Even the most rainy day here is filled with sunshine, and even the most grey mornings turn into bright afternoons.
It's (or was, actually) Sunday morning, and the kind of moment I long to be home; home in the home of homes, which homeliness will probably never be surpassed: the parental home. Certain mornings I wake up from the sound of a wooden chairleg scraping a tiled kitchen floor, and expect to hear a knock on my bedroom door any moment and my brother's voice: "Kom je ook naar beneden?" The past few years I have become increasingly aware of how special these moments are (and how fleeting), and how fortunate my fate, to have been born and raised in such an environment - and I'm not only alluding to material circumstances.
Some weeks ago I had a long and interesting discusison with two friends. At a certain point the topic was gratitude. Two of us argued that it is possible to be grateful without necessarily being grateful
to someone, like some god (although one of us does believe in God). We tried to convince the third person of the appeal of prayer (or any similar kind of reflection) before dinner. In the end we agreed (I think) that prayer before at dinner is only an institutionalised form of a more general sense of gratitude that can be felt and expressed any moment, but has conveniently become connected to a fixed and, importantly, communal event. This doesn't render it less valid or sincere, though.
Anyway, to come back to
heimweh: I discovered a certain pattern. First and foremost, it is not as strong as when I was in France, which is easily explained by the facts that being away from home has become a habit, that I find my way around a new place more easily now, that I have a hell of a lot more to do here (or at least more varied occupations), that there's more people and thus more friends around here, and that I have the prospect of quite a few visits. More remarkably though, heimweh is even less than it was during the first few months at UC. I did certainly not dislike UC, but I noticed to my regret that the happiest day of the week was friday, when I could go home (and to my friends up north) again. Clearly this changed later on, with my steadily growing attachment to people at UC.
Now I am here, and my experience of heimweh has shifted. It has become tied to people - partly different people than three years ago of course - and much less to one specific place. I miss UC's communal life - very much. But that's a way of life, not a place. I miss Amsterdam, but not as much as expected. I miss our house in the Snorrenhoefstraat and sometimes other houses. I miss the environments of the Gooi- en Vechtstreek. I even miss Utrecht (just a tiny bit). I miss France. But this geographical heimweh has become more dispersed. More clearly, and more focusedly, I miss persons.
I suppose it's not that difficult to become attached to England.
Zucht. I wish I was Charlemagne and could force all my loved-ones (including their jobs and studies and Ghana) to move with me on my eternal journey through favourite spots in Europe.
Enough about that. What has happened to me these last few days?
On Thursday I was in Sainsbury's (like every week) and I received my change in the correct, practical order.
That same evening I had choir rehearsal (like every week). I do start to like the things we sing now. It's the (a?) G
loria by Vivaldi and Mozart's
Vesperae solennes de confessore. I begin to get a grasp of what the music is and what it could sound like, and of my part in the whole thing. Concert: December 2d, when probably none of you will be here. But I already got some requests by local friends to be sent the concert dates , so I trust St. Michael's will be full (enough).
Our level of performance is rather modest, but we have great fun. But there are moments when the lack of musicality displayed by some (really just a few) of my fellow choir members frustrates me. Thursday for example, the conductor summoned us to begin at page 10's Tutti, where, alas, a dynamical sign lacked, which could also not be traced back on page 9, 8 or 7. I shared my confusion with the singer next to me, and asked whether the conductor had said anything about the volume he expected. She, however, shrugged her shoulders and said "Just sing it". Imagine my bewilderment. For how could I sing something when I had no idea what it should sound like? Didn't she agree that dynamics are as inalienable to music as pitch? She could just as well have said to the entire choir: "just sing loud everybody, don't worry about melody of harmony". And while that could have worked out very nicely as a modernist composition, I don't think you can perform Mozart that way.
On friday we went out. I had some vague appointment with a few friends, but at 8pm (yes sir: it needs some readjusting, but in the end you will reap the fruits of early closing-times) I was still not very sure about where exactly I would meet them. I had the feeling we might just find each other in town, or otherwise we would call. So in the meantime, I walked down the road with some other Lafrowda inmates.
Wie schetst mijn verbazing as we bump into these two friends! So the five of us walk down to the Imperial (which is indeed imperial in every sense of the word: large, kitchy, colonial, lavish and, by now, a bit common). The two Lafrowda friends would be meeting some friends of theirs down there. The two friends with whom I had the vague appointment were also expecting to find some friends. I wait and see. So,
wie schetst mijn verbazing as not only both groups of friends turn out to be the same bunch of people, but also turn out to be friends of mine?!
