Being German

Jun 28, 2026

Dear Friend,

Lady Fortune glanced my way this week when a self-imposed writing retreat to Mallorca coincided with the UK’s second heatwave of 2026. For the past six nights, I have slept in an intensely air conditioned room. Every day at about 3pm, after spending the day writing, I thawed out beside the pool. I was continuously startled by the young women in string bikinis showing their bottoms. The men, heavily tattooed, scratched at their swimshorts then dive-bombed into the pool to get their attention. I had forgotten this is how some people holiday. I was David Attenborough witnessing the vibrant world of heterosexuals.

The Spanish hotel was 99% German guests. One morning during the breakfast buffet, a man with a tiny moustache brought down a penis-shaped water pistol and placed it on his table. At first, I thought it was a dildo and couldn’t take my eyes off it. Was it a protest? A joke for a stag do? An odd offering for his partner? While he was up at the buffet, a waitress stopped in her tracks and stared at the table. She then threw a napkin over the offending item and disposed of it like she was scooping up a dead bird.

That afternoon, a group of women sat in the shallow end of the pool, drinking cocktails, hooting regularly with laughter. It was the only time all week, I missed the company of people I know. Soon, two gay men appeared with a bottle of Cava and joined the group. More bottles arrived, one cork popping after another and the volume increased. I put on my headphones and sat in the shade of an umbrella, watching wood pigeons dunk their beaks into the pool. Drifting off, I woke to one of their enormous green shits on my sun lounger. I found this pleasing, lucky even, especially the way it had missed my foot.

Since my mother died, I have enjoyed the lack of guilt when taking myself away. No longer her carer, it has taken a while to come to terms with no one needing me in quite the same way she once did. I have to remind myself how time feels freer now I can go away to a hotel room to write, but still, I think of her. How she was the only one who took such an interest in where I was. How she would be interested in the little cough which I get sometimes.

I wrote In Search of The Missing Eyelash in a series of hotel rooms when I worked for British Airways as long haul cabin crew. This hotel is peopled with guests who at first appear to be ‘White British’ (with perhaps a few more blondes than usual) but, when they open their mouths, German comes out. Pleasantly enough, on the few occasions people spoke to me, usually in the lift, they did so in German, assuming that I was too.

Based on how I thought these younger people saw me, I found myself beginning to construct a German identity: a tall bosomy Frau who carried a pen and notebook, travelling solo on an adventure?

With no companion to focus on, I spent my non-writing time observing the way people acted at dinner. Mostly, the German speakers didn’t bother with pleasantries. I noted that when a waiter placed down a plateful of food to a group of diners, there was no ‘thank you’. When someone wanted a drink, they waved their empty beer bottle in the air and pointed to it with no smile or hint of ‘please’.

For my final night in Mallorca I set myself a challenge - to be German. It reminded me of the story when comedian Richard Ayoade came into the Bookseller Crow bookshop. Once a local, who regularly came in for his books, he never would speak to me during the transaction. There were no pleasantries, no advice on choosing a book, not one word ever. To be honest, I found it confusing. I was younger then and even though I was a published novelist, in the world of work, I was closer to my experience of working as cabin crew for British Airways. I would judge people by how they acted towards me on board. Maybe Richard was exhausted or trying to remain private, but it really bugged me.

So, one day when I saw him enter the shop I decided, if he wasn’t going to acknowledge me, then in turn I would also not say a word to him. I would experiment, when he came to the counter to purchase his book, if I could conduct the whole transaction silently. So I did, and I reckon he never even noticed.

My final night in Mallorca I went to the local Tapas bar where the prawns in garlic are excellent and a glass of white wine costs 2.30 euros. Halting all use of pleasentries, still I was shown a table. I did not say thank you when handed the menu. I did not say please when asking for my food. The whole evening was spent this way, and each time I didn’t say what I usually would, stopping my lips as they willed to move, I sat back in my seat. It was relaxing, it was powerful. I felt strident; a tall Frau.

When I left a two euro tip, the waitress appeared surprised and genuinely thanked me. It is customary in Majorca for customers to leave only a few cents, or round up the bill up to the nearest euro.

These young women working hard on their basic salaries, serving us our food and drink each night, deserve a little more, surely.

Keep writing.

Love Karen xx

P.S. A big DANKE to all my new Short Tall Letter subscribers. Those who are paid, I especially want to thank you - your support helps me continue to write, believe in what I do and connect with you, dear readers. Plus, you gain access to my entire back catalogue of short autobiographical letters.

In other news, if you fancy a night out at Bookseller Crow, do come to join us this Friday 3rd July, 7.30pm. Come and share your experiences of Youth Clubs at our special event celebrating the paperback of UP THE YOUTHCLUB: A love letter by Emma Warren. She’ll be chatting with social historian Travis Elborough, Bookseller Crow, Crystal Palace. See you there! Tickets here

For those interested in my next London based creative writing course, I’ll be running an introduction to memoir writing, starting 27th October, Tuesday evenings for six weeks. More details here: https://www.outsavvy.com/event/35775/memoir-writing-with-karen-mcleod