The President of Ethiopia
The three main heroes of our adventures have fallen for the charms of a Russian woman. The Russian women are, as we all know, dressed up with high heels, the thinnest dresses and the shortest skirts. I’ve heard people whispering that femme fatale originally is a Russian word, but to check if that’s true, we should verify that with the КГБ. Anyway, our heroes lost their heads for a Russian woman, but this one is different. It’s a lady, small in stature, slender called, without high heels and so apparently has never been seen in miniskirt. It’s not the appearance of our guide in the Russian jungle of ignorance which keeps our boys imprisoned in the depths of the Russian construction giants, yearning for the moment to catch a glimpse of her presence and to listen carefully how she explains the language of love. While she’s the most beautiful of all-without even knowing it-her humour, charisma and at the same time also her charm and intelligence is what caught their eye. That’s the only thing that counts for them.
Her name is Катя, short version of Екатарина. So short, but subtly shortened by her parents that the grace of her original name still stands tall, and they also managed to add some genius simplicity to her name.
The way she tries to penetrate our minds and causes myalgia in our brains by letting them do such exercises which no other women ever could’ve managed, is to say the least as a miracle that fell from the sky. She knows how to pull a string in our brains and let this string snap just at the moment she wants it to. Thats why our three heroes have so much passion for her.
By giving an example we could only fall short in explaining the magnificence; the greater good simply can’t be explained. But nevertheless we will try to show you a glimpse of the inaccessible.
Here we meet the President of Ethiopia
At first a strange person in this context, but soon it will be clear why our distant friend is quoted. During mental gymnastics we had an exercise that was way beyond the rings or the bridge. The exercise involved our Russian speaking abilities. Катя brought little finger puppets, from the blue-yellow company from Sweden, known of course by all of us, with which we had to play a role. For once we imagined ourselves out of our small classroom and pretended to be in a huge Television Studio where an interview was recorded with, yes indeed, the President of Ethiopia (who suspiciously looked quite familiar to Santa Claus, but here for we also have to ask the КГБ for an explanation). Our robust hero Ziggy got the phenomenal role of the interviewer on his finger, which brought great responsibility with it, to keep the (Russian) conversation going. The pressure was clearly felt, but fortunately he got assistance of his noble friend Willem who meanwhile became the expert of Ethiopia, who had to pass on all kinds of little facts. Not an easy task, considering the short time our heroes were wandering the Russian streets, still in need of their guide in the deepest darkness. Anyway, the interviewer, a figure on the index finger of Ziggy, dressed up like a cook, the Ethiopia expert, a doll at Willems finger, with diving suit, were interviewing the President Ethiopia, a small figure, which listens to the name of Санкта Клаус, at the finger of our genius classmate Patrick, assisted by the highly critical audience, epitomized by our charming classmate Susanne
During this exercise we, and Катя also, had to laugh so much that our pants started to colour brown and still are. Therefore I tremble and shiver to meet the times that 'The President of Ethiopia' is being cited again and we will have to wash our pants again. Катя is a relief in always-grey Russia and her surly looking inhabitants. Her teaching method is based on the theory that with hard work and a good dose of fun, the language will slide into our minds like warm honey glides into your tea. I wish I always could be ignorant so I can keep taking her classes.
Ignorance is bliss
zaterdag 31 juli 2010
vrijdag 30 juli 2010
The temptations of the three heroes
Saint Petersburg has turned into more than a city. We have arrived in the middle of temptations. Even Saint Augustine wouldn’t have been able to refuse all of them. These are our confessions.
What has happened? We arrived two weeks ago, curious and a bit anxious, to take our first baby steps in the desert of Russian language. The trip proved to be much more than a grammar lesson: we have encountered many dangerous distractions along the way.
First of all: our teacher. We invite you to read the memorable and quite inviting blog on this subject. She is a different light after all the boring language lessons we were obliged to follow. Katya, sun of all suns; sea among lakes; shooting star in the middle of waiting planets, we thank you like three ugly ducklings thank their mother for taking them along.
