I stood in front of a sandwich stand. Inside, a man was working, his back towards me. I stared at this back, seeing the muscle underneath—expansive, and slowly shifting. After a while, I mustered up my courage and said, “Huh, entschuldigen, ich möchte eine Dürüm.”

“Möchte?” He turned around, saw me, and laughed. 

“Worum? Kein möchte?” 

“They only say möchte in German. Here we don’t say it. Einfach eine Dürüm.” 

We both laughed. I let him work on my wrap, and then asked, “You are not Austrian, are you?”

“No, of course not,” he said, pulling a disgusted face. 

“So, where do you come from?”

“Kurds. Don’t you know?” He paused, saw me shake my head, and added “Iran, I come from Iran.” 

“I come from China.”

“Yes, yes, China.” He said lazily, unsurprised. “Why do you want to learn German anyway? Because of work?”

“No, in work I speak English. But I think I should respect the culture.” I said — using my universal reply. 

“Respect the culture,” he spit on the floor. “Don’t you respect them.” 

I took a step back.

“They don’t respect you, why should you respect them? I’ve been here ten years, in Europe thirty years. Netherlands, London, France, everywhere. Always the same, no respect. We and them, same city, two circles.” His hands moved, drawing two invisible loops in air. “I know eight languages, Sir. Eight. What use, they still don’t respect you.”

“Yes, if they don’t respect you, you shouldn’t respect them.”

“That’s right, my friend.” He spat again. 

I have now gotten my Dürüm and paid. Behind me, the line of customers grew longer, the April wind felt chill on my bare shins, and he was still ranting. “These people—spoiled, too spoiled. Their easy life ahead of them. But you know what? I don’t care. I do business, and I trust in God.” He raised his hand, his forefinger pointing to the roof.