Lalaland ~

roolley — Sun, 11 Jul 2010 21:11:54 GMT

¡¡¡¡ VIVA ESPAÑA !!!!

... and sorry about that, Dutch people u___u

[FANFIC] Paris 1947

roolley — Sun, 29 Nov 2009 19:25:48 GMT

Title: Paris 1947: Niewolnicy
Author/Artist: roolley
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Prussia, Poland, Hungary, Lithuania, Russia, mentionned Czechoslovakia, Estonia, Latvia, Austria, America, Germany. Prussia/Hungary if you're that way inclined; mentionned Hungary/Austria.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Blood, explicit though not graphic violence, Russia being a psychopath, Poland's mouth, and, uh, Prussia and Hungary drinking vodka?
Summary: In 1947, sixteen european nations meet in Paris to discuss the Marshall Plan. Poland wants to go, but Russia refuses to let him.
Notes: Niewolnicy, according to an online English-Polish dictionnary I found, means 'slave.'

**
Prussia was woken up in the middle of the night by someone shaking his shoulder. His vague dream of beers and Berlin and Germany saying something evaporated as his eyes snapped open.

“Grgmnaaaargh!!” he uttered intelligently, jerking upright in his bed. “Whazzefuck!”

He started to open his mouth to yell in earnest, but a hand clamped down over his face.

“Shut it, you idiot!” someone hissed next to his ear, and he recognized Poland’s voice. “You’re, like, going to wake up the whole household!”

Prussia answered by shoving him away quite violently, not in the least bit reassured. It wasn’t like Poland and him were chums –they had never been, actually, what with the wars and stuff-, and Feliks could be one proud, stubborn asshole when it came to keeping grudges; in fact, he could be one proud, stubborn asshole full stop. The Warsaw Uprising came to mind.

He wouldn’t put it past Poland to attempt to kill him now they were being forced to cohabitate.

There was a muffled ‘oof’ and a squeak like a mouse being trodden on. Thinking quickly, he seized the matchbox on his nightstand and struck a match.

In the flickering light, he saw Poland glaring up at him from where he was lying on his back on the floor, and a nervous-looking Lithuania trying to help him up. The sight of the Baltic nation eased his suspicions. Poland wouldn’t have brought him, of all people, to witness his murder.

“What’s up, guys?” he questioned with a brave attempt at his usual smile. “What d’you want to see the awesome me for?”

“Watch the match,” answered Lithuania in a small, tight voice.

Prussia narrowed his eyes at him.

“That’s not what I asked –“

“No, I mean watch that match!”

Just then he felt the tip of his fingers getting uncomfortably warm; he looked down at the match, saw it was burnt almost completely out, gave a yelp, and shook his hand like a madman.

The light went out.

“Didn’t I say to, like, shut it?” snarled Feliks in the dark.

“Well, yeah, but I couldn’t really be bothered to listen, you know…”

There was a sound like someone bodily catching someone else, and then heavy breathing that reminded Prussia quite unpleasantly of a bull in one of Spain’s (rather awesome) festivals.

“L-look, Prussia, just lis-listen for a minute,” gasped Toris.

For a moment, he entertained several answers, from the basic (‘No’) to the flippant (‘Actually, I won’t. You see, Poland, I’m rather disappointed by your manners, just barging in and demanding to talk to me like that. You used to salute so well, and wag your tail, too.’) The latter was rather amusing, he decided, but maybe it wasn’t the most diplomatic idea, as Poland probably wouldn’t see the humour in it. Besides, by Lithuania wheezy breath, the Baltic nation wasn’t much of a guarantee for his safety.

In the end, survival spirit kicked in and he settled by answering with a shrug, though he knew they couldn’t see him. “Okay. But I hope it’s worth my precious sleeping time. ”

There followed a rude comment about what he could, like, do with his precious sleeping time, but before he could forcefully protest he had no intention of doing any such thing, Lithuania interrupted them again.

