So we decided we'd go to the post building that wasn't an office today. Boyfriend and I disagreed on when would be the best time, but were quite sure there would be someone there today. 'Before nine am' is quite a wide spectrum of time. I wanted to go at four, Boyfriend at eight. I argued we might be able to stay up until four, but never wake up before eight on a Saturday morning. The compromise fell on 'sunup'.
Boyfriend sleeps better than me, so he was a bit surprised when I shook him on the sofa at five.
He was a bit fuzzy getting dressed, but got enthusiastic as soon as he was on his bike. Oh my GOD, so little people! Such safe streets! Only the squeaking of my bike to disturb the peaceful quiet of a Saturday morning. Sure, it was overcast and, sure, the streets were wet, but the weather was light and cool and delightful to bike through.
Arriving at the building, there was no entrance. We'd parked our bikes well out of any path the trucks bringing packages might take, so no one yelled at us, but it didn't take long for someone to notice the two twenty-somethings obviously not contractually obliged to wear day-glo yellow.
Why were we there? We explained. We got told that no one worked at five am on a Saturday unless they absolutely had to. So much for my illusions of German work ethic and efficiency. If we waited, however, the nice man would be able to tell us what to do next. I don't know if it's an exception to the rule, here, but German bureaucracy is starting to look a lot like Belgian bureaucracy, with the difference that you get told the same thing if you contact the same place, no matter at which day, hour or month.
Eventually, he got back with two phone numbers we could try. Gee. We've officially exhausted all actual people we can talk to, having been so annoying as to deserve punishment by waiting tune upon waiting tune until someone deems us cowed enough to talk to. Or that's what I'm assuming, anyway. My hope is a tiny speck in the distance. I'll be sending an e-mail to the website later, begging that, should they find the kindness in their hearts to send my order a third time, to please change my name for Boyfriend's. Things arrived when I did that.
By the time we'd crossed the parking lot back to our bikes, having managed to not be run over by trailers or trucks, we were both very much awake from the fresh morning air. And McDonald's was practically across the street, so we checked to see if it was open. Lucky for us, it wasn't. And even if it was, it doesn't have pancakes for breakfast. I stopped salivating as soon as I noticed this last tidbit.
So we rode home. Boyfriend was so delighted at the unnatural quiet in his town, as if an atomic blast had wiped out all the angry motorists, late drunks, noisy children and stressed adults. Not his words, but my view on things. True, it was a tempting sight, but I was tired at this point. Boyfriend was as energetic as only a two-year-old can be at a quarter past five in the morning. Let's go take a ride, he said, it'll be fun, he said. I declined. I'd had enough bright ideas for one morning.
Oh, and as I put away my bike, I noticed what's causing the squeaking to my bike. My rear wheel is either skewed or bent. Not enough to be a hazard, but enough to... Well, to rub against the frame and squeak like a rabbit caught in the jaws of a rabid fox.
I'm not even going to think about how that can be solved until after I've had some sleep.
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