The air-conditioning hummed like a polite refrigerator. From the radio oozed “the greatest hits from every decade” — that wonderfully elastic promise that apparently also includes the Stone Age. The presenter promised relaxation and announced the Super-Duper-Morning-Quiz. She sighed, switched to classical music, and checked the range. The next charging station was ages away. “Fine,” she muttered. “I’d really like to know what gets people so worked up about electric cars — apart from losing the excuse for those soggy gas-station croissants.”
Steering-wheel button. “Susi, call the office.” — “Hello! Are you on the road?” cooed the secretary’s voice, which always sounded as if she were wrapped in a cardigan knitted from pure kindness. “Relax,” the driver said. “On schedule. Is the big conference room ready?” — Everything prepared, arrival expected. “Stay calm,” she began — when suddenly a yellow sign leapt from the shrubbery of fate: DETOUR. “Seriously? Today?” — “Try to get through there quickly,” the voice squeaked in panic. “We still need to sort out a few points before the client arrives.”
Connection lost. So she followed the official dance of yellow arrows. First: the usual congregation at the crosswalk (a frail lady with a world-citizen stride), then a left turn into a river of metal and interrupted life plans. A cyclist sliced boldly through the gap, the sensors braked — behind her, a honking concert: dissonant, unmistakably C-sharp major on asphalt. A truck driver took pity, lifted an imaginary baton, and let her merge.
“Please make a U-turn,” purred a voice from the dashboard. “Huh?” — “Susi, navigation off.” — “The automatic detour system is active,” lectured the friendly machine, sounding like a yoga instructor with a traffic-jam fetish. “Susi, off!” — “You can disable the bypass service in the settings: Menu → Special Services → Navigation → Section Detour. Would you like me to do that?” — “Yes.” — “What should I do? ‘Yes’ does not activate any of my systems.”
Meanwhile the detour veered onto a road that had probably last been used by legionnaires. Potholes like archaeological windows. “Take D3,” commanded the sign. She followed. Susi did not. “Repeat your input. ‘Yes’ is not an option at this point.” — “Susi, turn off the bypass service.” — “Gladly. What was the name of your first pet?” — “Why?” — “Security question.” — “Oh, go to hell,” she hissed. — “Unfortunately, I cannot complete that task.” Of course not. So on she went — human resilience against digital stubbornness.
Construction light. Meditative red. She fished the phone from its mount, stabbed her way through seven layers of settings jungle, finally found the switch, and exorcised the bypass service. A brief triumph, then yellow again, then green. The arrows commanded: “straight ahead” — unfortunately into a one-way street. Behind her, Schönberg rose to full glory: honking in freely atonal polyphony. In that moment she realized that “straight ahead” here meant “diagonally right.” Simultaneously, the phone rang. Her assistant. “Susi, take the call.” — “I assume you’re still on the way,” said the voice, now surprisingly calm. “The client was here, waited, was in a hurry, won’t be coming back. Take your time; I’ll make coffee.” Click.
The driver slammed on the brake, drummed an atonal horn solo onto the steering wheel; the surrounding orchestra answered with a forceful cadence in “Presto, tutti.”
At the end of the administrative labyrinth she stood before the door. Pulse: fortissimo. Hand on the handle. Burst in and scream? — no. Deep breath. She had once been deputy mayor, liked to appear composed, and lately tended to think in election cycles. Straighten shoulders, swallow the storm. From inside came a friendly “pop.” Then several. As if someone were uncorking peanuts.
Door open. Two gazes at her. In the middle: an older man with a face mapped by life, eyes both tired and sarcastic. Next to him: a young girl, lively, cheeky, with a smile that clearly said, “I know something you don’t.” Before them: an oversized city map; beside it a small box emitting suspicious clicks. As she entered, four hands jerked back. “May I ask who you are — and what you are doing in a municipal office?” croaked the old man with the courtesy of a second-hand bookstore.
“Excuse me. I’m looking for traffic management. Is this the right place?” — Silence. Several seconds long enough to fold a handkerchief. Years of politics, endless meetings, decisions involving heritage preservation — and now? No one recognized her. A short sting: fashionable invisibility after leaving office. The girl’s smile flickered briefly: Oh, her. “I’m here because of the detour at Trinity Square. The routing is… let’s say: artistically creative. Is there an idea behind it?” The girl looked at the old man. “Shall I?” — A nod. “What exactly bothers you?” she asked with sugar-frosted sarcasm.
“I followed the signage meticulously. It just kept going. Then the industrial park. Why? What’s the logic?” — “Logic is relative,” the old man interjected, fishing in the box and lifting something pen-like. “The journey is the destination. Besides, we are the administration, not the Institute for the Discovery of Meaning. Traffic is best directed by good fortune. You didn’t know that?” The girl added: “And what’s wrong with industrial parks? Also: D3 is a recommendation, not a gospel.” She fell silent. Years as deputy — and this neighborhood had remained a blind spot. Ouch.
The old man squinted. “Wait… don’t I know you? Culture and Environment?” — “Yes,” she said, a shade too proudly. His grin slid into violin-level mischief. “All right then. What’s the issue exactly?” — “Why does the detour force traffic off the main road into narrow side streets? I was blocked multiple times.” The girl nodded didactically. “Shall I outline the complexity? Might help you shine at your next council meeting.” Hit. She remembered the town festival, her big downtown closure, and her own advice not to let traffic planners “lead them astray.” Irony waved cheerfully.
She stepped closer. The plan was a relief of pins and strings, every street a thread, every idea a stitch. The base felt like pressed fiber — puncture-proof, elastic, persistent. “The diversion begins at the square, runs along South Park Avenue, then to East Loop, then to the south exit node 33…,” the girl lectured. The old man chuckled. “Forgive me. The exit node has very special qualities. Reminds me of something from my youth.” — “You set all this with pins and strings? No computer?” — The old man raised an eyebrow. “You know the budget better than anyone at the end of the corridor. As far as I know, we are currently investing in the opera house’s stair railings instead.” Touché.
With a record like that, re-election would be a mountain ascent. She stepped back. “I see you’ve got it under control. Sorry for disturbing you. Have a nice day.” The door fell shut almost over her last words. Outside she breathed deeply. Apparently she hadn’t understood everything. Not yet. From the room came that “pop” again — like back in the school hall when the darts hit the board. Order within chaos, stitched with needle and thread. A peculiar comfort.