Today is the fifth day of my trip and also, coincidentally, the first day that I feel like I'm beginning to accomplish what a trip like this is supposed to. I'm starting to speak less English in favor of a broken amalgamation of Dutch (thanks to my new friends whom have taught me a few basics), and German. Being able to ask simple things like directions in a language that the people here are more familiar with makes asking questions seem like much less of a burden to whom ever is unlucky enough to be around me when ever I become lost- a state I've found myself more frequently than ever.
Last night was one of the longest, and most memorable nights of my life. Still suffering from jet lag i took a nap around 6 pm and slept until 9- it stays light here until 10 30 so I hadn't realize I slept so late in the day until I walked down into the common room to find Dianne and Lieke, two girls from Nymegen, Holland, playing a card game and waiting for the clubs to open up downtown. Eugene, the guy who I met the day earlier and who was know in Koln staying with people he met a hostel in Dublin, had introduced me to them the night before but I hadn't really gotten to talk to them for fear that any attempt at conversation would end up a chaotic exchange of monosyllabic root-words and frantic gestures. As it has been many times before, my assumption was created without any evidence and turned out to be completely false. As conversation began Dianne and Lieke both told me at the university level most textbooks are written in English, and so while I may have found their accent to be a bit confusing, their grasp of the language was above-average. Speaking to them I wondered if they had a better understanding of the English language than some people I knew back home, and although I didn't plan on testing the range of their vocabulary, I felt fairly confident that they may have after Dianne, an economics major, and I discussed Austrian Economic Theory and the effect of Nietzchan Doctrine upon the producer/consumer relationship.
Tim, Mish, and St. Joseph, three more guys from Holland, came down then. I'm not sure if those are their real names, but it's how they refer to each other and that's good enough for me. The game was called "troop" or something of the like, and the basic premise is that each player gets 4 cards, dealt two at a time, and the winner is who ever has the highest card at the end of all four cards being played. A very simple premise made only slightly more confusing by the betting system, a series of knocks on the table denoting "stripes" given to the hand stripes, being a numerical system of points that are given to you if you lose the hand- for example if I had three tens I would then knock in a manner as to lure my opponents into playing the hand, but not knocking so aggressively where I force them to fold, and the fact that the cards are not ranked numerically, as in the ace being the highest card, but instead give face cards a lower value than non-faced cards. depending on the number of people some cards are taken out. There were six of us to we played with the Ace through 6, ten being the highest, the jack being the lowest with the 6 being slightly more powerful than the Ace. so now sitting in De Ploate's* common room were 5 dutch expatriates gabbing at each other as fast as they threw their cards down and me- the lone American in the entire Hostel. It reminded me of something Eugene told to me a day earlier. It was the title of his travel series, or at least was he wanted to call them, that title being "on my own but not alone". I hope it doesn't bother him that I use it here, but it truly was a great way to describe the situation- one that not only I was in but one that I feel every individual whom travels alone hopes to find him or herself in. While it does not seem like an especially memorable time and while I have played cards many times before, and will, undoubtedly, play cards again, the camaraderie created amongst traveling strangers was everything that I hoped it to be- it was something that allows for even the most cynical people to take respite from their war against the so-called "decaying" human condition and feel, if only for a moment, that there is an ultimate good force behind humanity as a whole.
The night went on for hours, eventually with Luc and Bernard, two french sailors whom I met sometime between the last card falling and the next morning's sun rising; two french sailors whom had explained to me that this was their first time on land for more than two months, trying to get into a fight with two Rastafarian guys and myself somehow finding my way in between them as a sort of mediator/human barrier. I have to admit that I was more the latter than the former as it is extremely difficult to mediate between for people shouting in two different languages- neither being your own. The scuffle was solved almost as abruptly as it began, the angry yells and flailing arms being replaced over-exaggerated guffaws and sloppy hugs. A large bald man with a leather jacket and a Fu Manchu approached me with folded arms and a inquisitive look. He said something in some language and then laughed, but as I stared at him with a blank smile, a telltale sign that I had no idea what he said, the smile gently faded away and he asked, in a tattered form of the Queen's language, "Do you speak English". I said gave him and nod and he went on to ask "only English?". Another nod brought back the smile, but no longer an inquisitive one, but instead the type of face someone puts on when they are the victim of a practical joke. What he had asked me, in a joking-but-not-really sort of way, was if I had a job and if I wanted to be a bouncer at his club. A job that he and I realized I was physically suited for- but definitely not linguistically. Although I knew it wasn't possible, the idea of living in Oostende was, at worst, fun to imagine.
When I walked back to the Hostel I looked down LaangStraat, an empty road that would be bustling with people in a few hours, and saw the sup peaking over a tall building, maybe an apartment complex, maybe a business office, I wasn't sure, but it was completely serene. I didn't have my camera, but I wasn't really upset. Although I won't be able to share the picturesque crimson reds and fiery oranges that peeked around the high rise, I certainly won't forget it.