Secondly: as a result of the utter desolateness of the environment, we have been forced to break out and investigate the city. This has been quite interesting: during their first visit to the Nevskij Prospekt, after five minutes, the Robust Hero and Beethoven walked into a flash-mob of tight skirted girls. Then we had a pizza. Which was very nice. The heroes walked along the bridges. They were painted in many beautiful, exotic colours. The water added a combination of sunny Amsterdam and dreamy Venice to the houses along the glistening water. The architecture is preposterously rich in Saint Petersburg. It’s strange: one thinks one has seen it all before, but in a slightly different order. Along the canals, the city is like a combination of three girls you once liked when you didn’t have the observation skills to define their outstanding qualities.
At night, the city is like a dark angel, spreading her wings over the dawning city. Drunk people, blinking neon lights, gushing beer, honking hummers, singing Russians (and Dutchmen – no, only Dutchmen are singing: our voices match well. At least, that’s what we know for certain. We think. We do.), improvisation taxi’s, whole chickens for sale, sudden fireworks, an almost empty metro with empty beer cans under the seats, opening bridges (yes, you do feel like losing the ground under your feet, that’s a marvellous feeling. Let go.), an overabundance of alcohol and finally: getting home at seven o’clock in the morning and still sweating from the heat, a heat that seems to be hiding under your sheets, a heat that captures all your thoughts and makes you yearn for someone walking by and providing a slight breeze.
Although we promised ourselves otherwise, our third temptation has been one of the oldest and mightiest powers in the world: beer. At the time of our arrival (how long ago!) we were very willing to learn the Russian language (and what a beautiful, poetic, logical, nonsensical, singing and desiring language this one turned out to be!) and drink as little alcoholic beverage as possible, but as soon as the Noble Friend discovered the wonder of beer in a huge plastic bottle, we started a journey along the wonders of the world which constitute the huge amount of possible Russian alcoholic sweethearts. The best beer is Slovakian origin, though. The best vodka doesn’t rime with vodka. And the best wine is Georgian. Georgians know how to perform karaoke. Fat ladies dance to the song of an old, bold man. These are the days.
Fourthly, we are but humans, we’d like to mention the Russian Girl. She walks around on VERY high heels (kabluki) and dresses in such tight clothes, the laws of decency demand we hold our breath and be silent. She is too skinny, though, and a smile rarely escapes from her stiff lips. She has got rather long hair, which she likes to sweep past an unsuspecting body in the metro. Her eyes are fierce, bitterly fierce, and gaze like someone who’s going to war. She likes sunglasses, an occasional piercing, thick, red lips, and she has got a tendency to look like the types we encounter in the centre of our home town, draped with lingerie, behind red lights, adorned with grins of old woman.
Finally, we couldn’t leave this blog without telling all of you of the beautiful, fascinating, captivating, mesmerizing Neva. The Neva flows like a queen: her wide, auburn eyes gaze along every spot of the horizon (she knows all that is in her area already.) as she slowly descends to the city. Her throne is somewhere else, somewhere in the east, in a sun-drenched palace guarded by patient soldiers. Her arms are folded around her waist, to allow her to glide through the water like a silent ship. She is a Siren, luring us into the deep; a Cleopatra, stinging her servants in the breasts; a Natasha Rostov, winking her maids with an ascending smile. She doesn’t have to use her legs, as her environment guides her politely through her country.
All senses fade away
In the darkness of such a day.
We will go alone, where eyes can’t see the end
Of the river, where ears can’t hear a sound.
So silent searching footsteps take us
To our last will: to be buried in the river,
To our only faith: Queen Neva,
To our final truth:
She must be loved.
Yours truly,
Ziggy, Willem and Florian.
What has happened? We arrived two weeks ago, curious and a bit anxious, to take our first baby steps in the desert of Russian language. The trip proved to be much more than a grammar lesson: we have encountered many dangerous distractions along the way.
