they were written in Old German, and I could decipher only small fragments of them. From our spot on the low-lying terrace, we saw a fishing trawler in the harbor approach the quay wall. Soon, numerous crates were hoisted from the ship and loaded onto trucks.
As the second boat came into view, our host headed for our table. I turned to him eagerly, ready to order an ice-cold Radler beer. But he walked right past us, turned toward the railing, and looked out over the incoming boats. He began to wave his arms wildly, then shouted something I couldn’t comprehend at a volume that hurt my ears. Was he warning somebody about something? Or waving off an intruder? A man appeared inside the boat’s wheelhouse and saluted back, a hand raised to his cap. He yelled back something in the same incomprehensible language, then laughed raucously, apparently thrilled by the presence of our wildly gesticulating host out on the terrace.
The host turned back to our table. After his desperate exchange with the fisherman, I expected his face to be somber. But it was covered by one of the biggest smiles I’d ever seen.
“So, good people, what will it be?”
I almost covered my ears. Why on earth was he yelling at us? Did he think we were deaf?
“Two large Alsters, please.” Mathis didn’t react a bit.
“I’d rather have a Radler,” I said.
“That’s the same thing, Nele. Up here in the North, they call it an Alster.”
Why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut?
“Oh.” I gave him my biggest smile, hoping that our host wouldn’t judge me for my ignorance about local customs. He didn’t seem to notice my mistake.
“Whatcha wanna eat?” he roared.
“I’ll have a large loaf of granade -bread,” Mathis said. “How about you, Nele?”
Grenadebread ? What on earth was that? But I had learned my lesson and wasn’t about to ask. “One for me, too, please. I’m starving!”
“If you have time, my son is just coming in with his boat,” the host said. “He’s bringing in some fresh granades now.”
I wished he’d stop screaming. “Is that your son on the boat?”
“So ’tis.”
“We’ve got all day if it means getting freshly caught granades . Right, Nele?”
“Of course. I’d wait all day for grenades,” I said. Mathis gave me a funny look. Why was he grinning at me that way? Our host nodded quickly and went back inside.
“Why does he yell like that?”
“I have no idea, but the locals say he always does it. That’s why they call him Karl-Bölk.”
“Excuse me?”
“ Bölken is Old German for ‘scream.’ He’s from East Frisia.”
I hadn’t intended to take a language immersion vacation. In my opinion, he didn’t have to scream so loud, even if his name was Bölk.
“How do you know so much about this place?”
“I’m here often, so I’ve learned a lot. And if you leave a boat here, you learn even faster.”
“You have a boat here?” This fact really stunned me.
“Not here in the harbor, but close.”
“A fishing boat?”
“Yes, but a very old one. I’m turning it into a sailboat.”
I was impressed. “What will you do when it’s ready?”
“I’m going to sail it around the world.”
I wasn’t sure whether to believe him. But something in his eyes told me not to ask anything more.
When our host brought the food, I got my next lesson in what may be the most complicated language that has existed since the Tower of Babel. The “grenades” turned out to be the tastiest North Sea shrimp I had ever eaten. I ate every bit of my huge portion and felt an overwhelming desire to lick the plate once they were gone. I followed Mathis from the restaurant in good spirits and nearly stumbled over a sign that said “Fresh Granades Daily!” Shrimp! Not grenades! Mathis had to think I was an idiot.
The ride back to the dike was a long one, so partway there we took another break. We sat down on a bench and looked out on the water without talking for a while. In the distance, the
As the second boat came into view, our host headed for our table. I turned to him eagerly, ready to order an ice-cold Radler beer. But he walked right past us, turned toward the railing, and looked out over the incoming boats. He began to wave his arms wildly, then shouted something I couldn’t comprehend at a volume that hurt my ears. Was he warning somebody about something? Or waving off an intruder? A man appeared inside the boat’s wheelhouse and saluted back, a hand raised to his cap. He yelled back something in the same incomprehensible language, then laughed raucously, apparently thrilled by the presence of our wildly gesticulating host out on the terrace.
The host turned back to our table. After his desperate exchange with the fisherman, I expected his face to be somber. But it was covered by one of the biggest smiles I’d ever seen.
“So, good people, what will it be?”
I almost covered my ears. Why on earth was he yelling at us? Did he think we were deaf?
“Two large Alsters, please.” Mathis didn’t react a bit.
“I’d rather have a Radler,” I said.
“That’s the same thing, Nele. Up here in the North, they call it an Alster.”
Why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut?
“Oh.” I gave him my biggest smile, hoping that our host wouldn’t judge me for my ignorance about local customs. He didn’t seem to notice my mistake.
“Whatcha wanna eat?” he roared.
“I’ll have a large loaf of granade -bread,” Mathis said. “How about you, Nele?”
Grenadebread ? What on earth was that? But I had learned my lesson and wasn’t about to ask. “One for me, too, please. I’m starving!”
“If you have time, my son is just coming in with his boat,” the host said. “He’s bringing in some fresh granades now.”
I wished he’d stop screaming. “Is that your son on the boat?”
“So ’tis.”
“We’ve got all day if it means getting freshly caught granades . Right, Nele?”
“Of course. I’d wait all day for grenades,” I said. Mathis gave me a funny look. Why was he grinning at me that way? Our host nodded quickly and went back inside.
“Why does he yell like that?”
“I have no idea, but the locals say he always does it. That’s why they call him Karl-Bölk.”
“Excuse me?”
“ Bölken is Old German for ‘scream.’ He’s from East Frisia.”
I hadn’t intended to take a language immersion vacation. In my opinion, he didn’t have to scream so loud, even if his name was Bölk.
“How do you know so much about this place?”
“I’m here often, so I’ve learned a lot. And if you leave a boat here, you learn even faster.”
“You have a boat here?” This fact really stunned me.
“Not here in the harbor, but close.”
“A fishing boat?”
“Yes, but a very old one. I’m turning it into a sailboat.”
I was impressed. “What will you do when it’s ready?”
“I’m going to sail it around the world.”
I wasn’t sure whether to believe him. But something in his eyes told me not to ask anything more.
When our host brought the food, I got my next lesson in what may be the most complicated language that has existed since the Tower of Babel. The “grenades” turned out to be the tastiest North Sea shrimp I had ever eaten. I ate every bit of my huge portion and felt an overwhelming desire to lick the plate once they were gone. I followed Mathis from the restaurant in good spirits and nearly stumbled over a sign that said “Fresh Granades Daily!” Shrimp! Not grenades! Mathis had to think I was an idiot.
The ride back to the dike was a long one, so partway there we took another break. We sat down on a bench and looked out on the water without talking for a while. In the distance, the
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