* De Ploate is not only the name of the hostel which I stayed at, but also the dialectical term for the shallow beds which oysters and shrimp are harvested from when the tide lowers.
Last night was one of the longest, and most memorable nights of my life. Still suffering from jet lag i took a nap around 6 pm and slept until 9- it stays light here until 10 30 so I hadn't realize I slept so late in the day until I walked down into the common room to find Dianne and Lieke, two girls from Nymegen, Holland, playing a card game and waiting for the clubs to open up downtown. Eugene, the guy who I met the day earlier and who was know in Koln staying with people he met a hostel in Dublin, had introduced me to them the night before but I hadn't really gotten to talk to them for fear that any attempt at conversation would end up a chaotic exchange of monosyllabic root-words and frantic gestures. As it has been many times before, my assumption was created without any evidence and turned out to be completely false. As conversation began Dianne and Lieke both told me at the university level most textbooks are written in English, and so while I may have found their accent to be a bit confusing, their grasp of the language was above-average. Speaking to them I wondered if they had a better understanding of the English language than some people I knew back home, and although I didn't plan on testing the range of their vocabulary, I felt fairly confident that they may have after Dianne, an economics major, and I discussed Austrian Economic Theory and the effect of Nietzchan Doctrine upon the producer/consumer relationship.
Tim, Mish, and St. Joseph, three more guys from Holland, came down then. I'm not sure if those are their real names, but it's how they refer to each other and that's good enough for me. The game was called "troop" or something of the like, and the basic premise is that each player gets 4 cards, dealt two at a time, and the winner is who ever has the highest card at the end of all four cards being played. A very simple premise made only slightly more confusing by the betting system, a series of knocks on the table denoting "stripes" given to the hand stripes, being a numerical system of points that are given to you if you lose the hand- for example if I had three tens I would then knock in a manner as to lure my opponents into playing the hand, but not knocking so aggressively where I force them to fold, and the fact that the cards are not ranked numerically, as in the ace being the highest card, but instead give face cards a lower value than non-faced cards. depending on the number of people some cards are taken out. There were six of us to we played with the Ace through 6, ten being the highest, the jack being the lowest with the 6 being slightly more powerful than the Ace. so now sitting in De Ploate's* common room were 5 dutch expatriates gabbing at each other as fast as they threw their cards down and me- the lone American in the entire Hostel. It reminded me of something Eugene told to me a day earlier. It was the title of his travel series, or at least was he wanted to call them, that title being "on my own but not alone". I hope it doesn't bother him that I use it here, but it truly was a great way to describe the situation- one that not only I was in but one that I feel every individual whom travels alone hopes to find him or herself in. While it does not seem like an especially memorable time and while I have played cards many times before, and will, undoubtedly, play cards again, the camaraderie created amongst traveling strangers was everything that I hoped it to be- it was something that allows for even the most cynical people to take respite from their war against the so-called "decaying" human condition and feel, if only for a moment, that there is an ultimate good force behind humanity as a whole.
The night went on for hours, eventually with Luc and Bernard, two french sailors whom I met sometime between the last card falling and the next morning's sun rising; two french sailors whom had explained to me that this was their first time on land for more than two months, trying to get into a fight with two Rastafarian guys and myself somehow finding my way in between them as a sort of mediator/human barrier. I have to admit that I was more the latter than the former as it is extremely difficult to mediate between for people shouting in two different languages- neither being your own. The scuffle was solved almost as abruptly as it began, the angry yells and flailing arms being replaced over-exaggerated guffaws and sloppy hugs. A large bald man with a leather jacket and a Fu Manchu approached me with folded arms and a inquisitive look. He said something in some language and then laughed, but as I stared at him with a blank smile, a telltale sign that I had no idea what he said, the smile gently faded away and he asked, in a tattered form of the Queen's language, "Do you speak English". I said gave him and nod and he went on to ask "only English?". Another nod brought back the smile, but no longer an inquisitive one, but instead the type of face someone puts on when they are the victim of a practical joke. What he had asked me, in a joking-but-not-really sort of way, was if I had a job and if I wanted to be a bouncer at his club. A job that he and I realized I was physically suited for- but definitely not linguistically. Although I knew it wasn't possible, the idea of living in Oostende was, at worst, fun to imagine.
When I walked back to the Hostel I looked down LaangStraat, an empty road that would be bustling with people in a few hours, and saw the sup peaking over a tall building, maybe an apartment complex, maybe a business office, I wasn't sure, but it was completely serene. I didn't have my camera, but I wasn't really upset. Although I won't be able to share the picturesque crimson reds and fiery oranges that peeked around the high rise, I certainly won't forget it.
* De Ploate is not only the name of the hostel which I stayed at, but also the dialectical term for the shallow beds which oysters and shrimp are harvested from when the tide lowers.
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"I hadn't really gotten to talk to them for fear that any attempt at conversation would end up a chaotic exchange of monosyllabic root-words and frantic gestures."
ReplyDeleteThat sounds like me every time I try to talk to any girl.