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.