Cor Kraat

In Dutch cities like Rotterdam there is a lot of art in the public domain. In fact, it's so common you might hardly notice it anymore. It's part of the city furniture, just like speed-walking addicts, run down buildings and bankrupt shops. Of course the art is much more fun to look at. One man started to paint the town red (and pink, yellow, green, baby-blue and bright orange) a long, long time ago. His name is Cor Kraat. It's likely that this name does not ring any bells, apart from maybe the posters you can now see throughout the city advertising his exhibition. But his work is actually pretty famous: he made the Nieuwe Delftse Poort, the Polaroid and the BMW car that accidentally hangs out of a parking garage.

When I showed my Belarussian friend around town two years ago, she wondered about all the public pieces of art: "why is this statue here? What does that mural mean?" Funny, she pointed out some objects that I had missed for years and was now forced to take an extra look at, and I enjoyed it. "There is no meaning to it. It is just... art for the sake of art." "Soooo it's not for honouring your president, I mean queen. Or to remember the war? Interesting..." The idea of art in public spaces to cheer up the city was an unknown concept for her. But it exists since the seventies when the beforementioned Cor Kraat decided to add more colour to Rotterdam in a project called 'Townpainting'. I also had never heard of the man, but have fond memories of one of his works. 'The Polaroid' was a sign that we were almost home, if we drove by it in our old Peugeot. We actually called it 'The Punaise' (the thumbnail), because that impressed us more that the pictured image of the harbour.
Now why am I dedicating precious blog-space to an artist? Well, for two reasons: why is it, that in a foreign city, whether on holiday or business trip you will pay more attention to your surroundings, when there is a lot of cool art in your own street, block, city? Look around more, it's free! Also, now is your chance to see what Cor Kraat has done for the city in his exhibition in LP2 (Las Palmas). And that brings me to the second reason: I sell tickets there, so it is in my own personal interest that you drop by and buy a ticket for this awesome overview of Kraat's work, documentaries and a virtual reality experience on a bike. So, bring your parents and foreign friends (English translation of the catalogue will soon be available, so the subtitle 'Made in Rotterdam' will make sense). Before I forget, there's actually a third reason: the brilliant entrance: the tram kindly sponsored by the RET. The exhibition will be at LP2 in the south of Rotterdam till early december and tickets are 6 euros max with lots of discount options.

Paradepaarden en werkpaarden

Tussen het kaartjes verkopen en poffertjes bakken door op de Parade, heb ik natuurlijk ook nog wat voorstellingen gezien. Voor degenen die nog naar Den Haag, Utrecht of Amsterdam gaan en wat tips nodig hebben, lees gewoon deze synopses even door.


Ellen ten Damme en Sven Ratzke: On the rocks

Liedjesprogramma dat het Duitse nachtclub-gevoel oproept, zonder dat je daar ooit geweest hoeft te zijn. De capabele muzikanten en het goed geconserveerde lichaam van Ellen doen waar ze goed in zijn: muziek maken.

Language no problem.

Zep projecten: Ik hou het hier niet meer uit!

Bij de kassa beter bekend als 'die met Lieke van Lexmond.' En je kan haar zien hoor, zoals je haar nog nooit hebt gezien. Over een gezin dat in Bulgarije een nudistencamping wil beginnen, maar ondertussen niet alleen de burgemeester, heimwee en bureaucratie tegen het vege lijf loopt, maar ook elkaar. Bevat naast Lieke ook een leuke man met een plaksnor.

Het Perron

Mooie, beeldende voorstelling. Wachten op een station zal niet snel hetzelfde meer zijn; als je goed kijkt, heeft alles een verhaal. Afscheid, ontmoetingen, luidruchtige meisjes in korte rokjes en tasjesdieven die versneld op een vertraagde trein wachten.

Language no problem.

Super Magnifique

Als ik komische horrorvoorstelling lees, wil ik er heen. Maar absurdistisch disfunctioneel gezinsdrama is wellicht een betere omschrijving. Niet ieders kopje thee, ongeschikt voor kinderen (tenzij je de frase 'oma heeft een banaan in haar kut' nog wekenlang wil horen, thuis), maar ik vond hem zeker het bekijken (ervaren) waard. Elfje!

