Domesticated

I've been back in Rotterdam for a week and a half now and I've already been rejected twice. Three times if you count my exes changed Facebookstatus. He went from 'single' to 'in a relationship' on what could have been our 1-year anniversary. Ah well, I guess it's not technically a rejection, just a good example of bad timing. The first two were more upsetting though, although I am told that I should not take them personally: these are hard times for the jobseekers amongst us. And who wants to work for a company that leaves the rejection-message on your voicemail anyway.
My parents are burning candles by the dozen in order to support me for my third and final vacancy-option. It's down to the last two... that's 50/50. I'm not sure what that means nowadays, it's better than marriage I guess.
I'm also unsure how to behave. Certain spiritual guidelines would advise me to behave like I already got the job, pretend to start January 1st and celebrate what could be my last long Christmas-holiday in a loooong time. Practical realism taught me not to keep my hopes up high. But marriage and unemployment are compromise, that's why I'm working two days a week as a waitress and in the meantime thoroughly enjoying my time off. I set the alarm at 8, only for the pleasure of switching it off again to get another two hours of sleep. I am reading two books simultaneously (Killing Bono and One Blood), working through a stack of dusty magazines, finishing a computergame I started in 2009 (Syberia 2) and drinking a lot of solidarity coffees with friends. Going through series as if they're running out of fashion. Watching Dr. Phil, and the next day's rerun. I'm even taking the time to clean my house, although I'm not sure if putting up Christmas-decorations counts as cleaning, it is considered domestic bliss.
Oh god, I need this job, and I need it badly, before I turn into bloody Martha Stewart, making my own aprons out of unused shoppingbags and mucking about with the camera's automatic relief.
Well, it's too late for that now...

Honeymoon

Canterbury and I are still in our honeymoon-period. Everything Canterbury does, is still cute, charming, endearing and making me go 'aaaaw'. I'm taking pictures, praising it's looks, enjoying it's oldfashioned company and getting to know it better. I'm not sure the feeling is entirely mutual, but we'll see how it goes.
So, what am I doing here, besides crossing of all the touristy items on my to-do list, one-by-one? Well, I'm following classes, (Gender and crime in a globalised world, Youth and crime, and whatever else I fancy) having drinks in local pubs (half a cider), with some new international friend. And off course my internship: accidentally a marketing and communication job, updating the dcgc-website, improving its userfriendlyness. When I say 'improving', I actually mean 'introducing'. I find myself quoting Steve Krug's bible Don't make me think a lot. As an intern, which is anywhere in between a student and a member of staff, the computersystem of the University of Kent is not really sure how to classify me. This results in a few challenges regarding my existence (computer says 'No'), but other than that, I'm really enjoying myself and everything else the UK has to offer. Like, proper sausages, honey-nut cornflakes, flame-grilled-steak-flavoured crisps, TOWIE,... Wait. What? Towie.
I read about this mysterious abbreviation in a discarded Now!-magazine on the train, and, curious as I am, decided to Google it. Well, Towie must be the worst 'real-life' programme to ever receive airplay. This shamefull British blemish on ITv revolves around a group of handsome twenty-somethings. That is, if you're into people with fake boobs, orange tans, sparkly teeth and vajazzles (don't ask) but without personalities or talent to speak of. It's random guys and girls who are now famous, just for being on television, because they happen to live in Essex. Ah well, only in England. It's moments like this, that I'm extremely proud to be Dutch, you see, Net 5 cancelled this show after only 4 episodes.
Keep calm and cancel Towie, that's all I'm saying.

Canterbury? Isn't that the chocolate factory?

The pages in my diary were getting a bit dull. Recent highlights are quotes from Asian customers who uttered words like 'Dabidab Gow' (that's Davidoff Gold) or 'LebabaTeh' (Lebara phone voucher for 10 euro). Needless to say, working at the Bruna shop at Rotterdam Central Station proved a lost-in-translation-challenge, but didn't add much else to my life. Neither did feeding the zoo-keepers at Blijdorp, which I also did for 6 miserable weeks. This obviously does not show up on my resume, so only sharp HR-people who actually Google me, will find this out.
So there you have it, darling, the hole on my C.V. explained.
In order to pimp my profile, reinvent that resume, I decided to offer myself to the University of Kent, for a voluntary internship. The 'to go or not to go' question was answered after the x-th rejection on a carefully written application letter, followed by disappointing job-interview. When even the Nieuwe Luxor theater wouldn't hire me to sell tickets, I decided enough was enough and emailed my contact that I would be coming over. For... 6 weeks, starting from... the 17th of October. Dates and numbers were just made up on the spot.
"So what will you do there?" concerned friends would ask me.
"I'm not sure. Something with the DCGC-project", I would reply vaguely.
"Oh..."
Just throw in an abbreviation, and the questions will stop, because it immediately sounds interesting. A poker-face with sad stare helps. Honestly, I'm just not sure yet what my tasks will entail, besides who cares what I'll do? I love the UK, and anything I'm assigned to, beats frying croquettes and selling cigarettes. The trainjourney was fine; from Rotterdam to London is 5 hours, 5! To Vlieland is like 7! Even accommodation is sorted properly: I have a whole 8 square meters at my disposal. With full use of the kitchen! Yes, strangely enough this is very important to me. Let's just say the other landlady I was in contact with, was very strict when it came to her 'no-kitchen'-policy. But what does one pack for six weeks? And will I actually need a plastic container, legwarmers and a set of playing cards? And why did I buy a book I already read, and started reading it anyway? Will I finish that pack of 20 sausages in 6 weeks time? Now, these questions will not be answered, but I will keep me (and you) posted on more interesting things going on in Canterbury.
Oh, and ps: No! Canterbury isn't the chocolate-factory, that's Cadbury. Know your chocolate-brands, people!

