Kad es braucu atpakaļ uz mājām no Vācijas, man patika puse dienas, ko es pavadīju pārvietojoties ar vilcieniem un meklējot īstos peronus tuksnesīgās vai līdzīgu kustību pieblīvētās stacijās, gaidot rīta tukšos peronos ar cerību, ka vilciens apstāsies vietā, kur es stāvu, un bārstot izkaisītus soļus un čemodāna līnijas pilsētās, uz kurām es varu mazliet paskatīties kā skatlogā. Vēl man acīmredzami patīk gari teikumi.
Aptuveni 6:30 mikroautobusiņa vadītājs ar plašu žestu, kurš man lika domāt par (es laikam nevaru teikt, ka atgādināja, jo man nav tādas patiesas pieredzes) šoferiem uz dzelteniem Amerikas rietumu ceļiem, izcēla no busiņa manu čemodānu un parādīja, kurā virzienā ir vilciena stacija. Ceļā uz Libeku dzelceļa sliedes gāja cauri Ziemeļvācijas mežiem, un tie meži, ak, viņi bija burvīgi. Mazliet pirms Timmendorf vilcienam abās puses bija lapu koku plantācijas, un zeme mitra, brūna un pārredzama. Vilcienā uz Hamburgu policistam labi izskatījās viņa tumši zilais formas džempītis, un uz Brēmeni es virzījos kopā ar klasi vācu pusaudžu. Kad no rīta Inga man iedeva līdzi sataisītas maizītes un ingverūdeni, es teicu, ka jūtos kā vācu skolēns, un Ivars teica: "Bet mīļi, ne?" Un es teicu, ka jā, ļoti. Un es lēnām ēdu maizītes, kā vācu skolēns, man ļoti patika. Meitene, kas sēdēja man blakus, aizņēmās no manis pildspalvu.
Man patīk pārvietoties, ceļošana ir tik patīkama nodarbe, ja vien nav pašas rociņām jāpārvieto arī bagāžas krāvumi. Ja mantas ir vieglas, tad sēdēt vilcienā un pūlēties nenokavēt īsto pieturu, sēdēt vilcienā un bezrūpīgi skatīties, kā garām skrien koki, jo jāizkāpj pēdējā pieturā, sēdēt vilcienā un pavirši redzēt cilvēku pārvietošanās laika ieradumus vai darbības, tā ir ļoti laba lieta, ko darīt.
Lidmašīnā es iekāpu samērā vēlu, bija palicis maz vietu, manā skatiena lokā nevienas pašas pie loga, un es apsēdos blakus pavecākam eiropietim, kuram no daudzām pusēm bija lielu bērnu vai mazu pieaugušo izmēra būtnes. Ar atvieglojumu par atrasto sēdvietu bija pietiekami, lai es iesākumā neaptvertu situāciju, kura solīja bērnu un viņu skanīgo balstiņu ielenkumu uz divarpus stundām. Lidmašīna gatavojās pacelties, stjuarts neizturēja un, demonstrējot drošības noteikumus, dusmīgi apsauca bērnus, lai viņi beidz bļaustīties, un es nospriedu, ka šis būs mans nemīļākais lidojums mūžā, un ka man ir bijuši pietiekami daudzi jauki braucieni, lai šis kļūtu par nemīļāko.
Es nevarēju skatīties ārā pa logu, tāpēc mēģināju lasīt filozofijas tekstus. Mēs ar blakussēdētāju bijām jau apmainījušies ar maznozīmīgām bezrūpīgas intonācijas frāzēm angliski, kas skāra sēdvietas pieejamību vai lūgumu palaist garām, un viņš man teica, ka šī laikam nav labākā vieta, kur lasīt, un es atteicu, ka laikam jau nav gan, bet es tik un tā mēģināšu. Viņa izteiksme bija ļoti patīkama, laipna un bezrūpīga. Man šķiet, mani bieži uzrunā bezrūpīgas, silti pateiktas un ne pārāk svarīgas svešu cilvēku frāzes. Tāpēc, lai gan man nav ieraduma mesties komunikācijā ar lidmašīnas blakussēdētājiem, kad daudzbalsu murdoņa un lidmašīnas trokšņu sajaukums man sāka kļūt pārāk viendabīgs, lai izšķirtu un pārāk svešs, lai atpazītu, es viņam pajautāju, kas tā par valodu, kurā viņi runā.
