Through these eyes

'Eis' in German means 'ice-cream'. It's being pronounced like 'ice', but it's apparently not the same thing. Try to remember that.
So when German waiter asks you do you want him to put some 'eis' in your juice, he's talking about ice-cream. It doesn't make much sense, but I guess everything works that way around here.
While the waiter was leaving with my order, which was 'any traditional dish', I was flipping the coin with my hands. That coin was given to me by some old lady who was sitting next to me on the plane. She saw I got scared, so she just took it out of her pocket and told me to hold it tight till the ride is over. I'll give it back to her once we land safely.
What she didn't know is that I'm not afraid of airplanes. Not really. What made my stomach start spinning is that the fact I'm flying all alone to the country where I don't know anyone, I don't really speak the language nor know what's going to happen.
In the end, she let me keep the coin.
- Maultasche! -the waiter said proudly.
The plate was filled with soup and two pieces of something that reminded me of little pasta squares I was making as a child while playing in my grandpa’s kitchen. Didn’t look as something they would serve in an expensive restaurant to tourists.
But that’s what I liked about it so much.
This place was old and small: less than ten tables, cheap food and atmosphere that makes you feel like you just walked into your best friend’s home.
No, tourists do not stop by here often. And I’m not saying that only because I saw the thrilled expression full of expectation on the waiter’s face while I was tasting maultasche for the first time. I’m saying that because I had enough time to observe what was going on around me:
young women eating their toasts, looking tiered and, as far as I understood, talking about vacuuming; older men in their work uniforms eating the same portions of maultasche as me; two teenage girls drinking juice with ice-cream and keep repeating the name ‘Sebastian’ in their conversation; one old man reading newspaper while waiting for his apparently hot coffee to get a bit colder. These people are typical Germans and I’m sitting next to them, feeling like I belong.
Not sure was it the taste of maultasche, the smell of cheese that fulfilled this tiny restaurant, banana juice I tried for the very first time, but something made me come back to this place over and over again to enjoy it and try to find out everything that was going on around here.