Back to Oprah’s interracial segment…it brought back the pain of being under society’s microscope with my childhood romance, faced by a sea of people who didn’t know us but nevertheless passed judgement and were concerned about my lilly white social standing.  I loved Lance, a hilarious, warm-hearted national honors student; well as much as a 14-year old can who is in marching band, wears leg warmers and passes notes in study hall.  But the experience of having our relationship revealed by cold-war worthy spies, running into opposition we couldn’t overcome despite his articulate pleas and having to give up him (a first love I so cherished) changed me and my heart forever.  It ripped the shiny, happy veneer off the whole world, taught me that elders aren’t always wise and put me square in the path of pain and inequity.

I lived life my sophomore year of high-school through his eyes and that of his forefathers and mothers. It wasn’t pretty and I’m not sure it’s ever left the depths of my soul. It did however give me a lasting appreciation and deep-gut fire to fight for the equal rights of society’s less equal. I’ve often wondered what would have come of us if we would have been permitted to date like normal footballers and cheerleaders (OK geeky debaters and first-chair saxophone players)  Remarkably, we were pretty darned compatible and chemistry-laden. An answer was not to be, which is probably better given our combined nappy hair quotient.

The good news? Lance and I have survived over twenty years of tumult to be fabulous friends and joke that we will still be trading sarcastic barbs and stories of youth (if our memories hold) in the nursing home. Perhaps fate will have the last laugh. I thank and celebrate him for sticking by me and us through thick, thin, my pain-soaked attempts to shut him out and the driveway screaming and dissapproval imposed by others.  For those in the know, two words- Depeche Mode. We are bound forever by love found, love lost and lasting friendship – our own little interracial tragi-comic E! True Hollywood Story. And I feel positive we both smile as we look at the 50-year old ebony and ivory couple in the Belden Village Friendlys “Loving”ly sharing the sundae spoon, knowing that in time, everyone comes around to the right way of thinking. 

I have a dream and it is no longer a nightmare. 

TLRG

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If you’re interested in the play-by-play, my efforts to kill this menacing, full-bodied creature with the lethal crush of a paper towel ball were in vain as it slunk off into the dank dark recesses under my antique wardrobe.  All day I heard the tick-tock of my office clock and thought, is it poisonous?  Like Ahmadinejad, will it bite me unprovoked? Thank God for the Internet. Not only can you peruse stupid human tricks on YouTube but also all varieties of house spiders, venomous and non.  Does it matter that they don’t have teeth? Are eight legs really more potent than six? And what exactly is the type marking of a toxic brown recluse? While I couldn’t determine precisely what spider I was dealing with, I surmised that it was lethal but not aggressive, no consolation to a woman who sleeps in her boxer shorts at night, limbs exposed. After the frighty-spidey incident, about all I know for sure is this: until further notice and until Gabrielle Aubry comes by, I’m putting on my battle armor of sweat pants, long-sleeved tees and socks every night, Indian summer be damned. Better safe and sweaty than sorry.

