Excellently priced wine in the supermarket (you know, 3€ for a bottle that would be about $16 in Sydney).
On that note, the very good Australian shiraz that Käfer imports and sells for 3.50€ – schnäppchen.
A good slab of Brie for 2€.
Hell, the entire, enormous dairy department of every supermarket.
9 borders for the crossing and …
Road trips to cross them.
Radio stations that aren’t afraid of adding 90s classics to their playlists – who, in fact, do it as a matter of cause.
The big cities.
The little towns.
Kölsch (so fresh!)
Being able to drink all of those delicious beverages in public, whenever and wherever I want. Because I’m an adult, something Germany kindly remembers.
The ubiquity of seriously good chocolate.
Dutch wine gum stalls at the markets.
How every weekend there is a festival of some sort to celebrate something.
And how at every festival there are ten pommes stalls, ten sweets stores and twenty wurst stands.
Spring, marvellous Spring, with its flowers and rapsfelds and Spargel and sweet, sweet promise of warmth.
Daylight until 10.30pm in July.
Clean public toilets (I’ll pay 70 cents for hygiene).
The choice and consequent cheapness of grocery stores. No Coles and Woolworths duopoly here.
H&M delivery service.
Kitsch homeware stores, Nanu Nana and Butlers.
Busses that run on time.
25c pots of yoghurt.
History at every turn, under every rock, down every cobbled lane.
The fierce pride in and protection of sub-cultures, dialects and traditions as produced by the twists and turns of this aforementioned history. (This can, however, get mildly irritating when ten people who live within 20km of each other refuse to be identified as belonging to the same region. Franconian people, I am looking at you.)
Kiel. Actually, the North in general.
And when they lie to me and say ‘du sprichst sehr gut Deutsch!’