European Car Culture

This post is a bit more personal than most, because it touches on something that has long been both a passion and, admittedly, a quiet dream of mine: cars.

In cultural terms, this is no small topic in Northern Europe—and especially in Germany. And yes, I am German, so I will freely admit a certain bias toward German automobile engineering. Consider this a disclosure, not an apology.

Having lived and worked as an expat in both Germany and Belgium, I learned quickly that company cars are not merely a perk. At certain levels, they are an accepted—and highly visible—part of professional life. And not just for sales roles. In Germany in particular, the choices are famously narrow and deeply symbolic: Mercedes, BMW, or Audi.

There are, of course, unwritten tiers. Sales roles typically come with an Audi A4 or BMW 3 Series. Management moves up to an A6 or 5 Series. Executives sit comfortably in an A8 or 7 Series. Everyone understands the hierarchy, even if no one ever puts it in writing.

When I moved to Belgium to help integrate a newly acquired mid-sized industrial company—and took on the role of VP/GM for a 70-person manufacturing facility—I encountered this dynamic firsthand. My boss at the time, the president of the U.S.-based parent company, had strong opinions about cars. He was not fond of Mercedes or BMW, but he had no issue with a well-equipped Audi A6. His argument was that Mercedes was too pompous in front of a customer.

Naturally, I ordered a very well-equipped A6. And yes, I may have bragged about it a bit to my peers. In hindsight, that should have been my first reminder that company cars are part of the professional culture—and when misunderstood, they can quietly undermine relationships.

Here’s why.

My closest counterpart at the plant was the Operations Manager. Prior to the acquisition, he had served as acting General Manager and had been driving a Mercedes E-Class, which was due for replacement. When the time came, headquarters made it clear: no more Mercedes.

The conversation that followed was… delicate.

From his perspective, the car was not about indulgence. It was about status, recognition, and continuity—signals that mattered deeply in the local context. From headquarters’ perspective, it was simply a brand preference. Somewhere in between sat me, suddenly very aware that my role as an integrator had nothing to do with org charts and everything to do with cultural translation.

I had to convince my boss that allowing this exception would pay dividends far beyond the parking lot—earning early trust and reinforcing respect at a critical moment in the integration. At the same time, I needed to show my Operations Manager that I was advocating for him, not merely relaying decisions.

As trivial as this story may sound, the lesson is not.

In cross-border integrations, seemingly material details—like a company car—can carry cultural weight far beyond their monetary value. When those signals are misunderstood or dismissed, they can quietly complicate an already delicate process.

I started this story by saying that cars are a passion of mine. They are. Mostly, I enjoy dreaming about the ones I probably shouldn’t own—at least not if I’m being a responsible adult.

But every now and then, it’s worth remembering: culture often shows up in unexpected places. Sometimes, it’s waiting for you in the company parking lot.