“I only agreed to come with you because you swore you’d behave yourself,” he shot at Poland. “Just tell him already and go before Russia comes along.”

“I don’t, like, give a shit about fucking Russia,” Poland snapped back. “I’m, like, moving back to my own house in a few weeks anyway. It’s not like he’s my fucking boss or anything. Same with that asshole there.”

“Oi!” Prussia interjected, but they didn’t pay him any heed.

“Are you really that thick? Do you think he’ll just let you do what you want even when you’re back in Warsaw? Besides, I could get in trouble for this too! Imagine Russia’s reaction if he learns I’d been helping you forming revolutionary plans –“

“They’re not revolutionary plans! God, Liet, I only, like, want to go to a goddamn conference! I need the fucking money! Haven’t you, like, seen the state Warszawa is in?”

There was a brief silence that, for once, Prussia didn’t feel like interrupting with sudden shouts of ‘banzai’ (Japan had taught him that, and he’d enjoyed saying it so much Germany had finished by banning it in their household.)

He continued listening intently as Lithuania said, in a quiet but firm voice, “A conference hosted by America in a western, capitalist city. To Russia, that’s high grade treason. You’ve only been living here for a short time, so it’s understandable, but you don’t blatantly go around disobeying Russia. It’s suicide.” For the first time, he sounded scared. “Poland. Just ask him, and let’s go.”

Poland sighed in an irritated manner.

“’Kay. So, asshole, the thing is, like –“

“Look, I don’t even know what you’re going to ask,” Prussia interrupted quickly, “But I’m not doing it if it’s not really worth it.”

“You don’t have the balls – man, you invaded me and now you don’t have the balls to, like, stand up to Russia? Totally pathetic.”

“You’re rather less scary than Russia. Must be the whole ‘man in a dress’ effect.”

Poland grabbed him by the shoulders, roughly, bringing his face closer to Prussia’s so that even in the dark, he could make out the outline of it. He smirked, reveling in the fact that as weak as he presently was, he could still successfully taunt the other Nation.

“And you’re meant to be, like, the motherfucking Teutonic Knights!” He shook Prussia’s shoulders for effect, hard.

“Hey!”

“It’s only, like, going to Paris this summer,” Poland rambled on. “America’ll be there, the bastard, and all the rest of these Western losers – zdrajcy – and your brother is, like, totally going too, and they say we’re going to get money. Like, for the economy and stuff. Warszawa could, like, be rebuilt, and Berlin too. And anyway, whatever Liet says, we’re totally not going to stay here forever. I’m, like, going back home soon. Fucking Russia won’t have any power over us.”

Prussia considered this for a moment. His brother would be going (why was his brother even invited?) – and they were going to be given money – but Russia wouldn’t let them go because they were part of the Eastern bloc now, or whatever that was – and Gott when had this turned so complicated; this had just been a war last he’d looked, and when you lost in a war, you simply got pillaged, right, beaten down some, some of your territory was taken and that was it.

But now… now everything was out of his control, and he was just fucking Russia’s puppet on a string and the worst thing, he was too weak to resist.

“I’ve really stirred some bad shit up this time, haven’t I?” he said with a bitter laugh.

“Damn right you totally have!” Poland snapped. “So now you’re, like, gonna help me get to Paris. Czech’s already agreed. So, what d’you, like, say?”

Prussia had to hand it to him, Poland really was one hell of a tough, proud, stubborn bastard. He planned to just accost Russia one day, inform him they were going to Paris, and walk through the gates. In Prussia’s opinion, that was fifty different kinds of awesome (and for him, that was praise indeed) but completely suicidal.

Nations didn’t die that easily, but still.