Fair enough

There's been an awful lot of markets this weekend in Rotterdam. A lousy fleamarket in Ahoy, the ever so charming Swanmarket at the up-and-coming area of the Zwaanshals and the underestimated fair in de Zwart-Janstraat, Oude Noorden. I've been going there since I was a little girl, coming home with all sorts of unnecessary junk, according to my mother. But with the memory of cheap sweets and cassette-tapes still in my mind, I decide to take another look.
As soon as I turn around the corner and enter the Zwart-Janstraat, a big smile rises on my face. It's lovely, in a cultural-anthropology-discovering-new-grounds kind of way. I walk past bar Centraal, where a singer in a bright yellow, synthetic shirt and a karaoke set is entertaining and increasingly drunk crowd. The locals, joined by a few curious visitors sit huddled together, as if it's a private party, and everybody was invited. But there's only so much Dutch music I can listen to, so I walk on. There's so much to see. Stalls with djelebba's opposite of stalls with lace leggings, cheap pink plastic toys, cheap pink plastic make-up and for some reason, a lot of potato-peelers. It's a fair with the only thing better than the bold collection of products is the variety of customers. Families, young people with kind faces but angry teenage-eyes, women trying on bras over their tops, fathers trying to stop their yelling toddlers by promising them cotton candy. A 2 year old girl who emotionally blackmailed her mother into riding the carousel, and then couldn't stop crying untill she was allowed off. The mother waits patiently by the stroller, which almost tips over because of all the bags that hang off it. I giggle and continue walking. The smell of food is overwhelming. Barbecued sausages, charcoaled sweetcorn, 'freshly' roasted (cashew-, pecan- and pea-)nuts, churros and chocolatebars (3 for 1€). I can tell by the spilled leftovers on the street that I could also buy chips, noodles and icecream. The whole event remotely reminds me of the weekendmarket in Bangkok; only 100 times smaller and a lot less busy. The vibe is relaxed and comfortably nostalgic. Even the yelling salesmen promoting their strawberries (2 boxes for 3,50€) and duvets (single-bed; 5€) don't bother me. But after an hour the fashion faux-passes get the better of me. The high waisted jeans pulled up to the boobs, leggings worn as pants, women wearing catsuits who should be wearing a jumpsuit, and women in jumpsuits who should be, well, wearing anything more suitable. I have seen enough synthetic fiber, ill-fitting pajamas (which is quite an accomplishment, when you think of it) and muffin-tops (the non-edible ones) to last me till Christmas. Which coincidentally collides with the next Zwart-Janstraat fair.

no, we are NOT related.

Everytime I introduce myself, I get a similar response. Klok? Are you by any chance related to Hans Klok? "Yes, but my uncle Hans died four years ago, and left behind a wife and two children, so I don't think were talking about the same Hans here." That usually shuts them up. I would love it if someone just for once asked Hans Klok (the magician, not my uncle) if he was related to Therese Klok.
So after years of denying any family-ties, I decided to put aside my unfounded annoyance (well, just try and have a civil conversation after that downer) and see this guy's show. The last-minute tickets were very affordable and after the cashier made 22 euro's disappear out of my wallet, I ended up on row 6, seat 1, in a very comfortable red pluche chair at the Nieuwe Luxor.
What can I say? If you expect a show packed with illusions, magic tricks, fireworks, sound-effects, near-naked showdancers and a Hans-look-a-like-dancer, that's exactly what you get. I forgot that I'm not really into that sort of thing; I prefer zombie- and vampire series, British detectives and the odd play that doesn't exceed my limited attention-span of 2 hours. In all fairness, Hans is very good at what he does. He is the personification of a showman, with a very good hairdresser. And although his jokes sometimes got more response than his illusions, I was astonished at some of the things I saw (or rather, didn't see). With my mouth wide open I stared at the stage, trying to figure out where that trapdoor was (there must be one) or double curtains or something. My analytical skills turned out to be useless when it comes down to magic.
But after watching a few too many variations of the 'sword-in-box-covered-by-curtain-followed-by-swop-of-Hans-with-other-blonde'-trick, I got bored. There, I said it. Come on, changing swords for blades, curtains for sheets and boxes for perspex containers, doesn't change the essence of the trick. But he also made a lot of objects float and made some winebottles appear out of nowhere (well, a cardboard tube, actually). And I liked the flying bits. Mostly because I would love to hang from a ceiling in a harness myself. Well, rather than sitting in a box with someone poking blunt swords at me, anyway.
Hans also had some guests. Since I'm not a pet-person, the parrot-whisperer wasn't my cup of tea, the two Asian acrobats were pretty amazing (yes, she is standing on his head and she also did a pirouette on his rightarm), but I was very impressed with the two men who worked their magic on a pole. That came out wrong; they were just incredibly muscular and only wore small sweat pants. I'm making it worse. Their trick didn't involve magic, just pure, rockhard 8-packs, doing push-ups sideways whilst hanging from a pole. I can't even do three crunches at dance-class without whimpering, and these men would climb up and down the 'crow's nest' with arms only, their legs straight up in the air. There was also a pair of comedians who where very funny (no clowns, thank goodness, I hate clowns). One of them pretended to be a robot and blew up a balloon and... Oh, it just sounds silly now; I guess this really is a matter of 'you should have been there'.
The guy is a great illusionist and can put together a great show, but for me, it was a one-time only experience. Until I bump into Hans at the next Klok-family reunion of course.
Now that would be a real surprise.

Cultuur: het leven is geen dogma.

