Buy Ecstasy Spiekeroog

__________________________

📍 Verified store!

📍 Guarantees! Quality! Reviews!

__________________________

▼▼ ▼▼ ▼▼ ▼▼ ▼▼ ▼▼ ▼▼

▲▲ ▲▲ ▲▲ ▲▲ ▲▲ ▲▲ ▲▲

Buy Ecstasy Spiekeroog

Boo Hoo. Spiekeroog, dubious-soft. Similar images Terrorkind. David Dieschburg. Armin Staudt. TheGRischun-Rafael Peier. Klaus Wohlgemuth. Sign up for our handmade Newsletter full of inspiration and discounts.

Wadden Sea Suite

Buy Ecstasy Spiekeroog

I hear from Denmark that the first storm of autumn is drawing in from the North Sea, bringing winds of hurricane strength. I told my dad over the phone that I was going to the southernmost edge of the Wadden Sea, the vast, enigmatic tidal sea on the Dutch, German, and Danish coastlines, and he decided my timing was poor. His West Jutlandic roots have a solid hold on him that way. The coast is for those lured by the foreign. But two miles farther in, we reach the hinterland. The hinterland is for those with money in real estate and profitable earth. They come down hard on wanderlust. Big cities, free speech, and foreign lures are the work of the devil. All three are a threat to the existing order. What the women are, the dictionary of the Danish language neglects to mention. That means wanderlust, no question, and anyway, water is dangerous. Ships go down. Ferries, too. My risk of drowning rose considerably, he felt. It was unforgettable. I was besotted with a married man. The Wadden Sea is powerful, and I lived a far stretch out there. It is made available to Scandinavian writers as a retreat and was mine for six months. I had an extended trip to the U. The married man was involved. I have only to glimpse the chimneys of Esbjerg Power Station and it begins to play. The silent space, a lonely string instrument, and then that long-suffering bending to the wandering of the moon and the clock of the tides. There I rented a bike, despite the gusting wind. I wanted to get to Huisduinen and see the sign that marks: here begins the Wadden Sea. If you can say that something so strangely ethereal begins, and you can. You can see with the naked eye where that force takes over. Nearshore breakers: the North Sea. Wide-flung tidal flats: the Wadden Sea. Cycling to Huisduinen, I saw the transition there, too. Sand flats, lying in readiness, gigantic bars in the agitated water. But storms have eyes. Their eyes are round, and they whirl. Grand Hotel Beatrix in Huisduinen has taken me into its fold. The hotel is located immediately behind the dam, a burly asphalted hulk, and on the other side of the northbound highway is the lighthouse, Lange Jaap, casting its bright cone into the pelting rain and sea foam. There is a storm blowing in Huisduinen. Lange Jaap sharpens and resists. Everything is black besides the light, sweeping rhythmically across the hotel. The building shakes. Still, I did my best to make it to the dam before nightfall. I walked south with a scarf over my face. Grains of sand stinging, eyes watering. I walked like a slash against the wind while the sea toiled against the disaster-proof dam. To the north, Den Helder, which so oddly mirrors Esbjerg back home, and a ferry bravely making the short crossing to the island beyond the town. Island sisters, and I would have been there, but had to settle for seeing it at a distance. And finding the sign, and I found it:. To the south are the West Frisians, Texel the first pearl in the chain—or the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. They speak German now, call themselves North Frisian, and keep adding and adding, like pearls on a string. The language transforms slowly with each pearl, and suddenly they speak Danish. The chain is intact. No border can sever it. It ought to be silent here, I think, under the duvet, listening to the fury outside. Silence and a stringed instrument. The Wadden Sea is one large violin body that the water plays a few times a day, rising and falling, rising and falling. This silent suite was broken only by the fire alarm. The town of shipmasters is thatched. Each house, except for a few lone contrarians, is orientated east to west. And thatched. Around them a system of paths and orchards. The idyll is absolute, Grade I listed. So every Saturday at noon, the fire alarm went off. That way you knew it worked should all hell break loose. And then came the women. Since the siren was going off at twelve every Saturday anyway, they thought they might as well use it as a signal to summon the tribe. They steered a course for the pub, where a long table was set out for them. The stocks of draft beer and white wine had been kicked up a notch. They settled their broad backsides around the table, becoming their own version of fire. Gossip set ablaze. A kind of matriarchy, yes. Historically speaking, a small community where women held power. They brought riches home. Sometimes the men were away for months. Other times they set out on long voyages and were away for years at a stretch before they came home. If they did come home, that is, for ships go down. Your husband is at sea most of the time. When he comes home, if he comes home, he gets you pregnant. On top of that, he must be occupied somehow. So you put him to work. It takes time, and meanwhile, everything carries on much as before. You farm. Keep animals. Sometimes you go, too. Sometimes you join your husband, your brother, your father, and see the world. But back home, it is you who decides when the hay should be harvested. This is how it was. They settled things for themselves, the women, by and large. Decisions great and small, including those on behalf of the village—they took care of it all. Which was fine, and she looked forward to him coming home. Even though it was a hassle, his restlessness, the power struggles, and uncertainty. Four or five such years can turn a spouse into a stranger, near enough. And again, he had to be off. Gather, scatter. If he did not come home—that, too, was dreadful. Then she was a widow in a village of many widows and unmarried women. But the widows and the spinsters moved in together. They took care of one another and the children. They drew an ingenious system of paths between the houses of the elderly with their feet. A cottage industry sprang up, dealing in mutual care, preserved fruit, salted fish, gossip, social control, and money. In other words: it was Frisian. At the top of the uniform was a scarf simply called a cloth. Its bow had to be knotted in a particular way that made it look like a sail. Frisian woman: sailor wife. There was no shortage of skirts because it