It was an overcast day in early August when Poland decided to put his plan into action. Prussia, with Hungary, had been pretending to wash Russia’s dirty linen; it was, for the moment, the only act of defiance they dared make not to fulfill all the menial tasks and base jobs Russia allotted them. The window in the laundry overlooked the courtyard of Russia’s home, and they were watching its going-ons (Latvia and Estonia washing Russia’s car, though they knew very well there was no fuel for it to work; Lithuania scrubbing the flagstones) while talking about what they would do once they were back in East Berlin and Budapest, respectively: Hungary was vehement that she would find a way to see Austria; Prussia , himself, thought having a beer, or two, or ten, sounded like a very good idea. He missed beer. All there was here was vodka, and some wine.

He told her, jokingly, that at least living in Moscow would have had one positive consequence: bringing awesome him closer to her again. Like when they were boys. She hit him over the head with the scrubbing board in response, scowled, and said she was looking forwards to having her saucepans back. He laughed, rubbed his head. The corner of her lip quirked up.

Then, as they were sitting in restful silence and looking out of the window, they saw Poland and Czechoslovakia march across the courtyard, heading straight for Russia, who was terrorizing Latvia some way off.

Prussia jumped to his feet and tried to open the window, but Hungary lunged forwards and grabbed his wrist.

“What are you doing!” he yelled at her. “Let go of me, I wanna hear what they’re saying...!”

But she gave him a meaningful look, shook her head and whispered, “Better not draw attention to ourselves.”

Prussia shook her off; and together they huddled at the window to watch the events unfold.

Poland was shouting something at Russia, though they couldn’t make out the words; looking highly surprised, the tall man looked from him to Czechoslovakia, and back again, slowly. Czech added something, and both of them made as if to walk off.

Russia stood still for a moment, then reached for his gun.

It all happened very quickly. He heard Hungary gasp; the gunshot shook the window panes; Lithuania shouted something; Latvia seemed to fall back, as if fainting. Only Estonia seemed unmoved; his face was blank and unreadable as he watched the scene.

Czechoslovakia fell to his knees, hands grasping the reddening material of his shirt. Poland turned and ran to him, yelling again, and this time Prussia could tell exactly what he was saying, though it wasn’t in German nor in any language he had ever bothered to learn.

Russia took aim again.

Another gunshot rattled the windows, and another, and another, until Czechoslovakia was lying on the floor, his blood pooling around Russia’s boots, and Poland was squatting on the ground with some difficulty, face contorted with rage and pain and helplessness, his blond hair turned vivid red where a bullet had grazed his scalp.

Russia fired one last time, and he too fell on his back.

The Soviet merely smiled amiably and bent down to whisper something in Poland’s ear; then he stood up straight again, and motioned to the three Baltic nations to clean up the mess.

Later that night, Hungary came into Prussia’s room, jaw set, livid, holding a bottle of vodka and two glasses. She didn’t say anything, just poured them drinks, and listened as Prussia reeled off long strings of insults and incoherent swear words.

Poland and Czechoslovakia weren’t dead, of course; Nations didn’t die that easily. But Nations could be enslaved, and Prussia realized, remembering the horrorstruck look on Lithuania’s face as he watched Poland be shot yet didn’t dare react, that this was exactly what they were.

“I’ve never been good with authority,” he remarked to Hungary as they drank.

“Let me guess – that’s what makes you so awesome, isn’t it?” she asked with a wry smile.

He downed his glass and smacked his lips.

“Right in one.”

**

NOTES
-According to my History textbook, Poland and Czechoslovakia expressed a desire to participate in the Marshall Plan, but Russia refused to let them go.
-zdrajcy means traitors, again according to a English-Polish dictionary. The fact that the Western Powers ceded Poland to Russia is often called a betrayal. Which it is, really. Poor Feliks.

[FANFIC] Paris 1947

roolley — Sun, 15 Nov 2009 12:15:42 GMT

Title: Paris 1947: Rencontre à la Tour Eiffel
Author/Artist: roolley
Character(s) or Pairing(s): France, Germany, mentions of England, America and Prussia. Implied FrUK if you squint.
Rating: PG
Warnings: A little bit of blood, gratuitous French, mentions of WWII and of the Occupation, human names, some angst (with a guilty!Germany), aaaaaaaand that's pretty much it.
Summary: In 1947, sixteen european nations meet in Paris to discuss the Marshall Plan: amongst them, Germany. America decides Germany has to start talking to the other again.
Notes: This is part of the 'Paris 1947' series I plan to write - basically, a number of drabbles featuring different countries meeting up in Paris to discuss the Marshall Plan (which is trufax, people) and trying to get over the War.

