The Troll Meisje

Z. called me today to say she was back from the hospital. She fell a week ago, twisted her ankle and had plaster put on it. She spent all her school holidays at home, nursing her foot. Now the plaster is gone, but there's a wound, and she's afraid she can't yet walk.

I listen carefully to her tiny voice on my mobile.
Her Dutch is 300 times better than mine and she's only five years old.

After a few seconds, she passes the phone to her mother. She says Z. really wanted to call the Troll Meisje and let her know about what happened.
Something very beautiful and very sad breaks inside me. I turn off the phone and stare at the person I was having a meeting with. My eyes are so full of something else that I can hardly see the pictures on the table, let alone discuss them.

Two weeks ago I was a Troll Meisje (Troll Girl) on Z.'s birthday party. My job was to pretend I was sleeping under a tree, and wait for the group of kids to come and wake me up, putting a magic potion on my outstretched hand. I was wearing a bright orange wig and fake troll ears. It was Sunday morning and the park was full of people. It was difficult to find a clean place to lay down. The park is beautiful in general, but when you look carefully it's full of (dog?) shit and condoms. I felt grumpy and slightly claustrophobic. It was cold. The right ear kept on falling off. The wig was itchy.

When we got home, one of the guests, an actress, said to me when she learned I had been the Troll Meisje: "Ah, it was the role of your life!" I know it was not intended, but I felt quite hurt. On my acting pretensions, mainly.

But today, the Troll Meisje is happy.
Z. called to inform of her misfortune.
To me and nobody else.
(Maybe she believes in my magical powers? It could not be such a bad acting after all!)
True affection from a five year old is a very important addition to my life in Amsterdam. In some strange way, it makes me feel alive. It's like I'm less transparent now.

Patchouli

O meu amigo belga fala sem cessar à mesa do pequeno-almoço. Não quer leite, não quer café, quer sumo de laranja. A muito custo, convenço-o a comer dois pãezinhos (daqueles insufláveis no forno) com mel. Foi ao concerto dos Deus e adorou. Falamos de teatro e das promessas que vemos um no outro. Ele diz que eu evoluí muito desde o primeiro bloco no DasArts, eu digo que ele é genial. Ele acha que eu estou no bom caminho, eu acho que ele há-de ir longe. Ao fim de um bocado, a conversa morre. Acho que é a isto que se chama "masturbação intelectual"... Cansa.
Fala-me da dificuldade em se apaixonar. As raparigas de trinta anos já não acreditam no amor, e quando ele ouve isto, gela-se-lhe o sangue. As raparigas de vinte anos vivem nas nuvens, e querem relações tipo filme francês. Ele tem trinta e três anos e quer tudo isso. Rapaz, não sei se te diga... Isso são coisas que eu não percebo. Acho que sou um ser mais "básico". Não sei como explicar... Nunca tive difuculdade em me apaixonar, e aos trinta anos acredito tanto no amor que me casei.

Tive vontade de lhe contar do meu exercício preferido quando era miúda. Chamava-se "apaixona-te". Era muito fácil. Agarrava na capa do single "Patchouli" dos Grupo de Baile e olhava atentamente para um dos elementos da banda. Depois pensava "apaixona-te!" e certo como o destino, apaixonava-me. Passado um bocado, olhava para outro elemento e fazia o mesmo. Era facílimo.
Tive vontade de lhe contar isto, mas depois achei que ele se ia ofender. O seu ideal de paixão é de certeza superior a estes exercícios. Além disso, não sei dizer "Patchouli" em inglês...

Sopa da Pedra

Standing on the Afsluitdijk last sunday I had suddenly a flush of understanding and respect for the Dutch Nation. I hear often appologies about how unstylish and rough Dutch people can be, but now I understand why. Dutch lived for centuries in the mudd, and they alone built their way out of it. A statue of three men in clogs carrying stones remembered me of that, as I walked into the souvenirs shop. I was immagining things like a set of two bottles of water, in different shades of brown: one from the Waddenzee, another from the Ijsselmeer, carefully arranged in a box... eheh. Instead, there were tulip bulbs and fake Delft croquery, like usual. The originality of the place streched into the menu of the cafe. Like everywere in Holland, there we could get chocomel, croquetten and gevulde cookies. I casted a deep sigh. It's still hard for me to understand how unimportant is food culture here.

We visited earlier an old graveyard, from the beggining of the 20th century. There were burried a lot of Jewish people, arranged by family names. The graveyard was very small and carefully looked after. R. showed me a couple of gravestones holding his familly name. "These were my ancestors".
There was a couple, Abraham W. and Martha W., placed side by side. It was strangely romantic. We like cemeteries. We can spend hours reading the slates and immagining the stories behind those names.

The day was over with a walk on the beach in Ijmuiden. It has been incredibly mild this season for Dutch standards, and it was gorgeous by the sea. R. walked with his sister 200 metres ahead of me. It was nice to watch them, the 34 year old man and the 13 year old girl, walking over the cracking shells and the hard brown sand. Behind them, his father and me discussed the meaning of life and the weight of history. He laughed and said it was fascinating how things become novelties again, as people forget about them. I had asked him what was the German Atlantic Wall. "When you're older you'll understand", he said.

Monday I had to find myself again. I searched the freezer and made a huge Sopa da Pedra that lasts untill today, as a Portuguese proud response to so much foreignessnesss...

O primeiro dia

Hoje escrevo em português porque acho que é assim que se começa: do princípio. E quero deixar uma coisa bem clara: esta é mais uma forma retorcida que encontrei de me auto-analisar. Nada mais. É apenas a vaidade que me move. E talvez uma íntima solidão: o telefone não toca, niguém espera a minha visita. Pouco a pouco começo a desaparecer. Como a menina feita de baklawa do outro dia... Se me ler, acho que talvez possa existir um pouco além do que vejo: os limites do corpo, as paredes da casa, as pessoas estupendamente saudáveis que passam de bicicleta na pirisca, e o cenário pateticamente romântico de folhas secas a boiar nos canais.

Acho que é hoje o primeiro dia em que se tem que ligar os aquecimentos. Os centrais, que aqui o frio não brinca. É o meu terceiro Inverno na Cidade Castanha. Ainda não me habituei a este luxo asiático que é ter a casa quente... Ou talvez seja mais uma das minhas resistências absurdas ao facto que esta é a minha terra agora. Por que é que será que a alma é tão teimosa?
São dez e meia. Hora de ir para a cama. Acho que nunca dormi tanto na minha vida como desde que para aqui vim. Todas as noites em claro, as directas para a faculdade, as horas a colar lantejoulas com UHU, a fazer fatias douradas, as conversas sem fim das amizades e irmandades, tudo isso está já amplamente coberto pelas horas que dormi na Holanda...! Irra, como durmo!
Se estivesse em Lausanne, e se a minha irmã estivesse comigo, ela diria: "É do ar do lago, faz sono."