Sammi & the Highwaymen

Zie eigenlijk Ellen ten Damme en Sven Ratzke, maar dan met oude countryliedjes vertolkt door Ricki Koole, toegelicht door Leo Blokhuis. Dus capabele muzikanten en het goed geconserveerde lichaam van Leo doen wat ze etc. etc. Gezellig aangekleed met elpees, vloerkleedjes en banjo's. Als je niet van countrymuziek houdt, niet gaan.

 

Andre Gingras' Danceworks: KnockOut!

Dansvoorstelling, of liever gezegd dansdialoog van twee Danceworkers. Over boksen, strijd en dromen. Indrukwekkende lijven (was wel het thema, deze Parade) die minutenlang touwtje springen zijn altijd leuk om naar te kijken. Ook als ze dat doen tussen een berg betekenisloos afval.

Language no problem.

De Geluk is een cadeau show

Beetje zoals pizza. Makkelijk maar wel lekker, hapt vlot weg. Grappig, en soms ook aandoenlijk. Ik heb ademloos genoten toen Art Jan een liedje zong in het Fries. De boodschap dat je eenzaamheid kan verdrijven middels gezelschap, oftwel iets delen met 'de hele bubs', wordt door je strot gedouwt als een WNF-guerilla strijder die op de Lijnbaan lobbiet voor leden. Dat had voor mij niet gehoeven.

Rob en Emiel: 10

Illusionisten-show. Wel knap, maar ik ben niet zo van de kaartentrucs en op mysterieuze wijze legitimatie-bewijzen lezen. Leuk voor kinderen. Ze houden alleen niet zo van kinderen, die stellen namelijk lastige vragen en willen in mouwen kijken en zo.

Rayhana

Een verhaal, een hamam die naar eucalyptus ruikt en halfnaakte dames die ter plekke gewaxt een gewassen worden, wat wil je nog meer? Prettige voorstelling met veel inkijk, vooral in de levens van de Arabische vrouwen. De gesprekken die zij voeren in het badhuis gaan over maagdenvliezen, valse schoonmoeders en het valse Europa dat hun mannen opslokt.

Shatzy

Heeft niet veel indruk gemaakt, want ik kan me tijdens het optypen van dit stukje weinig meer herinneren van Shatzy. Oh wacht. Een man op een wc die een gesprek voert met een telefonische enquetrice in een strak pakje die wel mooi kan zingen. Geloof ik.

Herman in een bakje Geitenkwark.

Een voorstelling met zo'n titel verdient het om gezien te worden. Ik heb gelachen, maar ik ben een sucker voor acapelle zanglijntjes en grappige mannen. Over

genante dromen, Bertje (dus niet Herman) en smoothies. Meer Parade dan dit kan niet.

Kijkjenou?!

Wil je depressief naar uit de tent komen, ga naar Spinvis. Wil je blij naar buiten, ga dan naar Kijkjenou?! Getalenteerd jazz-trio en hun hond horen overal

jazz in. In antwoordapparaten, navigatiesystemen en youtubefilmpjes van koeien. Hier word je gewoon blij van.

Language no problem.

Bruurs

Over twee jonge broertjes die alleen een radio hebben en een tafel. Zij vermaken zichzelf en elkaar door hiermee verhalen te verzinnen. Misschien lag het aan mij, maar ik vond het niet zo spannend. Het programmaboekje beloofde zwetende mannenlijven en tl-verlichting. Toch al niet de beste combinatie, gelukkig viel dat van die mannelijven wel mee. Wel dode kamerplanten en tl-verlichting.

Verhalensupermarkt

Lekker tussendoortje halen bij de supermarkt. Ik was biefstuk, maar dat hoef je niet persoonlijk op te vatten. Lief verhaaltje over het wel en wee van producten die staan te wachten in hun schappen tot zij uitgekozen worden. Met opstandige bruine bonen en potjes kinderpindakaas.

De Vaak-Hier show

Met een man verkleed als Fakir (Vaak-Hier, Fakir, snap je'm? dat is wel een beetje het niveau van de show) en zijn fluitspelende side-kick. Beetje flauw, maar stiekem heel geinig. De show met one-liners, kunstjes en geluidseffecten met hier en daar een muzikaal intermezzo is een gezellige manier om twintig minuten door te brengen alvorens je op de Juicy Sisters te storten.

