Blogging from Germany: The Unique Hotness of German Men

Saturday evening was the annual Schnawwl Theatre barbeque at Credi and Anne’s garden. I sat there looking around me – children playing, a barbeque fired up, girls in little summer frocks, sails hung overhead to cut the sun, picnic tables, beer, Sekt and all these gorgeous German men. (This was also the day of the Germany-Uruguay game.)

So what makes the German Man so unique that one might even crown him the Thinking Woman’s Crumpet?

I can only say, think Shweinsteiger. Now Villa is dandy, Kaka is ok and Christiano is well, Christiano. Also, he wears flowers in his hair, which is all very princess-y and sexually ambivalent, but I like the unequivocal loyalty of Schweinsteiger. What did he say post the Uruguay game? I want to go home to Munich and drink a groß cappuccino in my favourite café. Not, I’ll be watching Formula One with my super model girl friend. This is a man you can believe. He’s not one to be carried away by molecular gastronomy and out of season carnations. OK, he might be a tad dull, but on other fronts, Shweinsteiger has got it goin’ on.

But for now, we stick with the Men of Schnawwl, jah? The other day I was waiting for Jule at the café bar. It’s blisteringly hot and seriously, it felt like a street fight would break out or at the very least, Billy the Kid would ride into town. I order my Litchi Bionade and shoot the breeze with the café folk. It’s sooooooo hot! I whine. Hot & Melancholy Young Man in Black with tattoos and nose piercing behind the bar says – Must be the same as in India. Noooooo, says I, I’ve never been anywhere in India quite so hot, here I’m sweating all the time. Us too, says Hot Young Man. Noooo, I gush, you all look so chilled. Guess what he says, dear readers?

“Ah, but we sweat on the inside.”

HUGE PAUSE (as this writer reconsiders citizenship)

How irreproachably cool is that?!!!!

Also, they all look so fantastically good because of the general aura of world-weariness that they carry. It is hard, but we shall do it, their arms seem to declare. Slap the wurst on the grill, crack that beer, haul away that trolley full of par cans! Eins, zwei, drei, vier…

Like my friend and cultural commentator extraordinaire, Sophia Stepf told me – Into the abyss and out again! (Then, maybe into the abyss again, but we shall see) And on top of all that – oh, the poetry in their eyes so reminiscent of Schiller (himself sehr dishy) and Uhlandstraße (in Berlin, I must specify, having only just learned that there is an  Uhlandstraße in every German city) and Element of Crime! High Kulture meets the Street.

Thus on the hotness index (never mind the World Cup), no one can beat German men. I therefore toast the men of the Alte Feuer Wache!