It's HOT. Activity must be limited, so I sit in the old fellas bar round the corner once more biding time around lunch; time spent successfully standing still, or even going backwards. Inside it's dark, and there's nobody else but me and the owner. I could sit there for hours, staring at people walking past. 

The man I now understand to be named Wolfgang comes in and he sets out his little tools on the table meticulously (this ancient table is made in a workshop, I note, the silver cars outside in the sun through the doorway are made in factories, and this, I decide, is the way it has always and should always be for western civilization). Wolfgang begins making more of his 'musical instruments' from bits of wire and bottle tops as I sit with the slow beer. This is very German I think, and quite precious in a way. He's wearing a beige safari suit, because of the heat. There is a good deal of silence, punctuated by the occasional lament of a lovelorn German girl from the ancient jukebox.