Bassim
VIP Member
- Joined
- Mar 1, 2008
- Member Type
- Student or Learner
- Native Language
- Bosnian
- Home Country
- Bosnia Herzegovina
- Current Location
- Sweden
Would you please take a look at the eighth part of my short story and correct my mistakes.
In the morning, I received 70 marks from the camp administration to buy toiletries and razors. Miroslav offered to show me the city and help me to buy these things. We boarded a tram without buying tickets, and I was afraid the ticket inspectors would turn up and give us fines, but he said, “Don’t be childish. I’ve been here for more than five months and I never got caught.”
“But what if they stop you and demand a ticket?”
“I pretend I understand nothing, and jump out at the next stop. Don’t worry. Nobody is going to run after you. Sit down and relax, man.”
I did as he told me, sat in a comfortable seat, and looked out the perfect clean window. The rush hour was behind us, and the tram was half-full. People were mostly silent, and those who conversed, did it quietly. The floor was polished, and without a trace of dirt or dust. I breathed in the distinct scents of women’s perfumes, and thought how different this tram was from public transport in my homeland, where busses and trams were often dirty and smelled of sweat, garlic and slivovitz. We got off after a few minutes and went into a supermarket where you could chose between dozens of different toothpastes, shampoos and shower gels. My eyes wandered from one article to another, and I became dizzy from such an excess of products. The streets were lined with large shop windows offering all kinds of exclusive wares and services, people in socialist countries could only dream of. Behind the thick panes of glass stood the shiny Japanese motorcycles, large TVs, dark stereos with powerful loudspeakers, classical and electronic music instruments and photo and film cameras. The decadent West was blooming while the progressive East stagnated in its ideological quagmire and without a way out in sight.
We came to the main square, and in the middle of it was a brown pyramid, a few meters high, which drew all attention to itself. The golden inscription on one of its sides read that margrave Karl Wilhelm laid the first foundation stone of his new residence and of this city on the 17th of June 1715. On the opposite side, I could read the date of his death. The pyramid was his tomb. “Let’s go and visit his palace,” Miroslav said. After a short walk, in front of us stood a pale-yellow, a baroque-style palace, serene and magnificent and its beauty and form. I had never before seen a palace, except on TV, and now I was stunned. The large, manicured, front lawn was lined on both sides by the statues in white stone representing characters from the Greek and Roman mythology. But my knowledge of mythology was scarce, and I could not tell which was which. Under one of them, a black woman was singing a ballad in English. Her deep, powerful voice rose and floated above the ground as if carried on a current of air. Her male companion was standing a few meters away, and with a video camera filmed her performance. A group of tourists stopped and stood still, captivated by her voice. When she finished, a man came up and asked her is he could get her autograph. The woman was embarrassed. “But I’m not a professional singer,” she said. “Madam, you sing much better than hundreds of singers I’ve heard in my life,” he said.
Miroslav and I walked on, viewing all the sides of the palace and its surroundings. He asked me if I was hungry, and when I answered I was hungry like a wolf, he said he was going to treat me with a hamburger. I had seen McDonald’s only in films and TV series, made in the West. I saw people munching at the buns with meat and vegetables inside them and often talking at the same time, but I knew nothing about it. I saw it not as food, but as a prop, almost ubiquitous in the American films.
I was mildly disappointed when we went inside. I sat in a plastic chair at the plastic table while Miroslav ordered our food at the cash desk. Behind it suspended from the ceiling, hung enlarged pictures of burgers and their names. You had to look up at them as if they were portraits of saints. The personnel were dressed in blue uniforms and wore funny little hats. Miroslav returned with a plastic tray and our burgers and chips in the white little bags with a red McDonald’s sign. We drank Coca Cola from the red paper cups. I bite into the bun, chewed it, and was not impressed with the taste. It felt artificial, a laboratory product rather than natural food. Miroslav asked me if I liked it, and I told him I was not impressed. We in Yugoslavia had much better food. Our grilled dishes were renowned. This burger was like a Hollywood movie. As soon as it is finished, you feel nothing. “You’ll get used to it, and love it, just as I do,” he said. But I was not convinced.
