Meanwhile back home (again)

the IFFR bubble

2012-02-07T12:30:00.005+01:00

I wrote about this before, a couple of times actually, the IFFR bubble. It's very hard to explain to non-IFFR people. And Volkskrantdag visitors don't count, simply because they don't have to suffer for their tickets. There, I said it.
I made an attempt to explain the feeling to a friend: "I have no sense of time anymore," I showed him my hand which had various notes and the present weekday and date written on it. "Cycling back and forth to town, rain or snow, has no impact. My Christmascards are still on top of my cupboard, unopened mail piles up. I'm walking on my last legs and my mind is in real-life-oblivion." My friend responded that it must be like being high. Honestly, I wouldn't know, but I'll take his word for it.
I stopped doing laundy, washing up, writing application letters or returning my mothers phonecalls. My choice of clothes is reduced tot a standard uniform that involves the yellow keycord, a skirt, sneakers and legwarmers. My phone tells me I still have 4 'new' voicemail-messages, which have to wait another week. Instead I go from my subco-shift (coordinating the box-office which involves a lot of problemsolving and super-last minute ticket selling for sold out screenings) to an obscure film in one of Rotterdam's cinemas and back. Some films are worth watching, others worth getting some eye-shut in and a few worth remembering. And in this process, that I share with another 800 volunteers and 274.000 visitors, it's every man for him or herself. In order to survive you have to maintain a certain amount of selfishness. Until it's well past midnight and everybody gets together in the cozy, smoky livingroom of Hotel Central. Even though it's been a few hours since I got my coat and told everyone I was really going home... This has nothing to do with a lack of spine, but more the combination of red port with ice and enjoying time spent with lovely people whom I won't be seeing for a while. These type of festivals are like children's camps, but for grown-ups. Responsibility doesn't matter as much: that's how you end up behind a button on IFFR's own version of 'Take me out'. And get chosen.
That's IFFR: all consuming, simultaneously energetic and tiring, exciting and exhausting; a life reduced to a flowchart. Maybe it's more a black hole than a bubble.
The black bubble ended a couple of days ago and I'm still showing signs from post-IFFR exhaustion. You know this when you try to stick your keys into an ATM-machine, still live of leftover lunch-package sandwiches you put in your freezer (I'm unemployed people!) and the mere thought of watching another film (Cinerama or not) gives you the shivers.
Can't wait till next year!

Meanwhile in Minsk

2012-01-24T09:31:00.006+01:00

Here, it's the odd shower with some diluted sunshine. A little splash of rain that like a lingering sneeze doesn't really follow through. It could be different. This morning I received this picture from Ana, my friend from Minsk, Belarus.

That puts things in perspective doesn't it. And before you go 'aaaaaah' or 'oooooeeeeh', or show any other expressions of admiration, keep in mind that this does not end till spring. And she hates it. Detests every pesky, little snowflake slowing her down in order to get to work and get on with her life. On the bright side; growing up in a wintery country like Belarus, she can knit better than anyone else I know. Her woolly works keep me and my family all warm in Belarussian knitwear (is there any other??). Which I am very grateful for. Can't wait to see her again in 2 months time in Dublin.

That Girl

2012-01-06T15:18:00.005+01:00

Since battling my unemployment, i get to spent a lot of time doing whatever I want, whenever I want. Some people might find this absolute heaven, and for a while it was. But even heaven gets boring if you run out of things to do.
I've never travelled to more countries (eight), volunteered at more festivals (six) and read more books than I did in 2011. Unfortunately I've also never found it this hard to finding a new job and never been more rejected than that same year. Having worked since I was 13 (cloakroom Hofplein theater), I find it difficult not to. I'm not asking for the world, just a proper, paid job that doesn't waste my education and knowledge.
Books and websites are filled with 'toptips' on 'how to land my dreamjob'; they obviously did not bank on the recession. But I have plenty of time to read them anyway.
I've learned how to manage my online profile, do a lot of selfreflection, how to write custom-made application letters and that when a company says that they don't have any vacancies, they usually don't.
I've also learned that 'I have to create my own fun and challenges', that 'a career is nothing more than a six-pack of jobs' and '13 naughty things to do with Post-Its'. On second thought, 'the Bad Girl's Guide to getting what you want', might not be the most useful book out of the self-help section. The Handbook for the modern woman gives insight on how to behave when indulging in an office romance; think it through and keep it quiet initially. Unfortunately no job means no work-love either...
Watching a lot of the Office only proves helpful on how not to behave when working in a paper-company. I now would do extremely well in a discussion on who would do better in real-life management: Ricky Gervais or Steve Carrell. But mostly, I've learned how to deal with rejection. Nobody showed me how, it just sort of happened. It's not a big secret, but it works for me. Every day I come across 'That Girl'. She could be anyone from the media, she comes up in conversation and it's a different woman or girl every day. She has one particular characteristic: she is worse of than me.
Yep, that's right; it's my petty coping skill: I find some sort of consolation in reading on females in bad, bad situations. It can be the girls who died at home due to carbonmonoxide poisoning. The wife who got bludgeoned to death by her Gelredome-director husband, a female cyclist who was molested by a busdriver. It can be the whole range of celebrity divorces brightning my day.
Because it means that I'm alive, and the grass is not always greener. It's horrible, but this knowledge keeps me grounded. I can moan a bit on this job-seeking adventure, but I'm doing it with my sanity and my bodily functions intact. And every day I am gratefull for the simple fact that I am Not That Girl.

Domesticated

2011-12-07T17:54:00.006+01:00

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

2011-10-27T18:35:00.006+02:00

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?

2011-10-17T19:40:00.006+02:00

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

2011-10-02T19:47:00.008+02:00

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.

2011-09-22T11:15:00.011+02:00

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.

2011-07-08T08:35:00.007+02:00

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)

2011-06-14T14:32:00.006+02:00

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

2011-05-30T16:13:00.005+02:00

"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

2011-05-28T16:29:00.008+02:00

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

2011-05-27T08:46:00.006+02:00

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)

2011-05-23T21:03:00.005+02:00

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)

2011-05-16T08:32:00.010+02:00

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 :) )

2011-04-27T09:46:00.007+02:00

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

2011-03-30T11:53:00.011+02:00

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

2011-03-12T17:21:00.005+01:00

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

2011-02-14T15:33:00.015+01:00

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.

First IFFR short

2011-01-28T15:53:00.004+01:00

An important IFFR lesson is: never give away your one's and five's too soon with the voting opportunity the UPC audience appreciation leaflets give you. Because you never know whats going to happen at the next screening. You can sit in, let's say, a black and white Asian film, that is extremely slow, makes you fall asleep and pray for a sudden death of the main characters in a hope that it will end the movie. Which by the way, it didn't.
But! I'm very glad I gave this one a two (2=bad), so I could donate my one to the drama (not the genre) I witnessed today. One aka 1 aka very, very very bad; the kind of bad that makes you wish the sponsors pulled the plug a long time ago and possibly even change your political view in order to prevent such catastrophes from ever happening again. All I thought was: "I still have an episode of the Mentalist on video" and "I could be at home knitting right now". When I felt a pang of jealousy when someone did leave, and that person wasn't me, I decided it was time to ... give it another ten minutes. You know me, I'm an optimist and want to give things a chance. But even the subtitles were lacking. No realy; from every whole sentence that was spoken only 3 words came back at the bottom of the screen. So I saw crappy pictures of a cruiseship, with people speaking obscure languages and words like: 'aids money Bulgar', which left me clueless and wanting to go to H&M. Or at least go home and blog 'n bitch about it. The best bit about the film was a cute youtube-film about two kittens meowing a boring passenger watched on her laptop (I could tell even she was bored with the whole ordeal) and, eventually, tearing up the paper at the double thumbs down section. It was deliberating and should be a privilige extended to the rest of society. Nice checkout-lady at supermarket, kgggg, a 4. Dumb bastard cutting of with his car, kgggg, 1!
I'm still waiting for my 5, better luck next time.

Film festival widow

2011-01-23T17:11:00.004+01:00

It's been a year since I wrote my Iffr tribute blog (I ffr, U ffr, we all ffr). Mainly because it's been a year since the last International Film Festival Rotterdam and let's face it, the rest is merely details.
So it's that time of year again. Even my regular colleagues are excited for me: "wow, two whole weeks of doing nothing but watching films". They think work ends as soon as a film is sold out, and how many films can you play? Sigh. The average of 70 screenings per day across 29 venues is just to abstract for them. So I had to correct this image; it also involves a lot of parties, dancing, fun people, drinks in the theatre (Schouwburg) and cruising from one cinema to the next depending if you're looking for the best film or the most comfortable chair (naptime advise: Pathe 7, back-corners). Oh, and work, lot's of hard work, obviously. You don't just take two weeks off of work just to watch films. That would be silly.
I started well this year, the crew-pre party was fun and I sat through the whole film without falling asleep! Fortunately it was a good one; a Chinese romantic comedy (Love in a Puff). So that's one down, 14 to go, if I don't want to look like a complete wimp in the eyes of my Iffr-friends.
I also attended a Q&A already. So what if it was by accident and had nothing to do with directors and actors but with Spanish Flamenco dancers who happened to perform in the Schouwburg for the Flamenco Biennale, when I was there for a birthday-party. Questions were asked. Answers were given. So I can cross Q&A of my list.
This year I also had to prepare my boyfriend Hook for his role of Film Festival widow, for he will suffer from movie-related neglect. I'll supply him with a stack of dvd's and a spare Therese-doll... My other preparation for the whole ordeal don't go much further than making the mother of all lasagna's so that I can eat something other than Daily Wok during these weeks, practising my poker-face; you never know when some-one wants his money back for a crappy film. For yes, this actually happens and I can't wait to blog about it.