Aangezien ik overal een mening over heb, dit is ten slotte mijn blog, bij deze mijn opinie over het belang van cultuur. Als wetenschappelijk verantwoord vriendinnetje van een heel leger grafisch ontwerpers, zangers en beeldend kunstenaars zie ik de hele kunst&cultuur kwestie niet lijdzaam toe.
Toen langzaam het besef binnendruppelde dat de aangekondigde bezuinigingen het einde zou betekenen van een aantal musea waar de collectie ongezien staat te verstoffen, kleine theatergezelschappen die nog nooit iemand gezien of van gehoord heeft en WIK-uitkeringen van mensen die vinden dat ze recht hebben op gratis geld alleen omdat zij zichzelf als 'kunstenaar' beschouwen, vond ik dat tot mijn eigen verbazing helemaal niet zo erg.
Zegt ze dat echt? Ja. Dat zegt ze echt. Rustig maar, het wordt beter. Het gaf te denken, want ik roep altijd dat ik (kunst &)cultuur heel erg belangrijk vind. Maar waarom dan toch? Hierom.
Ik vind dat je je geschiedenis moet kennen om je heden te begrijpen en je toekomst te kunnen voorzien. "We zagen het niet aankomen", is net zo'n onzin-excuus als "het gebeurde gewoon". Er is namelijk niks nieuws onder de zon. Cultuur in al haar uitingen (muziek, film, dans, schrijfsels, theater, beeldende kunst, etc) is een hele toegankelijke manier om geschiedenis begrijpelijk te maken. Het kan duidelijk maken dat er méér is. Meer mensbeelden, meer ideeën, meer religies, meer gebeurtenissen, meer goed en meer kwaad. Er is niet één verhaal. Het leven is geen dogma.

Vroeger, in het kader van geschiedenis, zei Julius Ceasar al: 'geef het volk brood en spelen'. Nu is het: 'annuleer de spelen en oh ja, pak het volk in ieder geval haar broodbeleg af'. De tijd zal leren welke gevolgen dit heeft. Ik vrees alleen dat als K&C het parapluutje én de cocktail is, en het volk op een dieet van kraanwater wordt gezet, dit tot algehele culturele anorexia zal lijden. Ondanks dat ik voorstellingen op Oerol heb gezien waarvan ik oprecht dacht: "wegbezuinigen, meteen", Hofstra en Thiry: shame on you! Hoe hebben jullie kunnen denken dat er mensen zijn die zulke troep zouden willen zien? Wansmaak is ook smaak, maar als dit theater is, dan liever niet.
Aan de andere kant kun je overal een cultuurbeleving hebben: er staat meer muziek op internet dan waar je in een mensenleven naar kan luisteren, kinderen krijgen nog steeds papier en verf om zichzelf mee te vermaken, basisschoolklassen houden (vast) nog steeds miniplaybackshows (nu mini X-factor) om de verjaardag van hun juf mee te vieren en wellicht is er wel budget voor een Opzoomer-actie om wijken niet alleen schoon maar ook aan de kunst te krijgen. Ik, en hele generaties voor mij, heb nooit CKV-lessen gehad op school, maar had zelf de behoefte om bij een jeugdtheaterschool te gaan. Op vakantie gaan (Nederlandse) toeristen ook naar de musea en worden er geschiedkundig-verantwoorde kastelen bezocht. Ik ben dus ook niet bang dat kunst&cultuur verdwijnt, maar wel dat er een groep kinderen opgroeit die slechts televisie en games als hun culturele kader kennen.
Afsluitend verwijs ik naar de speech van Ramsey Nasr bij de Mars der Beschaving. Hij zegt op een gegeven moment (op 1:22 om precies te zijn) over de politieke botte bijl-manier 'c'est le ton qui fait la musique'; het is de toon die de muziek maakt. Laat dit nou ook het motto van politie-korps Hollands Midden zijn! Eindelijk kan ik mijn liefde voor cultuur en criminologie aan elkaar linken. Ik heb het altijd al gezegd: cultuur heeft een dempende werking op criminaliteit. Er ligt een onderzoeksvoorstel klaar op een plank in mijn boekenkast met de werktitel 'Zolang ze dansen, stelen ze niet' over de hypothetische positieve invloed van het meedoen aan culturele projecten voor (at-risk) jongeren. Maar ja, wetenschappelijk criminologisch onderzoek, daar is natuurlijk ook geen geld voor.

Stories from the North of the East (part 3)

For the final part of this trilogy I'm going back to St. Petersburg. On paper, not live. We did so much, it's hard to pick a few highlights. Celebrating Victory day on the 9th of may, when people dress up their cars as tanks, carry tank-balloons and real tanks are parked next to mobile toilets. Shopping for Converse, having a drink at the Spy-cafe (picture swings on chains instead of barstools), discovering Spaceinvader street art at Lennon street, visiting Peterhof's fountains and St Catherine's palace. Ana found the palace extremely dissapointing: "I thought it was much bigger, when I was smaller". The golden ballroom with mirrors, wooden floors and decorative ceilings did impress me, even at 32. Breakfast for 150 Rubl (3,70) at the Nevsky Grand Hotel, which to us included secretive giggles and an (illegal) lunch package. Watching 'Russia's next Top Model', from out bunkbed. Being surroundede and questioned by a bunch of schoolchildren who seem to have never seen an English speaking foreigner before.
Of course I also went to the Hermitage. It was beautifull, artsy, jadajadajada. I loved the ceilings and the floors, which are gorgeously decorated. But at one point, I was just done. Only 5% is on display, wich means that 95% is in storage somewhere, and a negligible percentage of the collection is abroad, hanging in other museums. The paintings, sculptures, murals, vases were bought in a time of war when the people of Russia were either starving or fighting for their tsars. People who would hardly see any food in real life, and not even on a painting by Jan Fyt (room 245) To me, it all just seemed wrong. The funniest part about the Hermitage were the old ladies sitting on the chairs, who were guarding the halls. Whilst praying, yawning, phone-checking and nodding off they were boring themselves to an early death.