***
It had been America’s idea to begin with. The nation had outright declared that Germany had to talk to France (whom, among others, he had been avoiding at the meetings) and had directed him to England for ways in which he might go about this.

“France likes to go out to the Eiffel Tower in the evening,” England had informed him in a prim and rather disapproving tone. “You will most likely find him there alone.”

In a huffy undertone he had added something about drinking, and how wine was a wanker’s drink anyway. Germany had thanked him, and gone out of their luxury Parisian hotel to call a taxi. His accent had caused the driver to cast him a very hostile look, but twenty minutes and a great deal of honking of horn later, he had arrived at his destination.

He crossed the Champs de Mars at a brisk pace, arrived at the north pillar, found the elevators were really much too slow (and didn’t look quite secure) and decided to take the stairs.

There was no sign of the French nation on the first niveau, which wasn’t much of a surprise, as it didn’t offer quite as good a view of Paris as the second one.

Germany half-walked, half-ran the stairs from the first to the second level…

…And sure enough, there was France, leaning at the parapet, a glass of something that looked suspiciously like wine held nonchalantly in his right hand. If the half-empty bottle perched precariously next to him on the barrier was anything to go by, he wasn’t at his first drink; and even as Germany watched, he ran his finger on the rim of his glass and raised it to his lips.

Although they were by no means alone and France had therefore no way of knowing one of his fellow nations had just irrupted unto the platform, Germany suddenly felt secrecy was vital. It was a strange feeling – almost like he didn’t want France to see him, to recognize him.

His run slowed quickly to a walk as he attempted to catch his breath and slow the beatings of his heart. France was standing right in front of him now, his broad back swathed in darkness, his normally golden hair ashen.

“Francis?”

The Nation didn’t react, and Germany wondered for a moment if it was because he was so unused to being called by his human name or if he simply hadn’t heard him.

He decided to renew his attempt.

“Francis… Francis!”

“Is that you, Arthur?” France answered mildly, without even turning around to look at him.

Germany, for some reason feeling distinctly embarrassed, cleared his throat.

“Ludwig. This is Ludwig.”

France stilled suddenly, and Germany noticed how his shoulders grew taut beneath his white shirt.

A skipped beat.

Germany watched, still, as the Frenchman’s free hand ran through his bangs before he turned to face him. And suddenly, under his neighbouring Nation’s unreadable blue stare, he found to his embarrassment that he didn’t know quite how to hold himself: his weight shifted from a foot to the other, then back, and his arms felt oddly long and awkward – yet it seemed inappropriate to assume his usual strict military stance.

Two years, he reflected, were not quite long enough to rid oneself of such habits. He compromised by taking a step forward and leaning one hand gingerly on the rail, so he was now standing beside France.

“Of course, Ludwig,” amended France, his tone carefully neutral and smooth. “You must excuse me; I was not expecting you.”

And Germany, once again, found himself at a loss for what to say. This did not seem to bother France; instead, he went back to doing what he had been doing before Germany’s arrival – drinking red wine and observing Paris, which spread out below them as far as the eye could see, like a huge, three-dimensional map.

Germany coughed into his ungloved fist.

“The sight of Paris is quite… incomparable from here,” he remarked.

His French felt uncomfortably rusty.

“Indeed,” murmured France in English, as if he had noticed Germany’s discomfort. “One of my writers – quite a remarkable man – used to say much the same thing. He loathed this tower, you see, and logically it was the one place from which he was unburdened by his sight.” He gave a dry chuckle, and added, “I’ve grown rather fond of it, myself.”

