Routers, rug doctors, and getting inside my head

Have you ever had your router die on you?   I spent hours and hours on the Netgear user forum last month just trying to get some help on how to get it working again, because it was running perfectly for two months when suddenly – nada.  After re-setting and reconfiguring and calling my own ISP and being told that no, they can’t help me because I don’t have the router that THEY sell – I just gave up on them and ordered up a new ISP.

That’s the prelude to the apple story.

Midst that hassle I at least had two weeks off work, time enough to drag some dusty power tools out of the basement for a thorough sweep through the apartment taking care of various odd jobs that I’d neglected and were long overdue – a laundry list of sanding, varnishing, hole-drilling, screwdriving, stuccoing the ceiling, sawing, hammering, spackeling, painting – even rug shampooing.

Anyway, March 9 I took K. to the airport because she had a flight to Nice.  Little holiday by herself with a retired friend who goes there every year around this time.

She loves France and French culture as do I, and it would have been nice to be there with her, but as I said I had all these jobs to do and quite frankly all I wanted to do was stay in Hamburg and do some stuff with the little red-haired girl.  We ate at Mickey-D’s twice, made pizza, spareribs, popcorn and french fries, went to the zoo, the world’s largest model railway – yes, it’s right here in Hamburg -  watched a few movies, listened to music and generally hung out.

After taking K. to the airport I went home, turned around and biked off to a clinic for an MRT scan – I don’t know if that’s a CAT scan in real English but you’ve probably seen photos or even had one yourself.  They’re trying to find out why the smell of metal – more like copper – keeps wafting through my head since we got back from New York.

They put you on a narrow bed on a sliding tray, coo soothing words into your ear that it’s going to be a wee bit noisy, but not to worry dear, you get some ear protection and are shown a button to push should you find you just can’t stand one more second of its screaming, scraping, throbbing, grinding, pulsating bursts of pure aggravation.  It goes on for 20 minutes and my head was ringing even more than usual afterward.

Biked home from the scan with printouts showing bizarre slices of my head for the Ear Nose and Throat guy to hum and haw over some time later, plopped them down on the desk long enough to go to the router forum and get some more info, try it out only to bang my head on the chair in frustration.  Routers!  Why are they such a hassle?

But by then it was near closing time at the hardware store where I’d reserved a rug shampooing machine, so I dashed off to the car and fought rush-hour traffic to pick it up.

Paid for the rug doctor, packed it in the car, drove back through the narrow streets into our building’s underground parking lot so I could unload the thing right close to the lift instead of hauling it from a parking spot several streets away.  We don’t rent a space, you see.

Anyway, I took it upstairs, went online to the router help forum because something I thought of asking on my way home I didn’t want to just forget, had some dinner, kissed the little red-haired girl and headed out that evening to meet a friend from the writers’ group who’d invited me to join her weekly improv theater workshop.  I had a lot of fun, even participated in a couple of sketches, then went out for beers.

During the improv the little red-haired girl phoned three times, a little annoying but she said she was afraid, being all alone in the house and having someone first ring the doorbell and then knock on the door 10 minutes later.  I told her that because we weren’t expecting anyone, not to open the door.

Got home after midnight, hit the sack, and woke up around 5:30am for some strange reason asking myself how far I’d have to go to pick up the car again when I brought the rug shampooer back, because I could just carry it to the… OH FUCK!

Suddenly it dawned on me though a late lingering beer buzz that I had absolutely no memory of driving the car out of the underground parking garage after unloading that damn rug doctor.  Pulling on some clothes I threw myself downstairs, flung open the door to the garage – and the car’s gone!   At least it’s not in the spot it should have been.  Oh man…

I head around a corner and to my enormous relief it’s only been pushed a few yards down the way a bit.  Must have left it unlocked.

I get in, turn the key and it doesn’t turn over, because – cue Simpsons’ HA-HA -  I’d left the hazard lights on.  So I go upstairs and haul the little red-haired girl out of bed – it’s before 6 am – because she’s got to help me push it into an empty parking bay.  We struggle to edge the car through the crowded garage without scraping any BMWs,  I lift up the hood, disconnect the battery and pull it out.  I’ve got a charger and want to get it hooked up right away, because who knows how long it’s going to take to get the thing juiced up again?