Caught in Charlotte’s Web,

TLRG

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In addition to finding that I am unable to tell time properly here in the Stan, I have also discovered that the Army speaks in a foreign tongue. Even though I have years of post graduate education, bear a degree with the work doctor on it (although my attempts to get people to call me Dr. K— have so far been unsuccessful, Juris-istic as I may be) I still have difficulty comprehending people in ordinary conversation. I wondered why this was, until I realized that the Army has, after noting that it has the power to crush small South American dictators with ease, proceeded to ignore all grammatical conventions and make up its own language. As an example of this observation, I offer a few common Army phrases and their translations:
We will SP at the RP with all SM that are OPCON’d = Hey ya’ll, come over to my house and meet the new neighbors!
The daily Fragmentary Order (FRAGO) has been published = Sweetie, I put the honey-do list on the fridge!
I have three PAX for immediate TA-CON to your CP = The kids are ready to be picked up from day-care
I have to do a Class One Download = Goina’ to read Army Times
Thank you for your support = F*** you!
Air BORNE! = Thought silently to oneself “I really think you’re an idiot but I am going to sound like I am enthusiastically agreeing with you by responding as loudly as possible without actually giving a coherent answer.”
Translation has become a regular part of my day. I work in a large operational control center, divided into individual offices. Our legal den of iniquity is tucked far in the back, behind some crates and under some rocks. Not really under some rocks, but it’s a good metaphor for all the unfinished legal actions I have been finding lying around the office after moving in and turning over all those rocks. Unsure of where to go when I first walked into the building, I turned to one of the soldiers guarding the entrance and asked him where I should go. He replied, I’m not sure ma’am, but people seem to be matriculating over there. He was trying so hard, I just smiled and kept walking. Apparently I am reaping the benefits of the word of the day toilet paper the Army has been purchasing.
Last week, for the second time in my Army career, I have gotten into a 30 minute argument as to whether irregardless is a word. As in, irregardless of whether its beef or chicken, the chow hall will make the meat taste exactly the same as last night, over cooked and smothered in barbeque sauce. I take the position , rightly so, as proved by its presence in the tome of Webster, that irregardless is a word and should, nay, must, be used in conversation. Others take the less enlightened, albeit more letteroelogically efficient, that you must use the word regardless. While this disagreement is not particularly funny, neither are most of the jokes that fly between me and the other two fiscal law attorneys (e.g. Have you seen this acquisition request? Can you believe that they miprd for a contract extension without an option year?) While the three of us thought this was extremely shocking and hilarious, the operational attorneys across the aisle merely groaned and threw wads of paper to make us be quiet.) In order to settle the argument sans fisticuffs, my colleague and I turned to Webster, who had the most witty, Postcard-worthy comment on the debate and the absolute last word. I quote;
Irregardless originated in dialectical American speech in the early 20th century. Its fairly widespread use in speech called it to the attention of usage commentators as early as 1927. The most frequently repeated remark about it is that there is no such word. There is such a word, however. It is still used primarily in speech, although it can be found from time to time in edited prose. Its reputation has not risen over the years, and it is still a long way from general acceptance.
Oh the burn, the ignominy of being bested!!! So, having proven my point that it is indeed a word, Mr. Webster proceeded to embarrass me into grammatical shame! Apparently, irregardless of how sage I think I am.
Perhaps my misplaced hubris stemmed from an incident last week when my Trivial Pursuit/Jeopardy Brain Cells tripped into overdrive. I was loitering in the waiting area of the medical clinic, having escorted one of my co-workers in for some medication, when one of the medics charged out from the treatment area asking for help from the other medics on a crossword.
Medic One What was that thing that the Greek Emperor said that had all the Vs?
At this point my sense of self-importance puffed up like a blow fish facing a Japanese sushi master and I smiled smugly while congratulating myself for knowing that not only was Caesar was Roman, but that the saying was veni, vidi, vici, or I came, I saw, I conquered.
Medic Two Wasn’t it something like Vente, Grande, Mocha?
Medic One Yeah, but no.
Medic Two Why don’t I Google it?
At this point, I should say to all of our national leaders, that if you want to stop our enemies from Veni, Vidi, Vici all over suburban America, take down the Google website. It has become the one-stop research tool for the military. If the Taliban could Google, they would know pretty much everything our intel guys know.
Medic Two Here it is Veni, Vidi, Vici

Google point proven.