First of all: our teacher. We invite you to read the memorable and quite inviting blog on this subject. She is a different light after all the boring language lessons we were obliged to follow. Katya, sun of all suns; sea among lakes; shooting star in the middle of waiting planets, we thank you like three ugly ducklings thank their mother for taking them along.
Secondly: as a result of the utter desolateness of the environment, we have been forced to break out and investigate the city. This has been quite interesting: during their first visit to the Nevskij Prospekt, after five minutes, the Robust Hero and Beethoven walked into a flash-mob of tight skirted girls. Then we had a pizza. Which was very nice. The heroes walked along the bridges. They were painted in many beautiful, exotic colours. The water added a combination of sunny Amsterdam and dreamy Venice to the houses along the glistening water. The architecture is preposterously rich in Saint Petersburg. It’s strange: one thinks one has seen it all before, but in a slightly different order. Along the canals, the city is like a combination of three girls you once liked when you didn’t have the observation skills to define their outstanding qualities.
At night, the city is like a dark angel, spreading her wings over the dawning city. Drunk people, blinking neon lights, gushing beer, honking hummers, singing Russians (and Dutchmen – no, only Dutchmen are singing: our voices match well. At least, that’s what we know for certain. We think. We do.), improvisation taxi’s, whole chickens for sale, sudden fireworks, an almost empty metro with empty beer cans under the seats, opening bridges (yes, you do feel like losing the ground under your feet, that’s a marvellous feeling. Let go.), an overabundance of alcohol and finally: getting home at seven o’clock in the morning and still sweating from the heat, a heat that seems to be hiding under your sheets, a heat that captures all your thoughts and makes you yearn for someone walking by and providing a slight breeze.
Although we promised ourselves otherwise, our third temptation has been one of the oldest and mightiest powers in the world: beer. At the time of our arrival (how long ago!) we were very willing to learn the Russian language (and what a beautiful, poetic, logical, nonsensical, singing and desiring language this one turned out to be!) and drink as little alcoholic beverage as possible, but as soon as the Noble Friend discovered the wonder of beer in a huge plastic bottle, we started a journey along the wonders of the world which constitute the huge amount of possible Russian alcoholic sweethearts. The best beer is Slovakian origin, though. The best vodka doesn’t rime with vodka. And the best wine is Georgian. Georgians know how to perform karaoke. Fat ladies dance to the song of an old, bold man. These are the days.
Fourthly, we are but humans, we’d like to mention the Russian Girl. She walks around on VERY high heels (kabluki) and dresses in such tight clothes, the laws of decency demand we hold our breath and be silent. She is too skinny, though, and a smile rarely escapes from her stiff lips. She has got rather long hair, which she likes to sweep past an unsuspecting body in the metro. Her eyes are fierce, bitterly fierce, and gaze like someone who’s going to war. She likes sunglasses, an occasional piercing, thick, red lips, and she has got a tendency to look like the types we encounter in the centre of our home town, draped with lingerie, behind red lights, adorned with grins of old woman.
Finally, we couldn’t leave this blog without telling all of you of the beautiful, fascinating, captivating, mesmerizing Neva. The Neva flows like a queen: her wide, auburn eyes gaze along every spot of the horizon (she knows all that is in her area already.) as she slowly descends to the city. Her throne is somewhere else, somewhere in the east, in a sun-drenched palace guarded by patient soldiers. Her arms are folded around her waist, to allow her to glide through the water like a silent ship. She is a Siren, luring us into the deep; a Cleopatra, stinging her servants in the breasts; a Natasha Rostov, winking her maids with an ascending smile. She doesn’t have to use her legs, as her environment guides her politely through her country.
All senses fade away
In the darkness of such a day.
We will go alone, where eyes can’t see the end
Of the river, where ears can’t hear a sound.
So silent searching footsteps take us
To our last will: to be buried in the river,
To our only faith: Queen Neva,
To our final truth:
She must be loved.
