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Japan, Planet Earth

Legends of Nikko

posted by Aleksandra Wisniewska
Apr 9, 2017 10606 0 0
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In a spacious restaurant, a family is looking for a shelter from the rain. Thousands of knick-knacks cover each corner of the large room.

On the shelves, there are collected souvenirs, sun-yellowed photos, old dolls and plush mascots falling apart at the seams. From the walls – white sheets of a paper cast in wooden frames – hang calendars from this and past years. Watercolours of dragons and blooming sakura sway in a breeze from the ceiling fan. Next to them, on the handmade paper, calligraphed Japanese characters announce maxims and proverbs.

Parents sit their daughters – both dressed in floral-patterned, festive yukatas – at one of the tables in the centre of the room. A grey-haired, stooped with age woman comes to greet them.

“The weather is asking for a hot soba” caring, but a firm voice announces the order without asking guests for it.

Briefly, in front of the family stand four steaming bowls of soup. There are many mouth-watering goodies over the dark buckwheat noodles drowning in fish stocks: mushrooms, shredded chives and onions, marinated seaweed, aburaage – thin, fried slices of soy tofu, and finally naruto – fish cake with a pink swirl sign of the famous Naruto Strait.


 
“And the princess? Why so sad?” the old lady asks, seeing a near crying face of the younger girl.

“She is not very happy with the trip. She had to get up early in the morning. And on top of that, the weather is horrible. We barely got off the train from Tokyo when the rain started.”

“Hmm, yes, yes. Not an easy life for the princess” grandma nods with understanding. “But it will be worth it. You see, there is a proverb: ‘Do not say kekko [enough] until you see Nikko.’ Do you know why? Because this is a fairy-tale and magical place.”

The old lady sits the child on her lap and starts the story.

“Before the last rain drops touch the earth, the sun will come out. A rainbow will stretch over the sky as far as the Shinkyo Bridge. Once, only the shogun had the privilege of crossing it. One end of the red bridge is lost in the lush greenery of the forest surrounding the city. The other reaches the grounds of the Toshogu Temple.”

“To the Toshogu itself leads a wide asphalt road. It swirls through an old cedar forest that smells of wet bark and cones. At the top of the road stands a pagoda. Under the eaves of each floor, there are intricately carved, beautifully coloured ornaments. Every floor is a symbol of one of the elements: water, fire, earth and air. Fifth is an ether that unites all the others in the matter that makes up the universe.”

The older sister joins the girl sitting on the grandmother’s lap. The old lady smiles at her wide-open, curious eyes and continues the story.

“Behind the pagoda, you will see stone steps and a large gate. Its black roof protects statues of Shinto deities from the rain. They are the guardians of the entrance and the temple. Behind the gate, there is a cobbled square. Its outlines are dotted with dozens of stone lanterns. Above them, tower utility buildings. Even they are elaborately decorated with sculptures and gold paint.”

“In the temple stable, a sacred white horse will greet you with a joyful neigh. His health is guarded by three wise monkeys carved under the roof of the building. You know why they are called the wise?” asks the old woman.

Both girls and their parents shake their heads.

“Because they do not let themselves into wickedness and misery. Each of them covers eyes, ears and mouth to see no evil, hear no evil and speak no evil. These principles accompany them in all stages of life: the carefree childhood, hardships of growing up and the search for the meaning of life, until an inevitable death. Eight carved attic panels will tell you their story.”

“Then you will go through the Yomeimon gate. The magnificent, expansive building will delight you with the golden finish of the roof that lifts towards the sky. With its massive arms, it protects wooden walls decorated with over 400 carved ornaments. Those who saw for the first time the glory of the gate couldn’t have enough of looking at it. Hence, its second name is ‘higurashi-no-mon’ – ‘look till the sunset and not have enough’.”

“Before I tell you about the dragon, I’ll make some hot ocha,” says grandma and disappears in the kitchen. After a while, she reappears with a jug of steaming green tea. She pours the liquid into the tiny ceramic cups and hands them to the guests. Warming her hands over the cup, she takes up the story.


