Freising

The sunrise starts outside of the window just across from where I slept. First light comes around four o'clock. A trumpet call of light streams across the room, commanding me to get up at seven-thirty. Inbetween, I wink one eye or the other open, say a very short prayer of thanks, and then fall instantly back to sleep.

The day is warm and sunny. I wander through the city streets that are for the most part, desserted. Except for a few locals who are bustling home from a quick stop at the bakery to pick up fresh bread rolls.

The folks here are friendly. Or, at least I foundriendly waiter who is in the process of opening up a café, willing to serve me a much desired cup of tea. A morning is not a morning without tea.

Two young men and a woman stroll over after a night out on the town in search of coffee and something to eat. They are loud and obviously inebreated: their moods unpredictable.

The woman giggles a lot. The man, with the Clive Owen look, has a low sandpaper voice, and like sto hear himself speaking. He and the woman occasionally kiss. Passionate kisses. They speak of more to come, once they are home and their sidekick is gone.

Sidekick is the most dronk of the three. Beligerant to boot. While his companions kiss, he class up the people on his cell phone list and yells obcenities into the phone. He thinks this is funny.

The friendly waiter comes and makes a comment about it being time for them to put some food in their stomachs. The sidekick asks him if he can hear their stomachs rumbling. The waiter replies dryly that not only their stomachs can be heard over the whole market place. He chooses his words so well, they do not appear to be rude or condecending, rather, they cut through the dullness, the cotton padding of their inebreation. Suddenly, the three begin to behave civilly.

It is as though the waiter's words possess the magic ability to remind them how they normally behave.