Yours truly,
Ziggy, Willem and Florian.
Alone he beat all the Russians. Lucas Arnoldussians
Strange isn't it, how one can be halfway around the world and still feel at home? This giant colossus we tend to call Saint-Petersburg has harboured our bodies for the last 14 days and has harvested our hearts and souls! In return it fed our brains with its language, its history, its culture and its people. Memories we shan't forget! Not a thing we'll ever regret!
Viva Peterburgya! When our three heroes met on the linguistic battlefield, only a fortnight ago, we had no hope for allies. But when the dawn of battle broke, the Australian, Italian, Austrian and American trumpets called! And forth trod the foreign warriors, as strange to each other as they were to us and this seemingly godforgotten country! "Now we are here, give us beer!" it sounded from the back of the Dutch regiment and soon our fellow soldiers agreed. Alcohol unites what no flag or song can!
We started marching, into the great unknown! Into the mouth of Hell, into the belly of the smoldering colossus without knowing where we were actually going. Luckily we had Tessa to guide us, a qualified scout indeed! To Primorskaya we went, where we dug ourselves underground and continued to Njevskiy Prospekt! The city was ours to have, for our foes were weakened by our sudden attack and the unsuspected summer heat. Who would have guessed that it would be handy to fight a war during the hottest summer since 130 years? But then again; neither Napoleon nor the Nazis succeeded in succesfully attacking this necrofrostbitten country because it was well, necrofrostbittenish. Summer's a good thing when invading Russia. Suck it.
Tessa handed us over to Nastya-practice-coördinator who showed us around in, that is to say: give us Le Grande Tour of, our new Empire. Student and Imperator at the same time, we felt empowered and shy.
Novaya Gollandia is now simply known as home.
Now, to convince our new subjects of our Majesty and our willingness we had to learn the language, which mainly consists of noise and unpronouncable words. Luckily there rose a wonderful woman from the raging Russian crowd. Her name was Katya, and that's all we needed to know. Her reputation preceeded her, as did the driving skills of our chauffeur Alexander, like the smell of food precedes the Cornucopia.
With our enemies reduced to ash, and the buildings we didn't like completely ransacked, our heroes and their international following returned to their castle to enjoy their last dinner as free men, before fully accepting their duties as the new rulers of this godforsaken city (for what ruler is free?). Our jester and teacher-to-be Katya entertained us during our dinnner by imitating various birds, a shark, us and Lenin. Behind these great conquerors is a great woman, which goes to show something, although we're not quite sure what.
[Today it rained. The last time it rained we were with Nastya-practice-coördinator, having a beer at the Gulf of Finland. Today it rained. We were having a barbecue with Nastya-practice-coördinator, who from now on shall be know as Nastya-Rainbringer. Epic. She has impressive eyes too.
Anyway.]
Although this city appears to be quite ugly at first, tis not. Our eyes just had to adjust to either the macroscopic or the microscopic scale that beauty is to be seen in here. It is found in the smallest appartments (take for example the Kwartira of Miss Rainbringer), or on the outside of huge cathedrals, but not in what we could call the city-in-itself. Everything here seems to be covered in dust, but with eyelashes like ours we will brush that dust away. We are not only barbarians, we're archeologists too.
If beauty was something that we could measure, calculate and divide evenly among any number of objects, one could turn this city around and turn it into something average. For something average, this place is not, nor should it become so. The beauty of Peterburgya is its paradox. The beauty of the ugliness, and the real beauty of only a handful of places, that altogether make for an awkward whole. Like a body that's missing an arm, but has an extra hand where its third nipple should have been. Aye.
The mustard's quite good here. The Italians called it Senf, but that's German. Twas good with mashed potatoes.
Our heroes will have their final classes on the 30th of july, and are leaving this country on the first of august, to make room for a new batch of heroes that can hopefully outshine our glory!