 
“Where was I … oh yes, the Crying Dragon. He lives in one of the temple buildings just behind the Yomeimon. His likeness is majestically painted on the hall ceiling. You need to stand directly under the dragon’s head and hit the two wooden blocks. Then the whole room will ring with a vibrating sound that resembles sobbing. But remember, only Shinto priests can make the dragon cry.”

“Now you can go to the main shrine where prayers are held. But before you go in, you need to wash up. At the entrance, you will see a stone water sink. There are pots with long handles on it. Rinse your hands and mouth with water. Remember, do not touch the container with your lips. Pour the water onto your palm and sip the liquid from it. Then spit it all out to a sluice at to bottom of the stone sink. Will you remember all this?”

Both heads vigorously nod in a sign of confirmation.

“When you stand under the Sakashitamon gate, look up. At the top of the structure, between colourfully painted ornaments, a sculpture of a sleeping cat sits. It is not an ordinary cat. It is the spirit of Tokugawa himself – the great and mighty Shogun for whom the entire temple was erected. As one of the deities, he was guarding the whole Japan, making it safe and peaceful.”

“The Sakashitamon is a beginning of 200 steep stairs. They climb between cypress trunks and mossy stone barriers. At their top, on a cobbled square surrounded by forest, stands a casket with Tokugawa’s remains. The tomb is very modest but dignified. Just like Shogun who eternally sleeps there, for whom earthly luxuries were nothing, and honour – everything.”

With the grandma’s last sentence the sun ray falls into the room, casting a warm streak on her face.

“Oh! I’m talking and talking – haven’t even noticed that the rain stopped!”

The girls leap to a window. Outside, a light breeze shakes the last rain drops from the tree branches. Over a cloudless sky stretches the rainbow.


 

Nikko – a magical town

Nikko is a small town in the Tochigi Prefecture of Japan, about 140km north of Tokyo. The capital of Japan offers convenient connections to Nikko via Tobu Railways and Japan Railways (JR). Ticket prices vary depending on the type of train (rapid, limited express, etc. – 1300 – 5000 JPY / 12 – 45 USD) – more information here. Also, Tobu Railways offer bundle tickets for bus trips in Nikko itself – more information here.

NNikko has achieved international fame through its tourist attractions both within the town itself and in its immediate vicinity. The most famous are:
 

What to see in Nikko

  • Toshogu Temple
  • Shinkyo Bridge
  • Kanmangafuchi Abyss
  • Kegon Waterfall

Toshogu Temple

The dying wish of the Shogun Tokugawa (general of the shogunate who ruled over Japan for more than 250 years) was the erection of the temple, with him as one of the deities – Tosho Daigongen (“The Great Deity of the Shining East”). He was supposed to ensure that there were undisturbed order and peace in Japan. At first, the temple was not very splendid – what is hard to believe in, looking at its splendour today. In the first half of the 17th century, however, Tokugawa’s grandson converted it into an impressive temple complex.

Over a dozen of temple buildings are richly decorated with wooden carvings and gold gilded ornaments. These decorations are rare for temples of Shinto religion, which are usually very minimalist and discreet. Rich ornamentation is characteristic for Buddhist temples, though, and these traits are preserved in Toshogu. This fact adds to the complex uniqueness, as during the Meiji era all symbols of Buddhism were removed from the holy places. But here they were allowed to coexist with Shinto elements in harmonious unity.

Magnificent in its splendour, the temple is on the list of UNESCO World Heritage Sites.

Opening hours:
April – October: 08:00 – 17:00
November – March: 08:00 – 16:00
The last entrance – 30 minutes before closing

Tickets:
Temple – 1300 JPY / 12 USD
Museum – 1000 JPY / 9 USD
Temple and museum – 2100 JPY / 19 USD

Shinkyo Bridge

“The Holy Bridge” belongs to the Futarasan Temple. It is considered one of the three greatest in Japan. Stretched over the Daiya River, it is listed as World Heritage Site of UNESCO since 1999.

