And I will tell

Lean, Gita said: "You will be in Holland, come to visit us".

Now it should be explained who is such a guita. The story described below reminds a bit of the first page of the famous book – the same abundance of names and uncomplicated related relations. It happened a few years ago. I had a classmate named Grisha. Grisha had a brother Tim, who is no longer our compatriot and lives in New York. Tima had neighbors who once left in Anapa and left him the keys to his apartment so that he watered flowers and checked the electrical appliances. That Tim and did.

Once during the thymine visit to the apartment rang the phone. Called the name of Emil, he was Belgian and had some familiar in the Union. But the wrong number. Tima, it should be noted, spoke very well in English, which resolutely shocked Emil and, in truth, was a rarity for a simple Soviet subscriber. Like then and now. The conversation began. Then resumed several times. Then Tima went to Antwerp, visit to Emile, and there he met Yochi, the girl Emilev Brother, who studied at local INAZE at the Russian language.

Next, the events unfolded with the speed of a cinema, in which the heroes millionaires move on personal "Boeing" From the city to the city, and in order to facilitate the understanding of the plot, Paris is indicated by the Eiffel Tower, and New York – Brooklyn Bridge.

Grisha appeared in Antwerp, traveled by hitchhiker in Europe with a girl Yule and a movie camera. For the week he managed to get acquainted with all the city, charm all Antwerpins and leave good memory about himself. A year later, Yoka with a guita came to Moscow to practice. For four long autumn-winter months. Here, finally, we crossed – we introduced to Julia.

Belgians lived in a littered apartment in the southwest, dressed as elegant bums, surprised that all their foreign roots arise immediately, and was noticeably progressed in Russian. From time to time we met and, as they say, together culturally entertained – went to "Little Prince" v "Sofa", on the skating rink in the park of bitter or in "Crisis genre". Sometimes just invited each other to visit. Our, domestic, always asked us: "And Belgians will be?" – Knowing that this substance gives our parties a special taste – a funny-broken Russian language with book turnover and indelving issues. They always could always meet the most extravagant foreigners in Moscow. The most curious thing they spoke only in Russian.

Such, in general, a labyrinth was built that the guitan told me for a farewell: "You will be in Holland, come to visit us".

And here I am in the Netherlands – I ride a bike on the paved roads of the city of Zolle, up of the thresholds of Dutch radio stations, I sit in an open cafe, I am writing a diary in endless trains, sniffing tulips, lying on lawns. Enumerations – as photos from the album. One day I’m going to finally in Belgium. "In visit".

The train opposite me sat the Dutch girl, who had the same clock and the same backpack as I had. I bought a backpack in Paris last year, and hours – at the VDNX for fifty thousand rubles. When such confusions happen in their homeland, the mood usually flies for a whole day. When abroad, it just amazes. In general, the three of my silent Dutch satellites unconditionally took me for their own and did not show the slightest interest. When the controller came and, stretching the ticket, with a smile, who did not give the word for a long time "Alstumbilft", They looked at me with curiosity. When I got the book Zyuskinda, they asked where I. But then the train arrived in Rosendal, and the brother of the nations did not take place.

From Rosendal twice a hour trains go to Belgium. Inner line: Rosendal – Antwerp – Brussels – Ostend. To Antwerp hence half an hour drive. Belgian trains, old, good-free – outwardly similar to our electric trains, only burgundy. Against the background of Dutch ultra-seated mastodonts, they don’t look much unprofitable. I have a photo: I and the Dutch train. One buddy in Moscow asked me: "That is a plane?" "No, – I say, – train".

In Rosendal It was stuffy and bloomed chestnuts. I bought myself a ticket to the second class (in Holland, people under 60 in the first grade, it seems, do not go at all) and went to the gun with cakes. I love it abroad most of all – this smart independent technique that understands how much money she gives and what you want from it. I love the process myself – lowered the coin, suddenly drunk something, shook, and in your hands – a chocolate, or a sandwich, or a water bank, and around. (By the way, recently such a miracle appeared on Pushkinskaya: a machine with Coca-Cola. Around him – a huge crowd of the people, nearby – a person who sells the tokens and explains how to use, next to him – the policeman.)

Avtomat I gave me a almond cupcake, and at that moment I saw how the burgundy train was touched – for all the signs, my. In three jumps, I found myself on the foot of the train, after a second – in the car. The first thing was shocked – huge velor armchairs and tables with flowers, the second – exceptional littleness. In the cabin sat only a couple of older whether the Dutch, or the Belgians, with the amazement considered me through the pens. According to the environment, I realized that the worst thing happened – I got into the first class. The door to the nearby car was closed. Actually, in Holland, there are hardly madmen, risking ride without a ticket in the first grade. If it happened that you were with a second class ticket in the first, then you are either charged with a difference, or just planted. In both cases, terrible unpleasant.

Anyway, I did not want to jump from the train. I sat down in a chair at the window and turned the cupcake, comforting myself by the fact that "I am a foreigner, everything can". Riding was pleasant, per window replaced each other. Cute heart Dutch landscapes: Mills, cows, pea fields. Suddenly the train stopped. The border, – I thought fun, and at this moment – do it – do my hair on my head became endless. Because I remembered that I did not take a passport.

