West Berlin, sometime in late February or early March 1986. On this Saturday morning, today was Richie’s and Katrin’s last day of vacation, the sun was shining in Neukölln, but as Christoph cycled to their urban area, the garage buzzed in his ears and Richie’s grease-free chain rattled beneath him. Today was a big bulky waste day in Schöneberg, so all the consumers who already owned too much in their district put it back on the roadsides. There were old sofa sets, large TV sets, empty fridges, modern chandeliers, worn-out bedroom furnishings, baby carriages for multiple births and sanitary items that were no longer needed, but when Christoph got off the bike and walked to the front door, their full letterbox met him. After dragging also the racing bike upstairs to the fifth floor, it was now back under the large Berlin street map, Christoph watered the overdue plant pots, scribbled his new address on their wish list on the fridge, put the rent on the dining table and the set of house keys on top and left. In the meantime, the discarded household goods were piled up meters high. In front of a particularly impressive pile, Christoph stopped, but the elegant carpet that he was able to grab was unfortunately full of maggots, however, there was a whole bicycle hiding underneath! Stripped of all the garbage, it was a ladies’ bike with a silver frame, a flat rear tire and a figure eight on the front, it was also big enough and the chrome still sparkled, which is why Christoph pushed the squeaking disaster for an hour to his own front door, where he worked on the rim with the help of the kerb. “That’s not the way to go on a bike tour,” said a neighbour who knew a lot about hobbies. “You are right, the bell is missing.” “And the air pump for the flat tyre.” The man even had oil for the rusty chain.