Another unforgettable experience was grocery shopping, Sovjet Style. The first supermarket near our hostel had empty shelves. The only place I had seen so many empty shelves before, was in Ikea. The fridges didn't cool the goods, they seemed to be heating the 2 bottles of Coke that were left in them. Trying to buy anything was impossible, because even if you would find an item, the cashiers didn't have any change. This meant that the other supermarket in the street, had queues one can only find in Russia. The third supermarket had stocked shelves and no queues; so far, so good. I picked up a carton of orange juice, when Ana forced me to put it down. What went wrong?
- you choose the goods, which all have their own number,
- supermarketman tells you the number and you have to memorize it,
- you tell the numbers to the supermarketlady at the till,
- you pay,
- with your receipt you go to all the cashiers again, who give you the goods; one by one.
Cumbersome, right? But apparently it's good for your memory.

The trainjourney to Peterhof fountains was also eerie. It was delayed for obscure reasons and the last time I sat on wooden benches, I was in Thailand. But the craziest part was the men and women who kept walking by, offering us all kinds of stuff, in a variaty of combinations. Trainshedules (5x), ice-cream and water (4x), toiletrefresher, mini-footballs, pastry, tights, crisps, waterbottles, pens. A total of 12 people came by carrying, combining and selling these vendibles. Actually, the craziest part was the lunatic who kept warning fellow-travelers for Armageddon on the 21st of may, when all drunks and junks would be killed. To him this was enough reason to hoist up the lowcut jeans of a young girl leaving the train, who in his eyes was probably doomed with this public display of inappropriate behaviour.
Of course, the 21st of may came and went without any problems and I was already home, glueing holiday-pictures in an album of this marvelous journey to the North of the East.

Intermezzo 3: die Fledermaus

"I bloody hate Classic FM." Any performance, especially a classic, that starts with that phrase is worth an award. After 9 days of Operadagen, watching 6 shows and writing 2 reviews, it would be wrong to leave out my opinion on the funniest thing I've seen all week. Make that all year.
Die Fledermaus by Johann Straus jr, performed by Opera Della Luna is a gem. Luckily it was nothing like I expected. When I found out it was 2.5 hours, I allready planned my escape during intermission. I anticipated 150 minutes of non-stop opera-singing on a folding chair. But nothing of the sort, it was an operette, which is more like a funny musical, or in this case a good old British soap-opera. Even the red pluche love seat tip-up seats weren't too uncomfortable.
Back to the stage where a group of well-trained singers are dancing, acting and singing their asses off. The story is funny and contemporary, it's hard to believe that it was written in 1874. Well, the original version anyway, because I'm pretty sure they didn't have Brad Pitt, X-factor, Versace and text-messages back then. Stale marriage, rehab-clinics, parties, medling ex-lovers, revenge and jealousy are of all ages, and those are the key ingredients of die Fledermaus.
The stage changes three time in accordance to the three acts; from a tigerprint filled livingroom of the Eisenstein family, through a polarbear-infused partyroom at Orlofsky's to the psychedelic office space of Dr Frank, head of the rehab clinic.
The story is too long, twisty-turny to explain here, but imagine this scene: two Brits, pretending to be French, bothering the public by walking right through the audience and having the following conversation:
- it's magnifique,
- it's terrafique,
- it's, how we the Parisians say, 'periferique'
When they notice the uptitles (instead of subtitles) on the closed curtains they refer to the rehabcenter (afkick kliniek) as 'asskick clinic' and you can go there with alcohol, cocaine and translation problems. To me, that's class. The show is every alcoholics wet dream, since a lot of the songs sing to the praise of Pinot Noir, or even better, Champagne. Champagne is the always the answer, according to die Fledermaus. Looking at the Della Luna's tourlist, Rotterdam was the odd one out in a whole list of British based towns, this makes it extra special. This was awesome. Encore! Champagne!

Intermezzo 2: review Vivaldi LP2

Here's a little secret; I like Vivaldi's four seasons. I got through a large part of my examperiods during my social work studies on Vivaldi and other classics. Cause there are some things Rage Against the Machine, Live, Alanis Morrisette and Pearl Jam can't help you with, while Nigel Kennedy on violin can. So when I was asked to once more escort the ITI-group to the Las Palmas 2 to attend a performance called 'Caged Vivaldi; the Four Seasons, but different', I thought, "Why not?".

Well, here's why not. Sometimes you need to leave things alone. Summer, Autumn, Winter and Spring are fine as they were.
Just as I started to wonder, what exactly is different in this show, a guy sat down behind the piano and started 'playing' it. Now I am not a musician (repeat: NOT a musician), but I do know when I want to run for earplugs. This was it. It sounded horrible, like a 2-year old hitting random keys with a toycar. Accompanying it with dancers/actors who pretend to be the appointed season didn't help either, although Eric de Kuyper was his charming grandpa-self. After autumn, I couldn't help but thinking, 'Oh lord. Two more seasons'. The violinist and harpsichord (thanks Google Translate, it's criminal, but the English word for klavecimbel still isn't household-material) made up for the piano-bits. I especially enjoyed the dramatic bits from summer and winter, the ones usually know for their commercial purposes.
At one point it got so bad, I started having imaginary conversations with the bearded guy next to me. I talk during tv-shows, films, etcetera, very bad habit. One group of friends almost banned me from their tuesday cinema activities and threatened to sit elsewhere.
Me: "if this was a movie, I'd fall asleep"
Bearded guy: "please don't. I'm yawning too"
Me: "I could be in bed right now, watching Dexter"
Bearded guy: "cool, what season are you in?"
Me: "It's still autumn... I mean 3, episode 9. Miguel is going crazy"
Beraded guy: -spoiler alert-
After a while, I couldn't contain myself anymore and actually started whispering in his direction.
Me: "I feel like giving up my seat for this old guy pretending to be Winter"
Bearded guy: "I think it's part of the show"
Me: "we should play along. Do you think he can improvise?"
Bearded guy giggles a bit and shakes his head before staring back to the light blue harpsichord. (I like using the word harpsichord, lord knows when the next opportunity will be to use the word harpsichord.)

