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On being German
There’s at least one important thing we have forgotten. The phrase book, so now we are German’s who cannot speak the native tongue.
Within hours of arriving in Dusseldorf, we have been found the local supermarket (a hobby of ours when we travel is to master the art of supermarket shopping), the local Christmas markets, standing outside in the less-than-3 degree temperature sipping spiced, hot wine, dinner comprising a whole plate of pig (the name of which I cannot remember, but prepared a bit like lamb shanks without the distraction of vegetables) and an Irish pub, the ideal spot for Marty to succumb to those waves of tiredness that come at the end of a long flight.
Fleur’s apartment is on the main street, Heinrich Heine Allee (should it be Heinrich Himmler Allee or do we not mention the war?), right in the heart of town and almost above the police station which is of enormous comfort.