Scent of a boyfriend

2011-01-08T13:07:00.007+01:00

Today (tuesday) it's my boyfriend's birthday. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I have a boyfriend, now all the lack of blogging makes sense, right? I was too busy doing other stuff. Now why does this man make me so happy that I temporarily had nothing to left to write about? He has a great ass and a lovely personality. And this last sentense will make him smile, for he thinks I am funny. Unlike my ex-boyfriend who did not think I was funny. He thought Vinterbergs 'Festen' was funny... Bare in mind, this is the same ex who told me to 'put your clothes back on then', when I sat halfnaked on his coach, looked him meaningfull in the eyes when I asked for a blanket because I was a bit chilly.
But back to my birthdayboy. He wasn't shy about his wishes, in fact the list that circulated the house was carefully put together and from me he wanted a new fragrance. Now I hardly made it through any of my exes birthdays, I even think the first and last time, I got away with buying a bucket of Sesamestreet crayons. And he turned 18. So calling this a 'challenge' would be an understatement, let alone buying men's perfume, which is really personal. I don't know the first thing about male scents. I've worn CK Obsession for 10 years now, before that, 5 years of Angel. So I'm very loyal, only occasionly flirting with CK One, and not without feeling guilty about it. Even free samples remain unused. My dad doesn't even wear deodorant. He covers his armpits with some sort of eco-friendly Tea Trea-stick. The office has been empty since before Christmas, so my colleagues can't help. I even started sniffing strangers in the street and on the bus, but apparantly blasting your music out loud through the speakers of your phone is deemed more appropriate. So after some warning glances from girlfriends and slightly annoyed busdrivers (come on! the sign says 'do not talk to the busdriver', it doesn't say 'do not not smell your busdriver'), I gave up that tactic. And randomly asking for 'Boss Men' at your local perfumestore doesn't help either; because, just so you know, there's more than one.
Eventually I did what any sane woman would do. I asked my Facebook friends. That triggered quite some usefull response (Boss In Motion, Chanel Allure, Kiton) and some not so usefull (onions? N. you are such a douche. And my FB wall is not the place to instigate a bitchfight, people!).
Eventually I got him Chanel Allure Sport, a home-sewn blanket (he seemed to like it, so he past that test) and I wrote him this blog. For he (I'll call him Hook) now belongs to the list of relevant topics in my life I want to talk about. You know, finding another job, new shoes, festivals and baking cookies.
Happy Birthday Hook!

Light and airy

2010-11-06T09:54:00.010+01:00

Recently I stumbled upon an article on what to do and what not to do on a first date or when first meeting someone you would like to achieve a first date with. Yahoo likes making lists, I like reading lists, so there you go. It mentioned that you should keep conversation light and airy.
I panicked. I find 'light and airy' extremely difficult.
Light and airy is also the theme of lunchconversation at work. That's why I prefer eating alone behind my computer rather than listening to more talk about post-pensionplans that come into action 14 years from now, the pro's and cons of wintertyres and gossip about absent colleagues.
So I thought of topics that I could talk about, just in case I would meet someone new or old or anyone in general really. Light and airy. Light and airy, shallow is the way to go...
Aero-chocolatebars (Bros) are light and airy, but I wouldn't know what to say about those. Breathing usually is light and airy. Clothes? Music? Blankets? Ikea? Light and airy equals harmless, I suppose. Although I am capable of ruining something as innocent as 'babynames', with my response that "if you swop the A for a T, her name spells 'Cunt', and kids can be so cruel". I'm not proud of that one, but in my defense, he did ask what I thought of his newborn's name...
In practise it's even more difficult, because when someone asks you how you are, it is extremely difficult to steer the conversation towards chocolate or hairstyles. And even then, I don't think my current coupe falls in the category of light and airy. Dark and down, more likely. 'How are you?', is usually followed by a comment regarding work or lovelife; well, I think I can put a more positive spin on the Netherlands' current government, than those two aspects of my life.
My psychologist says that communication and social interaction is the hardest thing we have to do in this life. I couln't agree more. Conversation is a lot trickier than throwing around Twitter or Facebook-status oneliners.
The best opening-line I ever heard was 'what was your best moment this week?' at a speeddating event. Yes, I once went to a speeddating event, and No, I don't want to talk about it. I remember my answer; I cooked a lasagne at home and ate it lukewarm from a plastic container in the cinema. That's my guilty pleasure. I know, I'm such a bad-ass. His best moment that week was his his sister-in-law announcing she was pregnant and him rushing over with a cake and bottle of champagne to celebrate.
Should anyone ask me what my best moment was this week (light and airy, Therese, light and airy), I would say; the youth-theatre Hofplein reunion. Sitting in those coloured chairs again, watching former-children-now-grown-ups perform on stage, tearing up at the first tunes of 'Heksenklus' and actually climbing on that stage myself to dance the 'ghost-part' of the tap.
Ghosts! Well, that's light and airy for ya!
(and the blanket I made inspired by Vlieland has a light and airy feel to it, too)

New shoes...

2010-09-12T17:18:00.005+02:00

Meet my purple boots. I love them so much, I spent a large part of my life avoiding throwing them out. In fact, I love them so much I am willing and able to devote a complete blog to them, in fact, I am doing that right now.
But, lately, it appears they've had their best days. The stickytape that's holding the leather togheter is coming off, the already once repaired heels have worn to the floor (again) and discolouring has set in; the right one is definitely lighter than the left. Even my best friend, who keeps her shoes untill they fall of her feet, told me quietly that maybe it was time, because they look chewed up and spit out. Although I'm pretty sure that's the reason why they feel so nice.
As the saying goes, you shouldn't throw shoes out before you've got a new pair, so I looked everywhere for an identical pair in multiple cities, even online and on marketplace. Eventually I gave up and replaced them with a pair of new booties. Charming little ones, grey, (fake) suede and very comfortable. Still unable to chuck the purple ones, I walked into a shoe repairshop (slash key-copyer and umbrella-sellers, now why is that?) just to ease my mind. To find out that, no, they cannot be repaired, that yes, sometimes it's time to let go.
"Sure miss, give us an hour and I can put a whole new sole under them and fix the heel".
Now I did not see that one coming.
And so my favourite purple boots ended up on the operation-table for some emergency surgery.
Off course in the hour that followed I bumped into my purple boots. In black. All shiney, new and size 39. When I least expected it. Just like everyone said would happen with men. Well, sodd men. I prefer my boots. They go with everything and they'll last me a lot longer. Even though they won't give me babies, they also won't leave me for another woman. Not untill I throw them in the Salvation Army clothesbox anyway. After shelling out for a third pair of shoes that day, I sat myself down with an expensive coffee, in order to save the rest of my money, because at that rate, I would be bankrupt by the end of september.
Now, did I need any more shoes? No, off course not. I haven't needed extra pairs since 2002. Throwing out has never been my best skill. Besides, who else is going to fill that charity clothesbox with some hardly worn, neglected boots that got left behind in favour of the purple pair?

Jeugdcultuur in Pijnacker

2010-07-28T15:23:00.003+02:00

Pijnacker is veranderd. Met pijn in het hart moet ik concluderen dat het groene, lieftallige dorp waar ik vroeger wel eens bij een vriendinnetje ging logeren, is veranderd. Mijn grootste jeugdzonde van destijds was dat ik, als ik er met de trein naartoe rees, zei dat ik in Berkel en Rodenrijs was ingestapt, terwijl dat in werkelijkheid station Bergweg was, om twee gulden te besparen op een enkeltje... Hoe weinig begreep ik toen al van jeugdcultuur, bedenk ik als ik de verslaglegging van een van de grotere loverboy-zaken van dit moment lees. Helaas is het dorp waar ik kaastosti’s met ketchup ontdekte en Stephen King’s IT voor de eerste keer zag, genadeloos veranderd. Met dank aan een van de grote loverboyzaken van dit moment, waarbij Delft en Den Haag als overige pleegplaatsen voor het gemak in de krantenkoppen worden weggelaten, om ook de onschuld van Pijnacker te verkrachten.

Volgens de verdediging van een van mensenhandel (en ontucht met minderjarigen en wapenbezit en verkrachting en kinderporno- en wapenbezit) verdachte jongeman valt het allemaal wel mee en heeft het allemaal te maken met hormonen. Deze verdediging (Peter Hermens) zou zich kapot moeten schamen (maar als ik ooit ga scheiden wil ik hem ook).

“Het zijn gewoon jongens met een hoog testosteron-gehalte, zoals zoveel tieners”. De jongeman in kwestie is inmiddels 21 jaar, in alle mogelijke opzichten volwassen dus. Het gedrag van deze ‘tiener’ en zijn vrienden wordt afgedaan als straat- en jeugdcultuur. Let wel, we hebben het hier niet over nachtelijk voetballen op een veldje (nou nou), rondhangen op een schoolplein (poe poe) of het achterlaten van bierblikjes en koekjesverpakkingen op een hangplek (zo kan die wel weer). Nee, het gaat om groepsseks op feestjes en het filmen ervan met mobiele telefoons, veelvuldig gebruik van alcohol en blowen en minderjarige meisjes proberen te dwingen tot prostitutie. Jeugdcultuur.

De verdachte gaf wel aan zich te schamen voor het filmen van de meisjes. Dit weerhield de verdachte er echter niet van tientallen filmpjes op zijn computer te bewaren en ze te delen met zijn vrienden. De meisjes én de filmpjes; niemand kan hem ervan beschuldigen een slechte vriend te zijn die nooit iets deelt.

Ook het “Nee!”, dat een slachtoffer roept, voordat zij door verschillende door hormonen bevangen jongens wordt gepenetreerd (vast geen woord dat door betrokken partijen gebruikt wordt), kan volgens de verdediging óók betekenen dat zij liever niet gefilmd wil worden of dat ze liever niet heeft dat het licht wordt uitgedaan. De rechter ging mee in het verhaal dat de meisjes zich gewillig lieten drogeren en ‘betasten’ en achtte verkrachting niet bewezen.

Ik weet niet wie ik eerder met mijn handtas in zijn gezicht zou slaan, de hoofdverdachte, zijn raadsman of die rechter. En ja, dit mag opgevat worden als ‘belediging’, strafbaar gesteld in artikel 266 wetboek van strafrecht. Alleen; ik ben momenteel ongesteld, en we weten allemaal welke hormonen daarbij vrijkomen.

Oh ja (alsof het nog niet genoeg was), de wapens, XTC-grondstoffen en het valse geld waren natuurlijk ook niet van de verdachte. Want elke jeugdcultuur-respecterende tiener heeft natuurlijk een tot huiskamer omgebouwde kelderbox met daarin een XTC-lab, een aantal vuurwapens en een leger bij de pizzeria opgepikte minderjarige meisjes die gewillig liggen te wachten en het het liefste met het licht áán doen.

Jeugdcultuur. Ik ben toch blij dat mijn idee van jeugdcultuur logeren bij Lineke in een twee-onder-een- kap-woning te Pijnacker was, en niet verkracht worden door Yousef A., Adil H. en Jamal D. in een kelderbox te Pijnacker.

bronnen: artikelen uit Trouw, de Volkskrant en RTL.nl
voetnoot: dit is een blog die uit boosheid nav de berichtgeving geschreven is, dus puur een mening, en niet op feiten is gecheckt bij de desbetreffende verdachten.

