Rus Articles Journal

Let`s take a walk in Germany?

my first friend, my friend invaluable!

I I destiny blessed,

When my yard lonely, with

Sad snow brought,

announced your hand bell.

A.S. Pushkin

I Can imagine joyful delight of Pushchin when he received a paper leaflet with verses of the lyceum companion, in snow-covered Chita, before sending to the far Siberian settlement. there is no

Probably, feeling more resistant and reliable than friendship. Stored for years, warmed by memoirs, consecrated with the general history of generation in which there is a lot of friendly participation. That there love with its biochemistry! Well, unless maternal? No, without denying love at all, I put on friendship!

Though... five years I live far from the friends, and I notice with grief, as something happens to druzhba too. At distance friendly threads - communications istonshatsya, and are not torn, no, but, are as if dissolved in space and in time. There are a warmth of memoirs, old photos, sometimes several minutes of telephone conversation about anything. You will give a rare epistolary delicacy from time to time, and again you plunge into routine of affairs, leaving for later talk, letters, memoirs. Vanity puts also all vanity! . And how just there is a wish to share what you see, what occupies your thoughts now that pleases and afflicts and simply - easy chatter behind a cup of morning coffee, at a table at a window, - and behind a window snow-covered lindens - winter - a zimushka what can be better, my friend?

And it is snowing the second day, it is also necessary, it is necessary to go there, to this snow, on streets which from gray and everyday, turned in snow-white and elegant. My first friend, my friend invaluable, I take you with myself! I finish drinking the burning coffee, I wind with a two-meter scarf a neck (so carry in Europe, and I got used, the scarf replaces a cap, mittens, sometimes even a jacket), we will roll up jeans, here so - not really - that is cleaned here by sidewalks, there are no skills, big snow - a big rarity!

Run to an exit, by the smiling cleaner washing marble ladders something like that with a violaceous smell. She rebukes me for the fact that I seldom water the palm tree decorating our floor. Today without fail, I will water, I will clean fallen leaves. Ah, you are already? Danke! . I open a door on the street, the hand bell softly rings - the ruddy mail carrier habitually welcomes me a bicycle call - well what they ridiculous, Germans! Here during a time to ski from the house to the house, and they plow snowdrifts bicycle tires, scattering snow splashes, diligent pressing pedals - a cycle snowmobile!

I live in the area which was always inhabited by workers and students, proximity of the station and University, cheap housing. From pipes on roofs of monotonous gray buildings a smoke, still ovens and fireplaces which replaced them remained here. Many houses are not populated, owners left on the West, and the smoked walls of the thrown buildings, watch at us empty eye-sockets cold windows. We go to the station, we pass through a tunnel which local is ridiculously called by Bazillenrohr - a batsillny pipe, and we come directly in the center, to a theater square. During war of the building of theater and medieval Lutheran church were dilapidated, but are lovingly restored then on donations of citizens. Peaked roofs of a cathedral pierce snow clouds with Gothic peaks, hours beat, vyzvanivat a booming melody of a bell.

Here, round the corner, my favourite coffee house, and nearby little shop of the French traditional products. There, on very narrow counters, gleam dim glass of a bottle of wine, oil posvechivat heads of cheeses, the owner in a huge white apron and starched oversleeves, is always glad to the visitor, and will surely pour for test wine from new receipts and will treat with goose paste sandwich. He always speaks to me: Hello - also assures what recognizes the Russian women at once, by eyes. I trust and willingly I tell it about our winters, about forty-degree frosts and hoarfrost on eyelashes.

And nearby the Italian coffee house, a smell of coffee mixes up with frosty air, in windows - pyramids from chocolate and fruit biscuits. Let`s surely come as here - nibud, we will drink on a cup of Musetti and we will take the amazing Italian " cake; Binye with the fried pistachios, I promise! And today I want to show as much as possible: cities, streets, people.

We go to the Town hall! Christmas markets are already closed, but did not clean a festive roundabout yet, and nearby, a small wooden lodge - a booth, hot wine - mulled wine, and the traditional sausages, of course, fried on coals is on sale. Smells of a smoke and fresh cinnamon fill the area with feeling of a holiday and idleness. A town hall - white, with it is black - red roofs, it is reflected in huge glass show-windows of a modern supermarket, the old street organ, and the organ-grinder sounds, taking off a hat, bows to the passersby who did not regret a coin. At the very end of the area the melody of an ocarina and flute sounds. These are Indians from where they here and why, I do not know, but saw these birds musicians both in Berlin, and in Dresden. Small, swarty, in attires from huge feathers, they interweave sounds of the melodies into singing of an old German street organ.

Where now? Can in park, to the lake where in nonfreezing water fat ducks float, and little German old women crumble them the hardened bread? No, better just we drive through the city, we will take a look in windows, we will listen and we will look at people. After mulled wine which I got used to call in German Glyuvayn it became warm and cheerful.

