Both of us squint at the clock from our beds, which shows we have 45 minutes until that estimated time of departure.
"Ok, sounds good, that gives me plenty of time."
"Oh ok. I better get moving!"
I'll allow your mind to run wild and let you guess which statement was said by Aunt Rachel and which statement was said by yours truly.
Our first stop was Patch Barracks, aka "Patch." Arnheidur went to mail packages, and so Rachel and I wandered around and planned to meet her at the commissary.
We saw a coffee house and started out there.
"I'd like a hot tea, please."
Barista guy:
"Would you like that in a little girl cup, or a big girl cup?"
"Oh, let's go with the big girl cup."
"What's your name?"
"Margaret."
"Marge it is."
(Mother, how come he knew your nickname for me?) :)
It's fun to walk around on base and see the military families in and guys wearing different uniforms and such.
I also saw some African jungle camo I had never seen before on some army guys visiting from Mozambique. When the soldiers pass each other by on base, they tend to salute each other, provided their hands are not full.
Aunt Rachel offered to buy me a Danish, but I had eaten before we left the house and politely declined.
She lives vicariously through me as far as gluten goodies go since she has Celiac.
My tastebuds would be very happy with this arrangement and would say: "All of us are in favor and say, "Aye!" but my waistline and my pancreas say "Nooo."
"Are you sure you don't want that raspberry Danish?"
"Oooh why don't you get one of those cake things with whip cream?"
"Oh gosh, would you look at those cookies!"
"Want one? I'll buy you one!"
I feel bad she can't enjoy them like I can, but what can you do. She is always very kind to offer them to me when she can't have them herself. Thankfully, we have found some very good gluten free cookies and such along the way.
We walked to the commissary and got a few things, and by a few things, I mean lots. It's a great place to shop for Rachel, as they have a fantastic selection of GF supplies.
After that, Arnheidur had business near the other base in the area, and so dropped us off at the PX there so we could look around while she ran other errands.
The kids and most folks refer to this base as "Panzer," but it's technically called: "U.S. Panzer Base Unit/number/something/etc."
You ask: "what is the difference between a PX and commissary?"
Well, I'm glad you asked. A PX is basically a mall, with lots of shops and a food court, while a commissary (aka commie) is just a grocery store.
And we mozied around the PX together for a while, just to see what we could see.
The super-cute maternity section:
When I shop, I look around and look around and in general, do not buy anything. I can always talk myself out of it. It is my "way"- unless I have immediate need of something, I don't get it.
That being said, by chance I came
upon a unique souvenir which, like my watch, is a functional souvenir, and is something I won't find anywhere else. And it was twenty bucks.
There is a high school that is attended by most Millitary teenagers in the area. Their team is called the Patch Panthers, and the school colors are black and gold. As a Carolinian, it's unique to find the colors of "my" team, Appstate, along with the mascot of the only Pro team in our state, the Carolina Panthers.
But the back is the best part:
We arrived home from our outing to find Ellert back from school.
As you may or may not know, he speaks English, German, and Icelandic. However, he is currently learning a fourth language, Southern American, with help from the leading experts in the field, Aunt Rachel and I.
Me:
"Whatcha think you're doing there, son?"
Ellert:
"I'm not your son, why do you call me your "son?"
"Oh that's just the way we talk back home."
He has heard all of these from us, lots of "y'all's" and such.
"I'll meet y'all down at the register in a minute."
"Honey, you can't eat that off the floor!"
"Bless his heart, he doesn't know how to park that Ferrari."
(Ok, so the circumstance mentioned in the last one was kinda made up.)
We must have piqued his curiosity and thus, the lessons began. Under our careful tutelage he should be speakin' like a local Carolinian right well pretty soon. His assignment today was to practice saying "hey y'all" to his classmates. Not sure how that went, but I'm willing to bet that their faces were priceless.
Later on, I walked with Ellert to his soccer practice. The coach rolled up at 5 on the dot, and he seemed to be a debonair, even-keeled sort of fellow who lit up with the ever fashionable cigarette as the team warmed up and ran laps. His son, Ellert's friend Colin, played on the team too.
The coach in the other field, a hulking large guy with shaved black hair and hot pink shin guards, was in charge of the older boys, ages 10-14. Wheras Ellert's coach was laid back and calm, this man was more of a drill sergeant type.
Here he is (pink shin guards not visible.)
His favorite catch phrases:
"WIEDER SCHNELL!! WIEDER SCHNELL!!"
"SPIEL! SPIEL!"
I made the terrible mistake of leaving the house without a jacket of any kind, and one hour in to a two hour long practice, I was positively freezing in the windy 50 degree weather. My hands were numb. I debated with myself whether or not to just jog back to the house, which was only a block or two away, to fetch my hoodie, but I steeled my resolve and determined to wait the next hour out.
Just when I thought I couldn't take the cold anymore, a little old lady walked over and said hello. She spoke zero English and my German is spotty at best, but we made do. Being the sweet German Grandma that she was, she said I must be cold and asked if I was. I said yes, very cold, and that my coat was at home.
She then hurriedly walked off in the direction of her car and then came back....with an extra jacket! And thus, I was warm, thanks to this sweet lady who turned out to be the Grandma of one of the boys on the team, Colin. Stringing the German words that I know together into cohesive sentences has me tongue tied at times, but nevertheless, we managed some conversation.
These boys playing soccer may be eight, nine, ten years old, but they are little men, and they behave as such. If you make a goal during practice, you don't cheer or celebrate, you put your head down because that's the least that you are expected to do. And you do it again, and again, practice and practice.
If you don't do well in the practice, you don't get to play in the game on the weekend, no exceptions, so these boys play well and play with excellence.
And if you need to take a leak during practice, you go over to the bank on the side of the field and just take your leak there, and return back to play. This happened several times before and during the game.
After profusely thanking the sweet Grandma for lending me the coat, we walked back home. When we got home we saw Erla cruising on her little balance bike that all German kids learn to ride on. No training wheels here!
We had a yummy dinner of take out Doner from down the street, which is shaved kebab lamb meat with tsaziki sauce. It is the unofficial/official national food of Germany, believe it or not. There is a Doner place in every town, and it's the ideal quick and relatively inexpensive meal.
Afterwards, we watched the Boy in the Striped Pajamas, which George and Rachel hadn't seen before. Yes, it is a sad movie, but very touching at the same time. I am currently listening to the audiobook version, which is excellent.
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