"It's Dutch."
"Oh, I couldn't recognise it."
Viņš teica, ka viņi esot no Holandes un braucot uz Latviju apmaiņas projektā. Vienu gadu latviešu klase brauc uz nedēļu pie viņiem, nākamo gadu viņi uz Latviju. Tad es sapratu, kad man parādīja, ka viss bērnu bariņš ir nīderlandiešu klase, un pāris nosvērtu pieaugušo izkaisītajam pūlim malās, kas izskatās starp vecpuišiem un beznesmeņiem, ir skolotāji. Un viņu saucot Jans.
Mēs mazliet parunājām, un tad sarunā iesaistījās Jana blakussēdētājs, kustīgs un blonds zēns. Tā kā zviedru šokolādīšu baltzobis, tikai, nu, citādāks: "Tell her that we will go to Latvia and we will do lots of fun things!"
"What are you going to do there?"
"We will play ball, eat, swim in the sea. What should we eat?"
Es nevarēju neko īsti tipisku Latvijai iedomāties, un teicu Latvijas virtuve jau ir tāds diezgan sajaukums un garšīga ir maizes zupa, lai gan dažiem riebjas, un melleņu kūka.
"Blueberry pie, mmm". (Teikums jāiztēlojas ar pašu izteiksmīgāko un jūsmīgāko mīmiku.)
Jūsmīgo zēnu sauca Braiens. Braiens pirmo reizi lidoja ar lidmašīnu, viņam viss patika. Jans bija daudz nosvērtāks, arī viegli iepriecīgs. Viņi man sāka mācīt holandiski un es viņiem izdzīvošanas frāzes latviski. Man liekas, ka ir kaut kāds pamatpieņēmums, ka pats pamatiņš un būtiskākais ir pieklājības frāzes. Šķiet, ja būsi pieklājīgs, izdzīvosi un nekur nepazudīsi.
Braienam labi sanāca latviešu akcents, un viņš par to sapriecājās. Ar holandiešu "sveiki" es tiku galā pietiekami labi, taču, protams, izaicinošā holandiešu burta atnākšana bija neizbēgama. Braiens man līksmi nodemonstrēja "88", kas, jādomā, ir izslavēts mēles mežģis. "Achtentachtig" var izskatīties pēc nekaitīga kustonīša uz papīra, taču tas ir īsts nezvērs, kad jāmēģina izrunāt. Es padevos un teicu, ka viņu burts ir drausmīgs. Par laimi, "astoņdesmit astoņi" viņu ausīm arī lika svilt un mēlēm kalst.
Vienīgais, ko es jebkad esmu zinājusi holandiešu valodā, ir frāze, kuru man Lāsma lika minēt, kad viņa ar Klāvu stopējot uzturējās Amsterdamā.
"I think I know one phrase in Dutch. Roken is dodelijk, something like that?" protams, bez valdzinošas izrunas.
"Yes, yes! Roken is dodelijk!" viņi abi līksmi izsaucās, un Jans izvilka no kabatas uztinamo tabaku, kurai virsū gozējās gluži šāds pats uzrakstiņš.
Kad Braiens nevarēja izdomāt kādu frāzi angliski, viņš pateica Janam holandiski, un Jans man pārtulkoja angliski. Dažbrīd Braiens nevarēja atcerēties kādu angļu vārdu, un tad viņam parādījās mokoša sāpju izteiksme.
"I can't speak English! It's so hard!" Braiens teica ar izmisušo izteiksmi.
"Oh, you're gonna be so tired after this week in Latvia, speaking English every day."
Braiens teica, ka gribot runāt tā kā es, un, kad es teicu, ka vispār jau viņš runā ļoti labi, un es viņa vecumā runāju daudz sliktāk, viņš tik ļoti atplauka, it kā viņam nupat būtu uzkritusi virsū cerības sedziņa. Vispār tās viņa apburošās izteiksmes, viņas bija tik strauji mainīgas, no nepacietīgas sajūsmas līdz nogurušam sadugumam, un viss viņa sejā bija tik uzskatāms, pārsteigums, vilšanās, interese. Šitā jau vairs nebija atvērta grāmata, 4d kino tad drīzāk.