Confessions of a Werchter diary

2010-07-06T16:12:00.011+02:00

I lost my festival-virginity to Pinkpop a long, long time ago. I'm pretty sure it was 1996 when I heard Pennywise's 'Bro hymn' live for the very first time and 14 years and 22 (!) multiple-day festivals later, you can still hear the 'oooh oooh ooh oh, oooh oooh oooh oh', if you listen carefully.
Twenty-two; I can't help but being impressed by that number; that's 11x Lowlands, 6x Pinkpop, 1x Torhout, 3x Werchter and 1x Into the great wide open. In all fainess; they blend into each other, I can't say what or who happened where or when. So this year, I took notes. Because really, I'm getting to old for this shit (I'm writing this from my bed I'm sharing with a ton of hankies and kiwi's and a pot of tea).
The best thing about looking back (not just at festivals, but at life in general) is selective memory. Mine sets in on the first day. We arrive on camping A4 after 6,5 hours in slow traffic in an AC-free car, that's four hours after Thomas announced us near Antwerp 'that we would be another 30 minutes'. You've gotta love an optimist. As we put up our tents, Phoenix is playing 'If I ever feel better' in the background and I appreciate the irony. I was desperate to see them, but eh, we're here and I will feel better. After all, the tailback ended the 'Kyteman-versus-Jeugd van Tegenwoordig' dilemma, I would have faced if I was at the fields at 16:30... Now we were still near Antwerp. But it really was a fun trip that ended with Take That blasting from our stereo as we pulled up on the parking-lot (don't look at me, it was Tanja's Ipod!).

As you might remember, it was boiling hot this past weekend, a steady 39 degrees Celcius. Selective memory erased the knowledge that there is no proper shower to speak of at camping A4. I once spend three weeks in Marocco and the traveljournal that was published after this trip, was called 'Showering out of a coolbox'. At camping A4, I would have killed for a coolbox. All we had was a 2-liter Bar-le-Duc carton, we lovingly kept reffering to as 'the instant shower' and we dragged it along for 4 days. I had a nice brown colour on monday, unfortunately it washed of at home in the shower. One morning after waking up in my sauna formerly known as tent, I'm looking for something to wear and all I can come up with is yesterday's bikini-top. It's funny, I've never been more heavy in my life yet never cared less about what I look like. It's just too damn hot. I shake my head and sigh as I look at the legging, black longsleeved shirt, skinny jeans and woollen (!) legwarmers (!!) I so carefully packed. I must have had a good reason for bringing those, because after 14 years I still make packing-lists for every trip. All explanation has melted away though. I also wonder if it's a good idea to use my 'refreshing' Nivea deodorant stick for my whole body and not just my armpits. I don't even get that far, because it has melted into a cream.
Luckily, I don't stand out in my bikini-top, because it is the fashion item this year. Bikini-tops for girls and towels for men. Men also wear those 'Wife beater' tops, in Belgium called 'Marcellekes'. I thought that was funny. The fashion-craze that only lasted 20 minutes was the good old plastic poncho (with or without commercial print).

After all these years, I still learn something new every festival. At Wechter 2010 I learned that in the Dixie-toilets (and I use the term 'toilets' loosely... a blue puddle without a flush really isn't a toilet) on the right of the Pyramid Marquee, you can hear the music from both stages. Which is handy if you can't choose between Pink and Empire of the sun. That is, untill this dual experience is interrupted by a girl having noisy sex in a Dixie behind mine. It was either that, or she was having a really good poo.

I also learned that the Belgians aren't very fond of those 'loud and rude' Dutchmen (and women). One Flemmish guy wash shocked and put his hand in front of his mouth when I told him that I don't like football and that I had to ask my boyfriend whether a game is boring or not, because to me, all sportsgames are boring. Funnily enough this Werchter was the first time I got not one, but two indecent proposals and someone pinched my lovehandles when I wouldn't let him stand in front of me at the Pearl Jam show.

I'm pretty sure I confessed to being an easy cryer. This Werchter was no exception. It's a bit embarressing, but I appreciate cheap emotion-triggers, when I see them, so here it goes.
Green day: when Billy-Joe pulled a twelve-year old boy with glasses on the stage and some fireworks started when the child counted to four (it does seem a bit silly when I see this in writing).
Corinne Bailey Rae: when she started singing the beautiful 'Like a star' and it dawned on me that this lovely, gorgeous, talented lady lost her husband last year.
The Temper Trap: What can I say? I still tear up when I hear 'Sweet Redemption' on the radio.
Pearl Jam: Just Breathe. It's Eddie Vedder in combination with lack of sleep, a smiling Tanja next to me and a very good weekend. No apologies there.
Pink: Ok. I do apologize for this one. But the woman has a good voice, she's pretty, a great performer and can hold up a fantastic show. The same can be said about Florence and the machine; so I guess it all boils down to taste. Me, I'm on team Pink (For Christ'sake; she was twirling up in the air in a harnas and still carried a tune!). I apologize again.

Next one is Into the great wide open; talking about selective memories. I do remember yelling 'Never ever again', after that hardship; tents destroyed if not blown away, non-stop rain, a 7 hour journey to Vlieland and crappy organisation (the volunteer-rota's weren't ready untill the shifts had already commenced). But on the bright side: Whitest Boy Alive is confirmed, but more importantly, the toilets flush!

Route du Nord

2010-06-19T16:00:00.007+02:00

I grew up in 'the oude noorden' of Rotterdam; the old North. An area where you're never more than 10 feet away from a kebab-shop or a Turkish supermarket or a cheap clothesshop with flashy synthetic outfits that no-one seems to wear in public. But once a year the cultural, artistic population that was hiding there all along, get the attention they deserve.
It's Route du Nord weekend.
And it's well worth a visit. This year the locations are marked by yellow tape as opposed to the confusing skippyballs that were hanging from the buildings in 2009. I do think that those skippyballs are re-used in a parcours at the Rotabs though...
Unfortunately some galleries (like LOE) were closed due to the match. I am slightly disappointed, because I wanted to use Route du Nord as an escape for everything orange and noisy. My attempt failed a bit, because even here radio's are blasting game-comments, at Rotabs there is a large screen and a woman in an orange t-shirt above plaited trousers and a sensible pair of glasses is playing an accoustic version of the Wilhelmus on an old guitar.
Not really what I expected of a wooden building that is hosting some of the most creative people/shops/expositions of Rotterdam. I am halfway through the Zaagmolenkade, looking at a red plastic rowing boat when I hear the vuvuzela's, screams and the radio-commentator saying: "Someone scored, but I wasn't paying attention, so who made the goal?". See, even people who are paid to watch football don't neccesarily want to or do so.

Here's some of my favourites:
a mobile made of drinking-straws (nr 33 on the map)
Fleurs bags at Rotabs, but I'm prejudiced (nr 16/32)
Noot&zo; a gem of a jewelery and ceramics-shop (nr 12)
3xS; nice shop with both secondhand and new one-of-a-kinds (nr 20)
'autumn' at a galery (nr 35)

So, if you're in the neighborhood, have a look and enjoy the art, cute shops, Doppio icecream, the tuktuks and the kebabs.

Commit color

2010-06-12T16:46:00.007+02:00

For the first time in three weeks all is calm again on the Central Station in Rotterdam. Every morning me and other early-morning cummuting travellers got bombarded with leaflets, red tomato-shaped kichen sponges, teabags and other political party propaganda. My bike looked like a pr-approved advertisement as well, with a sadle cover, various stickers and a pamphlet attached to the frame with a tie-wrap.

I found myself smiling at campaigners who have my sympathy and quietly shaking my head to those who don't, dodging their party-programma and heading straight to the lady who hands out the Spits newspaper. She is there regardless the weather, elections or occasional competition from a rival rag; they all keep a respectfull distance and don't dare come close to her fixed spot (just under the glass roof halfway between a ticketmachine and the stairs to platform 15). Information-overload set in immediatly so I remained indesisive untill the tuesday before the wednesday of the election. The internet-tests, all four of them, and their conclusions just added to the confusion. Also bare in mind that a party programme is a compromise and accumulation of the opinions of the pary-members. They all feel the need to be heard, just like an average Dutch citizen. So how are we supposed to find ourselves represented in just one political view, let alone party? On electionday I tried to persuade my parents to vote, since I recently found out that they're not that interested in politics. They used to take me along when they filled in their votingcard at a local church. I always thought it was because they wanted to show me how important it was and I liked the booths and the queues; I was very easy to entertain. Turns out they had to take me, because they didn't want to leave me alone in the house. Twenty-something years later I am happy with my final choice (nr 15, PvdA).

And even though I was gobsmacked when I watched the exit-polls come in (a certain right-winged party has gotten a historical large amount of votes and corresponding seats in parliament; thus increasing polarisation which is never good), the initial shock has unexpectantly allready worn off, mainly because the other political parties don't seem to worry much. Most of all, who needs a productive political position anyway? A few months ago I watched the UK elections which were followed by a 5-day period of a hung parliament. Oh the commotion this caused! While in fact, the whole of Britain (and the rest of the world) kept going. Brits still went to school, to their off-license, watched Eastenders and drank tea.
The same goes for the Netherlands. On a day to day basis, I find myself feeling that nothing really changes; it still rains in june, I still have to do my own dishes and can eat, love and pray if I want to. And watch Eastenders. You don't see the result untill the long run. Because, unfortunately, political voting is like buying on credit; you don't get the bill plus surprise interest untill much later (and by then your new leather sofa that seemed like a good idea at the time, is torn and out-of-fashion). Plus the governement is a company that beholds the right to change their house-rules and regulations at any given moment (and no take-backsies).
In the meantime, it's a comforting thought that politics follow the tidal current just like everything else in history; it comes and goes and there's nothing new under the sun.

Therese vs the Now

2010-05-07T10:01:00.010+02:00

This blog comes with a Flow-warning.