was important to create wide hips underneath a narrow waist. The jacket was buttoned up if you were unmarried. If you were married, a single button was left undone. There were various versions of the garments appropriate for various phases of life. Little girls learned at around seven years old to tie their cloths, initiating them into the tribe. And if he came home, they danced together. It really has to be seen, but this is how it goes: First they walk hand in hand, then he reaches both his hands around her, behind her back. Putting one of her arms behind her back, she grabs hold of his arm. The other arm she places lightly around his body. Then they whirl like scaled-down dervishes across the floor. They have each other caught by a centrifugal force. Like a North Sea depression, with its silent eye and its wildness at the periphery. He clasps her firmly, as though she were life itself. She allows it, and looks determinedly, not coyly, at a slanted angle to the floor. For he has a solid grip on her, the man, but he does not own her. The young people look like it comes to them naturally. But as adults, they look like they wanted to dance of their own accord. I tried, but the man I could have danced with was absent, and anyway he had committed to dancing with somebody else. I wonder how Texel, beyond the hard-boiled dam and the water, feels about the mainland. Are they still full of wanderlust over there? Opportunistic, die-hard, self-assured? It affected you, the Wadden Sea and its tidal pulse. The natives knew that. Births got underway as waters rose, they said. Those due to die died when the waters receded. You could read it in the obituaries. God was one thing, the Wadden Sea was another, and the two things could scarcely be separated. I used to walk down Nord Land every night, up to the dike, listening. The starry sky formed a dome above the island, vast, curved, and infinite. As I stood there, I sensed the depth of this curve. Up and down became relative terms, and when I shut my eyes, I could hear the silence of the Wadden Sea, like some kind of resonance. North, the sound of breakers taking over. A deep bass sound of currents and snapping water. But to the south and southeast were the flats, and through the flats ran the enormous underwater trenches, the deeps. These channels and their tributaries, the tideways, ran like juicy veins into the mudland. Unseen, almighty, they wove quietly in and out, in and out of the Wadden Sea, like blood supplying a placenta. The deepest trenches had been given names, the seriousness of which was understandable—Knot Deep, Gray Deep, Gallows Deep—and the Wadden Sea became a huge basin beneath the vaulted stars, where everything fertile grew, including death. The lighthouse rakes its beam across the sea, and I have set the map of the Frisian Islands aside. Wrapped in cloths, padded, wide-hipped by their underskirts. Their jackets narrow across their chests, their faces hard as leather. They stand at one end of the house, gazing confidently at the interloper. They stand in front of sand dunes, swollen orchards, and buses. Grandma as a little girl, with a pretty cloth, already initiated into the tribe. As I recall, there was a cat in her arms as well. To Johanne, the clothing was sacred. The garments were deeply serious, and not just something to wear for carnival one day out of the year. They were dolling themselves up in borrowed plumage, Johanne felt, and on the whole, I thought she was right. The exodus from the outer periphery to the big cities had begun. The era of the shipmasters was long over, and so was the matriarchy. From now on, the women were supposed to have children to keep the local community alive. But the city slickers wanted to have their fun with the passing of time: they played at the old days, marched in processions through the city with cloths bristling and hips rolling. Johanne, sweet person that she was, put up a quiet resistance. For it meant more than just power. It meant longing, hard graft, vulnerability. And it meant that you lived with the Wadden Sea, in birth and in death. That you realized what those great flats gave—life and rich growth, wildfowl, glasswort, amber—and what they took from human life. It was also medicine to combat the forces of Gallows Deep. They understand, the West Frisians, that this landscape is bountiful one minute and all-consuming the next. I hope it holds tonight while I look at pictures. Behind them is an enormous sagging German zeppelin by the name of L3. It has just been on fire, and as the women stand there, they seem to be keeping watch over the burning. Only the day before, this zeppelin had been a giant, making its way from Hamburg to Skagerrak to scout for British submarines. There was a war on, of course. And then came the southwest storm. It set in with snow. The zeppelin drifted in the wind, the engines battling to no avail. Half an hour north of the German border, the last one gave out. From the safety of the beach, the Germans shot a flare into the airship, setting it alight. Flames and curiosity had drawn these women. They are of another world, standing there. No, they were of another world. I think she thought it was nice. She used to go along, at any rate. Even after I left the island, came home from the U. My wanderlust took over. The schism in which all identity is formed made me set out. The water rose and fell, the pulse beating the hours of the day. If anyone was going to wear it, she should be the one. And she was proud of it, after all, she told me on the phone. But I never did. A song that mimics the tides and the comings and goings of the world. It was September, the sky was high, and I pressed on across the flats. I walked in the direction of Gallows Deep, talking to Johanne. And so I stood, listening to the silence some way out, the stringed instrument. Ribe Cathedral a vast omen to the east. Feeling the vault close below me and above, I crouched down. I took a handful of wet sand and let it wring out through my fingers. The Wadden Sea is a living being with a big, damp lung. I could have sat there for a while and seen it erased by the tide. But the tide comes in quickly in these parts, and we must gather, scatter. Welcome and goodbye. Not here. Dorthe Nors is one of the most distinguished contemporary Danish writers. In addition to her two short story collections, Karate Chop and Wild Swims, she has published one novella and five novels. Caroline Waight is an award-winning literary translator who works in Danish, German, and Norwegian.

Buy Ecstasy Spiekeroog