I have not very big communication experience with customs officers, but – definitely – negative. For some reason, you always see me from legs to the head, it is my things that look longer than others and it is to tell me that "This is this thing" You can not take with you. Although perhaps everyone seems so.

My hands trembled, I tried to calm down and said myself: "So, soberly estimate the situation. In the first class car moves the border Russian girl. She has no ticket, there is no passport, visas, respectively, also, and in her pocket – Oh, Lord, what else? – Lies marijuana". It was the last blow. How could I forget about yesterday’s shop, where my Dutch dragged me in order to "Familiarize with the achievements of Dutch democracy"! Everyone bought on a twist, but I had enough smell around, and I crushed my pocket. Take out, of course, forgot. My hair has been sad. Honestly.

But, as always, nothing happened. The train moved safely, there were already belgic landscapes outside the windows: lanterns-bows, cherry in bloom and for some reason Ostrich Farm. Came-left the controller, despite the customs of the Dutch controllers closing her eyes. However, perhaps he was a Belgian, and all of them, as you know, amazingly cute people.

So, finally, I arrived in Antwerp. Sucked on Centroal Station (pronounced in nose, patter, low male voice). Station stunning, gothic, like a temple, with carved puffs, with stucco, almost an angels, handkerchiefs by the masters, following the outgoing trains. But I hurry past, I want comfort and room temperature, so I head straight to the window, where they sell phone cards. "You know, the only thing I need to call now is to call. But I have no Belgian money", – I say. The young man takes me seven dollars and a few more guilders. I have a suspicion that the card is much cheaper and what they were checked. Something like me reminds me. But – it doesn’t matter, calling calling. Here, at the phones, real gatherings of Belgian old people. They collect finished cards. (Why?) Every leaving they ask, is not over. Ask me and when I do not understand, translate "Finished?"

And I will tell

Gite at home to the phone is suitable for a kind young man: "She is not home. What to convey. ah, from Moscow. I will try to find her, and you. Call back in an hour". Well, in stock whole hour, go to get acquainted with the city.

Antwerp to indecent resembles Moscow. I wander along the constituentral streets and wonder how all this is familiar: standard houses, dirty asphalt, a bunch of poster and ads on the walls, children in dark blue school forms, in high golfes rush home with huge stains. But the main thing is people, even externally similar to the Russians (while the Dutch, rather, American big and joyful). In addition, the Belgians, frozen, never smile and do not greet the streets with strangers. All in yourself, all in problems. I do not know, maybe, in fact, everything is not, but after a completely foreign Holland here, I felt at home.

An hour has passed. I called again. This time the irresolute girl came up. "Gita did not return. Roal went to look for her. Call back in an hour". Hanging the phone, I felt the orphan. In his walks in the city, I found the Museum of Rubens, a monument to the Gnome and Local Botanical Garden. Suddenly the poster appeared before "Iehahhi Menuhin". The only concert in Antwerp. Today in 19.00". And address. Just in "Double bass" Zyuskinda, I read the Diffirable Iehahi Menukhin himself – ah! What a musician he is! Oh! what is his sound! Loneliness and despair fed my power strength, and I had a crazy thought (I must admit that it was the real face of madness) – come to a great musician, fall before Him on his knees and dismiss not leave me on the street to die from hunger and cold. I was imagined by a low gray man with an artistic chapel, wise and similar on Einstein. I almost knew that he would not throw me.

At that moment I looked at the clock and realized that it was another hour. Tube took a young man, but again another. Call his Bert, and I am in front of him to a coffin board in a non-demand debt. Having learned that I already cut Antwerp Antwerp in barren waiting for Gita, he said: "What is the problem? Where are you?"

In the city I was already oriented. "Stand there, in twenty minutes I will come for you". And all. I have grown wings. And I decided to dine to the nearby McDonalds.

When in twenty minutes I returned to the square, there was almost no one. At eight in the evening, Antwerp will be empty in front. In my player Tomno sang on the loneliness of Lyme Vaikule, I sat on the shop and thought that I would never go away from this place. At this moment, someone’s masculs firmly slapped me on the shoulder. I turned around. In front of me stood a fantastically handsome young man in black, just a prince. He asked me in Dutch, whether I say in Dutch. "Not he", – My heart fell. "I do not speak", – I exhaled.

"So, it means you are Kira?! – He shouted to me, – and I have been looking for two hours for all restaurants. I ask if a girl did not see here, who does not speak Dutch".

And now we have a rush home, running around the street and overtake pedestrians, arguing about the music of Dead Can Dance and Red Quarters. Here we are already in a student house, where they all live, where cozy and shared kitchen, a living room with a TV and a teddy bear on a sofa and a bathroom – just like a Palace Hotel. Finally, Gita returns from the pool. The end of my Naitaria.

And here I think: how is it nice when you meet good people at a certain point of the globe.

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