Guten Morgen! For the purpose of full disclosure and to incite just an ample amount of righteous jealousy amongst my family, friends and fans, I relay that I am tickling my Toshiba Portege ivories from a new perch; the cappuccino joint in the Munich airport which is quite inappropriately named the Piazzo Monaco. We are one world indeed! The late Prince Rainier would be so proud that his Kingdom reigns gloriously on in Munchen Terminal G.

While the Piazzo’s choco muffins may be dry as the Sahara, it’s good to know that there are some places left on our fair planet that put real, honest to goodness sucre and crème in their coffee drinks. Equal and soy milk be damned. I’m certain my beloved Mr. Q would agree. Mmm…mmm…God bless the (post-Weimar)Republic!

Jumping from bean consumption to my emotional state, I admit to being a bit weepy this morning as I touched down in Deutchland. You see, this little farmgirl has dreamed since she was a wee frauline of coming to the Rhineland one day and excitedly walking village to village, amongst those quaint little churches nestled in the mountains. Well, dream may be an understatement; actually looking at pictures of these villages no more than twice a day with intense pastoral longing might be more accurate. Today, on my way towards the Artic Circle, the EU Health Ministers Summit and the land of the northernmost Burger King on Earth, my girlhood longings became reality. Snow-capped mountains, gorgeous, antiquated vert plots of land and the beacon-like steeple of a model village worhsiphouse seen so many times in my worldy, wanderlust dreams came into crystal clear view upon airport approach. I’m getting downright misty just thinking about it now. I feel a sense of homecoming here and not just because all the older ladies scadding about look just like my Grammy Alice Gerber!

The cumulative effect of my journey across the pond thus far drives a disputive nail right into the theory that as we get older, we have less magical moments of discovery; you know, when eyes pop wide out of your head and life seems to stop cold for a moment so that all you can hear is the beating of your own heart and the anticipation of an entirely new experience? Most of my friends are far beyond these days with glee found in getting a ritzy thumbs-up from the home appraiser, cultivating a backyard garden and thinking of children to come. God bless ‘em! Me, I feel like my a-ha, life-expanding moments are only multiplying in the most glorious way, like a beautiful chorus’ collective voice rising higher and higher. These interludes are also requiring me to speak many, many more languages. I’m a very lucky woman. All of these dramatic professional and personal developments have me so overwhelmed at times, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. So instead, I’m keeping my mind off of emoting and am instead chomping on Munchen’s version of the hotdog. Not exactly Oscar Meyer tasty. But, I must keep up my quest to consume questionable pork in every EU country, come what may.

The only thing negative I have to say about Germany thus far is the native children are a tad too energetic. I had a wonderkid next to me on my flight that jabbered in his native speak all the way from IAD to the land of the ‘72 Olympics (with the exception, of course, of the internationally-recognized phrase “playstation” which he uttered every 15 minutes.) Aye! Never have I been so inclined towards Kindsmord and glad to blast the in-flight collection of pop music courteously provided to us by the soundboard mixers of Starbucks. Bucks really is taking over the world one frap flavor and remastered Sinatra ditty at a time.

And speaking of the bean, I must get back to my cup of crème and mocha. But never fear. You have much to look forward to in this week’s roving reports from the Northern front, as I excitedly head to the land of the Vikings, reindeer and the midnight sun.

Auf Wiedersein Lieblings,
TLRG

And to my Charlie B I say Mein herz schlägt nur für dich mein schatz der liebste!:kiss1:

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Notable quotable Jeff Foxworthy makes millions making fun of his redneck self by pointing out the quirks of being a southern Georgia hillbilly. Which begs the question, can you be a true redneck if you can afford to buy the entire county that you allege you inhabit? Ponder that, gentle readers.

Before I came on active duty, my last abode was in the shabby but gentile and now extraordinarily overpriced suburbs of the metropolis we refer to as our nation’s capital, and being friends with the great TLRG, I liked to consider myself somewhat savvy in the ways of urban living. I had a Starbucks within walking distance, (a key indicator of a Carrie Bradshaw wannabe) and I enjoyed hanging out at the neighborhood bookstore on the weekends. A hop on the subway and I was in the heart of the city in 10 minutes.

So it has come as somewhat of a shock to me that I, in my new desert abode, find myself in danger being Foxworthy. I am spending some time at our higher headquarters encampment this week, practicing my shyster profession and missing my regular, more urban, encampment. I, the litigation luminary that I am, would have never expected to be a single female, albeit only geographically, love you honey!, living alone in a flooded out trailer park, with no hope of a decent glass of pinot noir or a sushi sampler tray for many many months, yet, here I am.

I have measured myself on the Foxworthy Scale, and find I tip it like a 300 pound unemployed trucker with greasy hair eating cheetos for breakfast. For example, you know you’re a redneck if you can holler at your neighbor in the next trailer to shut the hell up when he is watching WWF. Well, last night, I had to bang on the wall of my trailer to quiet down the my overzealous neighbors at midnight who had the cable blasting on wrestling. As military as I am, I had no desire to learn about Wrecker Bob, or Crazy Crazy Cab 1.

You know you’re a redneck if you stumble out of your trailer at 0600 am to go to the outhouse in the morning and get accosted by a neighbor who hasn’t seen you in a couple of weeks and wants to know how your life is going. This morning, as I attempted to blunder through the last dregs of sleep to the latrine trailer in this unfamiliar living area so I could pee before I burst, I hear Ma’am, Ma’am, what are you doing at Division? It was one of my favorite sergeants from the brigade who had just taken a different job up here and was curious to see me outside his trailer. Water cooler, latrine trailer, outhouse, whats the difference?

You know you’re a redneck if you have a satellite TV, play-station, 500 DVDs but you still scam free food at every available opportunity. The soldiers in my office compete to see who has the biggest DVD collection, yet whenever care packages come in, the food disappears as if they were the starving Ethiopian children my mother always made me clean my plate for.

You know you’re a redneck if you keep waders by your trailer door so that you can muck through the mud on your dirt road in order to reach your pickup parked at the end of the driveway. Substitute in combat boots and a humvee and you have my life, ladies and gentleman. The dusty desert creates some spectacular sunset photos, with the light filtering through the dust into prisms of color, but ever wonder what happens to all that dust when it rains? It doesn’t magically wash away, like it does in the U.S. What was dust and dirt becomes heavy, cloying mud that takes weeks to dry out and for some reason, always smells like ass.

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