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Greetings again, gentle readers. For those of you who have followed my little musings last year, (all four of you, well, really just my mom and dad because they have to) and for those of your new to my unique brand of humor, it seems that the Army has seen fit to send me to yet another desolate location to practice the second oldest profession in the history of mankind. In order to survive in this rockiest of remote locations, I find it helps to write humorous antidotes to lighten the dreary load and to keep in touch with friends and family. Again, I make no claim to being truthful or factually correct, but rather the goal is to poke the most fun possible at the strange life led by an Army officer.
I must say, the trip to the Stan was much better than the trip to my prior dirt pile. After several stops, starts, stops and more stops, (nine days worth) we finally landed with a hurk and a jerk in a big military jet airplane high in the altitudes of the Stan. After getting settled into my little room, embarking on a grand tour of the camp (all ten minutes of it) and finding my desk in the big operational control center, I began work. As you all know, even though I have been in the Army for some time, in my particular job, I don’t shoot a lot of bullets for the Army. (In fact, they really didn’t give us lawyers more than a handful when we landed, in all honesty, I got a sandwich baggie full. Yep, a whole baloney sandwich’s worth of ammo. Not exactly the most confidence inspiring, but there you go.)
While I still am an Army lawyer, I have taken on a new Sisyphean work assignment for this deployment. While I used to prosecute military criminal offenses in the Sandy Place, I now have the dubious honor of opining on the most obscure of administrative and regulatory matters. Most of what I do involves sitting at a computer and going to lots of meetings and rendering my opinion, all ten cents worth, on matters of such earth shattering national importance such as the ethical legality of the rug given the third ranking General at the camp. As compensation for my often mind numbingly boring job, I have been awarded the title of Chief of my little section. Of course, in reality I am merely Chief of Myself, since I am the only person working in my area and am not yet senior enough to merit minions.
On my first day, I was summoned to a meeting at 0700. But, as I soon learned, 0700 doesn’t really mean what you and I would take to mean 0700. Oh no. The Stan runs on several different clocks, the main clock is called Zulu time. While it sounds the stuff of cheesy dime store thrillers with military heroes called Jock and Striker, the Army really still uses this marker to standardize time. While it is the absolute world wide standard, it bears no reality to the actual time of day. The actual time of day is called Local time. In order to determine what time it is in Zulu time, you must engage in incredibly complicated math, using a formula the may be lost even on some of MIT’s finest. Now folks, I have never claimed to be the smartest of pups, in fact I will proudly proclaim that went to law school expressly so that I didn’t have to do math. So the conversation that follows is what happened when they asked a bunch of numerically challenged lawyers to show up at a meeting scheduled in Zulu time.
Are you going to be in the office at 0700 Zulu for the meeting?
I don’t know, what time is it now?
Its 0530.
Is that 0530 Zulu or 0530 Local?
Its 0530 Local.
So what time is the meeting in local time?
Not sure, but I know its four hours from now.
Four hours from now Local or four hours from now Zulu?
What?
When?
Oh Geez, just be in the Conference Room in four hours!
Fortunately, I did make it to the meeting on time. Unfortunately, it lasted two looooooonnnnggg hours, hours which didn’t go by any quicker in Zulu time.

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I’ve been digging for couture diamonds in the rough at a penny’s price since a teen-age I know what you did last summer stint at the Salvation Army thrift store. Sifting through bags of donated goodies – some flawed, some fabulous- brought unexpected thrills and led to many, many more shopping sprees in the retail dumping grounds for Grandma’s Eisenhower-era duds. Wherever I trod in this world, a retro clothes safari is sure to follow. My goal? To one day have enough stops and stamps on my vintage store passport to put them on the back of a shirt, like that old Rush concert tee you wanted to rip off your boyfriend and wear yourself in 1987. I have traversed in an inestimatable number of store doors on the way to my goal, criss-crossing the globe to establishments in Tromso, Rome and Tokyo. I’ve found many a memorable outfit. One of my favy-faves is the aqua and gold-beaded 1970’s inaugural gown I was proudly given by its original owner, a well-known speechwriter on Richard Nixon’s staff. Not one to let my dresses sit idly by, I wore it to the opera in Minneapolis, taking more than a tad bit of attention away from the mezzo-Soprano soloist during a red carpet walk. My beaver fur coat, genuine flapper confection, WWII wood-block bathshoes and cadre of polyester-blend shirt-skirt combos that could pass in the dim light of winter as Prada ready-to-wear, are also cherished holdings. I confess my closet looks more Nicole Richie and Mary Kate Olsen than Pamela Harrington cum Clinton/Pelosi.

