I'm a simple emigrant and I fear fire

Over the past week I heard the fire alarm twice. One time — from the office opposite, the second — from somewhere I couldn't even tell. Both times there was no fire. But it reminded me of the early years in Frankfurt. Back then I lived in a stylish, fashionable, youthful ten-story apartment complex. The apartments were tiny, and smoking inside was strictly forbidden. We were constantly warned that the local fire detectors were hypersensitive. Everyone believed it. Except the smokers. Because the alarm went off regularly, and the smokers smoked in the rooms as well as continued. One time I dropped by the guys’ place, and it was literally white with smoke, like in a sauna. And the detector sits on the ceiling quietly, as if what is happening had nothing to do with it. But the fire alarm reliably went off every week because of someone's culinary masterpieces. And it would be fine if people cooked dinner or at least breakfast. But no, at the dead of night one would pretend to be Gordon Ramsay and force all ten floors to trudge down the stairs. And we trudged. Just to learn that there was no fire; simply Vasya from the third floor couldn't manage fried potatoes, and now he would have to pay for the firefighters' call. I honestly went down from the top floor every time. Because you never know: what if today is the emergency. It's good that back then I went to bed very late, otherwise it would be hard not to go crazy and not smash the cook with his own frying pan. But our fire crew had a wonderful job. They arrived, turned off the alarm, confirmed that another potato had defeated the person, and drove back. #curiosities