Due to recent insight (read: stress-related miniature breakdown), I picked up my Eckart Tolle book again (A new Earth). It was gaining dust in an overly crowded bookcase, constantly being overlooked in favour of other books. Those of you who don't know the guy; he's Oprah's filosopher, the spiritual guidance-counselor alternative to Dr.Phil.
I realised the damages inflicted by doing a not-enough-fulfulling job for 2 years, needed repairing and with a mother like mine (she's a yoga teacher at the Noordsingel), you don't turn to medication; you turn to yourself, your friends&family, a strongly recommended work-appointed social worker and a helpfull book. I guess it took another bathroom-incident to turn back to the pages Tolle carefully wrote down and this time actually read and register the words on them.
So yesterday, on my way back home from work, I was reading yet another chapter on how to diminish the (my) ego by living in the now. There was a lovely illustration about a wise man raising another man's baby, because he accepts everything that life throws at him. In his case a lying teenmom's illegal bastard-child. Calling myself back into the now, is a big thing at the moment for me. It keeps me from worrying to much about things that haven't happened yet, and probably never will.
So when the commuter train stopped mid-track, between Schiedam and Rotterdam, I wasn't all that bothered. After ten minutes it was announced that hooligans were walking on the rails, but that still didn't interfere with my poise. Even after the conductor walked past and told us that we would be 'a while', I was still able to take the situation as it was and stick to page 166.
My poise and appreciation of the situation was seriously taken to the test when my neighbour wanted to share his view of the ordeal (see how it went from 'situation' to 'ordeal'?). In his eyes "all hooligans are mooching, aggresive parasites on wellfare and the train should just run over them, because they all deserved to die."
Confused on how to deal with this candid confession, I was able to shrug and say something along the line of "well, that would give to much of a mess and it would take ages to clean up all the bodyparts...".
I guess that's not the positive, calm response that Tolle would like to see, but it did pull my neighbour (a rough builder who probably votes Wilders) out of his negative realm and triggered the businessman next to him to join in on the conversation. And that's how a possibly annoying experience turned into making fun of my groceries (builder:"you must be really hungry", whilst pointing to my tiny container of Conimex-paste), talking about the book, eavesdropping on other passengers' conversations, cracking jokes that contained the words 'train' or 'track' and sharing Stophoest-sweets. Not bad at all.

But, in all fairness, I was relieved when the train reversed back into Schiedam and I could continue my journey to Rotterdam by subway. Because maintaining the 'here and now' (in hindsight the 'there and then') is pretty hard work! And I'm just not my best self when I'm getting hungry. Ok, I also wanted to go home to play with my new WII-game... In conclusion I think that mister Tolle has probably never been stuck in a train before; for God's sake, if it's not snow or wet leaves, it's hooligans bringing the railwaysystem down to a standstill!

But, that's all in the past now. Untill the next footballmatch. Or snowstorm. Or autumn.

Rotterdam vs the world...

2010-05-03T21:16:00.004+02:00

My parents complained that my short videoclip 'suffering selfportraits' was too negative. They felt it didn't portray me fully, that it didn't capture my personality as a whole. Of course not! It's a range of failed selfportraits, of half, blurred, dark or double Therese's. I still think it's hilarious, but I guess we just don't share the same sense of humour. I still wonder where I get mine from... My green eyes and sense of guilt come from my mother. The mystery of why I don't look like my brother remains unsolved, although he seems to relate most to my sarcasm. Also, he is one of the funniest guys I know.
So my mum and dad suggested to make a clip of all the pretty pictures I took on my latest trip to Thailand. And as a good, attentive, obliging daughter, the only appropriate response was:
"Now, where is the fun in that?"
And I did what everybody would do when facing such a challenge:
I made an ode to Rotterdam. Therese-style. Ha! That'll teach them.

Dear mum & dad: I love you guys, but after 31 years you should know what I do with usefull suggestions or good ideas.

Home.

2010-04-06T20:43:00.013+02:00

With my watch and my mind still on Thai time, as opposed to the more regularly used human time, I completely mucked up my arrival. I was convinced that by flying back on tuesday morning realy early on a 12 hour flight, combined with the time difference, I would arrive on wednesday morning. It wasn't until 5 hours before landing at Schiphol that I realized that is was, and would be still tuesday when I reached home...
Typical.
Changing back my biological clock and time-set aren't the only things I have to get used to after only one month in Thailand. When my mother picked me up from the trainstation, the first thing I asked her was: "Taxi by meter, ok? yes?". At home I searched my bags for toiletpaper before going for a wee, and afterwards threw the papers in the bin. Another amazing thing happened: I walked over a pedestrian crossing (zebrapad) and you know what? The cars actually stopped! I was so confused, I proceeded carefully whilst signaling a quiet 'Khap kun khaaaa' (Thai for 'thank you') to the drivers. Next on at the supermarket, I felt the need to negotiate on the price of vegetables; 1 euro for just a cucumber seems a bit steep, if you can get a Phad Thai for that money. Or a green curry with tofu... Or a coconutshake.
Ah well, I'm sure I'll settle in soon enough, I already put my gasheater back on and bought (and ate) some real cheese. In the meantime, I'll share my top 10 on Thailand:

10) Going home
I never appreciated hot showers and my green Dick Boons boots more than after spending only one month in Thailand.
9) KOC at Moon Star Studio
and talking to (not as much 'with') Erlend and Eirik. With a big thank you to Renika and Patricia.
8) Black lake and Karaoke
realising I'm my own guide again.
7) Watching the stars with a powerblack out and forgetting tides from a hammockmill
this also included a Snickers-shake, so I don't feel this needs more explanation.
6) Coconutshakes (and ice-coffees and ice-tea)
i hardly drank cocktails or alcohol, why would you with such marvelous other drinks? Good company also helps. With a big thank you to Beatrice, Vanessa and Manuel.
5) Food from a certain stall at Soi Rammbuttri.
I never ate so much rice in my life; for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Occasionally alternated with pad thai noodles. And then right back to rice.
4) Pai land
a small self-regulating farm right outside Pai; the sweetest thing I've ever seen (apart from the baby-kittens, but they were also in Pai).
3. Another hammock moment, but now with Peter's brother playing the guitar@Koh Chang
I was lying in his hammock, completely hidden from everything, liked an unpeeled banana while he was just quietly played his guitar. For me this was the closest to heaven I'd ever been.
2. Pai.
I could probably fill a whole top 10 with Pai-related events, but I won't (I dedicated 3 blogs to Pai and it has to end somewhere). I already feel like I cheated by referring to Pai land seperately. With a big thank you to Kat, Carol and Thomas (our little troop).
1. Diving @Koh Tao.
Yes, I'm as surprised as you are. For someone who doesn't like snorkeling (water-in- the-tube-trauma) and has a small fear of live swimming fish, getting my Padi was a big thing, and I never would have dreamt of enjoying it the way I did. Diving is like being part of a giant big screen television, but better.
With a big thank you to Jesse.

So, this is it. I'm back home. Bags are unpacked, laundry is drying, pictures are being developed and friends and family met again. My routine had missed me a lot, it couldn't wait to suck me right back in (it's just not the same without me). But hopefully I'll slow down a bit to a more Thai-time pace...

Big mistake!

2010-04-05T13:37:00.009+02:00

Now what would a blog be without bloopers, also known as travelers mistakes. Their not all mine, I should add. Could be, but aren't.

T. Dutch, 31
"So this 'friendly' guy at the National museum warned me that the Grand Palace I was heading for was closed today at 3. Yeah, what a coincidence! So he was nice enough to literaly throw me in a tuktuk and get me towards this other budha (and a tourist information office and a tailor). When I got back to the guesthouse I read in my travelguide about this well known friendly-guy-telling-you-things-are-closed-scam..."

K. Irish, 28
"My luggage got lost at the airport, and I never pray for anything. But now I went to the grand temple to pray for my luggage to get back safely. When I left the temple I discovered that my brand new, custom-made, yellow Nike's had been stolen. And I wasn't even at the grand temple...."

T. German, 22
"I didn't even like Vietnam, but being tricked into a gambling scheme and losing 2500 dollars didn't help..."

NN. German, ?
"On one of my first travels I didn't lock my backpack properly and when I got to the guesthouse I noticed that someone had gone through my stuff. Luckily I hadn't left anything in there, but it's well known that things get stolen on the nightbus."

T. Dutch, 31
"I had just been warned that things get stolen on the nightbus. But when I got to the guesthouse I noticed that someone had gone through my not properly closed backpack. Unfortunately I had left some money in there and I lost 4000 Baht."

I. English, 47
"So I had this tuktuk-driver that was supposed to wait for me till I was done visiting this temple. I had made the mistake of paying him in advance and when I came back, he was gone. And so had the tuktuk."

B. English, 19
"In India I got pressured into buying this silk top, that was way over budget. But tuktuk-drivers can be very persuasive..."

T. Dutch, 31
"I thought I got a good deal buying two tv-series on dvd on the Chatachuk weekendmarket. When I got home, E4's 'skins' turned out to be 'Desperate Housewives season 6' and only works on my laptop. And the other one? Well, let's say that Simon Walker of 'the Mentalist' is just as handsome in black&white..."

Please feel free to add your (or others) mistakes in the commentsection below. My next blog will be written from home, see you soon!

Celebration!

2010-03-24T13:58:00.007+01:00

For my two weeks anniversary (an occasion worth celebrating) of surviving Thailand more or less gracefully (you can decide after reading this blog), I treated myself to a spicy tuna salad. Of course this being Thailand, I don't know what to expect. I imagine something along the line of, you know, peppered tuna on a leaf of lettuce or two, but you never really know. After rice for breakfast (with green curry, vegetables and tofu) and rice for lunch (the sticky kind with mango and coconutsauce), I fancied a change, and I must admit, I'm not dissapointed.
I also did a bit of therapy shopping today, because I'm taking preventive malaria-medication and I call this urge a side-effect, next to the sleepiness. Also being forced in a local, hired outfit (I wasn't decent enough to enter the Grand Palace apparently) consisting of a, let's say loosefitting, synthetic blouse combined with a ankle-length wrapskirt (annex picnic-blanket) and almost ditching the 500 Baht deposit so I could keep these items, I realised how bored I am with the clothes that I brought with me.
The mute woman at the stall made some awkward noises, before it dawned on me that she was 'talking' to me. She blew up her mouth and cheeks, holding her arms in an uncharming manner on her hips and sticking out her non-existing belly. I guessed she tried to look like a...snowman? Oh. Or like me, I realized as she frantically pointed towards the rail with the 'large' t-shirts. Yeah, yeah, yeah. This would never happen at H&M.
I must be the only tourist in Thailand not losing any weight, but I'm actually finding my clothes tighter as I go along. A fact that has nothing to do with my washbasin-laundry skills, I want to add. Hopefully replacing the Green Ice Teas with water will help. These dearly beloved 'Green' Ice teas contain 13 teaspoons of suger per half liter. I was drinking 2 liters a day. Bare in mind that the iceteas already replaced the ice-coffees (wonderfully delicious, mainly because it consists of condensed milk and even more sugar).
Crap. I don't even like water... Ah well, maybe if I put some in my Ice Teas....

quick recap of the last few days:
Sukothai: lots of ruins, statues and ruined statues.
Bangkok: I met not one, but two Australian backpackers! In their early seventies, brothers-in-law, asking me for directions. Yeah. I know, the irony.
KOC: nobody ever heard of the Moon Star Studios, but I found them and two lovely local students to share the experience (and Erlend-jokes, sorry Erlend) with.