According to a legend, the Shōdō priest wanted to get through the Daiya River to Nantai Mountain and pray for the welfare of Japan. However, the strong and swift current of the river did not allow him to do so. The priest prayed so earnest that the God Jinja-Daiou appeared in front of him. Two snakes wrapped around his hand. God released the snakes that formed the bridge for Shōdō to pass.

Opening hours:
April – September: 08:00 – 17:00
October – beginning of November: 08:00 – 16:00
End of November – March: 09:00 – 16:00

Tickets – 300 JPY / 3 USD

Kanmangafuchi Abyss

A gorge picturesquely situated in a forest by the river. Its fame owes not only to the lovely location but also to the row of stone statues adorned with red hats and headscarves. The teeth of time apparently gnaw some of the statues – their heads missing, the contours blurred. Some of them, however, are holding up well, which allows looking at their details.

The figures depict Jizo, an enlightened being who can reach Nirvana but delays it to help others. In Japanese culture, Jizo is guardians of dead or unborn children who have not yet managed to accumulate enough of good karma to enter paradise. According to the legend, the figure setting is constantly changing, and visitors will never see them twice in the same arrangement.

Opening hours – unregulated

Tickets – free admission

Kegon Waterfall

Located about 30 minutes by bus from central Nikko. The 100-meter waterfall starts its origin in the waters of Lake Chuzenji and is one of the three most famous, tallest and most impressive waterfalls in Japan. At the end of October, it is a very popular place to admire the colours of autumn.

Opening hours:
March – November: 08:00 – 17:00
December – February: 09:00 – 16:30

Tickets – 550 JPY / 20 PLN / 5 USD


 
 

