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Valentina’s Point of View
We had spent most of the night deep cleaning—first the imbiss, then the motorhome, then, after sunrise and before breakfast, the site itself. The grill got done twice. It didn’t need it twice.
We had drained the fryers and oiled the steel against the winter, stacked three hundred seats’ worth of benches under the walnut trees and chained them, and propped the walk-in open with its shelves bare.
Not quite bare. The sauerkraut tubs stayed, sealed, labeled in my block capitals, where Werner would find them when he came back from Porto. The shutters went up on the hut, and the padlock closed with a sound the whole acre heard.