When the best part of an evening is the conversation that happened mainly in your head, it's a no-go. Vivaldi is like going to H&M, solid and nice, you know what you're gonna get. It never get's old, even after almost 300 years. But if you want to listen to it, just put on a Nigel Kennedy cd or search it on Spotify. The piano bits and the Cage (4 seating areas, divided by curtains, where the public moved into after each season) did not add anything to the show. If anything, it derogated my Vivaldi-experience.

Intermezzo - review The Air We Breathe

If you are a loyal reader, you were probably expecting the final stories on my journey to Russia. Sorry, that's up next, sometimes life happens in between me and my blog-plans.
This week I was lucky enough to land a temporary paid job at the Operadays (Operadagen) in Rotterdam as box-office employee / informationpoint ("I'm so sorry, but for these tickets you have to go the REAL box-office on your left"). A paid job includes a well-needed routine and the added bonus is that I'm being fed (dinner at cafe Floor for a week). And off course, I get to see some performances.

Yesterday I went to 'The Air We Breathe'. It was a total guess, because a) opera is not my genre, b) the poster doesn't give much clues on what to expect and c) the review in the festival-paper wasn't much of a help either.
The plan to cycle to the Maassilo alone was interrupted when the organisation needed someone to go on the bus with a group of guests who travelled especially to Rotterdam for the Operadagen-festival. Sure, I'll do it. Someone whispers to me that they are important. I'll keep that in mind, but if you have a group of people on a bus, it doesn't matter if they are 10-year-olds going on a schooltrip or ITI-vips on their way to a theatre.

We arrived a bit too late due to traffic. Pleasantly unexpected, the performance starts as soon as you walk into the catacombic cellars of the Maassilo. It's damp and the concrete walls are dimly lit. All of us sit spread around an area that reminds me of children in a playground-sandbox; scattered yet together. To my surprise the audience is expected to sing along. This is fun. It reminds me of Ben Folds' Army, so I like the idea of a capella audience-involvement. (watch and wait for it, 2:32). The singing does distract me from listening to the real talents though.
The storyline escapes me, but that's not the point of opera anyway, it's the emotion that counts. Ninety minutes of praising sounds, tunes, singing and vocal chords was a bit too long, I think. I'm not the only one; at 20:55 the first guy gives up and leaves his platform. It's around this time that I'm getting confused on whether to sing 'hoo aa ooo' or 'hoe whaaa hoe'. Than a young, happy chap catches my eye, and I realise it's Merlijn Twaalfhoven. I just got conducted by Merlijn Twaalfhoven! The Air we Breathe is full of little surprises, mainly in the shape of fellow audience members who turn out to be a part of it, when they stand up from their clique and sing their socks of. All of a sudden the huge amount of people make sense, because I know how many persons we should have inside according to ticketsales.
The next 'aha' moment is when I spot the light-projection that's moving on the white curtains; they remind me of clouds passing by. Now take a look at that poster.
Being here is like lying in a field (gras, yellow flowers, sandbox), watching clouds and doing nothing more but breathing.
This is probably why I come out of the Maassilo incredibly mellow. I had had a tough day. Rotterdam can be extremely depressing on a rainy day in may. Especially when you've been looking for a job for two months and just catalogued your 19 rejections. Sometimes all you need is a tourbus full of foreigners and an enthousiastic busdriver with a microphone to sprinkle some Rotterdam=magic-dust in your eyes. Top this off with a beautifull performance (read: sound-experience) and you're good to go again.

Why should you go see this: The performance is really special and seeing Merlijn Twaalfhoven live in action is worth so much more than 16 euro. The Maassilo is awesome and 'the Air We Breathe' makes opera approachable. I left the show completely calm and Zen. The ITI-group was enthousiastic too, I also got them home safe and sound.
Why not: 90 minutes is a bit long, but we accidentally solved that problem by being a bit too late.
Go see and experience for yourself.

Stories from the North of the East (part 2)

The second part of this blog is devoted to Moscow. Ana was more than willing to skip Moscow, but you cannot go to Russia and ignore it's capital. And, Ana will confirm this, it wasn't bad at all. She warned that the city would be coldhearted, unfriendly for tourists and just not nice to people in general. Nobody was more surprised than her when our first encounter on the subwaystation was a young girl asking us if we needed some help finding directions. That was after a more than pleasant trainjourney from Minsk; a train where the carpet in the hallway is covered with carpet (to protect the carpet, probably).
Funny story; Ana was buying the sleepertrain-tickets in Minsk and the railway personal wanted my middle name.
Ana: "She doesn't have one".
RWperson: "How come she doesn't have a middle name?"
Ana: "Because she's Dutch, she just doesn't have a middle name. It's not in her passport."
RWperson: "But we have to fill in something...?"
Needless to say, the section remained empty, but according to Bellarussian regulation my proper name would be Therese Jan-Jaap Klok.
She also had to fight to get us bottom-beds. They were there, they were available, they didn't cost anything else, but it was just uncommon to give a duo two bottombeds. Lucky for me Ana is very determined.
The best part of Moscow, was the 'Vassily' Basilic; saint Basil's Church. It was magic, you only see that fairytale building for the first time once. Laying my eyes on it, looking up from my tourist-guide, with it's gorgeous round domes ('raindrops' I said, 'onions' Ana calls them), small towers, colourfull decorations and religic icons to finish it off.
So, we got lucky with the journey, the people, the hostel (Fresh Hostel), the weather and the subway. As in: we didn't get lost in that spiderweb of 12 different lines and 185 stations.
We only stayed in Moscow for two days and one night, but I got to see a good part of the city; Red Square, Kremlin, 3 McDonalds, Arbat street, loads of subwaystations and their subsequent pieces of art, the changing of the guards and heaps of schoolchildren imitating those guards, kicking their legs up in the air. We went to VDNCh, I didn't put some consonants in random order here, the park is actually called VDNCh. Please skip this hellhole of a carnivalesque fair. I should have read the description in my travel guide better; I skimmed the text, picking up words like; glory, architecture, fountains and youths. If I read more closely I would have read: misplaced glory of the past, kitchy architecture, flashy fountains and masses of skateboarding youths whizzing by. Well, it was clear from the start that the people who wrote the travelguide, which describes both Moscow and St-Petersburg, clearly were more fond of the latter. We spent our last (and second) night in Moscow on the busy Leningradsky trainstation, amidst hundreds of other fellow-travellers. We waited there for several hours, entertaining ourselves with music, Keith Richards' Life, machine-coffee and Russian Sudoku, before boarding the sleepertrain to St-Petersburg.
Moscow was awesome, but I was in for more treats in St-Petersburg, coming up in part 3.