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[English below] Trzydniowa Japonia w pigułce rozn [English below]
Trzydniowa Japonia w pigułce rozniosła nam głowy. Kilka lat później przeprowadziliśmy się do niej na sześć miesięcy. Kraj przez pół roku konsekwentnie i nieodwracalnie przepalał nam styki. Dlatego nie zdziwiliśmy się wcale, kiedy kilka lat później w Wołgogradzie po meczu Polska-Japonia kibice naszych rywali zabrali się za porządkowanie stadionowych trybun. Co kiedyś mogłoby wywołać uśmiech politowania i wymowny gest posuwisto-zwrotny palcem wskazującym w stronę czoła, dziś było tak oczywiste, że aż trzeba się było dołączyć. Wcale nas nie zdziwiło, że przed stadionem rzesze japońskich fanów gratulowało Polakom tak żarliwie, jakbyśmy wcale nie grali o pietruszkę. Przy tym wszyscy byli tak urzekająco szczęśliwi naszym… hmm… szczęściem, jakby sami właśnie wygrali puchar. Wymianom szalików, koszulek nie było końca. Andrzej wrócił chyba z trzema. W tym jedną vintage z rozgrywek w latach dziewięćdziesiątych ubiegłego wieku. Co prawda juniorska, ale przynajmniej na jedno z nas pasuje.
-----
Three-day Japan, in a nutshell, blew our minds. A few years later, we moved in there for six months. The country has been consistently and irreversibly frying our brains for half a year. That's why we weren't at all surprised when, a few years later, in Volgograd, after the Poland-Japan match, our rivals' fans started cleaning up the stadium stands. What once might have caused a smile of pity and a back-and-forth gesture with the index finger towards the forehead was now so obvious that we had to join in. We were not at all surprised that in front of the stadium, crowds of Japanese fans congratulated the Poles as passionately as if we were not playing for honour at all. And everyone was so charmingly happy with our… hmm… victory as if they had just won the cup themselves. There was no end to the exchange of scarves and T-shirts. Andrzej came back with at least three, including one vintage from the 1990s. It's a junior size, but it fits at least one of us.
[English below] Tak, jak obiecał, przyszedł w po [English below]
Tak, jak obiecał, przyszedł w poniedziałek z samego rana. Przyszedł jak zwykle elegancki. W jasnej koszuli w kratkę, w spodniach w kancik, w idealnie wypolerowanych okularach, z wypielęgnowaną skórzaną torbą przerzuconą przez ramię. Snuła się wokół niego mgiełka nienachalnej serdeczności i zaraźliwego spokoju. Wystarczyło stanąć obok, żeby nim przesiąknąć. Jak zapachem. Ale zapachu Andrieja nie pamiętam. Wydaje mi się jednak, że pachniał mydłem. Takim zwykłym, szarym. Każdego ranka krótkim, grubym pędzlem nakładał mydlaną piankę okrężnymi ruchami na twarz, żeby zmiękczyć zarost. Potem zmieniał żyletkę w ciężkawej srebrnej maszynce do golenia i uważnie przesuwał nią po policzkach, brodzie, szyi. Na koniec chlustał w dłonie wodą kolońską ze szklanej odkręcanej butelki i wklepywał ją w podrażnioną ostrzem twarz. Na pewno szczypało. Tak, Andriej musiał pachnieć szarym mydłem i wodą kolońską. Tak pachniał mój dziadzio. Tak pachniał mój tata. Tak pachniała dobroć. 
(Cały tekst pod linkiem w bio)
-----------------------------
As promised, he came on Monday morning. He arrived elegant as usual. In a light checkered shirt, in crease trousers, in perfectly polished glasses, with a well-groomed leather bag slung over his shoulder. There was a mist of unobtrusive cordiality and contagious calmness around him. All you had to do was stand next to him to be soaked in it, like in the fragrance. But I don't remember Andrei's scent. I think he smelled like soap, though. Just plain grey soap. Every morning, he used a short, thick brush to apply soapy foam in circular motions to his face to soften the stubble. Then he changed the razor blade in the heavy silver shaver and carefully ran it over his cheeks, chin, and neck. Finally, he splashed cologne from a glass screw-top bottle into his hands and patted it on his face, irritated by the blade. It definitely stung. Yes, Andrei must have smelled of grey soap and cologne. This is what my grandfather smelled like. This is what my dad smelled like. This was the smell of kindness.
