Upon returning from a stateside vacation, I was reminded of how quiet Germany is in comparison. The atmosphere in the commuter train that took my wife and me back home was almost funereal. And the following day, in another commuter train, an elderly woman bawled out a younger one for the temerity of using a cell phone. The object of the oldster's ire had been talking audibly, but not loudly, at the other end of the car.

Some two weeks earlier, on a cross-town bus in San Francisco, a guy with a scraggly goatee sitting behind me with a companion discoursed wildly on the merits of marijuana and incense in a voice strong enough for the stage. Nobody told him to shut up, and nobody gave him so much as a disapproving look.

Besides public conveyances, bars in the United States -- whether or not you count the noise from the irksomely ubiquitous TV sets -- are usually a lot louder and livelier than their German counterparts. Americans like to let it all hang out.

This isn't to say Germans are always quiet, of course. They can be quite loud, for instance, at soccer matches, rock concerts, and complaining about the beer while vacationing abroad. Generally speaking, though, they hold quietness dear. Some of the greatest German minds -- including Goethe, Kant, and Schopenhauer -- expressed annoyance at noise. Schopenhauer called it "the most impertinent of all forms of interruption because it even interrupts -- indeed shatters -- our own thoughts."

In keeping with their fondness for regulations, Germans have established mandatory "quiet times" (Ruhezeiten). Depending on where you live, these times tend to be from 8 or 10 p.m. to 6 or 7 a.m., from 1 to 3 p.m., and all day on Sundays and holidays. People who pump up the volume on their stereo systems, run their lawn mowers, etc., at unallowed times may cause neighbors to call the cops. A fat fine can result.

This being Germany, the regulations are often very specific, sometimes to the point of absurdity. The Karlsruhe-based Federal Court of Justice (Bundesgerichtshof) ruled in 1998 that singing and music-making at home was permitted from 8 a.m. to noon, and from 2 to 8 p.m. Nuremberg allows drum-playing during those times for only 45 minutes in the summer, and 90 minutes in the winter. Düsseldorf restricts nighttime baths and showers to a maximum of 30 minutes. In Cologne, dogs may bark for 30 minutes daily from 8 a.m. to 1 p.m., and from 3 to 7 p.m., but no more than 10 minutes at a stretch.

Tell that to Fido.

Having tolerant neighbors makes life easier, and blandishments can help them turn a deaf ear to transgressions of noise rules. Our new neighbors didn't invite anyone in the building to their housewarming party about a month ago, but they apologized to everyone for any disturbance in advance, and passed out bottles of Prosecco in compensation.

Na prost!

It's been a week since we returned from bella -- bellissima! -- Italia. Mercifully, German railway workers suspended their strikes before our departure, so we left Teutonia smoothly. La dolce vita ended in Tirol on our way back, when high-strung Germans began piling into the train. Germans have a habit of standing in the corridor with their luggage well before their stop, as if fearful they'll lack time to get out. They block others' path to the loo, not to mention the view out the window.

My wife and I, already growing wistful for more easygoing Italians, commented on this as evening approached and our iron horse sped northward. We changed trains in Munich, settling comfortably into a sleek, clean, spacious InterCityExpress. "All the same, I like them," she said, referring to the Germans. I think it was after she'd been to the toilet. Many years ago, when she called her mother from Germany on her first trip outside Russia, her mother asked:

"Well, daughter, what's it like there?"

"Mom, the toilets...!"

She simply couldn't get over how clean, well-equipped and pleasant-smelling German toilets are. If her wonderment surprises you, you've never been to Russia. The toilets we encountered in Italy, while better by far than Russian ones, were hardly up to the German variety. The bowls often lacked seats or there was no bowl at all, just a basin in the floor meant to squat over. Soap and paper towels were often missing, or the hand dryer didn't work. Cleanliness was random.

But oh that Italian art, architecture, food, landscape and climate!

It was dark outside now. Fulda. Kassel-Wilhelmshöhe. Göttingen. After Hanover, our carriage was nearly empty. We were looking forward to marking our return home as we usually do: with beer and fish at our favorite Kneipe, across the street from Hamburg's main train station. It's nice to know you needn't study the check for padding -- after two weeks in Italy, I felt like a damned auditor.

The train was nearing our station, so I got up to take our luggage down from the rack overhead. A middle-aged German couple, sitting across the aisle from us, also got up. Their stop, it turned out, was the one after ours. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the woman wrestling with a big suitcase. She dislodged the beast, suddenly, from the rack over her head.

It flew into the aisle and walloped me in the knee.

...

For several painful moments I thought, "My God, a nitwit has crippled me!" The woman proceeded to apologize profusely. Her husband bawled her out. She may have stoked his ire by kneeling down next to me and solicitously rubbing my leg.

The train came to a halt, and my wife and I made for the door. I was limping slightly. The German couple, back in their seats, stared straight ahead.

Hello, Deutschland.

One of Europe's charms is its crowded cultural diversity. Open borders and a common currency haven't smoothed many wrinkles. Hop on a train, and before you know it, the language, food, architecture, attitudes and criminal code are different from those at the point of departure.

A trip out of Germany, in any direction, is a reminder of how uptight Germans tend to be. Take hookers, for instance.

My wife and I recently went to Amsterdam. Among the sights she wanted to see were the women in the windows of the city's red-light district. This might seem an odd wish from someone living in Hamburg, where prostitution is also legal, and where women also present their wares for sale in the windows of the red-light district. But she's never seen them in Hamburg because she's not allowed to. The meat display cases there are on a 60-meter-long street called Herbertstrasse, both ends of which are blocked by iron gates with signs saying "Entry for men under 18 and women prohibited." That's not the law. That's an order from the proprietors -- the street is private property. I've escorted some curious women down Herbertstrasse in my time, and you've got to be quick if you don't want to be assaulted. The scantily clad harpies don't take kindly to female scrutiny. At the very least, they bombard trespassers with the most vulgar of curses; and with water, beer, or any number of unpleasant objects.

In laid-back Amsterdam, though, the working women in the windows aren't hidden from anyone's view. They duck away from cameras, understandably, but show no aggression. My wife got an eyeful and satisfied her curiosity.

On the train ride back, the Dutch conductor joked with passengers. He was replaced at the German border, and we were asked to present our passports. "How come?" I wondered. "We haven't left the European Union."

"You're obligated at all times to be able to identify yourselves," the German official responded. His tone was clipped and supercilious. Jawohl, we were in Germany again.