Anyway: we have an enjoyable evening, moving the party to the living-room of one of us as the pub closes (so tell me, Anna: what exactly was the function of early pub times?), I treat my
portefeuille quite extravagantly as I order a chocolate chip cheese cake and a bottle of pear cider (my god: you should try it!) which, alas, go in portions of half-liters only.
By the way: my ersatz-Olivier has got a classical (and thus acoustic) guitar, but with the possibility to plug in some amplifiers. Quite agreeable sound. Concerning his musical appetite: I have never heard him listening to 'classical'/'serious'/'art' music, but for the rest it seems that every single record he plays (he has records, too!) can be found in my collection as well, and v.v. It's amazing how we share our taste. Whenever I don't know what music
nu weer to play, I only have to put my ear against the wall and I have my inspiration. In film, too, by the way (he studies French and film). Remember the Vertigo-poster? Next day he walks into my room and says "Gee, where did you get that? I've been looking for it for ages!"
He is also the one who insists that I say "tomâto" (as opp. to "tomayto").
This provides a suitable moment to evaluate my progression in one of the goals I have set for this journey: improve my English. I am afraid nothing much has happened. I have learned some new words, but I don't think either grammar or pronunciation have improved. The other day I tried to explain a London girl how real Dutch pancakes are made (well, she asked for it). And all she could make of it was that we use something
better while really I was trying to explain what we put in our
batter. Took some time to make clear that she should not trust my pronunciation... I am also still working out how to make clear that I would like some
ale rather than
ail...
Lunch today: sandwich of fried egg, lettuce, cream cheese and Amoy dark soy sauce of course.
Well. My piece for today is really long enough already, but I
have to tell you about yesterday.
Yesterday began rather miserably. I was having doubts that could turn out having serious effects on my and other lives. They did not centre around my studies this time, but were still related to it (like everything is). But I won't bother you with the details.
I went for a walk. For the first time, I mounted the summit of the hill our campus is built against, and even went beyond it. On the map I had spotted an interesting Roman landmark, and I was going to check it out. Of course I turned left at the wrong crossing, which I found out much too late. It was one o'clock and I was growing hungry.
Maar niet gewanhoopt, because even the tiny hamlet which I now entered offered that
rots in de branding of every rambler: a pub. It was glorious. I took of my wet coat (the silly girl hadn't bothered to take her "waterproofs") and ordered a hot chocolate (the proprietress had to go and look whether they still had any cocoa first. mm.) and,
en nu komt het, a Treacle Pudding.
It was everything I had hoped for. Steaming hot. Sweet. Spongy. And enormous.
This was what I had been waiting for ever since I crossed the border. What I had clutched to with all my might, whenever Erasmus bureaucracy had threatened to make me give up.
An utterly gratifying hour followed, sitting on a padded bench in warm pub while the rain came down on the outside world, surrounded by an Ordnance Survey map of Exeter and north, the last few pages of Bill Bryson's travels around Britain, a polka dotted mug of not too sweet cocoa, and my treacle pudding.
It was a Saturday afternoon and the only other people present were the proprietress, a woman and man in their early thirties remarking that "it's very quiet today" (what would you expect on a Saturday afternoon in October in a pub on the side of an A-road?), and an elderly woman who tried in vain to digest a plate of chips, sausage, eggs and vegetables on her own (afterwards, the people at the bar remarked "she didn't like the food, did she?"). The only other sounds came from a radio playing pleasantly unconspicuous music and from a distant cowboy movie on the telly. Later, another Reader entered the room and quietly sat down at the bar, burying himself in his book. He was of the romantic kind - Y will know what I mean.
It is in these environments that I start musing. About the difference between being in a café on you own or in a group. About the bond and at the same time distance between readers, because they recognise what they have in common, but after this recognition they prefer to return to their solitary adventures. About how you can feel very lonely in a large lecture room on the first day of your induction week when everyone seems to know each other already, but not lonely at all when you travel around on your own and stop in a pub. And this was my conclusion: even though people are the most important thing in my life (see the entry a couple of weeks ago) and although there is a chance even in my life of ending up living together with someone and even of getting married (but I wouldn't count on that), there is one thing I know, and that is that I will always feel the need to go out from time to time and explore the world on my own. It's the romance of the lonely traveller. And it's addictive.
Now I have to come back to the issue I started with: it was a rotten day, remember? I had sought my way back tot Exeter through woods and suburbs and suddenly found myself in the by now very familiar surroundings of university campus.
Back in my room I knew why I had felt bad and cried for help. And never had I dared to hope for such perfect response, consolation and solution, as I received. I think I can say I am happy again. So thank you. I love you.
