"They don't make them like that where I'm from," Lars says by way of agreement as they make their way toward the trolley car. He was accustomed to maps that were more comprehensible than what they're provided here. That's how he'd put it anyway, unaccustomed as he is to the visual style of it. Paper, please.

The food too is foreign, both in its make and ingredients. Meat was a luxury due to the unending conflict, much less anything other than chooped up scraps dumped into something else in an attempt to mask that it was akin to chewing leather. Everything here is curiously plentiful. Overwhelmingly so. "I know there's a place with coffee a few stops off, if nothing else. People mingle around there too."

He's long accustomed to some black, bitter swill his unit had called coffee. The appeal still eludes him, but Lars can choke it down to make a point.