Friendly greetings,
Dutch classes don't start until January. I've managed to pick up a word or two from advertisements and movies. 50% minder suiker I assume means 50% less sugar. The subtitles say verdomme when someone says, "Damn," and jammer when someone says, "That's a shame," or something to that effect. I can occasionally get a laugh from my dutch friends by showing off my meager knowledge, but actual communication is impossible for me. Luckily, most people here know English. To some degree or another, but almost always enough to complete whatever exchange is on the table.
The exceptions, unfortunately, are the truly insane. I was riding my bright red Peugeot bicycle to the grocery store on a chilly evening after class. The store is close, so I ride my bike on the wrong side of the street, in the oncoming bike lane. The first few times I took the long way and crossed the street. But, when I saw other people breaking the law that I don't even know for sure exists to begin with, I felt better taking the shortcut. Besides, there's hardly ever anyone on the road when I go to the store. I saw a man, though, walking with some grocery bags on the sidewalk. He waved at me, vigorously, while I was still twenty meters away. Curious, I slowed down, straddled my bike, and waited. I knew the drill at this point. I say, "I'm sorry, do you speak English?" Other person says, "Oh, sorry, yes," and continues, in English. This time, though, he said something frenzied in Dutch. Frenzied in the way that Lassie might frenziedly bark if an ornery prospector had abducted Timmy. Like he was trying to tell me something was wrong. Like it was imperative his message get through. So, intrigued and determined to help, I leaned closer and said again, "I'm really sorry, I don't speak Dutch. Geen Nederlands. Spreekt u Engels?" He responded swiftly, with a glint of anger behind his eyes. His response was not verbal. Instead, he reached into some pocket, which one exactly I did not have time to discern, and pulled out an ovoid solid. About the size of the first two joints of an impossibly plump index finger. Streamlined like a harbor seal, with roughly the same coloration. He paused with the object suspended between our two faces for only a moment. Then, he stretched his hand out toward my mouth, and attempted to feed me his strange, exaggerated bean. As fast as my fencer's reflexes are, I could do no more than waddle a step or two away, the bike clumsily rolling with me between my legs. He insisted and stepped closer, his torso bent toward me sharply and his arm fully extended. By now, though, fueled by adrenalin, I had lifted my feet to the pedals, and slid, relieved, from his reach. He said something else in Dutch, shrugged his shoulders and his brow, popped the object into his mouth, turned, and sauntered off. From his tone, I can only assume he meant, "Suit yourself. I tried."
The next morning, still slightly disarmed, I was walking my bike out from my apartment building. One of the construction workers said, "Mooie fiets." I stared at him, straight-faced and emotionless, and continued walking. I gave no other response. It wasn't until I was twenty meters down the road that something in my brain clicked and I realized he had said "Beautiful bike." Oops.
Until the king needs more torches,
walter