Koh Chang tomorrow, and I plan to get really bored there!

Nice as Pai

2010-03-19T11:44:00.009+01:00

So, all my friends that had been to Thailand, told me, no, made me promise to go to Pai. Luckily for me, I actually listened. Pai is a small place in the north part of Thailand, a 4 hour busdrive from Chiang Mai. It's actually what I expected Thailand to be like. It's no wonder you hear stories about tourist going to Thailand to travel, but just end up staying in Pai for the whole trip. Rumour has it, it doesn't get better than this; that's a bit scary, I suppose. Don't worry, I will leave this Pairadise, just not today (as originally planned....). Here's some reasons whai I love Pai:
- you survive the walk over a small bamboo bridge towards a tiny place called the Riverside Bar. Here you can just sit down, sloped against your triangular pillow and eat a nice bowl of muesli, fruit and yoghurt.
- there's Jason Mraz and Bob Marley everywhere.
- the bartenders play Thai checkers on a homemade checkerboard with bottlecaps for pieces (Chang vs. Singha).
- there are no ladies thrusting a wooden frog under your nose, that makes a crickety noise when you rub it with a stick. Don't get the picture? Keep it that way. It's horrible.
- every night is a bonfire night at the Riverside Bar.
- Major electricity black out? No problem, you just pull out your spare candles and have another mojito (for 70 baht)
- there's the cutest little farm at the bottom of a hill, near (i use the term 'near' loosely, because it's a 3,5 hour walk) a waterfall; they grow their own crops, and make you icecoffee or mangoshakes, if you want. Or you can just sit there and watch them cut coconuts and sing another Bob Marley song. Their motto: peace+love=us.

-Police-officers are allowed side-jobs without worrying about conflict of interest (then again, they don't seem to worry about Health and Safety issues either). Like this policeman who dubbs as a guitarplaying singer to supplement on his income..
- it's where 2 Ozzy girls and a German man find you in a cave (with a rather dissapointing waterfall) whilst reading Atomised on a rock, and decide to adopt you like a stray Dutchie-dog.
- Pai is also where you end up with 4 (four!) babycats falling asleep in your lap. And I don't even like cats all that much (I do like kittens....).

leaving Pai makes you realise it's all downhill from here (if you survive the journey of 762 hairpin-curves, that is)

Everybody Pai now....

2010-03-18T12:00:00.010+01:00

What more can I say? Ah, yes:

And maybe a little bit of this;

And I almost forgot to tell you about;

Oe, oe, oe, and there's this (of course);

I'll leave you with this one (or two). I have to sign off, polish my helmet, you know...

Homesick (past tense)

2010-03-17T10:36:00.006+01:00

Warning for reader: I am now safe and very happy in Pai, but I did feel a bit homesick earlier this week. Since I'm a lousy sugarcoater and I didn't want a 'now I'm in Bangkok and now I'm in Chiang Mai-blog', I will bore you with my feelings.

It hit me when I least expected it. I've actually been waiting for a diarrhea-attack (still waiting...), so when I was pushed and shoved by homesickness, I was unsure on how to fight back and therefor took it like a girl, just lying down really.
Everything was going quite well, met a friendly guy on the nighttrain to Chiang Mai, bumped into him again when we had both rented some bicycles, had a lovely breakfast (him: full English, me: pancake with banana) and cycled through the city. We saw heaps of markets and temples. I mean no disrespect, but the first, let's say three, are impressive: 'Look at the woodcarving', 'wow, it's a dragon', 'amazing buddha'. But the dragons become horses, elephants, tigers etc. The incents smell the same everywhere, the buddhist monks are just men in orange robes checking the internet on their computers and I felt exhausted. Not just tired of temples, cycling, stairs, the heath, but also of my company (not his fault) and mostly of myself. I apologised to my newfound (and lost again) friend and returned to my room in the guesthouse, where I wasn't entire sure what to do with myself.
What did I want? That seems to be the big (reoccuring) question at this time in my life. So what does a girl do when facing these demons and dilemma's (nice title..). She sleeps and then she sleeps some more before posting a distressing status on her Facebook.
Thing was, I received so many do's and don'ts, but no footnotes on how to deal with homesickness. But, for future reference for fellow travellers (and holiday-makers), a small warning:
- you are probably not immune to homesickness. It will happen. When you least expect it, or in my case, when you are very tired.
- diacure doesn't help.
- also do not, I repeat Do Not drown yourself in sorrows (or the River Kwai or any other large quantity of fluids).
- take the advise of my social worker; just walk, take notice of your surroundings, but no! hard! thinking!.
- give in to your exhaustion and sleep it off.
- the moment will pass. This is also the reason nobody tells you about it; because they forget. When you look at the pictures, you will think 'lovely weather, good food, hurray for swimmingpools, temples, more temples and a nighttrain'. And not 'god I'm so lonely', 'I don't even know what to do in Chiang Mai, let alone in my life'.
- other lovely tips and encouraging words included Ben Folds and cupcakes, Tigerbeer (and other alcoholic beverages) and the mantra: it's normal, it will pass, just relax and enjoy it (it being an unknown variable).
This was mainly monday and tuesday after cooking and eating a pad Thai, a green curry, cashewnut chicken curry, chicken and coconutsoup, fishcakes, rose-apple and black sticky rice pudding, I felt a whole lot better. Meow's Pad Thai cookery class is a definite thumbs up and cheer up. And off course, everything is better in Pai!

yes, I am staying in a cute little hut, and yes, that is in fact a bucket of Mojito.

Not in the Lonely Planet...

2010-03-14T09:13:00.006+01:00

The best way to make sense of Bangkok for me is to see it as the 'upside-down day' episode of Spongebob. You can't lock your hosteldoor from the outside, no, only from the inside. They don't just pour sugar over their strawberries, no, it's a yukky mixture containting salt. When they say something is closed, it's actually opened (but he just wants you to take a tuktuk to the Tourist Information office). Smiling and looking down means 'No' and sometimes 'Yes' also means 'No'.
So when people kept telling me to get out of the city, so stay away from the red shirts, do not go anywhere NEAR the demonstrations, guess what I did?
(this is the moment that I usually start guessing, even though I'm asked a rethorical question)
Yup. I went there and took a good look all these protesters. I sat down next to another guy eligible for white-people-tax with the words: 'can I sit here? Safety in numbers and all?'. But he didn't get my joke (us two versus 800.000+ people; nu.nl says 80., but that's a bit on the low side, and they're expecting more to come this evening)
It reminded me of Queensday, but everyone is wearing red instead of orange. It is confusing though, everyone seems to have another reason for wearing their red shirts (fashion not being one of them) and to shake their heart-shaped rattles. There weren't many tourists there, even though Ko Sam Road is right around the corner. The few pale-faced, shortswearing, shy looking people that were there, greeted me with a look of recognition. It was actually quite nice, because, well, Bangkok is not really my city. It's too big and the tuktuk drivers, shopkeepers, padthaicookers and taxichauffeurs just won't leave me alone. But here everyone does, or they just look at me curiously, smile and wave. They just want to talk about the cause and not take your money.
As I am (was) writing this, a man wearing a 'red in the land' shirt and matching bandana plants a flag behind me. Promptly a mother places her two children next to me and takes our picture.
God I wonder what that flag sais. I am being photographed a lot today. Let's just call it even for all the intrusive pictures I took today.

West-Kruiskade, eat your heart out!

2010-03-12T16:32:00.004+01:00

I woke up at 10:45 this morning, convinced that it was hours earlier. But it wasn't, so this morning the cold shower was a warm welcome to today. I also hold up my first taxi (the first of many firsts, I presume) and let him take me to the Hua Lampong trainstation where I buy my 2nd class, low, AC nighttrain-ticket to Chang Mai for sunday for 841 Bhat. Remember the Tourist Info lady? Ha!
Walked into China Town, and trust me, the West-Kruiskade (Chinatown of Rotterdam) has nothing on this place. I was excited when I discovered shoe-street, found a lovely fake-leather, pink bag at bag-street, had a giggle at everything-made-of-paper-street, but was more than ready to leave China Town when I got lost in chickenfeet, dried shrimp and all-the-intestent-you-can-eat-AREA. Yeah, that put me off my breakfast and my lunch.
Being Dutch, you have to show the locals your cycling-skills, and I made my country proud today... The narrow backstreets of an hitherto undiscovered China Town (motorcycle&tuktuk-parts-street!!) proved somewhat of a challenge, but we made it, in one piece. We also took the ferry to 'old town', where the main attraction is white people in shorts on bikes, yelling 'hello, hello' back to the toddlers (daycare is 20 Bhat per child per day! Incredibly cheap, but they don't seem to learn anything other than to smile and wave....) and high-fiving them in the passing.

I have no intention in turning this into a political blog, cause it's not, mainly because I don't know much about politics other then when I'm supposed to turn up to vote whatever the 'Kieswijzer' tells me to. What I do know is that there is police, military people and riot vans everywhere. My bag got searched when I entered the MBK shopping mall (yeah yeah yeah, I also went shopping and saw a movie today). They frowned at my 'hartige Sultana' that was left in my bag. And on the way back, my taxi had to slow down so that an armed guard could check it with a flashlight. The bizarre thing is that tourist-info-lady told me that everyone is fleeing the city, because of the protests, and, bicycle-tour-lady said that everyone from surrounding provinces are coming to Bangkok, because of the protest.
Go figure. Ah well. Hopefully bridge over river Kwai tomorrow.
ps. About that movie: it included a Karaoke version of the Thai national anthem, nobody sang along though. Very interesting to see, unimaginable in Holland.

safe, sound and Nivea

2010-03-11T10:03:00.005+01:00

I've never been even near Asia. Actually the closest I've ever come to Asia was buying an Indian cookbook after developing an unconditional love for curries whilst living in Shrewsbury. I went to Marocco, but that's Africa. So with the bare purchase of a returnticket, I got one step closer to adding another continent on my 'have seen' list.
Of course my flight is delayed... Which I'm seeing as a practice in concentration. I am compensated with a food voucher: two and a half hours of my human life equal 15 euros (or a fish and chips meal). During the meal I get to listen to Krezip and Rene Froger in de 'Old Amsterdam'. The rest of the time I spend in a lounge area where I am treated to endless views of Hollandish Horizons; trees, creeks, cows and more windmills than I can count. All this joy accompanied by the soft snores of my next-chair neighbour. I've never felt more Dutch in my life.
Eleven hours, two meals and one-and-a-half movies later I arrive in Bangkok. Analyst that I am, I start comparing, trying to make sense of it all. Fruitless off course, backstreets of Miami, sandy islands in Greece, horse-and-carriages in Egypt, nor the old North of Rotterdam have nothing to do with Bangkok. I'm just to fucking tired.
I know it's the worst thing to do when suffering from a jet-lag, but I allow myself one hour of sleep and cold shower. The cold wasn't really an option. I am cranky and even though there is nobody here to annoy with my downish mood, I do have to spent another 28 days with myself. Let alone the rest of my life.
I finally relax when I smell the Nivea sunscreen that I put on my face and arms. Funny how that worked for me; I take that scent with me wherever I go.