Germany gave a non-committal jerk of the head and saw France’s lips quirked up at the corners as he downed the rest of his glass, not really amused, mostly mocking.

Paris, illuminated by night, with the sweeping Avenue des Champs-Elysée – the Arc de Triomphe at one end and the Obélisque de la Concorde at the other -; with its immeubles hausmanniens, light of stone and dark of roof; with the dark flow of the Seine which carried an odd, lonely boat… Paris really was a beautiful sight – quite different from the ruined and wounded Berlin he had left behind.

But wounds, he knew, were not always immediately apparent.

“I hated it, you know,” said the other nation almost conversionally.

France’s empty glass swung softly between his slim fingers, and Germany suddenly found he could not look away from it.

One swing.

Two swings.

“Your flags over my buildings. I loathed it. Paris, mon Paris – my capital, Ludwig! And it belonged to you.”

Three swings.

“ You took it from me. My capital! During four years - quatre ans – during four years it belonged to you. Was Berlin not good enough for you? You might as well have ripped out my heart!”

His voice rose to a shout, and suddenly, France was gripping his glass so hard his hands were shaking, knuckles white, shoulders heaving. He let go of the glass, inhaled shakily, and, for the first time since the war, he faced Germany properly, the electric lights casting deep shadows unto his face, underlining the tiredness of his features, his livid skin.

“Do you know how that felt, Ludwig? Est-ce que tu te rends compte?”

His voice was soft again, but he was speaking French, and the effect was electrising. Germany tried to meet his eyes, but found he couldn’t quite.

The glass was broken. France took a step back, half back into the shadow, half still into the light.

“Sûrement que oui. Bien sûr que oui… »

He ran a hand through his hair once more, looked down, and seemed to notice the broken glass at his feet. Germany heard him curse softly under his breath in French, and he knelt down to pick up the pieces.

Germany hesitated, unsure of what to do, still under the shock, before kneeling down himself to help his fellow nation.

“Je suis désolé,” he told Francis; “Pardon,” he murmured under his breath; “Excusez-moi.”

Each different apology felt like a bead being counted on a rosary, a blood-red rosary with a thousand, ten thousand, a hundred thousand, pearls, yet he wasn’t even sure who he was apologizing to or what he was saying sorry for; the glass, the war, Paris, his people, the French, Berlin, Prussia, and others he didn’t even dare name…

France’s hand slipped on a shard of glass, smearing blood on fingers, as his eyes flickered up to meet Germany’s.

Another pause; a deep breath on both parts, for different reasons, no doubt.

“C’est la troisième fois déjà, mais espérons que ça sera la bonne,” he told Germany with an odd twist of the lips, and seemingly on impulse, held out to him his cut hand. Germany took it with his own, knowing but not caring that it would come away red. Hands could always be washed; the blood on them could be scraped away.

“Jamais plus, Allemagne.”

“Jamais plus.”

***

NOTES ON STUFF

- L’Avenue des Champs Elysée is a great avenue in Paris. L’Obélisque de la Concorde and l’Arc de Triomphe are famous landmarks. The ‘immeubles haussmaniens’ are the type of buildings most commonly found in Paris.

- Est-ce que tu te rends compte? – do you understand/ do you realise

- Sûrement que oui. Bien sûr que oui – Surely you do. Of course you do (rough translation, it sounds weird in English ^^)

- C’est la troisième fois déjà, mais espérons que ça sera la bonne – it’s already the third time, but let’s hope this one will be for good (in 1945, it was the third time France had signed a peace treaty with Germany/Prussia: 1870, 1918 and 1945. That’s quite a lot of wars in quite a short time.)

- Jamais plus – never again.