Stories from the North of the East (part 1)

For a long time I wanted to go to Russia. "Why Russia?" people ask me when I tell them this. "Why skiing?/Greece?/France" I ask them in return, because, why not Russia? But I know the answer, ever since I saw a picture of the Vassily Church in a children's book, I wanted to see it in real life. Twenty-seven years down the line, I made it happen.
My journey started with a bonus-trip to Riga, since AirBaltic postponed my flight to Minsk with one day. Hotel, taxi-transfer and complimentary coffee at the airport were all paid for. Me being a sucker for freebees, was gratefull for the opportunity. Riga is Baltic for beginners; the capital of Latvia can be seen in a couple of days. The city centre is so compact, that I was able to cross of the complete map with places worth seen according to the sightseeing map I picked up from the taxi. So that's your basic churches, museums, (war)monuments, fountains, a bridge with locks, a sparkly Christmas-statue, parks, flowermarket, ghosthouses and a TGI Friday's. I know, but when this girl craves a burger, there's no way she's having a salad. The funniest thing was hearing the Latvian version of Marco Borsato's 'de meeste dromen zijn bedrog' on the radio before taking a half-empty Fokker 50 to Minsk.

Minsk was alright. My friend Ana lives there and we stayed in an appartment in an area called Shabany. That's not in the Lonely Planet. Minsk doesn't have many tourists visiting, the amount of red tape and paperwork might have something to do with that. The political situation isn't very attractive either; Belarus is known as the last dictatorship of Europe. Artists are called on to cancel concerts and boycot Belarus to avoid enriching the president. Also, the recent subway-bombing just adds sadness instead of security. Ana showed me the main sights worth seeing; the revolution-square, a lot of Communistic memorabilia, KGB building, state-run shops and fountains. The city is clean, wide and tidy. Minsk surprisingly had a good 'going out'-atmosphere, and it was in the Stravinski bar that I discovered the joy of 'hot cocktails'. We went to two supercute bars called 'Old Minsk' and 'London'. The funniest part about 'London' was the postcards from Milan on the wall and the lack of English translations on the menu. But if I have to choose one thing that was the most special of Minsk, it was attending the Chinese tea party.
Picture this. Me and my guide for one day, Alec, meet up with one of Alec's friends. A tall guy with a ponytail who doesn't speak English and eats his icecreams two at a time. We enter a post-war flat without lighting in the stairway, so I have to hold on to the wooden rail to feel where I'm going. The door is unlocked, maybe because the appartment looks out on the former KGB-building. But maybe not. Our shoes stay in the hall and I'm given a pair of mens slippers. The three of us sit down in a tiny, Sixties style kitchen where our teamaster puts the kettle on. An oldschool kettle and a brandnew MacBook Air in the same kitchen. I'm signalled to follow the two men to the living/bedroom where I see the sweetest thing I ever witnessed in a male house. It's a small table covered with everything one could possibly need for a Chinese tea-ceremony; small porcelain cups, small teapots, a bonsai-tree, Lu Yu (the Saint of tea), and pillows on the floor to sit on. For the next two hours we drink tea and watch our host pour water on leaves, turn cups upside down (to release the flavour), brush the pot (no reason, just to get our attention) and display more tealeaves than I have seen in an average Chines supermarket. It was awesome, but needless to say, I had to pee a lot in the nighttrain to Moskow...


source: http://www.data.minsk.by/belarusnews/032011/344.html
I plan on writing more about the situation in Belarus in my criminological blog www.therighttrace.nl.

To Flee (naar Vlie :) )

Vlieland gets lost in translation, so there is pun intended in the title of this blog. I was honored to be a part of the Easter-fest that took place on a tiny island in the north of the Netherlands. The young festival of 'into the great wide open' decided it was a good idea to spent the holiday weekend on Vlieland, in the appreciated company of good bands, splendid cooks, charming kite-builders and befriended volunteers. It's a seven hour journey (eight if you travel back via Meppel, Lelystad and Utrecht on your way to Rotterdam, but that's a whole other story), but as soon as you get on the boat (I said it was on an island, so yes, traveling involves a boat) even I relax. It forces even the most wound-up, busiest of people (like me) to chill out, feel the wind, smell the sea and drink some local licor. Vlieland can be seen as an escape from everyday life; to Flee or not to Vlie.
Now here's why Vlie is special, everything makes you smile. Example: when I was in the shower, two male campsite-workers where in the girls showers next to mine, singing. With chairs and cups of tea. I'm not sure what Rihanna and Jesus Christ Superstar have to do with chairs and showers, but to them it was a plausible combination. I could have gotten annoyed that my privacy was violated and that in their 40 minute water-waste they used up all the hot water, but instead I giggled quietly in my cubicle. I was blessed that my first shift was behind the bar and I got to see la Boutique Fantastique and Alamo Race Track while pulling pints. And dance till 3 to the sacred tunes of DJ St. Paul. The next day I was surrounded by children with blue ice-creams and bright pink headphones, whilst staring lustingly (sorry Hook) at Swedish bearded men in white suits who fill the stage.