Braienam kaklā bija ID karte, mēs tur kaut ko runājām, ka mums tās pagaidām vēl opcionālas, un es redzēju viņa uzvārdu, kurš sākās ar "van der". Ak! "Van der" ir mans favorītvariants uzvārda daļai. Es vislabprātāk gribētu būt "Elīna var der kaut kas" (nu tikai ne "van der Bērtule"), otrajā vietā ir "Elīna Della kaut kas". Bet nu, Latvijā nav cerību uz ko tamlīdzīgu, es mazliet bēdīgu novilku.
Braienam bija 13 gadi. Es teicu, ka man ir 23, un viņam parādījās tā pārsteigtā un bēdīgā sejas izteiksme. "23?!"
"You're way too old for him!" Jans pasmējās. Pirmo reizi kāds man tā teica, nebija slikti.
Braiens vēl pastāstīja, ka viņš dejojot hiphopu, es teicu, ka man šķiet, viņam piestāv hiphops, un es mēs vēl par šo un to ar viņiem abiem parunājām, un tas bija tik pacilājoši un priecīgi, nu tiešām. Lidmašīna jau bija nolaidusies, Braiens pagriezās uz aizmuguri un sāka runāt ar savām klasesbiedrenēm.
"He's giving a report on your conversation," Jans teica, un tā apmēram arī bija. "She's a student, she's going home. She dances too." Kad viņš kaut ko aizmirsa, pārjautāja Janam vai man.
Braiens bija aizņemts, dodot ieskatu sarunā, un Jans klusāk piebilda: "He's a very sweet boy, Bryan. He comes from a harsh family situation, his father abused his mum, so he's quite insecure. But so sweet." Tik jaukiem zēniem vajadzētu labākus tētus.
Jaukais zēns Braiens man vēl pajautāja, ko es tieši dejoju, un es viņam atbildēju, ka drusciņ laikmetīgo deju.
"I dance too, we both dance hip-hop," teica viena klasesbiedrene.
"I don't dance," teica otra, un tad es censtos uztvert vienlaikus vairākus trīspadmitgadniekus, kuri man mācīja dažādas sasveicināšanās frāzes holandiski. Ļoti mīlīgi, man patika.
Lidmašīna bija nolaidusies, holandiešu klase palika salonā pēdējie, un mēs atsveicinājāmies. Šitais bija viens no maniem mīļākajiem lidojumiem, kaut arī es nesēdēju pie lodziņa. Es jau gāju pa stiklotām kāpnēm, kad redzēju, ka Jans ar Braienu ir pievienojušies krāsainam bērnu un rāmu skolotāju bariņam lidlauka malā. Es viņiem pamāju, viņi man māja pretī, es gāju tālāk prom un turpināju māt, un bija kaut kā žēl un viegli skumji iet prom. Es būtu gribējusi ilgi viņiem māt un redzēt, kā viņi tur ir, bet man arī likās, ka nevajag tā darīt, un ka vienkārši vajag iet tālāk.
Vēlāk es atcerējos, ka man vajadzēja pateikt par biezpienmaizītēm. Latvijā jāēd biezpienmaizītes, man šķiet.
^^^^^
When I was getting back home from Germany, I liked the half a day I spent on trains, looking for the right platforms in deserted train stations, or train stations filled with similar movements, waiting on morning-empty platforms and hoping that the train will stop right in front of me, and then leaving some footsteps and luggage lines in cities I could shortly look at. I obviously appreciate long sentences too.
Around 6:30 am the minibus driver took out my luggage with a wide gesture that made me think of (I guess I can't employ the word "reminded" since I don't actually have this kind of experience) car or truck drivers on yellowish West American roads. He pointed to the direction of the train station. Whilst heading to Lubeck the railway went through Northern Germany's woods. Oh those enchanting woods! Right before Timmendorf there were deciduous trees' plantations on each side of the train, and wet, brown, well visible soil. On the train to Hamburg the policeman looked swell in his navy uniform sweater. To Bremen I was going zusammen mit a whole student class. When earlier in the morning Inga gave me a sandwich and ginger limo, I said I felt like a German student. Ivars added: "But it's sweet, isn't it?" And said that yes, very. On the train I ate my sandwich, felt like a German student, liked it very much. The girl sitting next to me borrowed a pen.
