In the early autumn, over pizza and wine, I had a conversation with a dear friend. He’s Turkish. We were in Ayvalık, a small town on Turkey’s Aegean coast, talking about cultural imprints, when he suddenly paused and looked at me. “You know what?” he said. “Whenever I ask you how you are, you never really answer. You go into a meta space immediately – talking about politics or about bigger things that worry you – but you never say how you actually are.”

I’ve been thinking about his observation ever since, debating in my mind whether it was true – and I’ve recently reached the conclusion that, unfortunately, he was right.

As much as I like to be perceived as an easygoing person, the question “How are you?” stresses me out immensely. I freeze when asked and wish we could just skip it. I’d be ashamed to dive into a deep analysis of my being – which, secretly, is exactly what I’d love to do. But that might be overwhelming for the other person and impolite – not to say unfair to burden them with my inner troubles. (I wasn’t raised by needs-oriented parents. I was taught to squeeze my butt cheeks, keep going, stay rational, and see things for what they are: grim and hard.)

The good part: I’m under no illusions that I’m the only one like this. My odd relationship to the question, I suspect, is a German cultural phenomenon. As much as I despise generalisations and vague collective “we” talk – this is a we matter.

In most countries that I am familiar with – say, Turkey or the UK – people greet each other with a polite: “Hello, how are........

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