By mid-morning the stationery shop had a short line of folded paper waiting at the counter. Each plane received a stamp the size of a lentil, a tiny slip that said the flowerbed was open, and a reminder to ask the tulip before using the path between the leaves.
We asked at the kiosk next door. "They used to loop the lamppost and hope for the best," said a woman buying envelopes. "Now they hover, wait for a nod, and only then bank left. My geranium has never looked so consulted."
The park keeper posted a polite note on the railing: the tulip is not a traffic light, only a host, and visitors should keep their voices small enough not to crease a wing. By evening the petals had a faint ink smudge from so many courteous questions, and the planes came back for a second stamp, a little calmer for having been told yes.