2013-08-28 47 8
A parking lot in Waltikon.
Take Auntie Frieda at 11.20 from Stadelhofen to Waltikon, then walk merrily. --Calamus 03:45, 28 August 2013 (EDT)
Once again, Calamus sat inside Auntie Frieda, the train-tram hybrid which drives from Zurich over the south-eastern mountain ridge. He had been to Waltikon once, for exactly fifteen minutes. He had been on his way to the Forch to question an old man who had had far more influence on the country's politics than a single person ever should have, when Calamus had suddenly realized that he had forgotten to buy an extension ticket. So he'd left the train, bought one and caught the next one. And that was all the experience he'd ever had with Waltikon. Auntie Frieda left the city and accelerated. Calamus enjoyed how the people were friendlier out here, such as the boy sitting opposite from him offering his newspaper to him after he was done with it without Calamus having to ask.
It seemed that there wasn't much to Waltikon. It had probably been a serene village once, but it appeared to have become a place to hide unaesthetic industry at some point. Much of the commune was taken up by a school obviously designed for foreigners, judging from the didactically contraproductive parking lot on which the hashpoint happened to be.
Next to the parking lot was a cluster of allotment gardens, secured with a gate on which a note was posted: "To the thief of gooseberries and flowers: May your stomach cringe in agony, and may you be devoured by shame at the view of the blossoms. Fellas, watch out for that bastard."
Calamus went to the parking lot, took a picture and quickly left again. Morning school was going to be over soon, and Calamus didn't want to be overrun by a bunch of children. Or look like a creep, for that matter.
None of interest.