The residents of Kleingroßdorf have long held a grudge against the nearest former Saxon settlement. Half a millennium ago, the neighboring villages were bitterly embroiled in conflict over the border between their communities, but above all over ownership of the fortified church that sits atop a conical hill overlooking Kleingroßdorf. They not only resorted to lawsuits but also came to blows. The effects of this conflict are still felt today.

The residents of Kleingroßdorf have long since lost the struggle for importance and administrative power against their now numerically far superior neighbors. Today, they must endure the humiliation of being jointly administered by them and constantly feel disadvantaged.

In Kleingroßdorf, you'll hardly hear a good word about the mayors of the neighboring town. No trust in their ability to govern has ever been established. Instead, the residents of Kleingroßdorf take pleasure in portraying them as the town's leaders, like something out of a fairy tale.

Traditionally, many disreputable stories circulate regarding this matter. They are usually a mixture of truth and fiction (in that order), which people gossip about relentlessly. Recently, various versions of a new and costly blunder right next door were circulating in Kleingroßdorf. Even those directly affected locally weren't sure which account to believe, as the incriminating blunder occurred right in the middle of an election campaign. One thing, however, was undeniable: They're not exactly known for their bridge-building skills "over there."

"Good morning, Doamna, excuse the interruption. Have you already signed the petition against the ramp?"

"Ramp? What kind of ramp?"

The old Saxon woman is suspicious. She doesn't usually open the door to strangers. But the young Romanian woman who rang her doorbell seems vaguely familiar.

"Yes, haven't you heard? The ramp for the new bridge over the Wolfsbach!"

The woman from Saxony had heard about the new bridge far too often. For months, there had been drilling, ramming, chiseling, and excavating just a stone's throw from her house. First, the old bridge over the stream was noisily demolished, then noisy construction workers arrived to build a new one. When it became too unbearable, she stayed with her sister in the neighboring village of Kleingroßdorf for a few days—what heavenly peace and quiet beneath the fortified church! But of course, she couldn't stay there forever.

At home: dust and dirt everywhere – every single day! The old Saxon woman doesn't open a single window anymore. But for the last few days, it's been quiet, even though the road in front of her house is still torn up; nobody seems to feel obligated to repave it – just imagine how bad that will stink! But the main thing is that the construction work will finally be over. And the old bridge really was in a terrible state.

“What kind of ramp?” the old woman repeated, opening the door a little further.

The young woman – where had she seen that face before? – wedged her foot in the crack of the door and introduced herself with a Romanian name that meant nothing to the Saxon woman, calling herself a "concerned citizen." "May I come closer?" The single homeowner nodded hesitantly. The visitor followed her into the living room. No sooner had she sat down on the sofa than she pulled a blueprint from her briefcase and unfolded it on the coffee table.

“You see, Doamna,” she says, tapping the document with a well-manicured index finger. “This is your street, this is your house. A few meters further on” – her finger slides forward a little – “the new bridge crosses the stream.”

The old woman, who had remained standing beside the table, nodded and fidgeted with her kitchen apron. "Where the old woman was, of course. I'm very glad the noise is finally over. Now they'll be putting the new bridge into operation soon, won't they?"

The visitor looks up at her and slaps the plank with her open hand. The Saxon woman recoils, already regretting having let a complete stranger into her home. For the young Romanian woman rolls her eyes angrily and says in a loud voice: "Not at all! They can't put anything into operation! Because they have..." – the visitor raises both hands and looks accusingly at her hostess – "...built the bridge too high! Can you imagine that?"

The woman from Saxony can imagine all sorts of things, because she's lived on this street for quite some time. It's constantly being torn up and filled in again, sometimes even paved over afterwards. Sometimes the sewer system needs replacing, other times the power lines for the streetlights. It never all happens at once; the construction workers need to have a year-round job and be able to support their families, or so she thinks.

Yes, the old Saxon woman has seen a lot, but what the visitor now reveals leaves her speechless. "They've," says the Romanian woman, almost gleefully, emphasizing every other word, "built the bridge too high. Far above street level." The Romanian woman looks seriously at the Saxon woman. "And that's why, Doamna, they now want to build a 25-meter-long ramp on each side of the bridge. Because cars don't drive over steps."

The old Saxon woman cast a startled second glance at the plan. "That means..." "Exactly," the young Romanian woman finished the unfinished sentence. "That means you might bump your head on the ramp when you step out of the house in the future."

Now the woman from Saxony has to sit down after all. "Yes, but, but you can't allow that!"

“Exactly. That’s why the petition.” The visitor folds up the building plan and takes a notebook containing a signature list and a leaflet from her briefcase. “If you sign here, you’ll help put an end to the ill-conceived planning of our incompetent mayor. He needs to be removed, just like the bridge. You do know that there are local elections in three weeks, don’t you?”

"Yes, yes, but – remove it? You mean the new bridge has to be torn down again?"

"Of course. Demolished and rebuilt, this time properly. That's the first thing I'll take care of if you give me your vote."

The visitor pulls out a pen with one hand and holds the leaflet out to the old woman with the other. Now the woman from Saxony knows where she recognizes the face with the meticulous makeup and perfect hairstyle from – an election poster!

“Well,” she hems and haws, accepting neither pen nor leaflet, “I won’t vote for your party otherwise.”

The visitor abruptly stands up and gathers her things. "Then you'll just have to put up with the mayor continuing to insult you. La revedere, goodbye!"

As the candidate sped off and rang the doorbell at the next door, the woman from Saxony opened a window and gazed for a long time at the street so familiar to her.

Just a few blocks away, the mayor is holding a press conference at the same time regarding a "construction error" in the bridge project. He explains that they have parted ways with the previously lead construction company and have now found a "reputable" partner. He acknowledges that this partner won't be able to find a perfect solution, but a good one, and given the circumstances, even the optimal one. Now, all that's needed for construction is for the weather to cooperate so that two ramps with a "reduced gradient" can be built quickly.

It's October, and it's been quite cold so far. There's been snow on the Făgăraș Mountains for some time now. The old Saxon woman shivered. She closed the window.