"It's Dutch."
"Oh, I couldn't recognise it."
Viņš teica, ka viņi esot no Holandes un braucot uz Latviju apmaiņas projektā. Vienu gadu latviešu klase brauc uz nedēļu pie viņiem, nākamo gadu viņi uz Latviju. Tad es sapratu, kad man parādīja, ka viss bērnu bariņš ir nīderlandiešu klase, un pāris nosvērtu pieaugušo izkaisītajam pūlim malās, kas izskatās starp vecpuišiem un beznesmeņiem, ir skolotāji. Un viņu saucot Jans.
Mēs mazliet parunājām, un tad sarunā iesaistījās Jana blakussēdētājs, kustīgs un blonds zēns. Tā kā zviedru šokolādīšu baltzobis, tikai, nu, citādāks: "Tell her that we will go to Latvia and we will do lots of fun things!"
"What are you going to do there?"
"We will play ball, eat, swim in the sea. What should we eat?"
Es nevarēju neko īsti tipisku Latvijai iedomāties, un teicu Latvijas virtuve jau ir tāds diezgan sajaukums un garšīga ir maizes zupa, lai gan dažiem riebjas, un melleņu kūka.
"Blueberry pie, mmm". (Teikums jāiztēlojas ar pašu izteiksmīgāko un jūsmīgāko mīmiku.)
Jūsmīgo zēnu sauca Braiens. Braiens pirmo reizi lidoja ar lidmašīnu, viņam viss patika. Jans bija daudz nosvērtāks, arī viegli iepriecīgs. Viņi man sāka mācīt holandiski un es viņiem izdzīvošanas frāzes latviski. Man liekas, ka ir kaut kāds pamatpieņēmums, ka pats pamatiņš un būtiskākais ir pieklājības frāzes. Šķiet, ja būsi pieklājīgs, izdzīvosi un nekur nepazudīsi.
Braienam labi sanāca latviešu akcents, un viņš par to sapriecājās. Ar holandiešu "sveiki" es tiku galā pietiekami labi, taču, protams, izaicinošā holandiešu burta atnākšana bija neizbēgama. Braiens man līksmi nodemonstrēja "88", kas, jādomā, ir izslavēts mēles mežģis. "Achtentachtig" var izskatīties pēc nekaitīga kustonīša uz papīra, taču tas ir īsts nezvērs, kad jāmēģina izrunāt. Es padevos un teicu, ka viņu burts ir drausmīgs. Par laimi, "astoņdesmit astoņi" viņu ausīm arī lika svilt un mēlēm kalst.
Vienīgais, ko es jebkad esmu zinājusi holandiešu valodā, ir frāze, kuru man Lāsma lika minēt, kad viņa ar Klāvu stopējot uzturējās Amsterdamā.
"I think I know one phrase in Dutch. Roken is dodelijk, something like that?" protams, bez valdzinošas izrunas.
"Yes, yes! Roken is dodelijk!" viņi abi līksmi izsaucās, un Jans izvilka no kabatas uztinamo tabaku, kurai virsū gozējās gluži šāds pats uzrakstiņš.
Kad Braiens nevarēja izdomāt kādu frāzi angliski, viņš pateica Janam holandiski, un Jans man pārtulkoja angliski. Dažbrīd Braiens nevarēja atcerēties kādu angļu vārdu, un tad viņam parādījās mokoša sāpju izteiksme.
"I can't speak English! It's so hard!" Braiens teica ar izmisušo izteiksmi.
"Oh, you're gonna be so tired after this week in Latvia, speaking English every day."
Braiens teica, ka gribot runāt tā kā es, un, kad es teicu, ka vispār jau viņš runā ļoti labi, un es viņa vecumā runāju daudz sliktāk, viņš tik ļoti atplauka, it kā viņam nupat būtu uzkritusi virsū cerības sedziņa. Vispār tās viņa apburošās izteiksmes, viņas bija tik strauji mainīgas, no nepacietīgas sajūsmas līdz nogurušam sadugumam, un viss viņa sejā bija tik uzskatāms, pārsteigums, vilšanās, interese. Šitā jau vairs nebija atvērta grāmata, 4d kino tad drīzāk.
