I love my brother George even when I’m not puking

Early this afternoon, after a hilarious visit to Miniatur Wonderland, I threw up a healthy breakfast of meusli, milk, raspberries, and lots of water. Immediately after, I remembered that the Bretagne creperie was just around the corner, so George and I headed there for lunch. Following the sage advice of my instincts, I housed a crispy buckwheat crepe with Emmentaler cheese, dried smoky ham, pears, gorgonzola sauce and walnuts. Not wanting to overdo it, George and I decided to share a dessert crepe: bananas, ice cream, chocolate sauce, whipped cream, and toasted almonds. We then went up 75 meters in a glass-walled, very fast elevator. I felt fine. Or fine-ish. Mostly fine, though, and I didn’t hurl – not even in my mouth.
Now we’ve arrived home, I’ve had a more sensible snack of bland crackers (with Nutella) and a sports drink (grapefruit flavor, and carbonated, oddly,) and I feel sick again. Ah, well. Apparently this stuff is out of my control.

George is awesome for so many reasons. Here is a smattering of reasons from today: he found whatever was rotting in the fridge and cleaned it out (his guess was that it was rice pudding with tuna, at least two weeks old,) he went to the German grocery all by himself to get crackers and ginger ale (after a year here the grocery still intimidates me,) and he cracks me up even when I’m sniffling from the embarrassment of puking in public.

Tomorrow we’re off to see one of the German’s huge windmills, whose grandeur I hope will somewhat distract from the wretchedness of my hostessing.

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