Breakfast was taken care of. As was lunch and dinner. It's cold, so I buy an extra fleece-blanket (and thermo-socks). I feel like going to the beach, so I climb a small dune and there's the sea, ready to give you a pair of wet feet (een kletspootje halen oftewel pootjekletsen). Nothing is a problem. No tears for me this time. Even the last time, when the ex broke up with me on that very same island, it was still a good holiday. There's sunsets, campfires, home-made kites and bunny-ears sticking out of the sand. Plus fulltime boyscouts at ones disposal, unfortunately there was not enough room in my backpack to take those home (Hook also vetoed it..). But they will be there in september in their coloured heavy-armed-bunny t-shirts with the full-on episode of ITGWO 2011, as will I.

UEB: Unemployment Espresso Bar

Before reading this, I have an assignment for you; go get a cup of coffee. Or tea. And a spoon; no, it doesn't matter if you drink it without sugar. Just do it. Please.
Ready?
Monday was the first day of the rest of my unemployment life. Although I hope it has an expirydate, it was so special, it deserves it's own blog.
The world, or better yet, the office is divided on the matter, but words like 'brave' and 'gutsy' (the women) were more used than 'crazy' or 'stressfull'. Because it is something else, giving up a set contract with steady income for... well, nothing concrete yet. But the freedom I felt on monday was incredible.
I sat in the Urban Espresso Bar stirring in my glass of cafe Latte and it hit me:'this is all I'm doing; stirring honey. With a spoon. In some milky coffee'. You should try it (see, there was a point to the assignment, I'll give you a few moments).
It doesn't get more 'NOW' than that. No worries about self-imposed to-do lists, deadlines, dishes, the judicial system or even Japan. Just stirring coffee.

Off course I don't plan on spending the next few weeks or months or God forbid, years doing nothing but meeting up for coffee and taking up space in the UEB. On second thought, I could live with 'weeks', though. But for now it's lovely; I feel relaxed, full of ideas, I'm getting my head round my future. For now.
Hook thinks it's hilarious. Apparently I said I wasn't going to do anything (no letters, no job agencies, nothing) for two weeks. Today is wednesday and I already worked my ass off on a large event in Ahoy, re-installed my Mac, attended my fabulous leaving-do, wrote two letters in addition to the dozen I wrote in the last few months. Unfortunately I received an equal amount of rejections. But in all fairness I'm not schooled as a communication expert, staffing employee or web-editor. And some of them are probably right when they turn me down 'because they are afraid I'll be bored shortly' and 'I'm overqualified'. In addition to that, I explained my disastrous meetings with temp-agencies in a previous blog (the NUT). I'm not worried yet, but ask me again in 3 months time.
Secretly I'm hoping for an experience like Renee Zellweger. Rumour has it that she worked in an office in order to prepare for her role as Bridget Jones. I would love to do the same, but than to get some inspiration (or should I say: dirty workplace secrets) for my Criminology freelance project; the Right Trace. But for now, I've got places to go (Prague and Russia), coffee-cups to stir and blogs to write.

Broken Windows

I was cleaning up my Outlook-inbox at work, when I came across this little blog I wrote about 1.5 years ago. Because I giggled when I reread it, I guess it's still postable. I couldn't publish it back then, because it is a bit critical regarding my job; but that's all changed now. I decided being critical could be a job as well. So here's a little insight in what the study of criminology means in practice. And hopefully I'll be able to do more under the name of 'the Right Trace'.

My favourite colour is purple.
My favourite Indian curry is the chicken Korma.
My favourite criminological theory is the 'broken window theory'.
Now, I don't want to start a whole discussion on 'what is a criminological theory', I've heard enough of that in the last couple of days on the Common Sessions in Rotterdam (presentations by criminology students). You know what I mean: If a window (or door, or picnic-bench) is broken (either destroyed, vandalised, graffiti'd or just kaput), you need to repare it. Otherwise it will 'provoke' people to destroy other things in that neighbourhood. If you leave it unrepaired, it it will lead to more trash, upset neighbours who stop caring about their street and eventually you will end up with one of Rita's Prachtwijken.
I love the theory's practicalness, because I am a practical girl. It offers handles to the ones who are in the field doing something about crime, more than merely discussing it in an academic atmosphere (which was lovely by the way).
What it boils down to, is this: fix it. Now you do not get more practical than that, you would think...

As a practical girl I was reading the daily 'juvenile nuisance' reports last week and I came across the logging of an incident. The police officer received a phonecall from an attentive neighbour who had noticed a car in his street with the window smashed (those of you who paid any attention know what you should do by now). The police officer did a lot of things, but fixing it, was not one of them.
He wrote down why it would be important to tow the car away (in accordance with 'broken windows'). He ran the plate and found out that the car belonged to a junkie. He concluded that this fellow would not (be able to) pay for the towing of the car in order to have it repaired. The police officer decided to leave it as it was.
I was confused, this was wrong on so many levels, I started typing an email to the officer in question straight away. Knowing the impact of the emails that I send when I am, let's say, inspired, I decided to take a look at it again, crossing some words out, rearrange the message and eventually deleting the whole thing. I didn't want to hurt the police officer and get any more complaints in the form of X's behind my name.
I would have been happy to leave it at that, would I not have gone to the previously mentioned Common Sessions, where I realised that I should have just send that email, it's okay to be critical, even if it means upsetting my colleagues.
So thank you for that. My workload just got increased by a tenfold.

de NUT

Vandaag heb ik mezelf ingehuurd als onderzoeker. Het plan was om uitzendbureaus te bezoeken, ik ben ten slotte op zoek naar ander werk en ze te recenseren, als een soort ode aan recensiekoning.nl.
Wat: de Normale Uitzendbureau Test.
Waar: Rotterdam.
Wanneer: maandag 14 februari. Wat zou ik anders moeten doen op Valentijnsdag?