Braienam kaklā bija ID karte, mēs tur kaut ko runājām, ka mums tās pagaidām vēl opcionālas, un es redzēju viņa uzvārdu, kurš sākās ar "van der". Ak! "Van der" ir mans favorītvariants uzvārda daļai. Es vislabprātāk gribētu būt "Elīna var der kaut kas" (nu tikai ne "van der Bērtule"), otrajā vietā ir "Elīna Della kaut kas". Bet nu, Latvijā nav cerību uz ko tamlīdzīgu, es mazliet bēdīgu novilku.
Braienam bija 13 gadi. Es teicu, ka man ir 23, un viņam parādījās tā pārsteigtā un bēdīgā sejas izteiksme. "23?!"
"You're way too old for him!" Jans pasmējās. Pirmo reizi kāds man tā teica, nebija slikti.
Braiens vēl pastāstīja, ka viņš dejojot hiphopu, es teicu, ka man šķiet, viņam piestāv hiphops, un es mēs vēl par šo un to ar viņiem abiem parunājām, un tas bija tik pacilājoši un priecīgi, nu tiešām. Lidmašīna jau bija nolaidusies, Braiens pagriezās uz aizmuguri un sāka runāt ar savām klasesbiedrenēm.
"He's giving a report on your conversation," Jans teica, un tā apmēram arī bija. "She's a student, she's going home. She dances too." Kad viņš kaut ko aizmirsa, pārjautāja Janam vai man.
Braiens bija aizņemts, dodot ieskatu sarunā, un Jans klusāk piebilda: "He's a very sweet boy, Bryan. He comes from a harsh family situation, his father abused his mum, so he's quite insecure. But so sweet." Tik jaukiem zēniem vajadzētu labākus tētus.
Jaukais zēns Braiens man vēl pajautāja, ko es tieši dejoju, un es viņam atbildēju, ka drusciņ laikmetīgo deju.
"I dance too, we both dance hip-hop," teica viena klasesbiedrene.
"I don't dance," teica otra, un tad es censtos uztvert vienlaikus vairākus trīspadmitgadniekus, kuri man mācīja dažādas sasveicināšanās frāzes holandiski. Ļoti mīlīgi, man patika.
Lidmašīna bija nolaidusies, holandiešu klase palika salonā pēdējie, un mēs atsveicinājāmies. Šitais bija viens no maniem mīļākajiem lidojumiem, kaut arī es nesēdēju pie lodziņa. Es jau gāju pa stiklotām kāpnēm, kad redzēju, ka Jans ar Braienu ir pievienojušies krāsainam bērnu un rāmu skolotāju bariņam lidlauka malā. Es viņiem pamāju, viņi man māja pretī, es gāju tālāk prom un turpināju māt, un bija kaut kā žēl un viegli skumji iet prom. Es būtu gribējusi ilgi viņiem māt un redzēt, kā viņi tur ir, bet man arī likās, ka nevajag tā darīt, un ka vienkārši vajag iet tālāk.
Vēlāk es atcerējos, ka man vajadzēja pateikt par biezpienmaizītēm. Latvijā jāēd biezpienmaizītes, man šķiet.
^^^^^
When I was getting back home from Germany, I liked the half a day I spent on trains, looking for the right platforms in deserted train stations, or train stations filled with similar movements, waiting on morning-empty platforms and hoping that the train will stop right in front of me, and then leaving some footsteps and luggage lines in cities I could shortly look at. I obviously appreciate long sentences too.
Around 6:30 am the minibus driver took out my luggage with a wide gesture that made me think of (I guess I can't employ the word "reminded" since I don't actually have this kind of experience) car or truck drivers on yellowish West American roads. He pointed to the direction of the train station. Whilst heading to Lubeck the railway went through Northern Germany's woods. Oh those enchanting woods! Right before Timmendorf there were deciduous trees' plantations on each side of the train, and wet, brown, well visible soil. On the train to Hamburg the policeman looked swell in his navy uniform sweater. To Bremen I was going zusammen mit a whole student class. When earlier in the morning Inga gave me a sandwich and ginger limo, I said I felt like a German student. Ivars added: "But it's sweet, isn't it?" And said that yes, very. On the train I ate my sandwich, felt like a German student, liked it very much. The girl sitting next to me borrowed a pen.