I wear my found treasures everywhere, from the Dairy Treat to the office. And why not? While one time out of ten I look like a Project Runway fashion challenge gone freakishly wrong, I’m usually the chicest girl on the K Street catwalk, about 3-6 months ahead of the Phoebe Couture, Tracy Reese and Marc Jacobs trends. Andre D’Natale would be so proud! Buyers beware though: donning blasts-from-the-past is truly for the brave as you must be prepared for the circus-freak stares, whiplash headturns and shocked second looks. Is a fox head stole or 60’s velvet robe worn as an overcoat really so wrong? People ask me at least one a week what drives my passion for recycled fashion. (Note: Save an apocolyptic mushroom shift dress, my loving, bearded Mr. Kotter man has grown to accept it, happily dropping me off at the thrift shoppe while he shops at the computer superstore. Mr. Kotter, have I told you today how very grateful I am you have the patience of a saint and can spend 60 precious minutes weekly looking at motherboards?)

I’ve thought about my synthetic fabric addiction long and hard and here’s the rub: just like my DVF wrap-dress original, vintage treasure hunting fits me like a glove. I have a taste for the unexpected, constant surprise, unique stand-outs and luxe on a Happy Meal budget. Retro pursuing gives me all of this, and the intoxicating mystery of the frocks’ storied history. Peasant or baroness, debutante or showgirl, it’s often hard to tell who owned it. If only genealogical charts could be done on cheongsams. While the general public may not understand the sprint to Porta Portese at sunrise, it seems uber-designer Vivienne Tam does. She waxes in China Chic, her insightful new tome of Pac Rim culture,

I was curious about ways of dressing and fascinated with second-hand clothing. I bought bags and bags. Each dress has its own story. I can imagine the woman who wore it and the details of her life. When I looked at the dress to study its construction, I could almost see her skin inside. It made me aware of the past.

While not quite as academically pure as studying the rise and fall of the Roman Empire, vintage fashion is anything but vapid. It enables us to uniquely express the essence not only of who we are, but who were by slipping on a little bit of old magic. It’s also 75% cheaper than a shopping spree at Anthropolgie.

For those wanting to try vintage treasure-troving on for size, I offer the following learned hints culled from my very own glorious triumphs and tragic mistakes: always seek out a fall church sale and absolutely be there when the doors open for the very best selection; if it’s in an Episcopal house of worship, all the better. Those Anglicans not only possess the quaint Book of Common Prayer and the most authentic communion wine, but older female parishioners with the most fabulous gowns, shoes and capes on the planet. Next, don’t be afraid to brave the line and try garments on in the store. Dust and discarded clothes on the fitting room floor shouldn’t scare you, urine should. Sizing and fit for a dress from decades past is wildly unpredictable. If you have a waist bigger than 27″ or a broad swimmers back, breathe in very deeply and look in the large section. Many golden-oldie outfits are made for freakishly thin June Cleaverites and a size small would only fit Kirsten Dunst. Lastly and most importantly, get a marvelous seamstress and have original vision for your purchase. Imagination is your only limit. I chop up my frocks like Edwina Scissorhands and have my Cinderella sewer stand at the ready to revamp the zippers and put it all back together again. Good luck. I wish you good times and thrilling finds, like the Louis Vuitton purse I snapped up for less than a sushi dinner at Nobu or a pie at Waldo’s Pizza. Please write me and tell me of your adventures and favorite found merch stories. I’m thinking of writing a book on the topic. As for me, I’ll be walking the floors of my local vintage warehouse with visions of Dita Von Teese and Shirley MacLaine – sparkling as she did in the original Ocean’s Eleven – dancing in my head.

