Dearest Agatha,
If there is a lesson to be learned in all of this, it may simply be that the value of dressing well and showing common courtesy is impossible to underestimate.
To step back within the narrative, I'll begin by confirming the facts with which you are already familiar. Following the War, of which I was but a humble spectator and not a participant, in large part due to a hereditary trait which causes swelling in my joints during moments of stress and would therefore make me a certain liability upon the field of battle, I took a holiday in the French countryside. As I explained to my Father, the purpose of this was to clear my head and return to the States fully prepared to regain my position within the family meat processing empire.
During my travels, however, I met a gentleman who raved of certain entertainments to be found in the City of Paris. He described these entertainments in such a way that it seemed foolish not to at least make the trip and verify his many claims. So to Paris I went. In searching for the building in which these entertainments may be found, I became a bit misdirected. I did, however, come to find myself walking before a pair of English-speaking gentlemen and took to following them, in the hopes that they may also be seeking these noted entertainments.
These gentlemen arrived at a grand building. Through overheard conversation, I learned that this was the French Foreign Ministry and not the site of the entertainments I sought. As I considered my mistake, wonderfully formal footmen held open the door. When the gentlemen went in and the footmen remained holding the door open, I realized that they assumed I was with the other gentlemen. Preferring not to make these hired men feel foolish in their (perfectly reasonable) assumption, I entered the building.
Once inside, I had all intentions of taking a brief tour and then leaving, however, I was immediately approached by an official of some authority. He asked which nation I represented. Now, you must understand, I made a mistake of judgment in this moment. I did not previously know what the purpose of the French Foreign Ministry might be, so I assumed (and I argue it was reasonable to do so) that they managed affairs primarily concerned with foreign tourists. Therefore, when the gentleman asked my name and which nation I represented, I thought he was serving as the equivalent of a guest book, merely collecting pertinent information.
That is why I thought it would be a laugh to say what I said.
"I represent the Great, Misunderstood Nation of Gervonia," I told the man, which caused him to blink in confusion.
"Gervonia, sir?" he said, flipping through sheets of paper. "And your nation suffered some upheaval during the War?"
"Such upheaval!" I said, wondering only in that moment whether or not the French Foreign Ministry contained a museum or anything of common interest to pass the time. "The Germans stole the entirety of our livestock, all of our feather pillows, most of our good pens, and a handful of our better looking children."
The man gawped at this, which I took as a sign of a good yarn. "I suppose you will be arguing for reparations?" he said.
"Indeed," I replied, not entirely sure what was meant, but feeling that my little joke was exceeding its station quite substantially. "We will be demanding land, infantrymen, and a quarter of their richest pastries. The fury of Gervonia is not easily quenched!"
The man bowed his head. "Well, I should think not. Please, find a seat in the hall. The proceeding shall begin shortly."
Ah, I thought to myself, there must be a show of some variety. So I took my seat in a grand hall and made myself comfortable. This was not, of course, the entertainment I had traveled so far to experience, but you know as well as any, Dear Agatha, that I am not so rigid as to refuse a pleasant change of plans.
What followed, in all honesty, was a bit drab for my tastes. It was largely just a lot of talking and talking. There were Americans there, as well as Brits, Japs, Italians, and a few others. None did much to hold my attention. I was thoroughly bored and considering my escape when I heard someone call out my name. I sat up on instinct as they named me the representative of Gervonia, an aggrieved party to the War.
"What does Gervonia seek?" said someone I did not manage to see.
The man from earlier stood up. "They seek land, military armament, and food rations," he said, before nodding in my direction.
"Land?" scowled a muttonchop'd fellow in a luxurious overcoat. "That pie cannot be sliced any further."
"We aren't a fussy people," I said, standing up. "Just a small bit, something off one of the ends will be fine. Preferably something with a river or a chocolate factory."
"And you require arms?" said another man. "The War is over, sir."
"Well," I replied, "Gervonia believes in an eye for an eye. We were invaded, rather rudely, so we would like the opportunity to do the same. That seems fair to me."
"To be clear," said the muttonchopped'd fellow. "You want a piece of Germany, as well as the arms and supplies necessary to invade her?"
"We can invade someone else, if you like," I said. "As I stated, we are not a fussy people. I think it's more the principle of the thing. We can't sit around, getting invaded, and not do a bit of invading ourselves. It's demoralizing."
I realize, my dear, that this letter has gone on perhaps a bit longer than usual, so I will sum up by saying that if you are so inclined, you should consider purchasing a ticket and joining me here on the old continent. Gervonia is, at the moment, a relatively sparse plot of land, but there is a very good chance we will have invaded Luxembourg by the time this letter reaches you and I hear they have some rather nice cafes.
Yours in love,
F. Paul Risenbaum, III
President and Supreme Emperor
The Great, Misunderstood Nation of Gervonia