atmosphere. We’re constantly managing each other, especially those people we like the least, and we maintain facades in order to keep up the pretence of a functioning relationship. Sometimes it’s because of a power dynamic, like friendly chit-chat with the boss, but a lot of the time it’s simply a defence against creating an awkward situation. Confrontation is difficult for people in many cultures, but for the British it seems a particularly painful concept. I’ve lost count of the times people have told me about a problem colleague at work, and when I suggest speaking up, they’ll reply with something like “I don’t want to make a fuss” or more directly “It would be awkward”. This fear of the uncomfortable also means the British are prone to avoid the awkwardness created by others, and although the British don’t use the German term “fremdschämen” (second hand embarrassment), they understand the concept implicitly. Awkwardness is not something that seems to bother Germans that much, which many people who move to Germany learn for the first time when a stranger takes it upon themselves to admonish or correct some perceived social infraction. I don’t know anyone, German or non-German, who hasn’t been approached by a random and informed they were breaking the rules of social etiquette or that they were doing some activity the wrong way.

The formal Siezen probably helps Germans combat the social discomfort of everyday life, since using “Sie” creates a grammatical distance that in turn provides a social shield, or perhaps cover, that means directness doesn’t feel so weird as it might to the British. The upside of this is the ability to be direct, which negates any need for the veneer of friendship that’s so carefully maintained by many in Britain. The obvious downside is that this distance is regularly abused, namely by nosey busy-bodies, who see no issue in sharing their unsolicited opinions with the world at large. There is one other major drawback with the Siezen and Duzen: it’s very hard to go back to the formal. I’ve heard it done, but in all instances the ramifications of switching to the formal after spending a sojourn in informality are as brutal as any socially awkward situation I’ve seen in the UK.

What tends to happen is a person either offers their first name or they don’t, keeping things comfortably explicit. This brings us back to those neighbours and their tomatoes. We were still on Siezen terms before they left, and we did wonder whether our willingness to help would lead to learning their first names. Once their holiday ended, we dutifully walked over to return the spare key. During the handover, while asking about their trip, the husband suddenly introduced himself to us using his first name, thus allowing us to use his first name and the informal Duzen. Though I’ve seen this happen many times, it still tickles me how formal the process can be. We then turned expectantly to his wife, who seemed to ignore what had just happened, and changed the subject to how well we had looked after the garden. After five minutes, it became clear she would not be following her husband down the path of informality.

This is probably the closest to British social awkwardness I might ever experience in Germany, since we’re now on first name terms with one neighbour, while still having to address the other half of the couple with Frau and the formal grammar. Day to day this really doesn’t bother us much, although I can tell it annoys my wife no end as she continues her hobby of collecting neighbours. The only real issue was when it came to Christmas cards; how on earth do you write a simultaneously formal & informal card to the neighbour? Luckily my years of navigating the complex mysteries of British awkwardness finally came in handy. I knew the perfect strategy that would, in true British style, avoid the issue entirely: we baked them some cookies instead.

Proofreader: @ScandiTina

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