Domesticated

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

Honeymoon

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

Canterbury? Isn't that the chocolate factory?

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

Fair enough

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

no, we are NOT related.

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

Cultuur: het leven is geen dogma.

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

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

Stories from the North of the East (part 3)

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

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

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