For years my relationships with my neighbours was between two poles: there were the ones I’d nod at and greet with a ‘Hallo’ as I passed on the stairwell, and those I would greet with a friendly Bavarian ‘Servus!’ as we passed on the stairwell. I would be on friendly terms with the people I lived next to, but we weren’t going to be friends. I always felt there was a careful balance that needed to be maintained, especially when I lived in larger apartment blocks, an unspoken quid pro quo for renters, if you will: If everyone tries not to annoy each other, we all agree to take in any packages or parcels while someone’s not at home. It was a good system, it wasn’t very social, but it worked.

Perhaps it was my British upbringing that made me so reticent. Very few British people I know have meaningful relationships with their neighbours, especially if they live in a city. Usually having children will make connecting with people a little easier, but even if the children play together, it’s rare that the parents will. Perhaps this has something to do with a lack of community spaces, or at least neutral spaces. An invitation to someone's home isn’t normally offered until a relationship has been allowed to flourish, but with neighbours there is an expectation to do so right away. This can add more awkwardness on top of the inherent awkwardness of being British, which is not a great combination when meeting new people.  

Sometimes British people will genuinely like their neighbours, but in my experience this is a veneer, one of the many maintained by the British skill of sounding friendly and interested, when in fact we’re anything but. If you ever want to discover the true feelings a British person has towards their neighbours, simply say something like ‘Your neighbours seem nice’ and no matter who you’re talking to, they will spill forth a litany of infractions, annoyances, and general disappointments. Despite the invective, none of these issues will ever be resolved. Social awkwardness and a general desire to not make a fuss means people will often live their lives quietly hating the person living opposite. 

Germany is slightly different. For a start, Germans don’t suffer social awkwardness at the same levels as the British, or perhaps their tolerance of it is just far higher. Equally,  there seems to be a community spirited aspect inherent in Germans, or perhaps more accurately, the many Germans who grew up in villages. I see this in my wife and her family. Whether they live in a village suburbia, or the middle of a city, they all know their neighbours. In some cases, they know their neighbor’s neighbours, sometimes they even know people several streets over.

Like her family, my wife has been a committed botherer of neighbours for all the time I’ve lived with her. We’ve invited every neighbour we’ve ever had to dinner, at one point or another, which has created some rather bizarre moments. My favourite was when we invited all 10 apartments in our building for drinks, in which 8 attended, and proceeded to stay until 3am in the morning. We met a board game designer, an engineer, a French teacher, two obvious drug dealers, and a single mother who told amazingly dirty jokes and drank me under the table. Although it didn’t change my general neighbourly awkwardness, I did appreciate there might be some benefits to knowing the neighbours.

Then again, there are some aspects of German culture that make any neighbourly relationships difficult. Three in particular make neighbours tricky: a general inclination for direct communication, high levels of situational awareness, and a willingness to proffer opinions without being asked. I’ll give you an example. A few weeks ago, as I enjoyed my weekly Saturday morning thousand yard stare out the window, the sounds of the Peppa Pig theme tune and my daughter's gleeful/maniacal laughter in the background, there was a knock at the door. It was our neighbour, a spritely retiree in his mid 70s. He politely enquired whether I knew that our top floor windows were open. I took a couple of beats to make sure I’d actually understood what he’s said, as sometimes my German takes a little while to get going, and it seemed a strange thing to be asking, early in the morning. When I told him I did, he seemed extremely relieved, and reminded me to close them at night. Still a little confused, I thanked him and shut the door. It wasn’t until I told my wife, that she asked the obvious question I’d missed: why was the neighbour looking at our roof in the first place?

It’s a fair question, after all, neither my wife or I have spent much time pondering the openness or otherwise of our neighbours' windows. After mentioning this to another neighbour a few days later, it turned out that our windows had been a much discussed topic among the local community. We were informed that most people close their shutters at night, as it saves a significant amount on heating. This advice is useful, it may even see a nice financial return, but it’s a weird way to find out that all the neighbours have been discussing us. At least, I found it discomforting.

Perhaps it’s how the information was delivered that makes me feel uncomfortable. In the UK, if someone wants to give advice, or suggest a course of action, they’ll begin by discussing something a thousand times removed from the actual topic, and then slowly manoeuvre the conversation to a place where they can bring up the issue, as if it’s a passing thought: “Oh, by the way, I noticed those windows of yours were open earlier, etc, etc.”. It’s a curious communication dance we do, possibly to avoid the dreaded awkwardness. Not in Germany though, no, here they knock on the door and tell you directly that they’ve looked at your roof carefully and have found a fault that needs to be rectified. 

Directness, observance, and unsolicited opinions don’t always result in polite notifications about windows. I’ve heard and witnessed interactions, often over the recycling, that seemed ready to combust into a full blown argument at any minute. Equally, these cultural aspects could lead to continuous complaints about minor infractions, from noise, to the way someone closes their door in the morning. If you’re lucky, it’s a passive aggressive note stuffed in the mailbox, or pinned to the door. Only this summer, one of our neighbours recounted how she had found a note and a packet of felt pads, which another neighbour had delivered, along with the request to fasten the pads to their recycling bin, as the noise of it closing was annoying.

The British approach of superficial friendliness might avoid certain social awkwardness, but it just doesn’t work in a Germany of earnestness and directness. Equally, it’s useful to be aware that in Germany, there is a likelihood of someone overstepping boundaries at some point. There’s no guarantee neighbours will be nice, it’s always a bit of a lottery, but sometimes it can be the reason why someone's house feels like home.

Proofreader: @ScandiTina

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