Language no problem (even vragen)

Salon de Coupe

De plek voor malle ijsjes. Ik ben niet verder gekomen dan chococola, koffie-cardemom en Black Russian Coffee (na mijn kassadienst uiteraard), maar kan het iedereen aanbevelen. Ook bij slecht weer.

Zweefmolen

Doen. Omdat het kan, omdat het leuk is en omdat de laatste zweef (compleet met rook, gedoofde lichten en een Duits porno-muziekje) legendarisch is. Het is ook fijn om gewoon een half uurtje naar ouders met hun gillende kinderen in de Zweef te bekijken. Vader breed lachend in een bakje met die kleine op schoot, terwijl mama buiten het hekje het schouwspel met haar mobiel staat te filmen.

Amaro in de Katrina

Sinds de beste man mij een zelfgemaakte bonbon in mijn mond stopte, ben ik verkocht. Eten bij Amaro in zijn zelfgebouwde kerk die naarmate de Parade vordert steeds voller komt te hangen met allerhande religieuze afbeeldingen, visnetten en zijn roze fiets. Omdat het kan en omdat het lekker is. Andere aanrader is Lust met lekkere pastaatjes, zelf poffertjes bakken bij Au Gwen Marie en Soul Food, waar de kassa haar nodige groentetjes vandaan plukte. Maar met een diner-bon smaakt alles lekker.

Stille disco

Sssst! Niet kletsen, koptelefoons op en dansen! Ook hardwerkende kassameisjes willen wel eens kooidansen.

the Boys are back in Town

I saw the poster announcing their joint concert a while ago. Should I or shouldn't I? I just forgot. I saw the odd combination of mature male thirty-somethings on the sofa on BBC breakfast talking about their tour and again felt a tingle of excitement. Should I? And I forgot. Again. But when Bridget Maasland was talking about the NKOTBSB tour yesterday on RTL Boulevard, hitting Ahoy that same night, I could no longer contain myself, grabbed some money and set way to the South of Rotterdam, where 20 (yes, that's twenty) years ago I attended my first ever concert: New Kids On The Block. Long before festivals and concerts sold out online in 4 minutes and I declared myself 'alternative' at the tender age of 15, I queued for hours to get the tickets with a primary school friend at the local VVV tourist information point. So now it was smooth sailing, just paying 35 euro's for an e-ticket some poor sick girl had given to her friends.

I can honestly say I skipped into Ahoy, mainly affected by all the female hormones flying around. And it was lovely. The conversations no longer were about going to secondary school or how you feel about your 12-year old classmate, but I heard women talk about their children, make-up, face peelings, work and the new men in their lives, who obviously replaced Joey, Donny, Nick, AJ, etc. a long time ago. "What did your husband say when you told him you wanted to go to this concert?" "He just cringed and begged me if he could stay home to watch the kids. I told him, you're not even allowed to come!" Laughs all around before the screaming starts. Oh, the screams. The scream-O-meter indicated that Brian McFadden was the most popular dude present, by the way. I am not much of a screamer, but I do sing along. LOUD. Imagine my surprise that I actually remembered the lyrics to the Backstreet Boys songs better than the New Kids ones, because, well, they were the enemy of everything I stood for (Nirvana, Bjork, Greenday, Ben Folds). At one point I actually heard myself shout: play another song. Which they did, for 2,5 hours (!!!) nine once boys, now married men, sang their hearts, souls and shirts off to the delight of a large audience of appreciative females. And males, I might add. I saw grown men sing along with tears in their eyes. A beer in one hand, a recording mobile phone in the other.

Highlights of the evening for me were 'Tonight, Tonight',  'Everybody', realizing that Joey can actually sing (instead of being just so damn cute), giggling at dance-moves gone wrong, Donnie Wahlberg's shirtless body, the mashups with Coldplay and Robbie Williams music, watching the smiles on all the guys' faces who were clearly enjoying themselves and the nostalgia of all these beaming women in retro t shirts. The boys are all grown up now. Last time I saw AJ, he was on Oprah talking about fighting his addiction. Tuesday-night he looked healthy in his 'Just Married' and 'Daddy to Be' sparkly tanktop and for some reason I felt proud that he had overcome his childhood demons. What do you call these aged boys? 'The Backstreet Men' just sounds like a dodgy crime novel... Ah well, who cares, NKOTBSB was great, so to a rather large group of thirty something women they will always be referred to as New Kids On The Block and the Backstreet Boys.