(The whole txt under the link in bio)
[English below] Wołgograd nijak ma się do Moskwy [English below]
Wołgograd nijak ma się do Moskwy, ale ma swój przydział potężnych rzeźb. Smutne to rzeźby. Pełne cierpienia, rozpaczy. Rzeźby żołnierzy dźwigających rannych kolegów. Rzeźby twarzy wykrzywionych męką, mięśni rwanych wiecznym bólem zakrzepłym w kamieniu. Ten umęczony szpaler prowadzi do stóp Matki Ojczyzny. Matka jest potężna – ma osiemdziesiąt pięć metrów wzrostu, krótkie rozwiane włosy i powłóczystą szatę. W prawej uniesionej ręce ściska nagi miecz i nim wzywa. Do czego? 
(Cały tekst pod linkiem w bio)
---
Volgograd is nothing like Moscow but has its share of massive sculptures. Here, sculptures are sad. Full of suffering and despair. These are sculptures of soldiers carrying wounded colleagues. Sculptures of faces twisted with torment, muscles torn by eternal pain congealed in stone. This tormented row leads to the feet of Mother Motherland. The Mother is huge - eighty-five meters tall, with short wind-blown hair and a flowing robe. She holds a naked sword and calls with it in her raised right hand. Calls to what? 
(The full story under the link in bio)
Instagram post 18199135858260048 Instagram post 18199135858260048
Szpakowaty ojciec z kilkuletnim synem podchodzą z Szpakowaty ojciec z kilkuletnim synem podchodzą zaraz po meczu. W stroboskopowych światłach imprezy na strefie kibica błyskają malutkie rosyjskie flagi wymalowane na ich twarzach. Podchodzą nieśmiali.
- Bardzo przepraszam, ale mówiłem synowi, że wy z Polszy i mamy do was taką prośbę – stara się wykrzyczeć w nasze uszy szpakowaty ojciec.
- Bo on by chciał, żebyście sobie obok waszych polskich, rosyjskie flagi namalowali. O tak, jak my – szpakowaty pan pokazuje przedramię swoje i syna, gdzie widać małe znaczki flag obu krajów.
Chłopczyk odziany od stóp do głów w barwy narodowe Rosji patrzy na nas okrągłymi oczami. Przestępuje z nogi na nogę. Ściska ojca za rękę. I już nie wiadomo, który z nich się bardziej denerwuje – ojciec czy syn.
A Szpakowaty pan mówi dalej. Mówi, że on synowi o Polsce od zawsze opowiada. Żeby wiedział, że przecież nas więcej łączy, niż dzieli. Że między nami bardzo silna więź, bo w naszych żyłach płynie ta sama krew. Słowiańska. Że jesteśmy bracia Słowianie. Bracia krwi. Szpakowaty pan opowiada. Opowiada i ma łzy w oczach.
--------
A grizzled father with a few-year-old son approaches right after the match. In the strobe lights of the party in the fan zone, flash tiny Russian flags painted on their faces. The two of them approach shyly.
“I am very sorry, but I told my son that you are from Poland, and we wanted to ask something of you", the grey-haired father tries to shout into our ears.
“He would like you to paint Russian flags next to your Polish ones. Here, just like we did," the grey-haired gentleman shows his and his son's forearms, where we can see small stamps of the flags of both countries.
A boy dressed from head to toe in the national colours of Russia looks at us with round eyes. He shifts from foot to foot and squeezes his father's hand. We no longer know which of them is more nervous – the father or the son.
The grey-haired man continues. He says that he has always been telling his son about Poland. To let him know that there is more that unites us than divides us. That there is a very strong bond between us because the same blood flows in our veins. That we are blood brothers. He explains and has tears in his eyes.
[English below] Dopiero kilkadziesiąt kilometrów [English below]
Dopiero kilkadziesiąt kilometrów dalej pozwalamy sobie wierzyć, że to nie jest żaden podstęp. Że naprawdę nas wpuściła. Że już nic „nas ne dogonyat”.