And then.
Leaving political drama's behind with recounting votes in Rotterdam, PVV-problems in the Hague, I enter another political issue over here. Apparently there are large protests scheduled for tomorrow, and even the locals are fleading the city. Or so the lady at the Tourist Info Shop told me, but maybe she was just trying to sell me a load of tickets outside of Bangkok. Anyway, I am told not to wear red (in favour of the monarchy) and not to wear yellow (supportive colour of Taksin (?)). So much for my lovely new King Louis dress covered in large red & yellow flowers....

ps. my camere doesn't seem to like the heat... so no pictures just yet.

Tourschedule de Thailand

2010-03-05T17:26:00.004+01:00

The original plan was 'there is no plan'. I just booked a returnticket to Bangkok after not to carefull consideration and that was it. So I guess the only plan was to go home after 28 days.
But other people's enthousiasm is contagious and slowly but surely small options ("yeah, I'll think about it...") become e-tickets and booked excursions via obscure and not-so-obsure websites. Because if you see this "เพราะ นรก ผู้ รู้ สิ่ง นี้ หมาย ถึง หรือ ไม่", in your inbox, who knows if it says 'thank you for your interest in the KOC-concert' or 'thank you for your creditcard information, we will now empty your bankaccount'. I don't care how charming those frisky looking letters are!
When people ask me where I'm going, I tell them that I 'start in the middle (by that I mean Bangkok), go up, stay there, go back down to Bangkok and then even more southwards to the islands on the right. And then back to the middle.
Yeah. Geographically challenged, remember? That's why I drew this helpfull map!
Things on my to-do list are a bicycle-tour through Bangkok (the famous Co van Kessels classic), Kings of Convenience concert (23th of march in the Moon Star Studios), exploring markets, admiring buddha's, realizing when you've seen one, you've seen them all, cooking lessons in Chiang Mai, finding Poi (or was it Pai?), sharing a hammock with Jason Mraz (mp3), climbing a Treehouse on Ko Chang and regaining some poise, peace and playfulness.
Or as my Outlook unavailability wizzard explains my absence:
I'm eating fish, collecting seashells and decorating Australian backpackers.
(I can't write 'versieren', my parents read this blog! Oh wait...)
Anyway, it's almost T-time!

Bare essentials

2010-02-26T11:03:00.007+01:00

If preparation is half the fun and sharing double the pleasure, I should use this equasion to write this blog and share my preparation on my 'tour de Thailand'. I'm not gone yet, my leaving date isn't even close, but I have started packing. Or rather; I'm making piles of stuff I should not forget.
I've asked around at more experienced travellers what I should do, don't and bring on this holiday, but all I get are hazy stares and mumbled words like 'jealous', 'ah Bangkok' or 'can I go with you'. But occasionaly I get a practical advise or a referral to a website. I found www.khaosanroad.com/firstfewdays (thank you Janou) and www.travelfish.org very helpfull. Also, the Trotter-travelguide I'm bringing has been to Thailand more than it's actual owner, so thank you Leyla, for lending me an experienced guide. (referral to 'Are you experienced?', geddit? Oh, nevermind)
I frowned when my friend Roxan suggested to buy a pair of shorts, because last time I wore a pair of shorts I was 19, size 10 and worked at Camp Summit, New Jersey. But apparently they prove practical when travelling or just sitting without showing too much. So I bought my first pair of shorts in 12 years. And once again, they will only we worn in another continent.
Should I bring a towel? Yes. Do i need a coat? Of course not! But bring a vest (thanks Jelle). Do I need a sleepingbag? No, but take this travelsheet (thanks again Roxan). Do I need a third bikini? No, my friend said. Ha! Luckily I have the final say in that one! From what I've heard the only size 14 goods made in Asia, end up in an H&M in Europe anyway. Another usefull advise: 'stop worrying, you can buy everything you need there, Apie' (thanks Vithya). And buy tie-rips to close your bag and duct-tape for unforseen repairs (thanks Mariska). Tie-rips I could see happen, but duct-tape? I felt like preparing for a robbery, not a holiday. Because everyone knows that tie-rips, ducttape, next to a balaclava and a black nylon sports-rucsac are the bare essentials for a robbery, so that just felt wrong. Plus... what Vithya said.
Of course my final preparation revolves around music; what MP3's to install on my phone. Ha! Didn't see that one coming, did you? But music is important to me, and this (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-_zLOnDnFpw) will be my 'calm down song'. Knowing me, I probably need it.

the (temporary) extinction of the tiger

2010-02-06T11:35:00.001+01:00

The ten days of IFFR go so fast, just a few more blinks of the eye of the tiger and another brilliant week will be over. The tigers are walking on their last (rear) legs. Exhaustion, booze, stolen kisses, awkward customers and lunch-bags (what happened to the treats, people?) are taking their toll, pushing the brave tigers over the edge.
As always, now is a time for reflection, but since I have no intention of turning this blog into an evaluation, I'll share some older memories with you first.

I mentioned it before, I used to work in the Pathe cinema during my studies. This means that I've spent 5 years making and selling popcorn, pouring liters of coke, cleaning chairs, disposing garbage, cleaning white doors, washing puke out of a guy's hair, sweeping floors and selling tickets.
Once a year the building, my building, was taken over by IFFR-people. And I hated it. They were arrogant snobs, looking down on us 'commercial guys', prohibiting people to take their coffee into the cinema, sticking posters on the walls (leaving tape-marks that I would have to clean up afterwards) and they did not have to wear a uniform, like us, in a time the girls still had to wear a skirt, yellow shirts and a scarf tied around the neck. Throwing down the IFFR banners was a ritual that I looked forward to most, especially at the end of the Volkskrant-dag.
So what happened?
The parties, getting to know the people (I made sure the location-manager knew my name and where to find me), a sense of unfullfillment in regular day-job causing a longing for a trip down Pathe-lane; just selling tickets.
(picture was taken 2 years ago, btw)
During my Pathe-years I bonded with Tanja over an IFFR-incident. As some of you might know, IFFR people take their refreshments very serious. That is, coffee and espresso, not so much the popcorn or sweets, which, contrary to what happens in the box-office, practically remains untouched for ten days. And those who do not bring their own flask of herbal tea, are condemned to queue. I also had a woman who refused to pay 1,80 for her hot water, because 'she had brought her own tea bags'... A few years ago Pathe only had one (1) coffee-machine. For over one-thousand (1000) customers. Can you imagine that? Now picture the same machine breaking down due to heavy usage. So I had to climb on top of the counter and shout to an angry mob that there was no more coffee, and that yes, this also meant no more capuccino (or tea or espresso). Well, that culturally responsible, environmentally and otherwise appropriate left wing crowd turned terribly sour and was ready to lynch me. I survived but sharing this with Tanja left us with similar scars and a fear of Volkskrant-readers.

The films aren't really the highlight for me. I was watching a documentary about the very serious problem of soil-polution and illegal garbage dumps in Italy. I guess I wanted to see something responsible, but kept dozing off untill a text-message from Tanja saved me. Of course having chips with her at Schippers-chips is much more important than watching this, well, garbage.
Or yesterday, queueing for one hour and then falling asleep in a film about loud, drinking French college-students. Or watching ecoline-stains change colour, for an hour and a half. Falling asleep is casual damage or a welcome powernap, depending on how tired you are. Over the years I also learned to get up and walk out, a skill proving to be very helpfull in the rest of my life.

Of course IFFR is also the perfect place to rebound and creating new memories that you might like to forget as soon as the festival is over. Now these war-stories about single and not-so-single men are not suitable for a public blog, and should only be shared in a one-2-one dialogue. Even then they contain a kiss-and-don't-tell-clause. You can always ask, but I don't guarantee a satisfying answer.
For now, this tiger is going to bed and gain some sleep before the grand finale of the End-party, the Volkskrantdag and the volunteers-party.

Pathe-tic

2010-01-30T20:58:00.000+01:00

Once a year I'm back where I belong, where I'm truly happy. Who cares about a masters degree in Criminology if you can sell tickets at a festival without being paid for it?
Because that's exactly what I'm doing right now at Iffr. Where other volunteers ask me if I don't find the box office in Pathe claustrofobic or boring, I have to say 'no'. And I really don't, its my favourite location, for the simple reason that it's a place where I've worked for 5,5 years during my studies and I've always been very happy there. So nothing brings me more joy than telling people that a film is sold out, or in very rare (and usually Korean) occasion available, than from my chair behind bulletproof glass in a cubicle also known as 'the aquarium'. And who wouldn't love a dialogue like this:
- You could also go see 'Vapor Trail'?
- What? that film is over 260 minutes!
- really? Wow, I've had relationships that didn't even last 260 minutes...

At the Pathe Cinema's there's also the extra perk of 'common crowd', youngsters seemingly unablivious to the fact that the Tiger (symbol of iffr) has taken over the city. They point to the bulletinboard above the ticket-box and ask if we don't have any movies this evening. This is the moment when I smile apologetically and say that we have over 300 films and if they are interested in a black and white Japanese film on gangs in Tokyo or a familydrama from the Philipenes that they are more than welcome to buy a ticket. But if they want to see Avatar or A serious man, they have to go to the south-end of Rotterdam. Usually they turn at their feet when they hear 'black and white'. Honestly, I can't blame them on that part. Most sought after film after 'a single man' and 'Dial M for murder', at Pathe yesterday was Avatar...
The funny thing is, besides spotting the confused youth from a mile away, that the Tiger is absolutely everywhere. It's virtually impossible to miss it; it's on posters on the streets throughout the city, it's in newspapers, I found a notification on my bike and even on some money. The postman-bag in various colours is the must-have accesoiry this filmseason.
Sadly, unless you're a seventeen year old yob on a first date, monday the 8th of February, everything is back to normal and fashion and life in Rotterdam no longer includes tigers.

I ffr, U ffr, We all ffr

2010-01-26T21:26:00.000+01:00

There's something magical about that first day of the International Film Festival of Rotterdam (iffr). It's full of promise, you are not yet intimidated by long queues of people while you are parking your bike (that comes when you turn round the corner and find out that the first guy has been there since 4 in the morning). You don't know yet that the film you want to see most will be sold out (both online and at the box-office). Armed with your 'Volkskrant-bijlage', you walk towards a volunteer who smiles at you welcomly, helping you to get your seats, you hope.