J'adore moving around, and traveling is such an adorable way to pass time, unless they are my own hands that have to carry the heavy luggage. If the luggage is light, sitting on the train and not missing the right stop, sitting on the train and carelessly watching the quickly passing trees and not getting off before the last stop, or sitting on the train and superficially watching the traveling habits of people, these all are splendid things to do.
I got on the plane pretty late, and there were few seats left, let alone those at the window. So I sat down next to an older European man who was pretty much surrounded by creatures in size of big kids. I was too relieved by the fact that I managed to find a seat to realise the promise of a 2h30min long concert of kids' well tuned voices. When the plane was about to take off, the air-steward lost his temper and told the kids to calm down. I declared to myself this as my least favorite flight in my life. I had had enough nice flights, so I could afford to have one less nice.
Since I was unable to stare through the window, I gave a try reading some philosophy. I had already exchanged a couple of courtesy phrases in English, pronounced in a nonchalant manner, with the man sitting next to me, and then he noted that this probably wasn't the best place for reading. I answered that it most likely wans't but I'd try anyways. His way of speaking was pleasant, kind and easy-going. I think I tend to be touched by warm, nonchalant and not too important things said by strangers. So, despite lacking the habit of chatting up persons sitting next to me on plane, when the noisy many-voiced murmuring became too homogenous to distinguish and too unfamiliar to recognise, I asked him what was the language they spoke.
"It's Dutch."
"Oh, I couldn't recognise it."
They were from Holland, going to Latvia for a school exchange project. One year Latvians go to them to Netherland, the next year they visit Latvia. I wasn't bright enough to figure it out on my own that all that kiddy crowd was one Dutch class, and the few considerate adults with a vibe between businessmen and bachelors were teachers. And he was called Jan.
We chatted for a little while, then a blond and agile boy next to Jan got himself involved into the conversation. He reminded me the Swedish chocolate white-toothed boy, only, well, different: "Tell her that we will go to Latvia and we will do lots of fun things!"
"What are you going to do there?"
"We will play ball, eat, swim in the sea. What should we eat?"
I couldn't come up with anything very typical for Latvia, as the Latvian cuisine is more or less a mix of the cuisines of near regions, and said that the sweet rye bread soup tastes good, although some hate it. And blueberry pie.
"Blueberry pie, mmm". (Verbal language accompanied by the most expressive and delighted facial expression.)
The enthusiastic boy's name was Bryan. Bryan was having his first flight, he liked everything. Jan was a lot more composed, lightly cheery too. They taught me some Dutch and I in return taught them some phrases in Latvian for the purpose of survival. I guess there's a basic assumption that the very foundation and most important thing in a language is greetings and courtesy phrases. It seems that politeness will make you survive and you won't get lost.
Bryan was brilliant at Latvian, his accent was so clear, and he naturally was very glad about it. I myself got through Dutch "Hi!", but, of course, the arriving of the dreaded Dutch letter was inevitable. Bryan cheerfully demonstrated "88", which I suppose is a renown tongue twister. "Achtenachtig" might look like a harmless creature on the paper, but it's beast when you actually try to pronounce it. I gave up admitting that their letter was horrible. I got lucky that "astoņdesmit astoņi" - "achtenachtig" Latvian equivalent - sounded horrific to them and made their tongues twist.
The only thing I've ever known in Dutch is a sentence that Lasma made me guess when she and Klavs were hitch-hiking and stayed in Amsterdam for a while.
"I think I know one phrase in Dutch. Roken is dodelijk, something like that?" naturally, without an adorable pronunciation.
"Yes, yes! Roken is dodelijk!" they both shouted out cheerfully, and Jan took out of his pocket a pack of tobacco with a like expression on it.
When Bryan couldn't come up with a phrase in English, he said it to Jan, and Jan translated it for me in English. Sometimes Bryan couldn't find a word in English, and his face turned into a painful expression.
"I can't speak English! It's so hard!" Bryan said in a desperate manner.
"Oh, you're gonna be so tired after this week in Latvia, speaking English everyday."
Bryan expressed his wish to be able to speak like me, and when I mentioned that actually his English was very good indeed and that at his age my English was a way worse than his, he brightened up, as if a duvet of hope had covered him. And all those adorable expressions of his, they changed so quickly and were always so extreme. From impatient elevation to tired to despair, everything was so obvious in his face, surprise, disappointment, interest. This was no open book, more like a 4D cinema.
