German engineering

Because Stefan is in our bedroom cursing about "idiotisch" German over-engineering ("wie kann man nur so 'an Scheiss konstruieren!"), I should probably say a few words about the quality of German products.

Pretty reliably over the years, whenever we'd lug a new box home from Home Depot containing, say, a power saw or a lamp, we'd lay out all the pieces on the floor and follow the assembly instructions only to find that a part was too big or too small or missing a hole, or that the nuts didn't fit the bolts, or that the wiring was frayed, or whatever. And pretty reliably, Stefan would furrow his brow and mutter angrily about the design flaws and the shoddy construction. "Typical American quality," he'd say. I'd reply defensively, "hey, you don't know that this was made in the U.S." And inevitably, the box would say "Made in the U.S.A."

In contrast, the phrase "Made in Germany" signifies precise engineering. Everything fits to a T. Pieces are precision cut, materials are long-lasting, and designs are aesthetically pleasing. Yet such industrious thoroughness has its faults.

Consider, for example, the sleek but humble toilet. If you're lucky, the reason your toilet doesn't work is that the only accessible Dichtung (how I love that word) is leaking. You buy a new gasket for a few Euros, replace the old one, and continue with your life. If you're unlucky, you're only option is to replace the entire tank, for the complex labyrinthine inner workings of German toilets are neither standardized nor do-it-yourself reparable. "Himmel, Arsch, und Zwirn."

Then there's the stainless steel toaster, glossy and proud, able to toast two thick slices of Vollkornbrot and gently warm a crusty Semmel all at the same time. It will never break. Nor will you ever be able to clean out that accumulating pile of crud in the bottom, unless you have a precision screwdriver handy, as the crumb tray is tightly attached to the appliance with four elegant, teeny tiny screws.

The current object of Stefan's disdain is a bed frame. The frame was designed to hold together with a mere twelve wooden pins and a couple of screws. So confident were its creators about its durable construction that they didn't leave any way to access the screw heads after years of changing humidity loosened all the joints. "So was bloedes."

The practical benefit that I reap from German design, of course, is learning how to curse auf Bairisch.