Borstei

These days in Minga the de facto deportment for hailing a bus is to make sure that the bus driver observes you at the bus stop putting on a mask; or at least to be seen rummaging anxiously in the depths of your bag to find the pilling (orig. circa 2020) grubby grey mask redolent (favourite word of late) of stale curry.
Munich transport regulations insist, not any old mask but a surgical mask or an FFP2 mask.
Any other mask purchased from say, the attic or a joke shop, may indicate an intention to rob the grumpy fare paying passengers of Munich‘s wonderful and punctual public transport system.
Not that any scoundrel, such as the historically elusive Germanic bandit Christman Genipperteinga, would ever get their wicked way these days. Munich‘s alte Frauen have the genetic ability to stare down a drunk and disorderly bull elephant to the point where it goes and tidies it’s room and afterwards has a think on the naughty step about the consequences of it’s bad behaviour.
I, in my way of standing about on street corners, attired in velvet smoking jacket and slippers with 1964 Rolleicord in hand, minding my own English-type business, have on numerous occasions been dealt "the Germanic stare".
It would be suitable at this juncture to report that I have a very tidy room indeed.

Where was I? … bus, bandit, behaviour … ah yes! I caught a bus to Borstei … lovely place … lovely time.