And at all vehicles of the city now rendezvous, gathered on a central square buses and trams of all lines, and they will go, everyone along the route, on the dot, according to the schedule. And it is not a legend! On the German buses it is possible to check hours. The bus was late? For ten minutes? It is impossible, check your hours!

We choose a route. I offer the town of Klaffenbakh where there is a remarkable lock on water of Vassershlos. The road is long therefore we will buy the hour ticket for one euro fifty cents. Expensively? And punctuality, and pure salons and easy chairs, and conditioners in the summer? I think, no, just right. Today working day. The inside of the bus is filled hardly half and, generally by women.

Pay attention, typical Germans, average, as they say. I am sure, dissect across Germany, on smart and not really a car, distinguished, with a taste chasm in everything, the Germans smelling of spirits and skillfully tinted! But we such will not see, I can argue! Also I will surely win dispute. Public transport not for rich and successful beauties.

So, here they, our average: a short hairstyle, very often points on a thin hooked nose, trousers - pipes and a jacket. Suits all, universally, asexual, democratically. And any cosmetics! To me sometimes it seems that modest not lobes once very well hardened for themselves that to emphasize the feminity, to be engaged in an embellishment of favourite it is a shame, disgustingly, humiliating!

Perhaps it is emancipation costs? I remember how our teacher on a language course convinced us that only actors and prostitutes use cosmetics. Further there was a powerful pause and a panoramic view of audience. To tell the truth, not all our students treated a make-up with moderation and a step, at many lips blazed as banners of the former Union where these excesses were so desired and inaccessible.

But we looked at it on the average German slightly for forty . And here young ladies come. Having come up from the nest built by a scarf they will flash iron or silver of piercing (eyebrows, a nose, lips, language - everything, or at choice), the tousled hair will strike with shades from violet to red, short jackets with fur collars, heavy boots with an edge and... naked paunch! Well, not always paunch, sometimes accurate swarty tummy, but naked! Brr! It became cold even. It seems to me that waists of some local beauties acquire a fat not from diligent eating fast - feet, and it is exclusive in the protective purposes, well as tummies and sides at the gophers entering winter.

And here young mummy with a carriage enters the bus, the driver it is precautionary lowers the platform in the middle of salon that it was convenient to both mother and the vehicle of the kid. Trenknul call. Doors are closed. Let`s roll!

Before us two old women with the baskets full of fresh fruit took seat. Just from a market. They brisk and cheerful. Here who is pleasant to me here certainly, so it is local old women. They paint redenky volosik in pastel tone, carry coquettish hats and fur scarves, always loudly and cheerfully chatter and do not cease to speak each other my dear . Charming old women! They are frequenters of exhibitions, theaters, sit-round gathering in coffee houses and pothouses. The pension allows them to live happily, and here it is not accepted to burden with grandsons of grandmothers. Very much pleases me and the fact that always and everywhere what greyish mouse the woman would not look, it will surely decorate itself with a smile and goodwill. Try to learn the road from the passerby in Germany. You will be tired to thank and refuse offers right now to spend you along a route that " then; absolutely everything became clear ! Surprisingly friendly and good-natured people.

Behind windows snow-covered streets flash, on stops in a red uniform there are sellers of morning papers, road cars hurry to clean the carriageway from snow that in rush hours not to occupy the road. Soon our stop. We press the button, otherwise the bus will pass by. Klaffenbakh. We leave.

Short walk on an ancient castle, the golf courses covered with snow are empty, at an entrance to the museum of ancient cars and motorcycles the musician from Prague plays an accordion, plays that you thought? Evenings Situated near Moscow . Everything mixed up. The Russian winter, the German lock, sounds of a native melody which is strummed by the Czech accordion player. Europe.

It is a pity that we arrived here in the winter. In the summer the bikers tightened in skin gather for the areas of the lock, before the museum, moustached, big-bellied and not really. They stroke the horses also grate metal to gloss. And at playgrounds fans of history suit role-playing games in suits of times of fight of the people. Beer flows like water. We would take my favourite dark Koestrizer but mulled wine is more pertinent today, we will repeat? Especially as mulled wine can be bought everywhere in the winter, and everywhere it is possible to find small cozy cafe where it is prepared according to the special recipe.

The white lock surrounded with dark water and the trees brought by snow is simply magnificent, it is so similar to a huge sailing vessel with Saxon flags onboard. The gate squeaks on wind. Proshchalno sounds an accordion.

We come back home after dark, it would be desirable to be in time on an evening rendezvous, it is necessary to be prepared for a tomorrow`s trip, and after ten buses will go only two once an hour, Germans get up early, but also to sleep go to bed early. So, that at us tomorrow? Saturday! And we will buy tickets of the day off at the station and we will go to Berlin! Who with us?