My Dutch teacher Jelle e-mailed me this morning. Here’s the translation from Dutch …
I corrected the exams today. Your exam was good. You did very well!
You scored well on all skills: listening, reading and writing.
Speaking too, but when speaking I notice that you need a lot of time to formulate sentences.
What!? I passed? I got so confused during the speaking exam. Often I couldn’t understand what Jelle was saying.
Miracles happen.
And now I will go regularly to conversation sessions at Amal, where a small group of us newbies will sit with a native Dutch speaker.
And on I thoroughly go.
***
For those of you whose first language isn’t English, the title refers to a printing press. After the editor made final decisions about what would be in the day’s newspaper, the press was ready to start. But last minute news meant the front page story would change.
I last wrote a post eight days ago. I told myself it was the right thing to do. “Study Dutch. Let everything else go.” So out of balance. So determined to pass yesterday’s exams.
I grunted. I sweated. I exhausted myself.
Today I rest. I watch a cycling race on TV: the Critérium du Dauphiné. And I write this post.
Yesterday I had three Dutch exams. Although I get the official results next Saturday, I’m virtually certain this is true:
I passed the writing and listening parts.
I failed the speaking part.
If this is true, my understanding is that I therefore fail the course. (Sigh)
I’ve never worked as hard at anything in my life. “I will pass!” … over and over in my head.
A day later, I’m reflecting on what my teacher Jelle said:
Why are you here? To pass courses or to learn how to speak Dutch?
She’s right. My ego speaks otherwise … but then it’s not dependable. I want to have conversations with folks who don’t speak English. I want to connect with people, not just English-speaking people.
On I go.
Last November I passed the Level One course (A1). I was told that I had to pass A2 to participate in conversation sessions at Amal, an organization that welcomes newcomers to Belgium.
Today I went to their website and read this:
For whom?Anyone who has obtained A1 and wants to practice Dutch
I was wrong.
So … I promise to attend one of these conversations before I leave for England on June 21.
Here’s the view from the terrace at the back of my apartment … over the Leie River to the Ghent River Hotel and beyond.
Ever since moving here, I’ve loved the red brick, the red tile rooves, the long view to homes far away. Take the round smokestack on the hotel building. It’s so round! And old! And symmetrical!
At least it was a perfect cylinder … until a plant started growing on the left end. At first I was offended by the momentum of nature. I no longer had the balance I enjoy.
As I matured into Gent residency over the last few months, I came to accept the thrust of greenness at the top of my smokestack. I tolerated it.
But then there was yesterday. Perhaps I’ve been blind for the last two weeks but I hadn’t noticed the blossoms. Yellow! Brilliantly so.
I have news for you. It’s raining in Belgium! Even though I miss the snow of Canada, I enjoy the pitter patter of drops on my coat’s hood.
I am surrounded by folks holding a curvy thing above their heads. I wonder what aliens would think if their first visit was during a rainstorm. “What’s with all these round colours above each of these strange beings?”
I love curves – in the flow of a street, on the shoreline of a bay, in the beauty of a woman’s body. Today’s curves are above heads. Are they a protection? Are they a holding? Are they a blessing?
It’s true that umbrellas keep the storm at arm’s length. But there’s also a sense of sanctuary, of a cozy space beneath. And when two are under a large umbrella, there is often love.
It’s really pouring now. I’m tucked into a couch in Izy Coffee but soon I will venture forth. Do I wish for blue skies? They’re marvelous but they’re not at home in this moment. My umbrella emerges from my backpack …
I could have used the word “fatigue” or maybe “exhaustion” but they don’t live in this body of mine.
This is not a tale of woe, a “poor me” or a plea for pity. My sinking muscles and bones are just the way it is right now. I’m fascinated with the current state of Bruce.
Beyond the reality of today’s body, all is well. I also remind myself that “All things must pass.” The spring in the step will return.
In the spirit of figuring things out, I see three causes of my slump:
1. Practicing my cello leading up to our May 25 concert
2. Hosting my nephew Jagger for 17 days
3. Studying Dutch as I peak for the June 8 final exam
Reasons for may have some interest but I choose to simply live in this lovely bag of flesh … moment-to-moment. It’s a privilege to have a body and feel it working well in my 70’s.
I woke up a few days ago with a question on my lips:
What song shall I sing next?
As I look at the rest of my life, I see singing. I see many marvelous songs written by other people … memorized by my brain and given to audiences. It’s the strongest image that comes, even bigger than my future love Elise.
The song that appeared recently was “Did She Mention My Name?” written and sung by the Canadian legend Gordon Lightfoot. There was no analysis of why that one, merely a nod that it was the right one.
As I started learning the lyrics yesterday, they were familiar. Is that because I listened to Gord’s rendition so many times or did I try to memorize the words in my deep dark past?
The next open mic session in Gent is on Friday, June 7 … nine days away. Is that enough time to thoroughly learn the song? Maybe. Do I play it safe and sing something else that I know better? (No) Or do I give the folks “Mention My Name” come hell or high water – even if forgotten lyrics and some out-of-tuneness? (Yes)
“Do it up big, Bruce! Sing what’s demanding to be sung.”
