leave the house, follow the son to the end of the alley. The alley is full of parking cars and a small truck. People are moving flat, finding a better place to stay, or simply unable to pay. The son wanders off to watch, call him back, it is rude to stare. And anyhow, it is improper to gawp at people's private belongings. They are private.
Go back down the alley, all the way, turn left at the junction. Diagonally opposite, police cars in front of the police station, parked in a row in front of the building.
Cross the road at the designated spot, there is a stylised figure of a man walking painted on the pavement just there. Done in white.
On the opposite side, another man like that. Be careful to step on the white circle representing his head.
The son has chosen to cross the road elsewhere, there is little traffic about so it does not matter.
Enter the café, the son hems and haws.
Order a cup of coffee and a croissant.
The son drinks a coke and eats a Bienenstichkuchen.
Sting of the bee cake, sweet, nut things on top.
Sit down, discuss computers.
A man who loves fast cares and has a big phone sits down on the next seat. His big car, a huge American sports car is parked outside. He is a small man, thin.
Opposites attract.
The son starts to talk about the east German car, the Trabant. Quite the opposite, a tiny thing with a minute motor, a cheap solution to individual transport.
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