Ik wou het eigenlijk de Kleine Uitzendbureau Test noemen, maar toen kwam ik in de knoei met de afkorting. De Grote Uitzendbureau Test vond ik niet helemaal toepasselijk, in verband met de kleine N van 6 bedrijven. Het liefst zou ik er een infographic van maken, maar daar heb ik de gereedschappen niet voor; het worden dus primitieve tekeningetjes. Sorry.

Creyfs.
Ik ben enigszins optimistisch als ik het 'Uitzendbureau van het jaar' binnenstap. Maar de treurige kantoor-omgeving maakt dat ik nog liever de WW in ga dan hier te blijven zitten. Het is saai en degelijk; voor sommige mensen de norm, maar ik hou van vlaggetjes en foto's. Helaas voor mij heeft hij alleen administratieve functies; iets wat ik nog meer te horen zal krijgen deze dag.
Verder ging de telefoon voor de klant aan het bureau: er werd tweemaal gebeld voor zijn aantrekkelijke, vrouwelijke collega die op dat moment een andere klant doorstuurde naar een conculega-uitzendbureau. Ook iets waar ik nog vaker getuige van zou zijn.

Manpower.
Het kantoor is ruim en sfeervol. De gekleurde muren passen goed bij de comfortabele stoelen. Wederom word ik niet ingeschreven, maar blijft er een kopietje van mijn CV achter (volgens mij is dat de nieuwe norm). Ter verdediging; dit kantoor is gespecialiseerd in banken en techniek en mijn interesse liggen in geen van beiden velden. Na het grappigste introductiegesprekje dat ik ooit gevoerd heb, blijkt de intercedente enorm kundig en behulpzaam.
- Jij zoekt een leuke baan?
- Ja.
- je werkt nu bij de politie?
- Ja.
- En daar wil je weg?
- Ja. Zo jij bent echt goed.
Ze heeft geen baan voor me, maar ik vertrek toch optimistisch met de opdracht in elk geval mijn bruto-loon even uit te zoeken. Staat ook wel zo professioneel voor iemand die ook als schuldhulpverlener aan de slag zou willen gaan.

Direkt.
Daar was ik heel snel klaar. De verhuisdozen en vuilniszakken die binnen staan, bieden een troosteloos uitzicht, en maken dat ik me afvraag of het bedrijf uberhaupt nog bestaat. Jammer, tijdens mijn studie heb ik voor Direkt gewerkt als deerne in de Heksenkethel, maar dat is een heel ander verhaal. Bij de buren (A&E) was de meest interessante vacature die voor sprinklerinstallateur; ook daar ben ik maar niet naar binnen gegaan.

Randstad.
De kantoorruimte van Randstad is efficient ingericht. Zo efficient dat ik niet eens langs de receptioniste kom. Ondanks dat ik aan een koffietafel zit waar theezakjes op liggen, krijg ik weer niks te drinken. Terwijl ik mijn notities aanvul, pleegt de receptioniste ongeïnteresseerd het verplichte telefoontje, dat ze afsluit met 'jaa dat dacht ik ook al', waarna ze mij 'teleurgesteld' meedeelt dat ze niks voor me kan doen. Een andere intercedente die op mijn verzoek (lees: aandringen) nog even komt praten, kan me niks anders aanbieden dan de steekwoorden 'kinderdag-verblijf' en 'gehandicaptenzorg'.
Dit gaat 'm niet worden.

Tempo Team.
Als ik het rommelige kantoor binnenstap, heb ik aanvankelijk het gevoel dat ik op de stip bij X-factor sta; ik ben gelijk in de picture. Maar jurylid nr 1 blijkt de meest fantastische, behulpzame, mensen-mens intercedente te zijn die ik ben tegengekomen. Mijn CV vind ze 'moeilijk', maar ze vraagt 2 naaste collega's om input, ze belt 2 contactpersonen om mij oprecht te promoten. Ik ga er bijna van blozen: "er zit hier een charmante, leuke jongedame voor me, die ander werk zoekt". Ze vind me een 'type voor het Ro-theater'. Een groter compliment had ze me niet kunnen geven.
Geen baan, wel een leuk contact.

Unique.
Het kantoor is netjes en de sfeer is standaard. Hetzelfde geldt voor de goedverzorgde intercedente die mij te woord staat. Ze maakt me snel duidelijk dat ze gespecialiseerd zijn in 'office', oftewel administratieve werkzaamheden en dat ik voor 'overheid' ergens anders moet zijn. Binnen drie minuten sta ik met visitekaartje weer buiten.

Al met al heb ik mezelf weer wat onderzoeks-ervaring gegunt en mijn missie voortgezet in de strijd tegen de werkeloosheid. Conclusie: je krijgt nergens meer koffie aangeboden en het is handig om te weten wat je bruto loon is. Verder is het gevoel dat je krijgt van de sfeer binnen een uitzendbureau, kenmerkend voor hoe je geholpen wordt. En kan je maar beter MBO administratie gedaan hebben dan HBO mwd en WO Criminologie, want dat geeft alleen maar een 'lastig' CV.

ps. Weet iemand wat een Niet-Destructief Onderzoeker doet? Ik vond het wel fascinerend klinken.