Signed,
TLRG
(Otherwise known as Duchess of the Throwback Frock)

P.S. I can’t compose a column mentioning couture without giving a shout-out to my good friend and beloved fellow fashionista who writes our Postcards from A Sandy Place Column. She’s back in the sandbox and we are holding her close in our thoughts. While donning her camoflauge, I know she’s dreaming of Prada and BCBG’s best. Can’t wait to be back in the Saks shoe department with you soon! I’m holding a pair of Marc Jacobs peep-toe shoes for your return to our shores. SWAK!

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In the two years TLRG has been serving enquiring minds on-line, I’ve been careful not to discuss my politics much with you. No regailing of my college summers spent at the Republican National Committee, no tales of my politico pavement pounding. Truth be told, I live and work in the swamp of the DC Beltway, a career for which I’ve received much ribbing from my family who rank “those lawyers in Washington” just above toxic sludge. I’d have to disagree. I’ve worked on both sides of the partisan aisle for more than a decade and can tell you that there are some remarkable legislators out there who spend the time that they could be collecting enormous fees on the speaking circuit or being private consultants decked out in the best Brooks Brothers money can buy to instead work on issues of real consequence to the citizens of our country. And they won’t stop until their vision of improvement is achieved. Is it naive of me to want these stories told? To instead turn on the boob-toob and hear about how the local candidate I elect can make a positive impact on my environment, school or specialty hospital? No more images of slain soldiers, immigrants hustling over the borders or our unspeakable inner cities. We know how we got here but who is going to get us out and how? These are the issues of our times. This is why I go to the polls. I wish Bobby Kennedy were still alive to deliver great oratory and unite us as a nation but unfortunately all we’ll have is the new Emilio Estevez biopic with quasi-moving cameos from every A-List starlet shopping at Kitson.

Bobby when alive emphasized that “few will have the greatness to bend history itself; but each of us can work to change a small portion of events, and in the total; of all those acts will be written the history of this generation.” What will you do?

Signed,
TLRG

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Thankfully, niceties outdated in the States rule here as do beautiful wrappings and neatnik pleasantries. Where else would Subway wrap your Diet Coke in a taped paper bag and stores happily cover the smallest purchase in the prettiest of bags and laminate to protect against the rain? Brilliant. Each neighborhood has a unique feel: buttoned up Mitsukoshiomae, tony Omote-sando, neon-soaked Roppongi with discount powerhouse Don Quiote and the trendy girls after my own heart in Harajuku. But regardless of your landing pad, one feels valued here, honored, special, a member of an ordered and respected society: something that no amount of encounters with disinterested gum-popping salesgirls or agitated commuters in America can conjure up. Long live Tokyo. In the land of the Emperor lies hope for civilized society AND civilization.

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Where to start? Let’s dig in at the Tameike-sanno beginning. My journey to the island began with a bang as they say, or more specifically, an ouch! During a grueling flight, I consumed my weight in therapeutic cranapple juice and obtained a personal best in lavoratory passes that is 25 trips to the littlest girl room this side of the date line in a mere 14 hours. UTIs it would seem, know no geographic boundaries and provide for great anxious hand-wringing when one needs uber-drugs upon disembarkment and can’t speak a lick of Samurai. Luckily, just as a blobby pink figure in a dress is the ubiquitous woman’s potty symbol, so to, is pointing to your pelvic bits and frowning, the sign for girlie plumbing distress. To wit, the lucky nurse speaking one word of English ‘Pain’ was a willing audience for the symptomatic pantomime show I put on upon my arrival.

