I, little Ralph, sometime in the 70s, somewhere in Mecklenburg.
With keys around our necks, we played soccer on the cobblestones with tin cans.
Barely any traffic, now and then a Trabant.
At the corner, the long-established "barber".
The door swung open and out came the boys and men from the moped workshop, freshly trimmed and shaved, in a cloud of adulthood, motor oil, alcohol, and some kind of Caribbean pudding.
Longingly, we stared after the blue overalls and the scent of DDR Prestige tobacco tickled our noses.