Though our rule was shortlived, it was prosperous. And even though the people of this place taught us more than we could teach them, I'm still sure that we left a mark on these people: our fellow soldiers, our guides, our teachers!
Let's drink to the mark of Ruskiy yazik!,
The Trinity of Dutch Heroes
Viva Peterburgya! When our three heroes met on the linguistic battlefield, only a fortnight ago, we had no hope for allies. But when the dawn of battle broke, the Australian, Italian, Austrian and American trumpets called! And forth trod the foreign warriors, as strange to each other as they were to us and this seemingly godforgotten country! "Now we are here, give us beer!" it sounded from the back of the Dutch regiment and soon our fellow soldiers agreed. Alcohol unites what no flag or song can!
We started marching, into the great unknown! Into the mouth of Hell, into the belly of the smoldering colossus without knowing where we were actually going. Luckily we had Tessa to guide us, a qualified scout indeed! To Primorskaya we went, where we dug ourselves underground and continued to Njevskiy Prospekt! The city was ours to have, for our foes were weakened by our sudden attack and the unsuspected summer heat. Who would have guessed that it would be handy to fight a war during the hottest summer since 130 years? But then again; neither Napoleon nor the Nazis succeeded in succesfully attacking this necrofrostbitten country because it was well, necrofrostbittenish. Summer's a good thing when invading Russia. Suck it.
Tessa handed us over to Nastya-practice-coördinator who showed us around in, that is to say: give us Le Grande Tour of, our new Empire. Student and Imperator at the same time, we felt empowered and shy.
Novaya Gollandia is now simply known as home.
Now, to convince our new subjects of our Majesty and our willingness we had to learn the language, which mainly consists of noise and unpronouncable words. Luckily there rose a wonderful woman from the raging Russian crowd. Her name was Katya, and that's all we needed to know. Her reputation preceeded her, as did the driving skills of our chauffeur Alexander, like the smell of food precedes the Cornucopia.
With our enemies reduced to ash, and the buildings we didn't like completely ransacked, our heroes and their international following returned to their castle to enjoy their last dinner as free men, before fully accepting their duties as the new rulers of this godforsaken city (for what ruler is free?). Our jester and teacher-to-be Katya entertained us during our dinnner by imitating various birds, a shark, us and Lenin. Behind these great conquerors is a great woman, which goes to show something, although we're not quite sure what.
[Today it rained. The last time it rained we were with Nastya-practice-coördinator, having a beer at the Gulf of Finland. Today it rained. We were having a barbecue with Nastya-practice-coördinator, who from now on shall be know as Nastya-Rainbringer. Epic. She has impressive eyes too.
Anyway.]
Although this city appears to be quite ugly at first, tis not. Our eyes just had to adjust to either the macroscopic or the microscopic scale that beauty is to be seen in here. It is found in the smallest appartments (take for example the Kwartira of Miss Rainbringer), or on the outside of huge cathedrals, but not in what we could call the city-in-itself. Everything here seems to be covered in dust, but with eyelashes like ours we will brush that dust away. We are not only barbarians, we're archeologists too.
If beauty was something that we could measure, calculate and divide evenly among any number of objects, one could turn this city around and turn it into something average. For something average, this place is not, nor should it become so. The beauty of Peterburgya is its paradox. The beauty of the ugliness, and the real beauty of only a handful of places, that altogether make for an awkward whole. Like a body that's missing an arm, but has an extra hand where its third nipple should have been. Aye.
The mustard's quite good here. The Italians called it Senf, but that's German. Twas good with mashed potatoes.
Our heroes will have their final classes on the 30th of july, and are leaving this country on the first of august, to make room for a new batch of heroes that can hopefully outshine our glory!
Though our rule was shortlived, it was prosperous. And even though the people of this place taught us more than we could teach them, I'm still sure that we left a mark on these people: our fellow soldiers, our guides, our teachers!