Bryan had ID card neck strap, so when the conversation turned about them, I saw his last name which started with "van der". "Van der" happens to be my favorite among surname prefixes. I'd prefer to be "Elina van der Something" (but not "Elīna van der Bērtule", please), the second preferable would be "Elina Della Something". But in Latvia there's no hope for prefixes in surnames. (If I decide to take things in my own hands and actually do something about it, I'll have to marry a Dutch, or at least an Italian.)
Bryan was 13 years old. I said I was 23, and he immediately got his surprised and then sad face. "23?!"
"You're way too old for him!" Jan laughed. This was the first time someone said it for me, wasn't bad.
Bryan also told that he was dancing hip-hop, and I could easily imagine him doing that. We talked about this and that with both of them, and I felt so bright and cheerful. The plane had already landed, and Bryan turned away to his classmates sitting behind him.
"He's giving a report on your conversation," said Jan, and he was quite precise. "She's a student, she's going home. She dances too." Kad viņš kaut ko aizmirsa, pārjautāja Janam vai man. Had he forgotten something, he just asked Jan or me.
Since Bryan was busy informing the girls, Jan added in a lower voice: "He's a very sweet boy, Bryan. He comes from harsh a family situation, his father abused his mum, so he's quite insecure. But so sweet." Boys this nice deserve better dads.
The nice boy Bryan asked me what exactly did I dance. "Contemporary dance, a little."
"I dance too, we both dance hip-hop," one of his classmates said.
"I don't dance," said another, and then I had to try to catch speeches of several 13 years olds who tought me how to greet in Dutch. Formal style, informal style, standard. This was sweet, I enjoyed it.
The plane had landed, the Dutch class stayed on the board the last ones, so we said goodbye. This was no doubt one of my favorite flights, and I didn't even have a window seat. I was on the stairs with glass walls, when I saw Jan and Bryan having joined the crowd of colourful kids and calm teachers on the side of the airfield. I waved, they waved back at me, I continued to walk away and kept waving, and it was somehow sad to leave. I would have wished to stand there and wave, and see them being down there. But I also knew that I should simply keep walking away.
Later I remembered the curd cake with raisins, had to tell about it. In Latvia one has to taste curd cake, I think.
I got on the plane pretty late, and there were few seats left, let alone those at the window. So I sat down next to an older European man who was pretty much surrounded by creatures in size of big kids. I was too relieved by the fact that I managed to find a seat to realise the promise of a 2h30min long concert of kids' well tuned voices. When the plane was about to take off, the air-steward lost his temper and told the kids to calm down. I declared to myself this as my least favorite flight in my life. I had had enough nice flights, so I could afford to have one less nice.
Since I was unable to stare through the window, I gave a try reading some philosophy. I had already exchanged a couple of courtesy phrases in English, pronounced in a nonchalant manner, with the man sitting next to me, and then he noted that this probably wasn't the best place for reading. I answered that it most likely wans't but I'd try anyways. His way of speaking was pleasant, kind and easy-going. I think I tend to be touched by warm, nonchalant and not too important things said by strangers. So, despite lacking the habit of chatting up persons sitting next to me on plane, when the noisy many-voiced murmuring became too homogenous to distinguish and too unfamiliar to recognise, I asked him what was the language they spoke.
"It's Dutch."
"Oh, I couldn't recognise it."
They were from Holland, going to Latvia for a school exchange project. One year Latvians go to them to Netherland, the next year they visit Latvia. I wasn't bright enough to figure it out on my own that all that kiddy crowd was one Dutch class, and the few considerate adults with a vibe between businessmen and bachelors were teachers. And he was called Jan.
We chatted for a little while, then a blond and agile boy next to Jan got himself involved into the conversation. He reminded me the Swedish chocolate white-toothed boy, only, well, different: "Tell her that we will go to Latvia and we will do lots of fun things!"
"What are you going to do there?"
"We will play ball, eat, swim in the sea. What should we eat?"
I couldn't come up with anything very typical for Latvia, as the Latvian cuisine is more or less a mix of the cuisines of near regions, and said that the sweet rye bread soup tastes good, although some hate it. And blueberry pie.
"Blueberry pie, mmm". (Verbal language accompanied by the most expressive and delighted facial expression.)
