Dirk! Better than Shaq!

It was past midnight when my wife and I stepped off the train in Cologne.
The cathedral loomed in the distance—something out of a movie trailer called You’re Definitely Lost.
The cobblestones sparkled just enough to make you forget your feet hurt.

The World Cup had filled Germany with delirious joy,
but by this hour, Cologne was shutting down.
The cheers had faded.
The beer gardens were closing.
The city had entered that strange in-between state—
too late for dinner, too early for breakfast,
and just quiet enough to make you wonder if you’d made a mistake.

I’d spent the month before our trip listening to Learn German in 30 Days CDs during my commute.
I was on Day Four.
My wife, to her credit, had listened to exactly zero lessons,
but had mastered an expression that said, I’ve seen this movie before, and it ends with us sleeping in a train station.

“Don’t worry,” I said, dragging our suitcases toward the taxi line. “I’ve got this.”

Our cab pulled up—an old BMW that looked like it had fought in at least two wars.
I proudly showed the driver the name of our hotel.
He nodded.
I took that as confirmation that everything was going perfectly.

The next fifteen minutes were an Olympic event in mutual confusion.
He spoke no English.
I spoke no German beyond “thank you” and “two beers.”
Still, we gave it our best.

He gestured—Where are you from?
I said, “Dallas.”
His face lit up.

“Dirk Nowitzki!” he shouted.

Finally, a shared language.

I nodded, relieved.
He grinned wider.
“Dirk—better than Shaq!”

And there it was.
The first of many.

I didn’t know it then, but that phrase would become our unofficial greeting across Germany.
We’d say “Dallas,” and people would respond with the enthusiasm of a church revival:
“Dirk! Better than Shaq!”

It replaced Guten Tag entirely.

Back in the cab, though, my newfound friendship didn’t help with directions.
Cologne at night feels like a maze someone keeps rearranging.
The streets grew narrower, darker,
and less hotel-like by the minute.

My wife leaned over. “Are you sure you didn’t just ask him to take us to Dirk’s house?”

Before I could answer, we stopped outside a glowing pub—
same name as our hotel, shining proudly in neon.
For one brief, hopeful moment, I thought we’d made it.
Then I saw the beer taps.

The driver gave a small, triumphant nod—as if to say, My work here is done.

Just then, the pub’s owner stepped outside to lock up.
A kind man with the weary patience of someone who’s seen every version of lost tourist panic and knows how this ends.

We tried to explain.
He tried to help.
None of it worked.

He spoke no English.
I spoke something that might’ve been German if German had been taught entirely through interpretive dance.

At one point, I showed him our printed reservation,
repeating the name of the hotel like it might unlock a secret level of understanding.
He looked at me with the polite confusion of a man who’s sure this isn’t his problem but isn’t rude enough to say so.

Eventually, through a combination of gestures, bad pronunciation, and pure pity,
he figured out where we were trying to go.
I thanked him enthusiastically—
possibly saying something that translated to, “Your grandmother’s bicycle is lovely.”

He smiled, nodded, and said something that sounded suspiciously like “Dirk Nowitzki.”

We finally reached the real hotel about forty minutes later.
My wife turned to me as we walked in and said,
“If you hadn’t been so confident in your fluent German, we never would’ve had such a fun night.”

I think she meant “fun” in the traumatic bonding sense.
But I took the win.

The next morning, we set out to explore the city—
tired, humbled, and still married.
Every wrong turn felt like a continuation of that cab ride:
confusing, funny, and unexpectedly kind.

And though we never found that pub again, I’ll never forget it—
the glow of its neon sign,
the scrape of his key in the door,
the man who pointed us back to where we were supposed to be.

Sometimes the best parts of a trip aren’t where you meant to go.
Sometimes they start with a confident, “I’ve got this”…
and end with someone yelling, “Dirk! Better than Shaq!”