Louise

Last night in Vienna, we met our BYU students at a restaurant called The Gulasch Museum, which as far as I could tell had nothing to do with a museum; although, the menu was a work of art.  It was a large faux leather book with photographs of the fifteen gulasch dishes offered, each page protected in a museum-quality, acid free, plastic binding.

The offerings were labeled not only in German but English, French, Italian, Spanish, Urdu, Pig-Latin and Swahili.

Enter in, foreign suckers.

Rick Steves recommends The Gulasch Museum, but he recommends it in a poor German accent.

I ordered the Kalbsgulasch mit Spinatknoedlen, because just to say it aloud is to clear all the germs from your mouth onto the waitress’s apron.  Veal.  It’s veal.  Some of the female students squealed, “You’re eating veal?”

“Yes, I am.  I’m eating little baby cows with large, dark emotionally thrilling eyes.  I’ve asked to have it butchered right at the table.”

Give me a break.

As it turned out, the entire group ate carnivorously and the gulasch was delicious.  Hats off to the bouncy Rick Steves.

I sat at a table with 8 young women and one young man, Chip.   One of them suggested that we go around the table and tell the others about our relationships with the opposite sex.

Chip rolled his eyes.

So around we went.  One has a missionary in Brazil.  Several had broken up with old high school boyfriends.  A couple had never been in a serious relationship and had never kissed anyone.  Virgin Lips.

When it was Chip’s turn, he said, “No way.”  Chip is cute and all the girls say they’re having a relationship with him, but only one could get him on Facebook.  They’ve also all had their pictures taken with him individually, so they can show people at home how they had a romance during the summer.

“Come on, Chip, tell us about your real girlfriend,”

“It’s me, isn’t it?” One of them blinks her winky winks at him.

Chip blushes,which makes him all the more appealing.  He isn’t going to tell them anything.  Then he says, “Louise knows.”

All the females turn to me.  “How do YOU know?”

“We had Sunday dinner together the first week.  I grilled him on his love life.”

“So what is it?”

“I can’t tell.”

Hyperbolic groans all around.

So we move around to the next young woman and she has the story of the evening.  She broke up with her boyfriend when he was in the hospital having chemotherapy for testicular cancer.

I am wowed.  You can’t make this kind of stuff up.  I want to ask a question.  I really want to ask a question.  So I ask the question:  “Does he still have his testicles?”

She raised one index finger.

Ouch.

So what’s the worst break-up you’ve ever had?

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