</div>

[FANFIC] Fallen

roolley — Sun, 15 Nov 2009 11:55:19 GMT

Title: Fallen
Author/Artist: roolley
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Germany, Prussia, Rostropovich <3
Rating: PG
Warnings: gratuitous and butchered German, some very slight GermanyPrussia innuendo towards the end if you squint.
Summary: On the 9th of November, the Wall falls. On the 10th, Germany goes looking for his brother and bumps into someone he didn't really expect.
Notes: This is sadly late but it's for the 20 year commemoration of the Fall of the Berlin Wall =p

***
The Wall was falling.

Germany stood in the midst of the crowd and watched his people tear it down, annihilating the barrier that stood between them. “Wir sind ein Volk,” he murmured beneath his breath; his words condensated in the cool morning air.

It was the 10^th of November 1989, at dawn, and the Wall was falling, at last, and it was a glorious sight.

Prussia.

It was the first thought that had jumped to his mind as a cohort of men had woken him up and loudly informed him of the situation sometime during the night from the ninth to the tenth. At around midnight, he had been standing in front of Checkpoint Charlie, one of the first to welcome the Ost Berliner as they crossed the bridge.

He had looked for Prussia in the crowd, but had not seen him, and then, as Nations were wont to do, he had been too caught up in the adrenaline and excitement of his people to think straight, and he knew he had stood on top of the wall for a sometime while chanting “Es lebe Deutschland!” at the top of his lungs, arms slung across the shoulder of two men he didn’t even know – as if they were some human chain.

The few hours between the opening of the gate and the breaking of dawn had been a whirlwind of emotion; it was like he had just taken his first gulp of air in twenty-eight years.

He came to himself before the breaking of first light on the 10^th. Germany stood in the middle of Friedrichstrasse, his head still light with the events.

Knowing Prussia, Germany thought with something rather, but not quite, like a smile, he was probably still on the East side, helping enthusiastically in knocking down the wall, and yelling obscenities at the top of his lungs, no doubt.

The keen desire to find his brother came back to him and he moved to join the flow of Berliner crossing to the other side in search of families or friends.

He stopped short, however, as he was about to walk into someone. He had not noticed before, but right in front him, holding what looked like a cello-case, a short old man was staring at the wall. Just like Germany a few moments before, he was immobile, a rock in the rolling sea of people that parted neatly on each side of him.

Germany cleared his throat hesitantly.

The old man turned, and his eyes met Germany’s through thick-framed glasses.

“I would play,” he said, gesturing at his case, “If I had but a chair.”

He spoke English, but with a slight and almost undetectable accent – Russian. Almost by reflex, Germany felt himself tense into a military stance, the thought of Ivan Braginski crossing his mind, before he realized just who the man standing in front of him was and the ridiculousness of this reaction occurred to him.

“Sie sind Rostropovich,” he said faintly.

“Ja, das ist mich,” the other agreed gravely, before adding, “Enschuldigen Sie mich, bitter, für meinen Deutsch.”

There was a pause as Germany observed the world-renowned musician in front of him, running a hand through his hair to slick it back in its usual strict style. He had only taken the time to slip on whatever clothes had been in reach before rushing out of his house, something quite contrary to his habit. Until then it had not mattered.

“You needed a chair?” he questioned awkwardly after a while.

The cellist reverted to English easily.

“Indeed, if that isn’t too much to ask for.”

“Not at all,” he answered, almost absentmindedly.

A chair. Where in the name of the Lord would he find a chair at this hour of the morning?

On impulse, he indicated to the musician to stay where he was, and made off through the crowd as quickly as he could; the street emptied quickly the furthest he got away from the Wall, and soon he was able to run.

He made directly for his house, and got there before the sun was fully up. It was a grey day and Germany found himself nonsensically hoping it wouldn’t rain, thinking of happy endings, wet musicians, an angry Austria and a laughing Prussia.

The house had never seemed quite as empty as it did now, as he crossed the doorstep. His heart was still racing but he forced himself to slow to a walk; it would not do to break something now that his brother was going to move back in.

It almost didn’t feel real.

It was dark in the kitchen, shutters still closed. He grabbed one of the chairs, a no-nonsense white plastic thing Gilbert, with his love of flashy objects, would have hated anyway, and started to make his way back to the Wall, not even bothering to close the door behind him.

