I stood on a brown front porch, rang the doorbell, and waited for the door to open. Nothing. I decided to simply call the guy I was supposed to meet. “Hi, this is Almer, I am at your front door,” I asked. He replied: “Ah, don’t worry, I’ll be right down.”
The fuzz of you leaving is beginning to die down as the people back home become caught up again in their own lives: you’re here, they’re there. Thus, as is usual after a week or two, feelings of nostalgia set in.
“Can I help you, sir?”, the man behind the counter asked.
“Uhm, yes, so, I need a bike,” I uttered, “I guess I’ve come to the right place.”
He smiled and showed me around the huge three-storey bicycle shop.