A/N - I have recently re-watched AYITL and was inspired to add a little insight into what we missed. So, here it is… my feeble attempt at filling in some of the holes, or at least this particular hole. Any interest in reading more? Anyone else feel like it was hard to root for Rory in the revival? Let me know!

**Disclaimer - I do not own Gilmore Girls or any other entities mentioned.

This happens way more often than I would like to admit... Here I am, lying awake in my hotel room, hours away from an interview and completely unable to recall a single detail of what I know about the person. I'm useless. My brain is void of any valuable information whatsoever. I am Ernest Goes on an Interview.

I know it's my usual neurotic anxiety and nerves, but you'd think that after more than a decade of doing this I'd have a handle on it. Come on Gilmore, think.

Johannes Tuchel… Political scientist, runs the German Resistance Memorial Museum, and… nope. Tapped out. Double crap.

I grabbed my phone from the bedside table to scroll through my notes for the hundredth time since I got this assignment; where he's from, where he studied, how he came to his position. Looking back up at the ceiling, I silently quizzed myself on what I'd just read, and… ugh. Still not sticking.

I dramatically dropped my phone back on the table, threw the covers off my legs and swung them around to the side of the bed. I need help. I marched myself over to the closet, pushed the outfit I had previously selected for tomorrow out of the way and reached into the garment bag behind it. Desperate times call for desperate measures. My hand emerged grasping the familiar red fabric, only slightly wrinkled from traveling. Shaking it out, I hung it on the back of the bathroom door, counting on the steam from my morning shower to release the rest. As I made my way back to bed I couldn't help but wonder if History Magazine would mind at all that they were paying a reporter who relied on a lucky outfit for a good interview. Silently admonishing my complete lack of self-confidence, I laid back and shut my eyes. If I did get at least a few hours of sleep, even my lucky outfit couldn't save me.

As expected I slept pretty restlessly, but thankfully it didn't seem to slow me down much. Soon after my alarm had sounded I was in a hot shower, having a bit more success quizzing myself on the subject of my impending interview than the night before. Mercifully, my lucky red dress was mostly wrinkle free by the time I was combing through my hair. With the dress, a bit of under eye concealer and my black leather boots over tights I was actually feeling pretty good. I added my knee-length wool coat and a scarf to my ensemble, since not-quite-spring in northern Germany seemed to translate to dead-of-winter for most of the rest of the world.

I gave myself a once over in the mirror before heading out in search of coffee. My hair was tucked neatly into a bun on the back of my head, my lucky dress just visible beneath the hem of my coat. I noticed a few more lines around my eyes than I used to, but… stop. I had to stop myself from taking an entire mental inventory before I totally fell into that rabbit hole. I've found that I am much more inclined to self-criticism as I've aged, but thankfully the Gilmore stubborn streak I was blessed with helps me to keep my most precarious thoughts at bay. I rid my head of them, slung my shoulder bag over my arm and headed out.

After stopping in the hotel lobby for a cup of mediocre coffee, I found myself on the brisk streets of Hamburg. History Magazine had been looking to interview Tuchel and report on a trip to the museum in honor of the 70th anniversary of the resistance's assassination attempt on Hitler. Not exactly my forte, but I had read enough about World War II to bluff my way into an interview for the job, and may have oversold my enthusiasm for the subject by just a touch. Nonetheless here I was, flown halfway around the world on assignment, interviewing someone I only had a vague awareness of, about something I was only marginally interested in for a magazine I hadn't even heard of two months ago… but that's the job, right? This is what I wanted… kind of.

I managed to navigate around morning commuters onto the correct U-Ban train and without much ado I found myself standing outside the heavy, stone walls of the museum. I took a deep breath just as I did before every interview, grabbed the door handle and let myself in from the cold. You've got this, Gilmore.

I finally emerged from the museum just about the time the sky was starting to dim. I was starving and exhausted, having spent almost an entire day with a man whose greatest passion was the time Hitler was almost assassinated. I mean, I'm all for loving what you do, but being that excited about any decades-old cause that has long since been put to rest had to be draining, even for that guy. Between the interview and then being dragged off to be shown one artifact after another that we had probably already seen twice, I was practically an extra from a Romero movie. If nothing else, I could at least write about Johannes' enduring enthusiasm for the Resistance. I always do work best when I review my notes quickly after an interview, but my stomach growled in its own resistance. Food first, work later.

After almost dozing a time or two on the train, I was thankfully aware enough of the muffled announcement made as we screeched to a halt to realize I was at my stop. I began meandering my way around the downtown area near my hotel. By now it was prime supper time and restaurants were getting crowded. I was in no mood to stand around waiting for a table so I kept on toward what looked like a pub on the next block. At the very least I could sustain myself on beer and pretzels.

I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket as I crossed the street and found an email from my one and only mother, half asking how the interview went, half berating me for not checking in sooner. I laughed to myself a little as I typed out a quick response, promising more details when I wasn't quite so Dawn of the Dead.

I returned my phone to my pocket and turned toward the lightly frosted windows adorning the front of the pub. It was also crowded, but not too, and the faint smell of something delicious was beckoning me in. Just as I was reaching for the brass door handle, I heard a strange, and yet oh so familiar voice arise from very close behind me, "Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world…"