So I’m downstairs carrying this heavy car battery with my daughter beside me and we’re waiting for the elevator to take us back up to our plac when my downstairs neighbour – a big, beefy guy with 3 kids who’s kind of the unofficial Hausmeister – comes lumbering down the stairs followed closely by two Hamburg cops – a police man and woman – who all look down at me from the stairway above.

My neighbour stops and, looking straight into me while taking a deep breath to pause for effect, slowly says: Huge problems in this house yesterday evening, Herr InHamburg.

Uh, yeah, well, you know I was just, uh, well…. you see it’s…. God, I wanted to melt to a puddle and trickle through some crack in the floor, never to be found again.  I apologised the best I could and he accepted it very well, adding that beyond the immediate problem of moving the car away so that neighbours could park theirs for the night, they were all worried about what it could all mean.

Was I somehow injured?  Had I suffered a sudden heart attack or stroke and for that reason could not answer the door?   You don’t just park a car in the middle of the garage and then leave it – it doesn’t make sense!  It could have been really serious, so that’s why he called the cops.  It also explains my daughter’s hearing the doorbell ring and the knocks late the night before.

I consider myself lucky nobody had the beast towed away, the router works perfectly with the new ISP, and that I’ve had a chance to take my own little holiday in the meantime.

Egypt’s gas shortage up close

One of the things we try to do on holiday is stay out of the tourist bubble.  We buy at local shops and take public transit, for example, to try to get more into the streets and get a taste of what the locals are going through in their daily lives.

But one day we ran into a problem that is so acute in Egypt that the day it happened to us, someone actually got killed fighting over it: a shortage of fuel.

We were at the half-way point on our way back to Cairo after two unforgettable nights in the White Desert.  Having said farewell to our 4×4 driver and guides and shoved our grimy luggage in the back of a big, white mini-van, we settled in for what we thought would be a quick three-hour drive back to the city and a warm, hot shower.

But as we turned a corner down a side street before leaving the oasis town, we knew something was up.

“Petrol-e-um,” our new driver said.  “Tank empty.”

We arrived at a gas station to find a huge tanker truck parked at the entrance and a few people milling around the pumps.   After getting in line and shutting off the engine, our driver explained that we’d be on our way again in a half an hour.  First though, the tanker truck had to fill the gas station’s reserve tanks before they started fueling the waiting vehicles.

Uh-oh.

No gas?  Not good.  Besides, we’d learned by then that Egyptian Standard time ticks at least three times slower than ours, so it would probably be closer to two hours by the time we got going again.

Thirsty, we took a walk hoping to find a teahouse or a cafe, but that was useless.  We were in the middle of the outskirts of a very basic town, and there was nothing.

So we turned back and sat down on building blocks in the shade for a while, swatting flies and contemplating how nice it was to be stuck in the noonday desert heat amid garbage and rubble with dust and oil fumes wafting around, the little red-haired girl passing the time playing Nintendo while we ate the last of our dates and oranges, wishing our tour company was just a little bit better organised.

“I mean, when you come to a foreign country, you expect things to run differently, that’s a given,” I said, “but what I can’t understand is, why didn’t they just  tank up on the way down from Cairo?  On the way down here we filled up at Giza within sight of the Pyramids, remember?  And then half-way down he topped it up with only 20 litres.”

Then we looked over and realised things were getting pretty testy around the gas pumps.

Our van had been third in line when we arrived, but only a half-hour later there was no more line, just a gridlock of cars, vans, trucks, motorcyles and men on foot carrying gas canisters as word got out that there was fuel in town and you’d better come down and get some.

By now we’d wised up and had been sitting watching it all from the air-conditioned comfort of the van, but we all piled out for a closer look just as the first screaming matches were breaking out.

I don’t speak any Arabic beyond Salaam and  Inschallah! but you don’t need a dictionary to figure out nobody was happy:

The man who drove us through the desert for two days, the same guy who helped set up camp and cook our meals, came through for us in the end.  He’d driven up about an hour after we’d arrived because he needed gas for the next group he was taking out.  He fought for our place in line along with our van driver.  When our turn came, he grabbed the nozzle and filled our tank.

I asked him earlier why the driver waited to get to the far-flung oasis instead of tanking up along the way.

“It’s a problem all over Egypt,” he said.  “There’s no gas.  The van driver wanted to fill up, but the town where he usually does it 100 km away had none, so he had to wait until now.”