Here are the words. They’ll be heard on the Sint-Salvatorstraat on a Friday night near you …
It’s so nice to meet an old friend and pass the time of day And talk about the hometown a million miles away Is the ice still on the river? Are the old folks still the same? And by the way, did she mention my name?
Did she mention my name just in passing? And when the morning came, do you remember if she dropped a name or two? Is the home team still on fire? Do they still win all their games? And by the way, did she mention my name?
Is the landlord still a loser? Do his signs hang in the hall? Are the young girls still as pretty in the city in the fall? Does the laughter on their faces still put the sun to shame? And by the way, did she mention my name?
Did she mention my name just in passing? And when the talk ran high, did the look in her eyes seem far away? Is the old roof still leaking when the late snow turns to rain? And by the way, did she mention my name?
Did she mention my name just in passing? And looking at the rain, do you remember if she dropped a name or two? Won’t you say hello from someone? They’ll be no need to explain And by the way, did she mention my name?
It was Saturday night. Jagger was back from Italy. And we were off to a football game – KAA Gent versus STVV from the Belgian city of Sint-Truiden. Go Blue!
There were about 15,000 of us enjoying the festivities in Planet Group Arena. For the first while STVV thoroughly outplayed us and I was mesmerized by the footwork of their #77. He danced with the ball.
To our left, behind the goal net, sat the KAA fan club. They clapped, they drummed, they chanted. Loud! Intoxicating rhythms! Sometimes they’d call out to fans at the other end of the field. And those folks yelled back. So cool.
Club members waved huge flags. Their bodies moved in sync. Often snake-like left and right. Or three claps and then the arms out wide. Woh! I was drawn into the flow of the noise.
As for the game, I was bored for most of it. Very few sweet passing plays. Very few shots on net. Only a couple of great saves. Two goals (for us!) The fan action overwhelmed the game play. And that was fine.
At the end of the match (the last home game of the season) almost all of us fans stayed in the stadium. The KAA players walked the perimeter of the field, kicking mini-soccer balls into the crowd.
Then they stood in front of their fan club. Each player was introduced, stepping forward into a wall of applause.
The coach was leaving the team. He gave an impassioned speech in Dutch. And then received a standing ovation. Not how I remember coaches bring treated in the NHL or NBA in North America!
We cellists (about 40 of us – not 25) played six short pieces: Cranes, Oblivion, Russians, something from Haydn, something from Mahler and something from Coldplay.
As we waited outside the church for the door to be unlocked, I sat down beside a girl, maybe 9-years-old. “You’re the youngest and I’m the oldest.” She smiled.
With the rehearsals we’ve had, I’m gradually learning names, and I greeted several colleagues as we unpacked our instruments. We would rehearse in the sanctuary before “show time”.
My cello teacher is Lieven. Vincent is the other one. As we found our places on stage, I saw Vincent approaching. He said he’d be playing next to me. My first reaction was fear – a brilliant cellist beside a struggling one. “He’ll hear all my wrong notes!” My second reaction was embarrassment. “The teachers think I need help.”
“Well what’s the truth, Bruce? You do need help. So suck it up and play!”
Hmm … Bruce was right.
Vincent’s playing helped mine. He demoed the correct rhythms. For the first time I said “The rehearsal went well.”
And then the audience drifted in. About eighty human beings would be cheering us on. Family and friends know that we’re students, not professional. There’ll be mistakes. (Tell me about it.)
Now for real. There were passages in some of the pieces where I was spot on: the right notes, the right rhythm, vibrato for the left hand fingers, expressive bowing for the right ones. And … passion flowing through my body. Cool.
Then there were those other times. (Sigh) Lost in a flurry of notes, losing my place in the pieces, the wrong pitch, the bow squeaking on the strings. I was grunting rather than flowing.
However! I kept my head up when the mistakes came. I returned to playing with gusto after I figured out where I was in the piece. And at the end I took a full bow with my fellow cellists. We did it. I did it. And the audience applauded.
That was Saturday morning. In the afternoon, the fatigue flooded me … just in time for my nephew Jagger returning to Gent from Italy.
Tomorrow morning I’m one of twenty-five cellists playing in a concert at St. Michael’s Church in Gent. Six pieces, four cello parts.
I’ve had the thought that I’m the worst player of us all. Yesterday at my cello lesson, Lieven told me that all of us are struggling. After all, we’re students. We’re learning.
But let’s suppose that I am the worst player right now. In my better moments, I respond with “So what?” What’s important is that I’m there, participating. I’m moving closer to playing freely, with passion, flowing into the music.
***
I also love to watch cycling on TV. Today Tadej Pogačar from Slovenia is way ahead in the Giro d’Italia. The 144th and last rider is Alan Riou from France. He’s five hours, three minutes and thirty-nine seconds behind Tadej.
Some minds see being last as “bad”. Some might even add another layer: “That’s a bad human being.”
What nonsense!
Alan will be at the start line today and I hope he makes it to the end of the race on Sunday in Rome.
The last rider in the race is honoured as the “Lanterne Rouge”, named for the red lantern that used to hang off the last car of a train.
If it’s you on Sunday, Alan – waydago! You grunted through the mountains and the rain. You got the job done. Congratulations.
And I have a rendezvous with St. Michael’s tomorrow
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