By the time he got back to the wall, Rostropovich had extracted his instrument from its case – a no doubt priceless cello in the dank November air; Austria’s face was comical to imagine.

Germany started and faltered suddenly. It had seemed obvious to him before that the musician wanted to play right next to the wall, for him, for them, but suddenly it felt much more incredible.

He handed him the chair.

“Danke schön, Herr…?”

“Beilschmidt.”

“Danke schön, Herr Beilschmidt,” the cellist repeated, smiling kindly at him, and for some reason Germany felt his throat constrict.

Rostropovich sat down on the chair, installed his cello between his legs, and in one fluid movement he raised his bow and then it was against the strings and then he was playing…

Maybe it was because it was cello as he had never heard it played, or maybe it was because the Wall was finally, finally falling and a world-renown cellist was playing his music, music from one of his own composers, Bach – not Austria’s, not France’s, his – but Germany could not stop the shiver that ran up his back. It was magnificent; it was perfect.

The cello’s body vibrated and rumbled and sang under the expert hands of the cellist – it was the Prelude from Bach’s Cello Suite no.1 – it was music as he had never heard it.

Someone clapped his back.

“Hallo, West,” said a well-known, never forgotten, voice behind him. “Na, hast du mich vermisst?”

Germany whirled around, and there was Prussia, all red eyes and silvery hair, grinning his maniac’s grin, the one he always wore in the middle of battle, mouth and teeth and burning eyes. Without even stopping to think, he grabbed his brother around the shoulders and brought him nearer in a backbreaking hug.

Behind them, the cello continued playing.

***

NOTES ON THE (sadly inadequate) GERMAN

Wir sind ein Volk – we are one people. You’ve probably already heard it. It’s a famous German phrase, as it was used rather extensively during the manifestations that preceded the fall of the Wall.

Es lebe Deutschland – long live Germany. That’s the translation my dictionary gave me, anyway ^^

Sie sind Rostropovich – you’re Rostropovich (formal form)

Ja, das ist mich. Enschuldigen Sie mich, bitte, für meinen Deutsch – yes, that’s me. Excuse me, please, for my German.

Hast du mich vermisst, oder? – have you missed me ?

Na, hast du mich vermisst - missed me? (colloquial - thanks, emerald_tune !)

NOTES ON THE HISTORY

The wall was built practically overnight, in November 1961 – hence the ‘twenty-eight years’. Checkpoint Charlie was a crossing point between East and West Berlin, and it was the first that was opened during the fall of the Wall, on November the 9^th at 11:30pm. Most of the fall of the Wall actually took place over the next few days.

Rostropovich (1927-2007) is a very famous Russian cellist. He did indeed play Bach’s cello suites in front of the Wall as it fell, and the rumour goes he didn’t have a chair so someone had to get him one =p

Bach’s cello suites are extremely well-known pieces for cello solo (the prelude for the first suite is the better known one; you’ve probably already heard it even if you didn’t know what it was). And they’re magnificent. And Rostropovich, of course, plays them beautifully.

For starters -

roolley — Sat, 14 Nov 2009 19:07:36 GMT

Yo!

Just a few things, for those of you who can't be bothered to read my profile:
- This is a writing journal.
- As such, there's no sense in looking for shiny crumbs of information on my life: there are none. I have another journal for that, somewhere out in LJ-land, but it's in French, and who care anyway.
- Yes, I am French. However, I can (and do) speak and write English, and I don't eat frogs (nor snails, I don't like 'em), aaaaaaaaaand I <333 FRUK, just for the reference. Because seriously. They're just too adorable together.
- In light of this, however, don't hesitate to point out any mistakes or shit in my writings.
- 'roolley' is a stupid name, but whatevs.

That's pretty much it, really. I hope you have a good time reading what I write =D Have fun here, and comment if you can, feedback is always much appreciated!