Ah-hah.  I felt a bit stupid just then. Coming from a country where people bitch over a few cents’ rise in prices, the thought that such a basic commodity would be in such short supply had simply never occurred to me.

Drive the Sea to Sky highway to Whistler in less than a minute

What you are about to see is a road that no longer exists the way it’s shown here.

The skiing and Nordic events for the Vancouver 2010 Winter Olympics are going to take place 110 km up the road from the city at Whistler, so since this video was shot they’ve widened the road in most places and straightened out others.

Still, it is an amazing stretch of highway.  Clinging to the side of a fjord, you are constantly rewarded with ever-changing views of ocean, mountain and sky.  Hold on to your seat!

Sharp-eyed viewers will catch a glimpse of my mother, who after picking him up at the airport is driving her drowsy son to Squamish, half-way toWhistler during my trip home in 2007.  Those who know the road will recognise the hair-pin turn we all used to call suicide corner, now bypassed and spread out to four lanes in the upgrade.  It also shows a stretch along a sheer cliff at Porteau Cove that they couldn’t widen even to three because the old British Columbia Railway line – now Canadian National – runs alongside between the road and the ocean.   When I was 4 years old in 1964 there was a huge landslide there that blocked the road for several days, once again cutting off our tiny village from the Big Smoke of Vancouver.

Unless something major gets in the way – like chronic procrastination – from now until the Winter Olympics are over I hope to post about this road. Every member of our family has had at least one near-death experience over the more than half-century we’ve been driving it.

I’d also like to post a couple of stories of skiing during the old days at Whistler, and anything else related to the Olympics that happens to cross my path.  For the few who come across this blog I hope it will offer a personal historical supplement to the show-off glitz that’s overtaken the event.

The German justice follow-up: you have to pay a little more

You might recall my friend S, whose story of a run-in with a bunch of hick-town vigilantes two weeks after he arrived in Germany a couple of years ago provoked dozens of comments and feedback on justice, or lack thereof, in this country.

Though he had to pay thousands of euro in fines and court costs, his story didn’t end there.  Turns out that the guy who jumped onto his car and then fell off as my friend was trying to get away from the lynch mob turned around and sued him in a civil case for a few hundred euro for damages for pain and suffering.

A few days ago I showed up in court to lend my friend a little moral support.  In contrast to his opponent, S. was alone,  representing himself because he could no longer afford a lawyer.

Without going too much into the details of nearly two hours of testimony, the other side had three witnesses who all said that S. was speeding like crazy through their neighbourhood.  They claimed that he could have driven around the man, but chose to try to run through him instead.  They also claimed there was nobody else around the car at the time.  All confirmed the man claiming damages was injured on his arm and leg when he fell off the car.

The fact the man had some scrapes and bruises is not in dispute, but their statements went completely against my friend’s testimony.  S. says that before he drove away from the scene, his car was surrounded by neighbours, one of whom tried to pull him out of the car, another who tried to wrench off a side mirror.  That’s when he decided to get the hell out, but that his way was continually blocked by the guy who first jumped on his hood before falling off and getting injured.

So the judge split it somewhere down the middle.  She said the guy claiming damages shouldn’t have been anywhere near the path of the vehicle, so he was partly responsible.  And S. shouldn’t have driven away, so he was also to blame.  He should have tried to get help…without, of course, offering any idea how anyone sitting alone in a convertible surrounded by an angry mob is supposed to do that.

S. has to pay a little over 400 euro for damages and court costs, or about one-third.  The complainant’s legal insurance will pay the other two-thirds.  The judge and the guy’s lawyer said he could of course appeal the decision, but that if he lost, his costs would be many times greater, and he’d have to carry them all on his own.  Because he’s got zero income, they worked it out so that he will pay out the €400  in drips and drabs over the next few months.

My friend was disappointed about the outcome as we hashed it out over coffee and a bite to eat after.  He said: the guy’s got a pretty good little business set-up, eh?  Shake down a few vehicles, get your friends to bullshit for you, get the insurance company to pay the costs.

Though I was sympathetic, I told him, look: it might not have come out the way you wanted it to, but sometimes you just have to pay a price for getting people out of your life and putting bad things in the past for good.  At least it’s less than they were gunning for.