Dopiero kilkadziesiąt kilometrów później zauważamy jaka Rosja jest piękna. Przynajmniej jej początek.

Jedziemy pod łukiem powitalnym z szerokiej tęczy, co łączy, przecięte gładziutką szosą pola soczyście żółtego rzepaku. Nad rzepakiem – bezkresne błękitne niebo.

W 2018 Rosja wita nas kolorami Ukrainy.
(Cały tekst pod linkiem w bio)
----------
Only a few dozen kilometres further, we allow ourselves to believe that this is not a trick. That she really let us in. That they really ‘nas ne dogonyat’.

Only a few dozen kilometres later, we notice how beautiful Russia is. 

We ride under the welcome arch made of a broad rainbow, connecting the juicy yellow rapeseed fields cut by a smooth road. Over the rapeseed stretches an endless blue sky.

In 2018, Russia welcomes us with the colours of Ukraine.
(the whole text under the link in bio)
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[English below] Trzydniowa Japonia w pigułce rozn [English below]
Trzydniowa Japonia w pigułce rozniosła nam głowy. Kilka lat później przeprowadziliśmy się do niej na sześć miesięcy. Kraj przez pół roku konsekwentnie i nieodwracalnie przepalał nam styki. Dlatego nie zdziwiliśmy się wcale, kiedy kilka lat później w Wołgogradzie po meczu Polska-Japonia kibice naszych rywali zabrali się za porządkowanie stadionowych trybun. Co kiedyś mogłoby wywołać uśmiech politowania i wymowny gest posuwisto-zwrotny palcem wskazującym w stronę czoła, dziś było tak oczywiste, że aż trzeba się było dołączyć. Wcale nas nie zdziwiło, że przed stadionem rzesze japońskich fanów gratulowało Polakom tak żarliwie, jakbyśmy wcale nie grali o pietruszkę. Przy tym wszyscy byli tak urzekająco szczęśliwi naszym… hmm… szczęściem, jakby sami właśnie wygrali puchar. Wymianom szalików, koszulek nie było końca. Andrzej wrócił chyba z trzema. W tym jedną vintage z rozgrywek w latach dziewięćdziesiątych ubiegłego wieku. Co prawda juniorska, ale przynajmniej na jedno z nas pasuje.
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Three-day Japan, in a nutshell, blew our minds. A few years later, we moved in there for six months. The country has been consistently and irreversibly frying our brains for half a year. That's why we weren't at all surprised when, a few years later, in Volgograd, after the Poland-Japan match, our rivals' fans started cleaning up the stadium stands. What once might have caused a smile of pity and a back-and-forth gesture with the index finger towards the forehead was now so obvious that we had to join in. We were not at all surprised that in front of the stadium, crowds of Japanese fans congratulated the Poles as passionately as if we were not playing for honour at all. And everyone was so charmingly happy with our… hmm… victory as if they had just won the cup themselves. There was no end to the exchange of scarves and T-shirts. Andrzej came back with at least three, including one vintage from the 1990s. It's a junior size, but it fits at least one of us.
[English below] Tak, jak obiecał, przyszedł w po [English below]
Tak, jak obiecał, przyszedł w poniedziałek z samego rana. Przyszedł jak zwykle elegancki. W jasnej koszuli w kratkę, w spodniach w kancik, w idealnie wypolerowanych okularach, z wypielęgnowaną skórzaną torbą przerzuconą przez ramię. Snuła się wokół niego mgiełka nienachalnej serdeczności i zaraźliwego spokoju. Wystarczyło stanąć obok, żeby nim przesiąknąć. Jak zapachem. Ale zapachu Andrieja nie pamiętam. Wydaje mi się jednak, że pachniał mydłem. Takim zwykłym, szarym. Każdego ranka krótkim, grubym pędzlem nakładał mydlaną piankę okrężnymi ruchami na twarz, żeby zmiękczyć zarost. Potem zmieniał żyletkę w ciężkawej srebrnej maszynce do golenia i uważnie przesuwał nią po policzkach, brodzie, szyi. Na koniec chlustał w dłonie wodą kolońską ze szklanej odkręcanej butelki i wklepywał ją w podrażnioną ostrzem twarz. Na pewno szczypało. Tak, Andriej musiał pachnieć szarym mydłem i wodą kolońską. Tak pachniał mój dziadzio. Tak pachniał mój tata. Tak pachniała dobroć. 
(Cały tekst pod linkiem w bio)
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As promised, he came on Monday morning. He arrived elegant as usual. In a light checkered shirt, in crease trousers, in perfectly polished glasses, with a well-groomed leather bag slung over his shoulder. There was a mist of unobtrusive cordiality and contagious calmness around him. All you had to do was stand next to him to be soaked in it, like in the fragrance. But I don't remember Andrei's scent. I think he smelled like soap, though. Just plain grey soap. Every morning, he used a short, thick brush to apply soapy foam in circular motions to his face to soften the stubble. Then he changed the razor blade in the heavy silver shaver and carefully ran it over his cheeks, chin, and neck. Finally, he splashed cologne from a glass screw-top bottle into his hands and patted it on his face, irritated by the blade. It definitely stung. Yes, Andrei must have smelled of grey soap and cologne. This is what my grandfather smelled like. This is what my dad smelled like. This was the smell of kindness.
