I'm in Munich, staring at fresh-from-the-oven rolls.
Pumpernickel touched by sesame seeds, sourdough speckled with green and black olives, poppy-seed everythings, and loaves upon loaves of every possible heavenly combination.
It's almost my turn.
Everything is clearly and neatly labeled, block-letter-cards adorning each miniature shelf, heralding every item released from the oven's inferno.
Then it hits me.
The labels are all wrong. I don't know what anything is called. And though my German was once perfectly gut, that was 12 years ago.
So I panic. Stall. Try to eavesdrop as other natives place their orders.
The smells are intoxicating. My head begins to spin. I don't know what to do.
And then I woke up. Here's how I see it: I'm either a) overly-obsessed with really great bread; b) insanely excited about the prospect of an amazing sandwich; or c) have an inexplicably secret and hidden fear involving ordering in a bakery.
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