We rode over the Golden

We rode over the Golden Gate Bridge into Sausalito, where we saw a house being built into a cliff. I pointed out the Putzmeister, a mortar machine or some such monster. I begged you to take a photo of it, on account of the name. "We've been taking photos of the Putzmeister all day," you said. I tried to recall if we'd seen similar construction contraptions anywhere else. We hadn't. And then you smiled knowingly, and I knew I was the Putzmeister.