TO BE CONTINUED
In the morning, I received 70 marks from the camp administration to buy toiletries and razors. Miroslav offered to show me the city and help me to buy these things. We boarded a tram without buying tickets, and I was afraid the ticket inspectors would turn up and give us fines, but he said, “Don’t be childish. I’ve been here for more than five months and I never got caught.”
“But what if they stop you and demand a ticket?”
“I pretend I understand nothing, and jump out at the next stop. Don’t worry. Nobody is going to run after you. Sit down and relax, man.”
I did as he told me, sat in a comfortable seat, and looked out the perfect clean window. The rush hour was behind us, and the tram was half-full. People were mostly silent, and those who conversed, did it quietly. The floor was polished, and without a trace of dirt or dust. I breathed in the distinct scents of women’s perfumes, and thought how different this tram was from public transport in my homeland, where busses and trams were often dirty and smelled of sweat, garlic and slivovitz. We got off after a few minutes and went into a supermarket where you could chose between dozens of different toothpastes, shampoos and shower gels. My eyes wandered from one article to another, and I became dizzy from such an excess of products. The streets were lined with large shop windows offering all kinds of exclusive wares and services, people in socialist countries could only dream of. Behind the thick panes of glass stood the shiny Japanese motorcycles, large TVs, dark stereos with powerful loudspeakers, classical and electronic music instruments and photo and film cameras. The decadent West was blooming while the progressive East stagnated in its ideological quagmire and without a way out in sight.
We came to the main square, and in the middle of it was a brown pyramid, a few meters high, which drew all attention to itself. The golden inscription on one of its sides read that margrave Karl Wilhelm laid the first foundation stone of his new residence and of this city on the 17th of June 1715. On the opposite side, I could read the date of his death. The pyramid was his tomb. “Let’s go and visit his palace,” Miroslav said. After a short walk, in front of us stood a pale-yellow, a baroque-style palace, serene and magnificent and its beauty and form. I had never before seen a palace, except on TV, and now I was stunned. The large, manicured, front lawn was lined on both sides by the statues in white stone representing characters from the Greek and Roman mythology. But my knowledge of mythology was scarce, and I could not tell which was which. Under one of them, a black woman was singing a ballad in English. Her deep, powerful voice rose and floated above the ground as if carried on a current of air. Her male companion was standing a few meters away, and with a video camera filmed her performance. A group of tourists stopped and stood still, captivated by her voice. When she finished, a man came up and asked her is he could get her autograph. The woman was embarrassed. “But I’m not a professional singer,” she said. “Madam, you sing much better than hundreds of singers I’ve heard in my life,” he said.
Miroslav and I walked on, viewing all the sides of the palace and its surroundings. He asked me if I was hungry, and when I answered I was hungry like a wolf, he said he was going to treat me with a hamburger. I had seen McDonald’s only in films and TV series, made in the West. I saw people munching at the buns with meat and vegetables inside them and often talking at the same time, but I knew nothing about it. I saw it not as food, but as a prop, almost ubiquitous in the American films.
I was mildly disappointed when we went inside. I sat in a plastic chair at the plastic table while Miroslav ordered our food at the cash desk. Behind it suspended from the ceiling, hung enlarged pictures of burgers and their names. You had to look up at them as if they were portraits of saints. The personnel were dressed in blue uniforms and wore funny little hats. Miroslav returned with a plastic tray and our burgers and chips in the white little bags with a red McDonald’s sign. We drank Coca Cola from the red paper cups. I bite into the bun, chewed it, and was not impressed with the taste. It felt artificial, a laboratory product rather than natural food. Miroslav asked me if I liked it, and I told him I was not impressed. We in Yugoslavia had much better food. Our grilled dishes were renowned. This burger was like a Hollywood movie. As soon as it is finished, you feel nothing. “You’ll get used to it, and love it, just as I do,” he said. But I was not convinced.
TO BE CONTINUED