A couple of observations:

The guy would never have taken this to civil court for the piddling amount he was suing my friend for if he didn’t have legal insurance.  It just wouldn’t have been worth his while.  Is legal insurance a good thing?  Not in this case.  It simply clogs up the courtrooms with minor cases that should have better been left to die.

And as my friend S. says, this whole thing isn’t about who’s right and who’s wrong,  it’s about how much money you can negotiate.  I agree with him.  In the end, all it came down to was the money.

By the way…

I realise that not many bother to read comments, but one of the more than 50 that my first post on this attracted was a bit of a hair-raiser.  Read about commenter Keith’s story of German justice here. I tried to convince him to let me feature him in a post of his own, but he didn’t want to.

German justice: you may be the victim, you may be right, but you still have to pay

This is a story about how a newcomer to Germany was given a first-hand look at rednecks in this country, and how the law is set up to protect even them.

S. is one of the nicest fellows I’ve met in a long time. Easy manner, loads of friends, always down for whatever. He arrived in Hamburg three years ago to take a job with a major German retail company. After a couple of weeks on the job he was sent to deliver some documents to work colleagues who lived in a small town just east of Hamburg.

It was a warm summer evening, so S. was driving his sporty BMW Z4 with the top down.  He drove around the town a bit trying to find his colleagues’ place, but soon got lost, so he stopped in at the local police station to ask for directions, and was soon on his way again.

That’s when things started to get twisted.

Fifteen seconds after asking for directions, a skinhead jumped in front of his car and blocked his way.  Soon a half-dozen rednecks surrounded him, swearing at him and yelling that he should just get the fuck out of town instead of driving around their place. One of them even climbed up on his hood and wouldn’t get off, another tried to wrench off his side mirror.

Feeling seriously threatened, he hit the door emergency door lock button, but the windows and the top were still down, so one guy was able to reach in and grab him by the collar.   Luckily S. was wearing a seatbelt, so he couldn’t be dragged out of the car.

With a half-dozen men – and one woman -  still braying at him to get out, he did what I think anyone in that situation would have done.  Using the gears and the wheel in a nifty swerve to knock the guy off the hood, he tore off out of there, chased by one of them in another car.

After S. finally got to his destination, his colleagues came out to look at his car.  Just then the same group arrived to hassle him again, this time with reinforcements, as a group of 10 were now threatening to beat up not only S., but his colleagues as well.

Again, he did what I’d do: got the hell out of town, jumping into his car and speeding away.

My friend was angry and upset, but didn’t pursue it further until he received a summons to give a statement with the police.

In the meantime, the man who’d been knocked off the hood had gone to hospital complaining of various ailments, and was charging him with bodily injury.  He said S. had run into him with his car as he was driving like a madman through the centre of town.

In the ensuing court case my friend, who speaks very good German, was able to convince the judge in his testimony that he could not have been driving fast or erratically through the town at the time, because he was trying to find an address in an unfamiliar town, and that’s not how one would be driving if looking for an address.

The judge also dismissed the testimony of the man who accused S. of running into him.   The man had no answer when asked why, if a car had slammed into him, he’d suffered no leg injuries.

So the judge chose not to convict my friend, but in the twisted way German justice works, he still had to pay.

His tormenters got off scot-free, but because S. failed to go to the local police that evening to report the incident, he was forced to pay a fine of €1,200.

“I was not found guilty of anything,” S. says, “No criminal record – but in the ridiculous hodge-podge and horse-trading of German law, I was still asked to pay a fine.”

S. wanted to appeal the fine, but his lawyers said all he’d do  is rack up more legal costs.  His lawyer’s bill with the fine had already climbed to more than €4,000, so he just paid it.

Another twist:

Because the case has only been shelved, and not conclusively ended, S. cannot turn around and charge his tormenters. The case against him has to be officially ended before he can proceed, so his case against the rednecks will probably never be heard.

“It’s a completely bonkers German law which lets criminals slip through the loophole, provided they make the first accusation,” he says.

Looks like that queer expatriate’s on the prowl again

… and he’s definitely found what he was looking for.

The arrangement of those letters looks too good to be left up to chance, Adam.    You should have left a note tucked under the windshield wiper.

He says if he were any less classy, he’d have returned with a screwdriver, but there are other ways to get your hands on your very own COCK99, Adam.  You can order a German license plate and have it delivered anywhere in the world from customgermanplates.com.

