The Letter “I”

Let’s talk about the letter “i.” We can even pretend we’re on Sesame Street or something.

No, this isn’t a deep post about how Americans’ favorite word is “I,” or how’s there’s no “I” in “team,” etc. It’s about how there might not be an “i” in team, but there sure is one in “win.”

Okay, kidding. But it is about the letter “i.”

I is for “ice cream.”

I seem to have an affinity for large, plastic ice cream cones masquerading as trashcans. Please, take a look:

Senior year of high school in Greece, though it appears I am coughing on the ice cream cone instead of licking it.


[Insert picture from Italy last summer that is apparently missing…awkward.]


Yes, there is gelato in Germany. Surprise, surprise, Italy follows (or rather haunts) me everywhere.


I chose a small scoop of malaga, which is rum-raisin (also the last flavor of gelato I had since leaving Italy; how bittersweet).



I is for IKEA.

Or, if you’re German, “Ee-KAY-uh.”

Only in Germany are you greeted as you walk in by your choice of champagne: regular, lingonberry, or blueberry. I chose lingonberry. It was very…sweet.

We were such a novelty that the champagne pourers insisted on having their pictures taken with us:

So happy. So friendly.


After buying burlap sack curtains, I sat down to the IKEA food court meal, cleverly improvised to avoid meat-filled entrees:

The whole time I was eating the potatoes, I kept thinking, "Wow, they must have to waste a lot of the potato peel to get the potatoes so round like that...very un-German." Because I know you wanted to know what I was thinking.


This concludes another episode of “Claire takes horrible photos.” Please, someone teach me how to take good photos on the fly.


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