Let's drink to the mark of Ruskiy yazik!,
The Trinity of Dutch Heroes
donderdag 29 juli 2010
Het verdriet van een aangeschoten holenmens
Geachte lezer,
Wij zijn een collectief - nee, wij zijn legioen - uit toevalligheden samengeklonterd tot de boter van het in-de-wereld-zijn, en daarmee bedoelen we dan: 'wij zijn hier, hier zijn wij!'. Maar waar zijn wij dan? Gevangen tussen hemel en aarde, overgeleverd aan Katya die voor ons communiceert met, en differentieert tussen, deze twee sferen.
De gehaktballen die hunzelfs oorzaak constitueerden zijn al lang verorberd door gretige Italianen en meer van zulk gespuis, alsof het een lieve lust was. En dat was het ook. Hoewel de terugreis al op de deur staat te kloppen als een stel Jehova's met darmspasmen is ons vertrek vooralsnog niet aan de orde. Chorasjo!
Onze geniale klasgenoot was ziek vandaag.
Russische hotdogs werken wel, maar je moet eerst het plasticje er af halen.
Het is al donderdag, morgen is het vrijdag, zaterdag is het niet meer in Sint-Petersburg. Enkele van onze vrienden zullen achterblijven, maar deze drie-eiige eenling zal zich uit elkander moeten worstelen om gezamenlijk ieder zijn eigen weg te kunnen gaan. Ieder voor zich, Russkiy yazik voor ons allen.
Van Njevsky Prospekt tot de fabrieken uit 1860 hebben onze helden zich door deze vreemde stad geworsteld en zijn tot een aantal conclusies gekomen, maar die houden we liever voor onszelf. Wat veel belangrijker is, is het gevoel: een gevoel van we willen blijven, een gevoel van doet u er mij nog zo één. Held I hoopt in de winter terug te kunnen komen, hopende dat het dan geen 36 graden zal zijn. Liever -36.
Morgen de laatste dag, morgen het laatste feest! Morgen gaat Held III eindelijk naar het Aquapark!
Vandaag staat ons nog een barbecue te wachten die geldt als praktijkopdracht. Een goede oefening in vriendelijkheid, oprechtheid, eten, drinken, zingen, dansen en springen. En Russisch, misschien.
Met florissantste groet,
Helden I t/m III
Wij zijn een collectief - nee, wij zijn legioen - uit toevalligheden samengeklonterd tot de boter van het in-de-wereld-zijn, en daarmee bedoelen we dan: 'wij zijn hier, hier zijn wij!'. Maar waar zijn wij dan? Gevangen tussen hemel en aarde, overgeleverd aan Katya die voor ons communiceert met, en differentieert tussen, deze twee sferen.
De gehaktballen die hunzelfs oorzaak constitueerden zijn al lang verorberd door gretige Italianen en meer van zulk gespuis, alsof het een lieve lust was. En dat was het ook. Hoewel de terugreis al op de deur staat te kloppen als een stel Jehova's met darmspasmen is ons vertrek vooralsnog niet aan de orde. Chorasjo!
Onze geniale klasgenoot was ziek vandaag.
Russische hotdogs werken wel, maar je moet eerst het plasticje er af halen.
Het is al donderdag, morgen is het vrijdag, zaterdag is het niet meer in Sint-Petersburg. Enkele van onze vrienden zullen achterblijven, maar deze drie-eiige eenling zal zich uit elkander moeten worstelen om gezamenlijk ieder zijn eigen weg te kunnen gaan. Ieder voor zich, Russkiy yazik voor ons allen.
Van Njevsky Prospekt tot de fabrieken uit 1860 hebben onze helden zich door deze vreemde stad geworsteld en zijn tot een aantal conclusies gekomen, maar die houden we liever voor onszelf. Wat veel belangrijker is, is het gevoel: een gevoel van we willen blijven, een gevoel van doet u er mij nog zo één. Held I hoopt in de winter terug te kunnen komen, hopende dat het dan geen 36 graden zal zijn. Liever -36.