The blurb at the bottom half of that page has some good background reading on the German license plate.  For example, did you  know that:

Car owners can personalise their plates by choosing certain numbers or letters instead of the random ones at the end. For example, people living in the town of Pirna might choose PIR-AT 77, “Pirat” being the German for “pirate”; another favourite is BAR-BQ 777 for Barnim. Various combinations that could be considered politically unacceptable — mainly due to implications relating to Nazi Germany — are disallowed or otherwise avoided. The district Sächsische Schweiz uses the name of its main town, Pirna, in its code PIR, to avoid the use of SS, the name of the paramilitary organisation; similarly SA is also avoided. In 2004 in Nuremberg, a car owner was refused a number plate beginning N-PD because of the connection to the extreme right-wing political party, the NPD.

It kind of bothered me at first that the letters for plates around Hamburg are HH, which could very well stand for Heil Hitler instead of Hansestadt Hamburg, a reference to the city’s historical membership in the Hanseatic League of trading states.

Germans are also fond of making fun of the abbreviations, and around Hamburg there’s a little local rivalry.  Pinneberg, a suburb northwest of Hamburg, has the initials PI.  Hamburg drivers call them Provincial Idiots.  The Pinnebergers turn around call us Halbes Hirn, or half-brains.

Feel like a daily dose of American Vanity Plate Creepiness?   Subscribe to horriblelicenseplates.blogspot.com.

Smile, you’re on traffic camera

Do you recognise the guy in this photo?

Yeah, it’s me all right, but if hadn’t told you, how could anyone know?

It’s a lousy scan of a bad photocopy of a fuzzy image taken through a bug-splattered windshield as I slapped my head going through a red light this past summer in Freiburg, Germany. There were two flashes, actually. The first camera got the license plate, the second my so-called photo.

Guilty as charged!

Since I’ve had lots of practice, I don’t mind owning up to my mistakes, but nevertheless…

Back in the day when they didn’t have cameras set up permanently at intersections or as speed traps, if you drove too fast or ran a red light, you’d have a cop to deal with right away. A human being who you’d be able to look in the eye and tell your story. With the proper intonation and 10 bucks you might even have been left off with a warning. If not, at least it was all over with, so you could put it behind you that much sooner.

But since robots have taken over half the job and left the rest to dust-covered bureaucrats hundreds of miles away, the process takes months to complete. We call that progress? Here’s how I came to pay a €50 fine for running that red light:

(Translating and paraphrasing, of course…)

August 10: Ran the red light.

September 12: Wife gets letter from Freiburg City Traffic Department, which reads: We know this is your car, but who’s the dork at the wheel?

Is it you? Y/N.

If it’s not you, who the hell is it?

September 17: Letter sent back to Freiburg. Answer: It’s my husband. Here’s his name.

October 15: Letter received from Freiburg addressed to me, which reads: You have been observed by our traffic cameras running a red light at the intersection of Schlappschwanzenstrasse and Main at 17:55 Sunday, August 10.

Did you do this? Y/N.

If you put no, you’ll have to come down to Freiburg for a court appearance and you’ll lose anyway. If you put yes, you have to pay a €50 fine. You may fill in any statement you wish in the following space.

October 21: Letter returned confessing to infraction, with explanation that we were following our friends’ car on the way back from a wonderful hike through the Wutachtschlucht Gorge (as briefly outlined in this previous post I am quite certain only four people have bothered to read thoroughly.) Our friends were leading us back to the freeway. You’ll understand how as tourists, it’s important not to get lost.

November 15: Letter received from Freiburg Traffic Department with notice that I am being fined €50 plus €23 processing fee – probably all that postage – and that my first three points in Flensburg are now on the books. Seven more, and I’ll have to stick to the bike.

Flensburg is German auto drivers’ shorthand for the city near the Danish border where the traffic records of the country’s 53 million drivers are administered.

November 23: €73 transferred to Freiburg Traffic Department.

Now, I ask you: is that progress? Nearly four months to get it all done? German efficiency, obviously.

Update:

Too bad I didn’t have a right-hand drive car!  A Brit has been speeding around Germany with a muppet in the driver’s seat.

