Dear Germany,
What is with the quietude? Back in Brooklyn there’s always a hum. Sometimes even more than a hum. Take for example the 5+ individual garbage trucks that rumbled past our apartment every night (one for each side of the street’s public trash cans—that’s four, we lived on the corner—and one for the commercial trash from the restaurant opposite; this does not count garbage trucks for our garbage). Add to this the passing of the G train (in German, you’d know this as der Hipstertransport) every so often which trembled the house’s core.
This is Saturday night. It’s well into the evening and the place sounds like a morgue on vacation. Actually, I’m kind of digging this. Not the morgue part but the fact that I can sleep again. It’s eerily quiet, almost like the forest in Ireland where I grew up, but even though I can sleep no-one likes eerie.
Your, Germanofile