#dutch guy

[pauldespijker]

[wmaf-world-international]

1630 A. D. Past History WMAF couple / family # 12 - Dutch 🇳🇱 and Japanese 🇯🇵

Cornelis van Nijenrode was a wealthy trader and businessman born in the Netherlands who spent most of his life abroad working for the Dutch East Indies and in various East Asian countries. Cornelis eventually settled in Japan, where he would stay for the rest of his days with his two Japanese girlfriends, Surishia and Tokeshio. Surishia was a local geisha and Tokeshio was a courtesan. Cornelis had a daughter with each one, Cornelia and Esther. Cornelia was born in Hirado and Esther in Nagasaki

After their father's passing, the Eurasian girls were transferred to Batavia, where they were raised as Christians. In her adulthood, Esther married an English lieutenant.

WMAF Hapa # 13 - Cornelia van Nijenrode 🇳🇱🇯🇵

Cornelia, Surishia's daughter, inherited her father's fortune and became a prominent businesswoman in Indonesia, one of the wealthiest of her time period. She married Dutch merchant Pieter Cnoll, whom with she had over 10 children. In the painting, by Jacob Jansz Coeman, they are depicted with two of their daughters and some of their servants in the background

[imgoingtofreakoutnow]

I don't care if other people hate it, I loved the Dutch guy, in this household we Stan the Dutch guy. Dutch guy and Rebecca for the win!

[kobriena]

Oh, FFS. I just remembered Tom Hanks character in Sleepless in Seatle lives on a houseboat.

Ergh! They meant for it to be Dutch guy.

Which I wouldn't have minded, if they'd made it clear, as in actually shown Ted and Rebecca hanging out as friends. All it'd take was a quick scene, like the meal with Keeley. Hell, just a Buscuits with the Boss even.

Whatever, they still fucked.

[brother--nature]

Rotterdam (the Netherlands 🇳🇱)

[pauldespijker]

[pauldespijker]

Some Lessons Do Not Whisper, They Strike.

They cannot be found in books or heard in the words of others, for they live in the quiet pain of a mistake made, and in the warm glow of something you have overcome yourself. Advice is a map, but experience is the journey itself, with all its mud, its detours, and its unexpected views. You can describe fire to someone who has never burned, but only when the heat touches your skin do you understand what warmth truly means. Life shapes us not by what we read, but by what we dare to feel.

[pauldespijker]

Short love story from everyday life.

Coincidence

The meeting was pure coincidence. A twist of fate I had not anticipated. I was walking through the city, and the late afternoon sun felt languid and warm on my skin, a golden glow that bathed the building facades in soft light. Just as I turned the corner, I saw you. You emerged from a side street, your black coat draped over your arm, your hair a little longer than I remembered. But it was that same confident rhythm in your stride that made my heart perform a strange, halting leap. My breath caught in my throat.

You saw me at the exact same moment. There was half a second of disbelief, a flash of recognition, and then a smile broke across your face that melted the years away like snow in the sun. The bustle around us faded.

We embraced awkwardly in the middle of the sidewalk. While bicycle bells rang out insistently and the voices of passersby hummed like a distant murmur around us, I held you close. Your body felt exactly the same against mine: soft, warm, and with that familiar pressure of your arms on my back. You smelled like the past, like a hint of vanilla and something spicy, mixed with the light, dusty scent of the city in the heat. It was as if time had stood still and we had never stopped belonging to each other.

“Coffee?” I asked, my voice a little hoarser than I intended. You nodded without a trace of hesitation.

On the terrace we found a table in the corner. The sun slanted across the weathered wooden planks, and the chairs still felt hot from the afternoon sun. Our cappuccinos were set down steaming, crowned with a thick layer of creamy foam that tasted sweet and bitter at once. At first we stuck to safe, surface topics. We talked about work, about the city that had changed beyond recognition, and about the trivial details of our current lives.

But soon the conversation sank deeper, as if we were breaking through a thin layer of ice into the warm current beneath. We laughed about the absurd quarrels from back then, about that one time I took the wrong train and you waited for me for two hours in the pouring rain, refusing to leave. We recalled the dreams we had once spoken aloud: that little house outside the city, the trips we had already taken in our minds but that never became reality. Your laugh was still infectious, low and a bit husky at the edges. It filled the space between us with a warmth I had not found anywhere else in all those years.

“Just imagine how things would have turned out,” you said suddenly, softer. You stirred the remaining foam with your spoon in a hypnotic, circular motion. Your voice was low and almost palpable in the sultry air.

I looked at your mouth, at the small dimples that always appeared in your cheek when you laughed, and felt desire spread through my chest like a slow, warm wave. Your eyes were exactly as I had seen them in a thousand nights: dark, lively, and with those golden specks that lit up in the last afternoon light. It was unbearably familiar. The distance between us, small as it was, felt like a cold draft along my skin, while every fiber in my body pulled toward you.

I wanted to reach my hand across the table, entwine your fingers with mine, and say that I still thought of you every day. That the love was still there, a quiet flame that had never been extinguished despite the distance. But I remained silent. We both knew that some doors were closed for a reason. Yet your shoulder accidentally brushed against mine as you adjusted your coat, a brief, electric touch that sent a jolt through my arm and made the air between us vibrate.

The coffee grew cold, and unnoticed the afternoon became evening. When the sun sank behind the rooftops and the lights above the terrace clicked on softly, we ordered a bottle of red wine. The liquid gleamed deep and dark in our glasses. The scent of ripe fruit and oak mingled with the evening air, heavy and enticing. Each sip left a velvety warmth on my tongue. We continued talking, softer now, about the breakup and the distance that had slowly grown back then until there seemed nothing left to bridge. But between the sentences something else trembled: a longing that had never been cut through, a chord that still echoed.

We both knew it made no sense to keep digging into what had been. The bottle emptied, and the evening air began to smell of wet cobblestones and the first sweet blossoms of the linden trees farther down. My heart pounded in a restless rhythm I could feel all the way up in my throat.

I paid, and we stood up, our legs a little heavy from the wine and the emotions. “Come,” I said, “I’ll walk you home.”

We walked side by side through the now hushed streets. Our footsteps sounded in sync on the cobblestones, a rhythm we had shared for years. Every now and then our arms lightly brushed each other, an accidental contact that each time triggered a wave of melancholy. The cool evening breeze stroked along my neck, but your nearness felt like a protective blanket against the night.

At your door we stopped. The air here was thick with the blossom scent and the light, damp chill creeping up from the entryways. You looked at me, a second longer than necessary for a farewell between friends. In your eyes I saw the same inner conflict that raged within me, a soft glimmer of tears that you bravely held back.

I pulled you to me one last time. I felt the warmth of your body through the fabric of your coat, the familiar contours of your back beneath my hand, and your breath warm against my neck. For a moment there was no time, no past, and no future. Only us, here. Then I slowly released you.

“Good night,” I said, and the word felt heavy in my mouth.

You smiled, a small and fragile gesture. “Good night.”

I turned around and walked away without glancing back once. Behind me I heard the door click gently into the lock. That single, final little click echoed in the empty street and marked the line between what was and what could have been. The longing kept burning, sharp and sweet at once, while the cold night air caressed my face. I put one foot in front of the other and walked into the night, knowing that a part of me would always remain standing there with you in that doorway.

(Translate from Dutch.)