After my first blog entry about stepping onto American soil with wide eyes and a suitcase full of German habits, I owe you an update. It’s only fair to report on what came next. Because let’s be honest, first impressions are one thing. Living through the first few weeks is a whole different game.
Augusta, Georgia greeted me with a climate that seems to be 80% humidity and 20% “Are you sure you packed enough deodorant?” But what really struck me was not the weather, it was the people. They call it Southern hospitality. I call it the exact opposite of how I was raised.
Southern Hospitality: A Crash Course
The South has a way of wrapping you in warmth, not just the sticky air, but the people. Strangers want to know how you are. Neighbors wave from porches. Cashiers sprinkle you with nicknames you didn’t even know you had. It’s like walking into a family reunion where nobody remembers inviting you, but everyone’s delighted you came.
Coming from Germany, where efficiency and privacy are the twin pillars of daily life, this is…a lot. Germans don’t ask “How are you?” unless they’re prepared for a ten-minute answer. Here, the phrase is a social handshake. You’re expected to respond “Good, how are you?” and move along. If you try explaining your jet lag at the Walmart checkout line, you’ll receive a bewildered look. The same goes for sharing your existential dread. It’s the kind of look usually reserved for people who cut in line at the bakery.
“Baby” at the Gas Station
One of my earliest encounters with Southern hospitality came in the most unlikely of places: a gas station. I walked in, grabbed a bottle of water, and went to pay. The cashier looked up, smiled, and said:
“That’ll be $1.25, baby.”
I froze. Baby? Excuse me? Did we just skip six stages of intimacy? In Germany, the cashier would have barely made eye contact. They would have shoved the receipt at me and gone back to their crossword puzzle. Here, I was suddenly somebody’s “baby.”
I needed a moment to understand that “baby” was not a declaration of love. It was not a clumsy flirtation either. It was simply a local flavor of friendliness. Still, I walked out of that gas station feeling like I’d accidentally gotten engaged.
Walmart: The Planet-Sized Store
Speaking of culture shock, let’s talk Walmart. Imagine walking into a building ten times the size of your average German supermarket. The first time I stepped through those automatic doors, my brain short-circuited.
In Germany, if you need bread, you go to the bakery. If you need socks, you go to a clothing store. If you need car oil, you go to the auto shop. Here in Augusta, you can buy all three in the same store. You can also get a shotgun, a kayak, and a gallon of pickles the size of my head.
I went in looking for light bulbs. I left with three types of cereal. I also bought a garden hose and I had the vague feeling that I’d just explored an entire continent. Somewhere between aisle 42 and 96, I started to suspect that Walmart is not just a store. It is more of a lifestyle.
Smile Practice and Small Talk
Another adjustment: smiling. Americans smile. A lot. People smile when walking into a shop. They also smile when walking past someone on the sidewalk. They even smile when they’re just making eye contact from a passing car. In Germany, if you smile at strangers, people assume you either know them or you’ve lost your mind.
And then there’s small talk. “How are you?” “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” “You here for Masters Week?” I tried answering these questions honestly, like a good German, and quickly realized my mistake. People didn’t want a detailed report of my mental state. They just wanted verbal confetti tossed into the air, a quick pop of friendliness before moving on.
Neighbors and Boundaries
One of the first weekends, my neighbor saw me struggling with grocery bags and promptly offered to help. He introduced himself. He asked where I was from. He made sure I knew I can knock on his door if I needed anything. Sweet? Absolutely. Disorienting? Also yes.
Back home, neighbors are polite but distant. You might exchange a nod in the stairwell, but asking for sugar would feel like borrowing someone’s kidney. In Augusta, I had to adjust to the idea that friendliness was not just surface-level. It could actually mean “I’ll help you, no strings attached.”
Lessons Learned
So, what have I taken from these first weeks? That Southern hospitality is both confusing and comforting. That a simple “baby” at the gas station can throw you into an existential spiral. That Walmart is essentially a city-state with its own laws of physics.
And maybe most importantly: that warmth, even when it feels overwhelming, has its own kind of efficiency. It makes everyday life softer, friendlier, and a little less lonely.
I’m not giving up my German directness anytime soon. But if you hear me throwing out a casual “How y’all doing?” don’t be surprised. Adaptation, after all, is just survival with a smile.
Frankly Speaking 