Morgen de laatste dag, morgen het laatste feest! Morgen gaat Held III eindelijk naar het Aquapark!
Vandaag staat ons nog een barbecue te wachten die geldt als praktijkopdracht. Een goede oefening in vriendelijkheid, oprechtheid, eten, drinken, zingen, dansen en springen. En Russisch, misschien.
Met florissantste groet,
Helden I t/m III
De ochtend is kort
-Donderdagochtend 8.25
-Florian mag blijven liggen
-Geluksvogel
-We hebben weer koffie
-Het is 's ochtends kouder dan 's avonds
-Ziggy is blij dat we koffie hebben
-Een mannetje besproeit de plantjes
-Niet per ongeluk neemt hij ook de straat mee
-Русский логики
-Koffie wordt koud door er naar te staren
-De laatste les in de ochtend
-Daar zijn we blij om
-Overal zie ik mensen uit de kolossen komen
-Allemaal gaan ze ergens heen
-Maar da's logisch
-Vrouwen op naaldhakken
-Je kunt ze horen op de 13e verdieping
-Het mannetje sproeit onverminderd door
-We hebben nog één banaan
-Ik moet douchen
-8.34
-De koffie is nog niet koud
De ijsklont heeft een kort leven
Het klimaat in St. Petersburg moet op de schop genomen worden. Het is onze drie helden zwaar gevallen, het is hier al twaalf (12) dagen achtereen warmer dan 30˙. Willem sprak vandaag via het wereldwijde vriendennetwerk facebook een vriend van hem die momenteel in Rio de Janeiro zit te zitten. Deze vriend, verder Marius genoemd, zei met een gemene lach, ‘Oh, zit je in St. Petersburg? Dan zul je vast je bontmuts meegenomen hebben, hier is het veel warmer dan bij jou’.
Nu moest Willem even nadenken wat hier op te antwoorden, wilde hij gewoon uitleggen dat het hier al de godganse tijd snik en snikheet is en een bontmuts dragen niet aan te raden was, of zou hij direct een vinnige, doch slim geplaatste opmerking maken dat Marius niets wist waarover hij sprak en totaal wereldvreemd was? Hij koos voor de droge opmerking dat het hier vandaag 34˙ was geweest en dat het morgen wel eens een graadje er bovenop kon worden.
Verbijstering.
34˙ in St. Petersburg!!? Dat lag toch in Rusland? En dan ook nog eens heel erg noordelijk? Ja, dat ligt in Rusland en ook nog eens als de noordelijkste miljoenenstad ter wereld (!) Zo, dan was het warmer dan in Rio de Janeiro, Marius moest even slikken, althans, dat stelde ik me zo voor, dat hij even moest slikken achter zijn computer helemaal aan de andere kant van de wereld, vol verbazing turend naar z’n beeldscherm.
Ja, onze helden hadden er vooraf ook niet op gerekend dat het hier zo niet koud zou zijn. Toen de cursus werd geboekt is er even gekeken op internet hoe warm het was en met vreugd werd geconstateerd dat de 20˙ werd geraakt, we konden met T-shirt buiten lopen, hoi hoi hoi!! Daarop zijn ook de koffers ingepakt en de twee lange broeken liggen nu onaangetast te sluimeren ergens diep onderin de reistas. (Zo maar eens kijken of ze er überhaupt nog wel liggen, ik heb ze niet meer gezien, noch aan ze gedacht.) Maar nu wordt er elke dag wel gezegd of gesteund dat het vandaag toch écht aanzienlijk warmer is dan de vorige bloedhete dag. Zelfs het huiswerk wordt gezien als mindere reden om over te klagen. Een van de fanatiekste cursisten, Tessa, heeft het zelfs gepresteerd om een halve dag ondergronds in de metro door te brengen, omdat ze daar onder het genot van een airconditioning haar Russische woordjes heeft kunnen leren.
