Ever since meeting Annette in 1997, I have been trying to become fluent in German. Some years ago I realized that the only way this is likely to happen would be to live in a German-speaking country.  Now that we are here, I am reading German every chance I get, and trying not to shy away from opportunities to speak it.

I did not necessarily expect that our two daughters would be fluent by year’s end.  Rani is taking a German class at her high school, but the rest of her courses are in English. Mamta, however, ended up at the German elementary school around the block from our apartment.  This decision was more stressful for me than for her.  When I went to pick up Mamta after her first day of school, I was worried I might find her in tears.  Not exactly:

It may not be long before Mamta is more fluent that I.

By the way, the German Shepherd (just “Shepherd,” here) on the stairs in the background arrived at the school solo, picked up a student, and headed home.

I considered taking a language class to bolster my German, but decided instead to see if I could make steady progress on my own.  I recall my friend Darije saying that when he first came to the US from Yugoslavia, he learned a lot of English by watching television.  Back in New Hampshire we don’t own a television, and we try to ensure that our daughters don’t spend too much time in front of a computer.  Our apartment in Berlin came with a large television, and both girls know how to operate the remote (I still struggle with it).  Annette and I are okay with our daughters watching limited amounts of television here — “as long as it’s in German.”  I try to carve out time to join them.

A week ago we decided that when eating dinner together at home, Annette would speak only German to us non-native speakers.  I determined to join her in speaking only German. We figured the girls would speak whatever they liked.  Holding to this decision has proven harder than I would have thought.  It’s not just that Annette forgets; we all do.  Our noble intentions to practice Deutschsprechen at the dinner table are proving no match for the ease with which we communicate in English.

Like most cities, Berlin is subdivided into administrative districts.  In size and character, these Bezirke seem more akin to Paris’s arrondissements than to New York City’s five boroughs.  The current configuration of twelve Bezirke was created in 2001, from the twenty-three that had previously existed.  Each Bezirke has its own mayor and local governing body, which are in turn subject to the city and state government.

Yesterday, Annette and I had an appointment at the Bürgeramt (“citizens department”) for Charlottenburg/Wilmersdorf, the Bezirk in which our neighborhood is located.  The Bürgeramt is in a large, non-descript building near the busy Fehrbelliner Platz.  We had previously been in the building last summer to inquire about public school options for our daughters.  Yesterday’s visit was to obtain official permission to reside in Berlin.  We had to bring a handful of documents, including passports, our marriage certificate, birth certificates for our daughters, and our apartment lease.  Our application was processed by an impassive woman who had clearly been doing this for years.  It was only when she was finally stamping Annette’s German passport that she cracked a smile and said “Jetzt sind Sie Berliner.”  Now you are Berliners.