But if you're that volunteer it's different kind off tension. My mother is trained not to call me unless it's to have lunch at the Doelen. Even my colleagues know not to expect to much from me this week. I'm otherwise engaged. My friends invitation to go see 'have you heard about the Morgans?' is replied with a somewhat annoyed 'I can't, its Iffr (duh), so neither can you, not unless you go to the Kuip' (as if). Iffr to me means holiday in my own city, a city I'm still proud off, even when I'm angry with my country (it happens). A holiday filled with old & new friends (and ex-lovers), parties, crap movies where you can catch up on your sleep and great films that you will talk about in years to come.
So as I walk into the main building (Doelen), and greet the people I see once a year, the knot in my stomach finally unties. I collect my bag, my t-shirt and my drinking-ticket, and we're back.

That is, untill my supervisors place me at the end of the line (few customers, so really boring), near the exit (cold!). There's no coffee and the first customer doesn't even ask what he want's, he just starts screaming his complaints and after the second customer my computer deletes half of the tickets. I forgot, Iffr sucks, sometimes.

But, with some excitement I open up my first 'lunch package' for dinner and thank God for rolls with normal cheese and chicken (instead of that creamy fruit salad they gave us two years ago). The supposed apple square is greeted with less enthousiasm, but proves to be bonding material with other volunteers ("what do you think it is?", "I'm not sure" "Hi, I'm Therese etc.". And, it's Iffr, so when I make some people happy with tickets that were sold out online and nobody complains about the 1€ transaction fee implemented this year, I'm happy and I remember why I'm here (the free movie-vouchers help).

Technically it's not really the first day since I've already had box-office training, e-mail conversations about the rubbish reservation system with my best friend, planned my work-life around my Iffr-life, walked out on my first film (Kamui, sorry, I draw a line at Japanese Ninja's with a visible blue screen), drank away my first tokens and got re-aquainted with the 'bouwploeg' at last saturday's livingroom party.

Twelve more days, and I'm looking forward to every single one of them, (accept for that last sunday of course).

Ice ice baby

2010-01-10T16:26:00.000+01:00

Meanwhile back home I'm freezing my ass off. Facebook is full of charming holiday pictures of friends abroad (the whole reason why I started this blog in the first place). Friends in the sea (with and without turtles or other water-creatures), friends on a beach somewhere, local children with bright but incomplete teeth and beautifull blue skies oddly interrupted by green mountains. All smiles, shorts and surfboards.
My reality at the moment revolves around snow, ice and frostbites. I'm not complaining, because I'm leaving for Thailand in two months time, and the warm blogs and
cozy pictures count as 'research'. But since it's my blog, I can write about whatever I want.
For now my bedroom is so cold I can no longer sleep there, not without NASA-approved hypothermal underwear, and apparently it's sold out everywhere. I have ice-flowers on the inside of my kitchendoor-window, the orangejuice in my fridge has iced up (yes, that's in my fridge, not freezer) and I'm using kitchen towels to cover the floor so that my feet aren't so cold. Bribing myself with coffee and a shower just to get out of bed no longer works. Bare rent really is bare with PWS in Rotterdam. I also realise I just killed any chance I had to promote or sublet my house for the month I'll be gone...
All this caused my semi-permanent move into the living room where my life now looks like the IKEA-add where a student lives around her four-poster bed. With me it's more like a trashed sofa-bed surrounded by all the knit-wear I could find. But, I'm warm, I have some feeling back in my toes, so I'm happy.
This also has something to do with my new best friend.
So what if he's a cheap (12€), extremely loud bastard who waits for me in the kitchen and follows me into the shower. He's dependable and keeps me warm, although he was intimidated by his competition at first.... but at the moment, I'm glad to have both!

The roast of 2009

2010-01-02T17:28:00.000+01:00

I have to be honest, 2009 really wasn't that bad for me. It was pretty average, I've loved some, and I've lost some. I saw a reasonable amount of good films (Bronson, 500 days of summer) and some crappy ones (attempted David Lynch's Lost Highway again). Discovered new musicians, some of which aren't that old (Jason Mraz, Elbow, Kyteman, the Smiths). Saw old friends (Anastasia) and met new friends (buurman Sander).
But, this wouldn't be a proper blog if I didn't have something to bitch about.

So here are the things I decided to leave behind in 2009. I burned them.
Literally.
Number one is bad behaviour from guys towards me. That means: lying to me (about age, other girlfriends...) or not wanting to get to know me better (that didn't get him very far). Although, I could miss their nonsense, they do make good stories, but none of them are appropriate to share on a public blog.
Next on that list is overmeddling ex-girlfriends. Well, one in particular. If you're not sleeping with him, you have no business telling him what to do and who with... Of course the spineless dude attached to this fine example of a she-devil also stays behind in 2009 (see the first point on this list).
Number 3 is catalogue store Wehkamp. It's been four months and I'm still waiting for my special edition Fight Club dvd. They have sent me the alternative I suggested, unfortunately they also billed me for it. Apparently the concept of customer-service is too much to take in. So, forget them, they lost me for a client.
Then, four, on a more personal notice; I from now on refuse to feel guilty for not calling my grandmother as often as she would like. She ruined that when she gave me a box of chocolates way past it's expiration date and already opened saltine crackers for Christmas.
5. The compulsory finishing of books. You know the feeling, you're reading it, but are slightly dissapointed. You know it's a 'must read', but you feel like the 400 pages in front of you are not only wasting your time, but also keeping you from reading a book that is worth the effort. If it sucks, it sucks. So put the book down, it will not get any better, so who cares how it ends?
Another thing that gets left behind in 2009 is crappy volunteerjobs. I really don't mind volunteering. As a matter of fact I think it's a good (cheap) way to attend festivals, what's more, be a part of it. But, being stuck in a mouldy tent on a rainy campsite, or breaking down 80 army-beds from a dormitory and stuffing disgusting duvets in a binbag is not my idea of having fun. Neither is welcoming other volunteers with a large wooden sign on an island with wind power 8 nor scanning paper tickets in the pouring rain. In those cases, it's just not worth it.
(looking forward to volunteering at IFFR though!)

Now the last one (bare with me, I'm almost done) isn't really for me, but for my friend. I dedicate a bloody bonfire to the roast of B. He needs to get his beardy behind out of my superhero-best-friends head. There is no need for him to join us in 2010, he's not worthy of her awesomeness. That's all I'm saying.

Not a happy camper

2009-12-13T19:09:00.000+01:00

An update on the handing-out-home-baked-cookies-on-the-market-incident. Honestly, I felt like a fraud. It was these happy brigade womens passion; they did loads more volunteerwork with the disabled, fundraisers and other good causes. I ignore charity-donation-workers in the shoppingstreet (it's better for all parties to leave me alone on a saturday when I come out of the H&M) and lie to people going door to door for money, saying that I already sponsor the other charity involved with children, animals, fill in any random disease. Although I do donate to the WWF and buy Pink Ribbon Magazine, hell, I even took pictures of my naked boobs and posted them on the Viva-website for breastcancer. But this was something else...
For some reason people think you want to poison them if you just give them the cookies. For fun. To make them smile. Without any marketing trick. They are not used to it anymore, which is quite sad when you think about it. So they end up shaking their head and ignoring me with my biscuit-tin and hawaii-necklace. I actually found it difficult to walk up to people and offer them my glazed biscuits, to my own surprise. In total it was a good thing, it did make people happy (just not me as much as I'd hoped) and I have learned that trying to make people happy costs a lot of energy. The most heard comment was: 'no, thank you'. Which pleased me a lot, because people obviously still say thank you.
Within an hour or so, we got through our stash of heart-shaped cookies, sweets, waffles and cakes and I was frozen. One of the women suggested to get some more, and I swear I could have killed her. Not a very optimistic, happy respons, I know. I just wanted to sit down somewhere, warm up and drink hot chocolate with whipped cream. And I have to say, I might not be optimistic, but I am persuasive, because within 10 minutes we were packed up and ready to get out of there.

Happy camper

2009-12-11T21:03:00.000+01:00

I am not a natural optimist (soothing and consoling, yes, optimistic, no). For most of you, this will not come as a surprise.
I am intense (Reno).
I eat too much chocolate (Rob).
I am rude to clients (my current colleagues).
I am nice, but not as nice as my mother (Pieter).
I am caring (just like his mother; Teun).
But that's just other people's opinions, although the second one is probably true. And needless to say the last one didn't get much further than one coffee-date. I know I'm a lot to take in, and there has been a manual available on how to deal with me at Lowlands (ask Tanja) since 2006. Apart from priding myself with a good sense of humour, I congratulate myself with a fine taste in music. Maybe add drama-queen to that list (and plenty of other qualities that make me worth my while).
The psychological test I had to take for my job pointed out that I have a more than average inclination for depression. I knew that, but combine it with what I see at work everyday it's lethal combination ending up in pessimism. Although I prefer to call myself a realist, who always has a Plan B ready (B stands for backup, people).
But now a friend of ours is diagnosed with a braintumour and he needs all the positive thoughts he can get (next to surgery). My realism; "baby, it's a braintumour, not a splinter, he could die", makes my best friend cry, and we can't have that. So in order to practice some altruistic, happy, over-the-top-optimism, I am going to hand out heart-shaped-home-made cookies on the Rotterdam market tomorrow morning. Not by myself, oh no, there's actual groups doing this. For fun. I feel like I'm Wednesday Addams going to Camp Chippewa, but I'm pretty sure the 'blije brigade' (happy brigade) will be gentle with me, opti-virgo.

Yes, I spent my friday night baking. Ah well, I found myself drinking bottled water and munching on carrots last saturdaynight behind the till at Bazar Curieux, so it's progress.

This one is for Wouter (aka Walter Walletshaker).
To be continued...

Thereasily entertained

2009-11-29T15:11:00.000+01:00

I always knew I was easy to entertain. As an ex-boyfriend of mine pointed out when we were having the 'this isn't going to work'-conversation: "We have nothing in common. You are just happy sitting in the park with your friends eating french stick with cheese. It doesn't take much to make you happy". I still wonder what his point was, but at that moment he reduced a virtue greatly appreciated by my parents when I was a child ('here honey, have some paper and crayons.' 'Whoehoe! Fun!') to something questionable.
Of course I laughed at him, shook my head and blocked him from my MSN-list.
The same goes for my opinion on movies. Friends have stopped asking me whether I like a film or not, because I usually do. There is always an actor, scene or musical fragment that I appreciate. As long as I don't fall asleep, it's a decent film. Accept for David Lynch: I do not like his work, sorry. (Warning to my friends: this is open for debate, but not discussion; I gave up on Lynch as soon as that blue box hit Mullholland Drive.) I like anything that moves and do not discriminate on genre.