Definitions of stress

1. Driving along at normal speed along a two-lane highway with your 90-year-old mother-in-law bundled up in the passenger seat on the way home to Hamburg in the late afternoon when you see a small car pulling out to pass a semi-trailer coming against you and think well since I’ve got the lights on he’ll see me and pull back in behind the truck but then you realise the jerk is actually going to try to pass the semi-trailer with his gutless wonder and just when you think the two of you are going to smash into each other head-on any second you hit the binders and veer off to roll through the rough grass shoulder leaning on the horn and screaming FUCK! WHAT AN IDIOT! as he’s still only half-way past the semi which has also pulled over as far as he can without landing in the ditch and you’re wishing you’d had the presence of mind to get the guy’s license number but of course all you can think of at a time like that is trying to stay on the road to make sure the both of you don’t get killed.

2. The body’s reaction to the mind’s desire to choke the living shit out of some driver who really deserves it.

kiss and ridezone

Welcome to Germany, a country desperately in need of some sort of language police. Maybe not rabidly nationalistic Quebec-style language police, but someone to remind them they have a language of their own, and that it would be a good idea to use it on signs once in a while.

Already you can see the confusion a sign like this must cause. Kiss is pretty easy, but then they have to figure out what a ridezone is. At first glance I thought it was some term I’d learned and forgotten while failing 9th-grade biology.

Besides, if you take the German underneath – and you’d assume they should be reading it since it IS in their language – it means drivers are only allowed to stop for passengers to get in or out. I can see how kissing might lead to some ins ‘n’ outs and to some riding, but to make it all official like that and put it up on a sign topped off with an exclamation point? Takes all the fun out of it.

Still, it’s an improvement on the first German/English sign I ever read. I must have been eight years old. It was an old, yellowing xerox, taped, re-taped, curling at the edges and tacked on the wall above the massive photocopier in my Dad’s office. All I have to do is say one word of it and brother Gordon will get on a roll. So will my other brother, come to think of it.

ACHTUNG! ALLES LOOKSENPEEPERS!

Das maschine ist nicht fuer gefingerpoken und mittengrabben. Ist easy schnappen der springenwerk, blowenfuesen und poppencorken mit spitzensparken. Ist nicht fuer gewerken bei das dummkopfen. Das rubbernecken ist OK, but keepen das cotton-pickenen hans in das pockets, relaxen and watchen das blinkenlights.

Variations and updates thereof available here.

Taxi driver refuses midnight fare to broken-down cyclist

The last two posts combine into one as my love of cycling to work clashed early this morning with the usual crappy German customer service.

About twice a month I have to get up in the middle of the night and work the hell shift. It’s tough on the system to blast your body into night shift mode and back again so quickly, but I do it because I like my job; it supplements my blogging income.

Anyway at about 3:20 this morning I’m wheeling along enjoying the cool air and stillness on the way to the office when suddenly I get this scraping, crunching and banging from the back wheel. I can’t shift gears anymore and the chain’s not catching on the rear sprocket set.

I stop to look and realise that one of those two little sprockets that keep the tension on the chain derailler had popped out.

Excellent. Middle of the night and only half-way to work.

Luckily I’m right close to a hotel, so I walk into the lobby and ask the friendly night shift guy to order me a taxi so I could at least make it to work on time.

The taxi arrives and it’s the usual boat – a station wagon. Great, I say. I can take the wheels off and bring the bike with me.

The driver looks at me with suspicion.

“Is it OK if I put the bike in the back?” I ask him. “I’ll pay you extra.”

“Well… only if it fits.”

I take the wheels off and he lifts the back door. Taking extra care not to scrape anything, I slowly try to edge the frame in, but although it passes the back door, it doesn’t fit inside by a couple of inches. Then I notice the rear seat backs are split to fold down to make a huge space.

“Can we fold the wider one down to make room?”

“Geht nicht,” he tells me. Can’t do it.

“Really, it’s just a flip of that lever. We have the same thing on our car.”

“Geht nicht,” he tells me again. “Why don’t you lock the bike to that pole and pick it up later?”

Well, I’d thought of that, but the last time I left my bike out overnight in Hamburg, thieves had stolen my derailler. I didn’t want to come back to find just my frame attached to a post.

But rather than get into an argument with this guy over why he can’t just flip the damn lever so I’d have lots of room to put the bike in, I tell him forget it, pack my stuff up and trot off.

© 2008 lettershometoyou