(The whole txt under the link in bio)
[English below] Wołgograd nijak ma się do Moskwy [English below]
Wołgograd nijak ma się do Moskwy, ale ma swój przydział potężnych rzeźb. Smutne to rzeźby. Pełne cierpienia, rozpaczy. Rzeźby żołnierzy dźwigających rannych kolegów. Rzeźby twarzy wykrzywionych męką, mięśni rwanych wiecznym bólem zakrzepłym w kamieniu. Ten umęczony szpaler prowadzi do stóp Matki Ojczyzny. Matka jest potężna – ma osiemdziesiąt pięć metrów wzrostu, krótkie rozwiane włosy i powłóczystą szatę. W prawej uniesionej ręce ściska nagi miecz i nim wzywa. Do czego? 
(Cały tekst pod linkiem w bio)
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Volgograd is nothing like Moscow but has its share of massive sculptures. Here, sculptures are sad. Full of suffering and despair. These are sculptures of soldiers carrying wounded colleagues. Sculptures of faces twisted with torment, muscles torn by eternal pain congealed in stone. This tormented row leads to the feet of Mother Motherland. The Mother is huge - eighty-five meters tall, with short wind-blown hair and a flowing robe. She holds a naked sword and calls with it in her raised right hand. Calls to what? 
(The full story under the link in bio)
Instagram post 18199135858260048 Instagram post 18199135858260048
Szpakowaty ojciec z kilkuletnim synem podchodzą z Szpakowaty ojciec z kilkuletnim synem podchodzą zaraz po meczu. W stroboskopowych światłach imprezy na strefie kibica błyskają malutkie rosyjskie flagi wymalowane na ich twarzach. Podchodzą nieśmiali.
- Bardzo przepraszam, ale mówiłem synowi, że wy z Polszy i mamy do was taką prośbę – stara się wykrzyczeć w nasze uszy szpakowaty ojciec.
- Bo on by chciał, żebyście sobie obok waszych polskich, rosyjskie flagi namalowali. O tak, jak my – szpakowaty pan pokazuje przedramię swoje i syna, gdzie widać małe znaczki flag obu krajów.
Chłopczyk odziany od stóp do głów w barwy narodowe Rosji patrzy na nas okrągłymi oczami. Przestępuje z nogi na nogę. Ściska ojca za rękę. I już nie wiadomo, który z nich się bardziej denerwuje – ojciec czy syn.
A Szpakowaty pan mówi dalej. Mówi, że on synowi o Polsce od zawsze opowiada. Żeby wiedział, że przecież nas więcej łączy, niż dzieli. Że między nami bardzo silna więź, bo w naszych żyłach płynie ta sama krew. Słowiańska. Że jesteśmy bracia Słowianie. Bracia krwi. Szpakowaty pan opowiada. Opowiada i ma łzy w oczach.
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A grizzled father with a few-year-old son approaches right after the match. In the strobe lights of the party in the fan zone, flash tiny Russian flags painted on their faces. The two of them approach shyly.
“I am very sorry, but I told my son that you are from Poland, and we wanted to ask something of you", the grey-haired father tries to shout into our ears.
“He would like you to paint Russian flags next to your Polish ones. Here, just like we did," the grey-haired gentleman shows his and his son's forearms, where we can see small stamps of the flags of both countries.
A boy dressed from head to toe in the national colours of Russia looks at us with round eyes. He shifts from foot to foot and squeezes his father's hand. We no longer know which of them is more nervous – the father or the son.
The grey-haired man continues. He says that he has always been telling his son about Poland. To let him know that there is more that unites us than divides us. That there is a very strong bond between us because the same blood flows in our veins. That we are blood brothers. He explains and has tears in his eyes.
[English below] Dopiero kilkadziesiąt kilometrów [English below]
Dopiero kilkadziesiąt kilometrów dalej pozwalamy sobie wierzyć, że to nie jest żaden podstęp. Że naprawdę nas wpuściła. Że już nic „nas ne dogonyat”.

Dopiero kilkadziesiąt kilometrów później zauważamy jaka Rosja jest piękna. Przynajmniej jej początek.

Jedziemy pod łukiem powitalnym z szerokiej tęczy, co łączy, przecięte gładziutką szosą pola soczyście żółtego rzepaku. Nad rzepakiem – bezkresne błękitne niebo.

W 2018 Rosja wita nas kolorami Ukrainy.
(Cały tekst pod linkiem w bio)
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Only a few dozen kilometres further, we allow ourselves to believe that this is not a trick. That she really let us in. That they really ‘nas ne dogonyat’.

Only a few dozen kilometres later, we notice how beautiful Russia is. 

We ride under the welcome arch made of a broad rainbow, connecting the juicy yellow rapeseed fields cut by a smooth road. Over the rapeseed stretches an endless blue sky.

In 2018, Russia welcomes us with the colours of Ukraine.
(the whole text under the link in bio)
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