The sandwich band

The patch of sunlight is barely big enough for the two of us as we sit, enjoying the strikingly blue sky, deceiving us into believing the weather is warm, and our ice cream. Someone taps me on the shoulder; I turn around and look up into....a man dressed as a sandwich. What the...? The monstrosity, like the evil progeny of SpongeBob and a hamburger, is handing me an advertisement from our local sub shop. I raise my eyebrows, take the sheet with a slow „thanks...“ and an unspoken ,,...I think“.

„Call me...“ says the sandwich. I’m not sure if sandwiches can leer, but I imagine this one tries.

Er..... ok-ay....

And inside of less than ten minutes, as we still sit on the same bench (the sandwich having moved on to greener pastures—perhaps in search of a she-sandwich, who knows), our conversaiton is increasingly drowned out by....the approaching marching band. The bandmaster is wearing a sombrero; the rest, blue hats; curious passerby trailing in their wake like slightly lost children--the pied piper has come?

Umm..... I wasn’t aware today was a holiday. And yesterday, by the look of the „demonstration“ at the fountain, must have been Free Tibet day. I think last week was Free Hugs. I am continuously confounded.

Apparently Fr. is now home to scientolists, who have bought a building and want to start...something. No one quite knows; it made all the local papers (between the article on local dairy farmers leaving the trade union and advertisements for kitchen appliances).

This place is getting weirder all the time.