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“Nope, just grabbing this,” I reply, snagging a baby onesie with a German flag on it off the shelf.
London eyes me speculatively. “Something you need to tell me?”
I roll my eyes as I head for the register. “It’s for my sister. She just had a baby.”
“Look at you being a doting aunt.”
That adjective seems like a stretch considering I’ve never even met the kid, but I don’t argue. “Are you getting anything?” I ask.
“No, I’ve bought way too much in France already. Thank God there’s only a week left, or I’d have to get a new suitcase, too.”
“The program is that short?” I ask, surprised.
“Yeah, just the three weeks.”
“What are you going to do for the rest of summer?”
“Lounge on the beach.” London grins. “Hook up with a hot lifeguard. Eat ice cream. Drink margaritas. Who knows?”
I snort. “Sounds lovely.”
“What are you doing after Scholenberg? It’s what—six weeks?”
“Eight. I’ll head back to Lancaster to start training for preseason as soon as it ends.”
London shakes her head. “I don’t know how you do it. My teammates think my training is crazy, and I’m taking most of the summer off.”
I shrug as I plop the onesie and postcards on the checkout counter, then dig some euros out of my pocket. “If you’re doing the same as everyone else, you’re not going to be the best.”
“That’s a better T-shirt slogan than Life is Brewtiful,” Natalie comments to my right. She’s spinning the carousel of keychains next to the cash register.
I smirk. “I’ll tell Nike when I sign my endorsement deal.”
A few minutes later, we exit the store and continue down the street. The beer garden Ellie recommended is a couple of blocks farther, the first hint that we’re drawing near the sudden change in our surroundings. Dense greenery appears on the right rather than more storefronts. There’s a wrought iron archway halfway down the block. A wooden sign affixed to the center is carved with a few German words. The last one says Biergarten, which I take as an encouraging sign we’ve navigated the city correctly. Then again, I’m sure Kluvberg has more than just the one beer garden.
I lead the way down a stone pathway that cuts through the foliage. We emerge onto a wooden terrace. Verdure is draped over and twisting through it, sheltering the picnic tables below and dripping down the sides in tendrils of leaves. A wooden hut is nestled to the left, with a line of customers waiting to place their orders snaking around the side. Most of the tables are taken, people dipping pretzels in an array of mustards and drinking beer.
It takes me a moment to realize, but the beer garden also overlooks most of Kluvberg. We’re in a newer part of the city, one that’s on higher ground, evidently. I can see the canal in the distance. The steeples of the cathedral. And the outline of the stadium, of course.
“You guys grab a table. I’ll get in line,” I offer.
“I’ll come with you,” Natalie says. “Text me your orders, ladies.”
Our group splits. Natalie and I join the end of the line, and thankfully, it’s moving pretty fast. We’re close enough to see the menu within minutes, and there’s a lot more than just beer and pretzels being offered.
My relationship with German cuisine has been strained so far. The restaurant I went to earlier in the week with Ellie and a few other Scholenberg attendees was offering a wide variety of foods that did not sound appealing at all. But all the German dishes here have English descriptions written underneath, and bratwurst on a pretzel bun or fried pork doesn’t sound terrible.
We reach the counter, and Natalie relays everyone else’s orders to the young blonde woman behind it as I continue to survey the menu. I’ve always been indecisive when it comes to food. Some might call me a picky eater.
Finally, I settle on just a pretzel to go with my beer.
We move to the side to let the next group order and take up positions along the wrought-iron fence that circles the perimeter of the eating area to wait. I stare out at the city for a couple of minutes and then turn my gaze back to the terrace, just in time to watch a brown-haired guy saunter over. The cocky grin he’s sporting tells me all I need to know about why he’s approaching us. Or approaching me, rather. He ignores Natalie, focusing his attention exclusively my way.
“Hello.” He addresses me in English, but there’s a thick accent underlying the greeting. I say nothing, just raise an eyebrow. “I know you speak English—I heard you ordering,” he adds.
“So?” I ask, raising both brows now.
“I was wondering if you’d like to sit with us.” He jerks his head toward a table filled with a boisterous group I’m not the least bit surprised to learn are his friends.