Volgende keer komen we in de winter, dan weten we wat we moeten verwachten; bontmutsen en veel wodka voor de warmte. Nu trouwens schrijvend over hitte en wodka springt opeens een journaalbeeld van twee weken geleden op, waarin werd vermeld dat Moskou z’n heetste zomer in x jaar meemaakt en dat mensen massaal de fonteinen en rivieren in springen. Van tevoren heeft men zich naar Russisch gebruik volgeladen met wodka en daarna waagt men zich aan een heerlijk verfrissende duik in de rivieren die Rusland rijk is. Helaas vergeet men na een slok of twaalf wel eens hoe de beweging te zwemmen tot stand komt en men zakt weg in het verfrissende water en u trekt uw conclusie.
Wat was het punt van dit verhaal, ik weet het niet meer, ik ben het kwijt, het begon mooi, maar eindigde in mijmeringen. Dat mag. We hebben het warm en dat houdt ons bezig.
Het Аквапарк lonkt
Nu moest Willem even nadenken wat hier op te antwoorden, wilde hij gewoon uitleggen dat het hier al de godganse tijd snik en snikheet is en een bontmuts dragen niet aan te raden was, of zou hij direct een vinnige, doch slim geplaatste opmerking maken dat Marius niets wist waarover hij sprak en totaal wereldvreemd was? Hij koos voor de droge opmerking dat het hier vandaag 34˙ was geweest en dat het morgen wel eens een graadje er bovenop kon worden.
Verbijstering.
34˙ in St. Petersburg!!? Dat lag toch in Rusland? En dan ook nog eens heel erg noordelijk? Ja, dat ligt in Rusland en ook nog eens als de noordelijkste miljoenenstad ter wereld (!) Zo, dan was het warmer dan in Rio de Janeiro, Marius moest even slikken, althans, dat stelde ik me zo voor, dat hij even moest slikken achter zijn computer helemaal aan de andere kant van de wereld, vol verbazing turend naar z’n beeldscherm.
Ja, onze helden hadden er vooraf ook niet op gerekend dat het hier zo niet koud zou zijn. Toen de cursus werd geboekt is er even gekeken op internet hoe warm het was en met vreugd werd geconstateerd dat de 20˙ werd geraakt, we konden met T-shirt buiten lopen, hoi hoi hoi!! Daarop zijn ook de koffers ingepakt en de twee lange broeken liggen nu onaangetast te sluimeren ergens diep onderin de reistas. (Zo maar eens kijken of ze er überhaupt nog wel liggen, ik heb ze niet meer gezien, noch aan ze gedacht.) Maar nu wordt er elke dag wel gezegd of gesteund dat het vandaag toch écht aanzienlijk warmer is dan de vorige bloedhete dag. Zelfs het huiswerk wordt gezien als mindere reden om over te klagen. Een van de fanatiekste cursisten, Tessa, heeft het zelfs gepresteerd om een halve dag ondergronds in de metro door te brengen, omdat ze daar onder het genot van een airconditioning haar Russische woordjes heeft kunnen leren.
Volgende keer komen we in de winter, dan weten we wat we moeten verwachten; bontmutsen en veel wodka voor de warmte. Nu trouwens schrijvend over hitte en wodka springt opeens een journaalbeeld van twee weken geleden op, waarin werd vermeld dat Moskou z’n heetste zomer in x jaar meemaakt en dat mensen massaal de fonteinen en rivieren in springen. Van tevoren heeft men zich naar Russisch gebruik volgeladen met wodka en daarna waagt men zich aan een heerlijk verfrissende duik in de rivieren die Rusland rijk is. Helaas vergeet men na een slok of twaalf wel eens hoe de beweging te zwemmen tot stand komt en men zakt weg in het verfrissende water en u trekt uw conclusie.
Wat was het punt van dit verhaal, ik weet het niet meer, ik ben het kwijt, het begon mooi, maar eindigde in mijmeringen. Dat mag. We hebben het warm en dat houdt ons bezig.
Het Аквапарк lonkt
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