So when I heard the magic words 'Glitterclub, Wipneus and Pim', the 19-year old locked inside me, went 'Whoehoe! Fun!', because I hadn't seen those two dj's in twelve years. Just give me an Indian headband, a room filled with balloons and a technicolor plastic palmtree and I'm good to go. I didn't realise how good, untill the dj needed someone from the audience to come on stage and be the fourth member of the Village People. I found it necessary to scream 'ME!', jump up and down with my finger up in the air. Proud as a parrot, having waited years for this moment, I was invited to join a cowboy, a cop and a builder.
On stage, with previously mentioned Indian feathered hat strapped proudly around my head, I realised, while doing the YMCA shapes, that my new H&M dress, really wasn't so much a dress as more of an elongated shirt. My YMCA dance moves involved some extra gestures; mainly pulling down my black silk shirt-dress... That didn't stop me from shaking it for all I was worth.
According to Tanja, nobody saw a thing and for the rest of the night we were dancing, and playing with whatever came out of Wipneus and Pims toychest; balloons, air-guitars, whistles and cheesy songs.

It doesn't take much to make me happy, but friends and glitter make it even better!

Asia for beginners

2009-11-14T19:45:00.000+01:00

Inspired by my traveling friends, I thought it would be a good idea to go ahead and book a holiday myself. After carefull consideration I crossed India of my list (for now). Mainly because eating a lot of chicken Korma, drinking mango lassies and watching Bollywood movies is not going to prepare me for the big cultural shock people keep warning me about.

So I booked a return-ticket to Bangkok instead.

After all, Thailand is like Asia for beginners. My friend Leyla went by herself last year, and if she can do it, so can I. And even though I'm very excited and reading in my Nelles guide about Buddistic history and Thai royalty, I think my environment is even more thrilled than I am. My mum for one, really likes that I'm going. My dad, well, he's still stuck on the image of me on a motorbike, but he'll just draw me a Saint Christopher and he'll be fine.

My colleagues love that I'm going to Thailand. They keep throwing tips, information and unpronouncable cities at me. One has started to look online for hooker-free Thai places, which proved more of a challenge than achieving world peace. Apparently Phuket is nothing like the Beach, infested with prostitutes (pun intended) and Ko Chang the place to be. Check, check and double check.

Of course I am worried about al sorts of things. Missing my flight, mosquitos, getting upset by seeing the ugly fat old men with the 12-year old girls, what to pack, what to wear and getting lost. I mean, I don't even know where Naaldwijk is, I thought the 'Afsluitdijk' was a tunnel and for years imagened that Rotterdam was in the geographical place of The Hague (and the other way around).. So how am I supposed to find Ko Samui or know where Chiang Mai and Ko Phangan are? Not to mention the languague-barriere, accidentally insult locals (by wearing flipflops or something) and getting stomachbugs.

But for now, I am going to stop worrying, keep on reading (currently at page 52: the Great Palace in Bangkok) and ask you, fellow-travelers and stay-at-homers for your help; what to do, where to go and what to definitely avoid?

Fart

2009-11-01T09:42:00.000+01:00

Week 44 wasn't just about misinterpreting children's lyrics. My friday was more interesting than Perez Hiltons newsfeed. We had a company outing. And although I appreciate the value of teambuilding, I was relieved when the email we received stated that the programme of the day was going to be relaxed, involve coffee and cake and even more relaxed. So I wasn't worried that I 'had to bring gymclothes and a towel'; hey, that's what my yoga-teacher says!
Imagine my surprise that we got a lecture on the pro's and cons of pepperspray including the 'once in a lifetime' offer of experiencing it ourselves.
Needless to say I declined.
I did do the stormtrack, ran laps (blindfolded), take the fitness-test, did rugbyexcersizes and I shot with a Walther P5 semi-automatic (my shootingskills suck, by the way, but I have no intention of ever holding a gun ever again, I prefer my Wii-remote).

Later that evening I had another First Time.
How often does the folowing scenario occor?
Scenery: hallway of a small hotel in the middle of Rotterdam. Dimmed lights.
There's a handwritten note on the door and you follow the instructions; knock on the door, three times. A hooker, or lady of leisure if you will, -like creature in a black see-through negligé opens the door. She asks you and your friend to take of your coat and sit on the bed, where there's another one of them.
Intrigued you try to look at the girls, but you don't get past the massive sunglases. Naive you shrug (its probably a Russian thing), take of your bag and coat. The girl on the bed tugs your vest, but, you refuse to take it of. So she strokes your clothed shoulders and pulls your hair back, to place yet another massive pair of sunglasses on your nose, before inviting to to rest your head on the pillow of her lap.
It is quite comfortable actualy and the second you decide to relax and just enjoy this ride, the girls shout: 'bunny, bunny, bunny'. A guy dressed as a green easter-bunny jumps out of the closet, which you didn't even notice was there in the first place, and takes a polaroid picture of the four of you.
As you are rushed out of the room, you pay a small fee to become sole owner of the evidence of this 'incident'...

This happened at the Fart (fashion&art)-party at Hotel Central. The event was so hip, the press-people ratio was 1:10. So S-M-L-XL camera's were blocking our views of even more naked girls dancing on single-beds (most popular room in the hotel, for some reason), various corpses, paintings, films of paintings, holidayslides, dressed mannequins, free compliments and a roomsize Twistergame. Too bad my newly discovered Twisterskills didn't do much for us, whilst trying to get out of the hotel, it was so crowded.
But, we enjoyed ourselves a lot, and as I asked one of the Natasha's: I hope it was as good for you as it was for me.

week 44

2009-10-31T21:28:00.000+01:00

Another week has gone by and nothing newsworthy has happened over here. Jan Smit had an earinfection, Agassi's hair turned out to be fake and our prime-minister is rumoured to be asked for a high position in Europe. Whatever.
The only piece of information that holds the daily news hostage which is worth mentioning, is the Kinderen voor Kinderen riot. Apparently 16 (yes, sixteen) years ago this famous Dutch children's choir sang a song containing the words 'Allah Akbar' (this blog will now ruin my future career by merely mention this) in combination with Marocco, baklava and rijstevla (a custard-like substance). Now the PVV considers this indoctrination and unwanted propaganda of the islam by public television. Please bare in mind that this choir also sang tophits like 'on an unmanned island', 'mothers wish is law' and 'one leg on the curb'. Terrifying, right? I do have to say that the titles of my cultural youth heritage get lost in translation, I cannot find anything radical about it.

Law and Order: special coffee victim

2009-10-25T20:34:00.000+01:00

Meanwhile back home, they added a new member to the Law and Order family. And even though it's hardly a reason to come back early from a trip to the Philipines or miss out on sleeping in mountains with gorilla's, it is a welcome change for me. After 'criminal intent', 'special victims unit', trial by jury' and 'the one with Mister Big', there is now a UK-edition, and because my motto is 'you cannot have to many British detectives', I am a happy camper.

I celebrated this birth with a cup of coffee. I've been having a lot of coffee lately, actually; there is something comforting about it. I had coffee with friends while discussing either non-existing lovelives or the flourishing ones. I have coffee alone, in the morning to get myself out of the shower (is it bribery if you use it to convince yourself? I wonder, over yet another mug enriched with honey). A smaller espresso at an emotional birthdayparty on saturday evening, to acompany the chocolatecake and cheese (in any particular order). It took me two mugs of coffee and a cup of tea to get through my best friends paper on 'secret language and graphical design', which I had promised to review. Now, this also got me reacquainted with the concept of 'work-delaying behavior'. I now have a clean bathroom (well, it smells like all-purpose cleaner, which is good enough for me) and I took the trash out. Twice. Furthermore I put tile-stickers on my kitchenwall, fabricated two pink felt muffin-shaped cups and written a whole blog on Law, Order, coffee and other life-consuming events that happen back home.

ps. don't worry, I did finish checking the paper

just an average weekend in Rotterdam

2009-10-19T21:39:00.000+02:00

Once every fortnight I get to extend my weekend with one day; one small twenty-four hours which I consider sacred. This monday was extra special. Not just because I had coffee with Sander, which was very nice; good company, nice coffee (Indonesian blend, as a tribute to Roxan). Or because I picked up my parents from the airport (I took a sunbed to match their tan. Fat change, obviously; 14 minutes of Turbo Jumbo compared to 6 days of Teneriffe).
No. I had my first motorcycle lesson.
This was one of the things that I put on my 'list' of things I want to do while other people are away on holiday. What can I say? I always wanted to try it, so now I will, although it makes my hands smelly, it scared the shit out of me and I look like a right doughnut with the jacket, trousers and gloves. The hardest part was not telling anybody, because I wanted to keep it a secret to reveal in this blog.
The rest of the weekend was fantastic as well, I've been to new bars and old clubs, tried new things (coconut pancakes and Lemon Pie Martinis), had refreshing conversations about toilets, Kim Jong Ill and red gnomes (that would be Tanja and me in our new wintercoats). Furthermore, I got to spend time with old friends and meet new acquaintances, which I will probably never see again. And that's how a weekend in Rotterdam should be.

Meanwhile, back home

2009-10-17T17:29:00.000+02:00

At this moment, when leaves (and banks) are falling and my new wintercoat isn't enough to keep me warm, multiple of my (Facebook)friends have decided to use their newfound freedom (read: unemployment) to go travel.
Whether it took weeks of planning, trips to and from the travelagency or was drawn on the back of a beermat, they are gone. And not just one week to Berlin. Nooo, where's the fun in that? (Hold on, I'll ask Anastasia) No. They have left to (re)discover places that I wouldn't be able to find on a globe if my life depended on it.
The map with travelplans that Nanko put on their
Reizblog certainly provides helpfull information, especially
for someone
as geographically challenged like me. Although in the world
of criminal analysis stripey lines mean 'unconfirmed'. But
I'm not worried; I'm the one who gets lost in de South of Rotterdam, Rox can find Thailand blind (too bad they're
not going to Thailand).

Becauwe they (all of y'all in Africa, Asia and other parts of Europe) need to realise that you can just as well not have money here, enjoy a Latte at the Urban, watch elephants in the Blijdorp Zoo and feel outdoors at the Kralingse Plas, I decided to keep all of them up to date with all the exciting things that are happening here, in Rotterdam. Just to let you know waht will be right here waiting for them, when they get back home.