Must be Italian

Here I am, in the rain, in Fritzlar, our lunch stop the first day. I am standing there in that fugue state brought on by a long flight, thinking, "I'm cold. Its wet. But I'm in Germany! Hooray! But I am cold. And wet. And hungry. But I'm not at work! I'm in Germany! Hooray!"
The little Italian Chef Guy behind me was a fixture on this trip. He was very popular and marked the location of many an Italian restaurant along the way. We ate Italian fairly frequently in Germany because:
a) We don't much like German food.
b) German food doesn't much like me.
c) The Italian restaurants were run by Italian immigrants so the food was pretty good, and sometimes great.
d) I can read a menu in Italian and German better than one in German alone. This was handy because the adage "Everyone speaks English in Germany", really isn't true.





Darrin is waiting for his pizza rucola.