But please boys, what's with the Michael Jackson style crotch moves? Have your mama's never taught you not to touch your genitalia in public? Or maybe I'm just getting old...

the Longest Weekend

In Rotterdam seasons can go by without anything happening, and then your diary hits a weekend with not enough hours in a day to complete your full schedule. On Thursday I was a very hard working volunteer for the coproduced opening of IABR, Luchtsingel and Motel Mozaique. My job was to drag folding-tables across a parking-lot, to make it look cozy for the official opening ceremony which included ribbon-cutting, balloons and a flashmob of Robins and Batmen. Yes, I just used the words 'parking-lot' and 'cozy' in one sentence. After all the heavy lifting, dragging, coffee arranging, spell checking, explaining the purpose of the Luchtsingel to the security and first aid people,  and kitchen cleaning (the work of a volunteer is never done), came my favorite part of the day; the balloon cutting. Releasing a net filled with dozens of colorful helium-balloons should be on anyone's bucketlist. It was just as impressive for the large group of serious-looking mature architects, as it was for their four-year old daughters. I couldn't resist slicing open a leftover balloon and inhaling the helium, making me sound like a Donald Duck character. I don't do drugs, but I'm a sucker for a good dose of helium.

view Pschorry

Friday was one of those days that I could fall in love with Rotterdam all over again. The weather cleared after the unpredictable showers of Thursday and even the sun decided to take a look at what was going on on Motel Mozaique territory. The 2-day festival of music, culture and performance comes with a surprise-guarantee, some more pleasant than others. I went to see Blaudzun. Twice.

Enjoyed the marvelous view from the 18th floor of the Hofpoort, at cafe Pschorry. Even a phonecall telling me I was rejected for an internship, didn't damage my mood, because I had my eyes on a bearded Wunderbaum Eskimo. He was singing about mountains in the snow, on a temporary stage built on top of an abandoned trainstation, surrounded by an approving audience who had to wear shades against the bright sunlight. Rejection, schmection, just let me get back to my MoMo-bubble. Biggest surprise must have been 120 Days, where I danced my socks of amidst a small crowd in good-old Rotown. After this electronic trip, the lost Hanson brother with the smokey wiskey voice of Jamie in the Gouvernestraat was a bit, well, common.

Torre en zijn Staat

The saturday was a bit of an option overdose with MoMo day 2, a street musician festival and RecordStore Day. So I let other people decide for me and just tagged along, giving myself the chance for unscheduled encounters. And it was good, solid fun. From the Hema, to the Velvet and back to square 1, the Schouwburgplein. It's still the heart and soul of the festival, where one can type an old fashioned letter, climb into a big white plastic ball whilst simultaneously listen to 'De Staat'. That evening the rain threw a curveball into my volunteering duties, arriving completely soaked at my post. Luckily I can improvise as good as the next girl, and did what everyone would do: pulled down my tanktop and wear it as a skirt. Obviously I can dedicate a few lines to the praise of Patrick Watson, but I'll only say this: if Patrick Watson was a religion, I would be a believer. More credits go to the 'Dennis' character in my Artez-encounter; a one-on-one theater thingie which left me thinking about myself, my analytical view on life and the purpose of sharing. I got some good chocolate out of it as well.
It's a good thing I wrote this blog in the train yesterday, as I came back from Brussels where I just spent a day with Anastasia, my Belarusian friend, because this Monday is a bit dark. It's not just the famous black hole you fall into after a good holiday, or in this case an amazing weekend. It's also the blankness of my ever empty diary, due to an almost uninterrupted streak of unemployment, which after one year finally seems to get the better of me. For now, I'll hope for more weekends like this last one.

the IFFR bubble

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!

Domesticated

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

Fair enough

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

Intermezzo - review The Air We Breathe

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

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

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

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

UEB: Unemployment Espresso Bar

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

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

Film festival widow

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.

Therese vs the Now

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.

Pathe-tic

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.

just an average weekend in Rotterdam

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.