Treating my condition was a real case study for the unheralded efficiency and hospitality of the Orient. Immediately after my steps off the plane in Narita, a full-service health clinic and six airport volunteers offering me directions quickly came into view. Who says service with a smile is dead? Important note: in Japan, it just comes with a paper sick mask. I was so shocked at all this Miss Manners civility and pre-occupied with my ailment that I nearly missed my friend Tetsuo (Ted) dutifully waiting for me as I passed through customs. Ted is a true cultural hybrid, growing up in Western Japan, and spending stints in Tokyo, Palo Alto and DC. In keeping with Japanese tradition, he showed me one heck of a Shogun good time. This included a trip to the hailed Edo Museum and a 14-course vegetarian traditional Buddist monk feast.

I can not extend high enough praise to the restaurant Bon. If I were Japanese, I’d give it twenty bows. Featuring individual rooms for each supping group with bamboo and native woods aplenty, this is a culinary zen paradise complete with wheat, soba and tofu in every imaginable genre, including almond flavored, gelatinized treats. As an added bonus of seasonable bounty, I consumed cherry blossoms in at least four distinct forms: leaf wraps, tea base, tempura temptation and in the Japanese equivalent of the veggie burrito. Good thing these tasty delights bring luck. Otherwise, I’d have a bright pink-tinged tongue for nothing. I’ve learned something about eating yummy nuggets across the ocean. There is seemingly no limit to the fortune that can come from consuming it. Food really is worth its weight in gold..flecks that is, which grace virtually every dessert. Precious metals it seems and sucking, instead of biting your sugar candies pleases the Gods. Did I mention that our din-din included two other special guests, an IT guru and a professorial transgenderism expert? This along with the explanation of all of our consumables led to one savory time at Bon. I’ll leave you to chew on our menu of 17th century soup and Sen Cha while heralding my chomp-chomp bravery. Meantime, stay tuned for our next installment when TLRG takes on the Tokyo transit system!

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When we started here our convoy signs proclaimed such dire warnings as Stay back or we will use all deadly force necessary to destroy you, your dog and your favorite ice cream. As political correctness and the reality of stability operations slowly seized the Army, the signs gradually toned it down to Please stay back or we may or may not shoot you. The latest iteration noted Please don’t come to close to our trucks or we will spank you. I am not sure whether this is effective in keeping people back or just ends up attracting the odd Arab gent into S&M.

In addition to provoking thought on the conundrum brought when war and politics try to get into bed together, mistakes in translation also make for some head scratching moments. While the Army endeavors to have the best and brightest linguists in the world, perhaps a better characterization would be that the Army has the best linguists the private sector could bother to spare and that were available at the time. For example, a sign to a secure building reads in the sternest King’s English Do not enter without permission, deadly force authorized. However, I am told the Arabic translation actually reads, Enter with all permission and please use deadly force.

Not only do we mangle the English to Arabic translation, but natives have been known to mangle Arabic to English. Of the three local shops on my old camp, none of them had correctly spelled billboards. One read in hand lettered red paint on a discarded wooden slab Shop – Manes and Womens Cloths. I don’t think they were selling equine gear, but so long as you get the general idea about the wares, the sign worked.

My favorite signs to date reflect the entrepreneurial spirit that runs in all humans, regardless of nationality. On one of our outlying camps, not yet big enough for an official Army exchange, a local national has taken over commerce on the camp with a vengeance. He sells everything from thousands of bootleg DVDs, cigarettes, computers, haircuts, kabobs and pay phones. Rumor has it he has already made quite a tidy sum of money. He bears such a striking physical resemblance to Bob Villa of Home Again tv fame, that the prior cavalry soldiers started calling him Bob Villa to his face. Rather than take his moniker as an insult (after all, the real Bob Villa was ignominiously fired from This Old House in a scandal that rocked the televised home repair community to its very asbestos free core) he capitalized on it, renaming all of his stores in bold red and black signs Bob Villa Cafe, Bob Villa Phonebank and my personal favorite Bob Villa’s Blockbuster. Remember, copyright and trademark laws mean nothing in a country that sold the latest Star Wars movie on DVD even before it came out in regular theatre release.

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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 creme 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 creme 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 schl’gt nur dich mein schatz der liebste!

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