“Big shoes, you’re steppin‘ in to!“ - Who hasn’t heard that phrase when occupying a new work position and replacing someone else who did a good job and didn’t want to leave. No doubt, it’s helpful and makes sense to know the size of the shoes you are dealing with. It gives you an idea what kind of challenges you’ll have to face in the future and what people expect from you. But honestly, like it is with toothbrushes – who likes to wear somebody else’s shoes?

Life in Manhattan requires solid and lasting footwear. How many blocks can you walk until you catch a cab or enter a subway station? The number rises with growing rush hour traffic on the streets and in the metro tunnels. For many newcomers in the city – or “againcomers” like me - it all begins with a stroll through the many shoe stores in town. You can get good deals and good quality here, if you look carefully.

Filene’s Basement was the place where I got caught in the shoe department just days after my arrival in New York. A pair of Florsheim penny loafers for a very good price was my choice. What a feeling – good looks and no blisters the first day I wore them! But to get into the stiff shoelaceless leather boxes was a little difficult. When the helping fingers hurt after a while I began thinking of a supporting instrument for the daily dressing procedure.

The comfortable and well-equipped hotel room offered a minibar, Internet access, a hairdryer, a flatiron, bathrobes and toiletteries but nothing to please my feet and shoes. The concierge in the funky lobby understands what I am trying to explain with my hands and gestures but she doesn’t know the proper English word for it either. “I’ll ask,” she says with a big smile and walks away. Her smile is even bigger, when she returns: “A shoe horn is what you want!” she announces proudly. “Do you have one for me,” is my desperate question now. “I’ll ask,” comes her reply, before she disappears again. The answer is a “no” with a shoulder shrug — and no recommendations where else to look or ask.

The drug stores at every other corner, selling everything you can imagine, don’t have shoe horns either. “We don’t carry them anymore,” is the stereotypical answer. Not Anymore? What has happened to the feet and footwear of New Yorkers? Sneakers don’t need the help of shoe horns, I suppose.

Passing a shoeshine place near Grand Central Station I stop, turn in, and try again. “Shoeshine, Mister?” is the offering question. “No thanks, but …” “Yeah, we have some,” is the reply in a businesslike tone. The man grabs a torn cardboard box containing a collection of used shoe horns in all sizes. I choose a short one with a big loop to hang it. I am relieved and pay one dollar for it. “And a shoeshine?” The voice sounds hopeful again. “No thanks, you helped me a lot – next time, definitely!”

When we traveled to Italy for the first time, my mother bought a Langenscheidt language guide that translated useful phrases for every day use into Italian, for example: “I lost my passport, please show me the way to the German Consulate.” However, I can’t remember that my mother used the language guide very intensively.

Recently in a bookstore, I found a language guide that takes the concept of the good old Langenscheidt to an entirely new level:

“Wicked German for the Traveller” or: How to get around Germany as a tourist with off-key phrases.

Under the headline “Beer Connoisseurship” you can find the following examples of a beergarden conversation:

“The Hefe-Weizen has big feet and small head” which means in German, “Weizenbier hat große Füße und einen kleinen Kopf”, and is pronounced as follows: “VEI-tsayn-beer haht GROH-seh FEW-se oont einen KLEI-nen KOHPF”. For the continuation of that beergarden night the guide recommends the sentence: “My stomach feels like an old woodchuck” – in German: “Mein Magen fühlt sich an wie ein altes Waldmurmeltier.”

When using the German railroad, “Die Deutsche Bahn”, the greeting “Guten Tag meine Dame/ Herr/Genosse Schaffner” (”Good day Madam/Sir/ Comrade Conductor”) is recommended, with the additional remark: “Warum halten wir an diesem Rangiergleis an?” (”Why are we stopping at this switching track?”).

Apparently, the authors did their research shortly after the German Reunification. But the chapter I liked best was “Surviving the Autobahn”, for example with this sentence: “Geben sie mir 12 Zylinder oder mein Geld zurück” (”Give me 12 cylinders or my money back”).

The authors also researched the fines for swearing at other drivers:

“Damischer Bulle costs 2760 dollars, “Knolle” 425 dollars and “Rchtlfrtzlkraut” 100 dollars, what ever that may mean. For additional 99 cents you are allowed to say “Wichtigtuer” (”poser”) twice.

You might want to hand out this delightful mixture of intended and unintended humor to every American visitor of the Oktoberfest. Surely this would improve German-American relations.