The enthusiastic boy's name was Bryan. Bryan was having his first flight, he liked everything. Jan was a lot more composed, lightly cheery too. They taught me some Dutch and I in return taught them some phrases in Latvian for the purpose of survival. I guess there's a basic assumption that the very foundation and most important thing in a language is greetings and courtesy phrases. It seems that politeness will make you survive and you won't get lost.
Bryan was brilliant at Latvian, his accent was so clear, and he naturally was very glad about it. I myself got through Dutch "Hi!", but, of course, the arriving of the dreaded Dutch letter was inevitable. Bryan cheerfully demonstrated "88", which I suppose is a renown tongue twister. "Achtenachtig" might look like a harmless creature on the paper, but it's beast when you actually try to pronounce it. I gave up admitting that their letter was horrible. I got lucky that "astoņdesmit astoņi" - "achtenachtig" Latvian equivalent - sounded horrific to them and made their tongues twist.
The only thing I've ever known in Dutch is a sentence that Lasma made me guess when she and Klavs were hitch-hiking and stayed in Amsterdam for a while.
"I think I know one phrase in Dutch. Roken is dodelijk, something like that?" naturally, without an adorable pronunciation.
"Yes, yes! Roken is dodelijk!" they both shouted out cheerfully, and Jan took out of his pocket a pack of tobacco with a like expression on it.
When Bryan couldn't come up with a phrase in English, he said it to Jan, and Jan translated it for me in English. Sometimes Bryan couldn't find a word in English, and his face turned into a painful expression.
"I can't speak English! It's so hard!" Bryan said in a desperate manner.
"Oh, you're gonna be so tired after this week in Latvia, speaking English everyday."
Bryan expressed his wish to be able to speak like me, and when I mentioned that actually his English was very good indeed and that at his age my English was a way worse than his, he brightened up, as if a duvet of hope had covered him. And all those adorable expressions of his, they changed so quickly and were always so extreme. From impatient elevation to tired to despair, everything was so obvious in his face, surprise, disappointment, interest. This was no open book, more like a 4D cinema.
Bryan had ID card neck strap, so when the conversation turned about them, I saw his last name which started with "van der". "Van der" happens to be my favorite among surname prefixes. I'd prefer to be "Elina van der Something" (but not "Elīna van der Bērtule", please), the second preferable would be "Elina Della Something". But in Latvia there's no hope for prefixes in surnames. (If I decide to take things in my own hands and actually do something about it, I'll have to marry a Dutch, or at least an Italian.)
Bryan was 13 years old. I said I was 23, and he immediately got his surprised and then sad face. "23?!"
"You're way too old for him!" Jan laughed. This was the first time someone said it for me, wasn't bad.
Bryan also told that he was dancing hip-hop, and I could easily imagine him doing that. We talked about this and that with both of them, and I felt so bright and cheerful. The plane had already landed, and Bryan turned away to his classmates sitting behind him.
"He's giving a report on your conversation," said Jan, and he was quite precise. "She's a student, she's going home. She dances too." Kad viņš kaut ko aizmirsa, pārjautāja Janam vai man. Had he forgotten something, he just asked Jan or me.
Since Bryan was busy informing the girls, Jan added in a lower voice: "He's a very sweet boy, Bryan. He comes from harsh a family situation, his father abused his mum, so he's quite insecure. But so sweet." Boys this nice deserve better dads.
The nice boy Bryan asked me what exactly did I dance. "Contemporary dance, a little."
"I dance too, we both dance hip-hop," one of his classmates said.
"I don't dance," said another, and then I had to try to catch speeches of several 13 years olds who tought me how to greet in Dutch. Formal style, informal style, standard. This was sweet, I enjoyed it.
The plane had landed, the Dutch class stayed on the board the last ones, so we said goodbye. This was no doubt one of my favorite flights, and I didn't even have a window seat. I was on the stairs with glass walls, when I saw Jan and Bryan having joined the crowd of colourful kids and calm teachers on the side of the airfield. I waved, they waved back at me, I continued to walk away and kept waving, and it was somehow sad to leave. I would have wished to stand there and wave, and see them being down there. But I also knew that I should simply keep walking away.
Later I remembered the curd cake with raisins, had to tell about it. In Latvia one has to taste curd cake, I think.
