Knowing your way through a different culture has the same perils of using a second language. Much in the way I ordered three erections (Latten) daily for six months, I recently got into a not-so-nice pissing match with the German tax people. As I now know, I was using the wrong part of German culture.

It goes like this: one day the phone rings and it's a woman saying she's auditing my value-added tax return (I have to collect this as a freelancer and transfer it to the gummit). This bothered me little because she was concerned that all the non-taxable foreign income I declared might actually be taxable. I sent her all the stuff to prove she was wrong and didn't really think about it.

Then she called again.

Yes, she said, the foreign stuff was really untaxable but there was another problem -- she felt I was incorrectly collecting a lower tax rate on my translations than I was supposed to. This is a constant battle with people who work with words and the German Tax Mann/Frau, so I won't bore you. But I thought it was time to call in the grumpy, cynical side of German culture. I started barking at her and questioning her ability (indirectly, of course) to do her job.

I wasn't nice.

I didn't feel good about it but she shot back and remained on target so I thought all was OK. It is, actually, the way Germans (sometimes) do things. Sure, I was doing it because I was terrified of the thousands in back taxes I could ultimately owe and because I was feeling singled out since it was the second audit-like thing we'd gotten from them last year.

But now looking at the resolution of both of those cases (they were decided unceremoniously in our favor), I have to say my sleepless nights were unwarranted. It's because I made a cultural mistake (much in the way Marc once had a lengthy discussion with an attractive pharmacist about suppositories all because he didn't know what "Zaepfchen" were). I assumed the Finanzamt was the same boogie man as the IRS.

I don't think they are -- and neither do either my former or current accountants. The tax Mann/Frau played with open cards. They wanted to see if I could back up what I was claiming. They didn't want any spectacular acrobatics, just an explanation. As soon as I provided that, they were happy.

Which actually speaks to another part of German culture I sometimes forget -- that you're responsible for yourself and everything you do/want -- but I'll save that for later. And I'll go back to just barking at car drivers while I'm on my bike (or cyclists when I'm in my car).

I finally put up some Christmas pictures.

Also: Finding a decent bike shop is always a problem for me. They always seem to have their agenda, and I always know exactly what I want and it's hard to find a middle ground. For awhile, I found a place that I could muddle through, though the dudes were jerks and unfriendly but would eventually get me -- or do -- what I wanted (you know, as the paying customer).

Then one day I went in and all the familiar faces were gone, replaced with inexperienced, inept employees. About the same time, a new shop opened right across the street from our place called Rad der Stadt, essentially the city's bike but with a double meaning about being in the pulse of the city or so (it's a German thing). I should have seen the connection but the only thing that opens more frequently around here than bike shops are kids' clothing shops.

I decided to give the Rad der Stadt a try and who do I discover running it? Of course: all the dudes from the other place. Only, suddenly they were friendly. Whenever I returned defective stuff to their old shop and they were horrific -- first blaming me, then blaming someone else, then trying to just not do anything and eventually giving in (welcome to Berlin, this is status quo here).

I bought a lock at Rad der Stadt and, later that day, the key broke off in it. When I took it back, they just laughed and handed me a new one. You can imagine my shock.

Last weekend I mentioned to them how they were completely different people. Again, they laughed and said they were glad to hear it. They run the shops as collectives. At the old place, one of the partners was just a jerk and none of them wanted to be there, or tied to him, they told me. They're totally digging their new setup, and it shows.

It seems like a good lesson for a business school, if you ask me. Now they laugh and acknowledge their own agenda while conceding that my own ideas might work too -- the perfect way to weasel more money out of me.