A Roman mini-break

Two days in Rome might not be enough to give a proper review and blog filled with tips, but I'm gonna try it anyway, because the other travelblogs I wrote on Russia, Thailand and Barcelona are well-ridden.

The good thing about Rome is that, even though on the map it looks quite big, two days is plenty to cross of most things on my to-do list.

Vatican.
I promised my mother to visit the Vatican, so I did. Having booked a ticket in advance online, I had a timeslot in which I had to show up. I had to hurry, but in the end, nobody checked my time, in fact, the lady at the booth didn't even look at me, period. This kind of behaviour was exemplory for how tourists are treated in the Vatican, when I asked a lady where to show my ticket, she told me to go back downstairs, because "how should I know? I just work here". After explaining that I just came from downstairs, and they told me to go upstairs, she yelled at me "I'm just trying to help you."
What I found hilarious at the Vatican, or more specific the Sixtene Chappel, were the guards. In a poor attempt to keep the peace, it's them who are the noisiest, screaming "Silencio!!", "No photo!!" and "Get down the stairs!!" every other minute at the admiring, quiet crowd. The other guards filled their time playing with their smartphones.

Market.
I found the Campa del Fiori highly disappointing (just sayin'), so do yourself a favour and go towards the indoor market of Testaccio. It's covered, there's some locals doing their groceryshops and they sell more than travelsize bottles of olive-oil and fun multi-coloured pasta. There should be a market at 'Porta Portese', but only on sunday, and my 48 hours did not cover that day.

Coloseum-area.
As soon as you walk out the subwaystation, you bump into the ruins of the Coloseum. I didn't go inside (I saw a Turkish style Coloseum last april and no offence, when you've seen one, you've seem them all), but the area is really nice to walk around in. Next to the
Colosseum is Palatine hill with the foro Romano; if you walk up the exit you see a lot as well. If you walk towards Via dei Fori Imperiali, you will notice some awesome historic grounds and buildings (red arrows).

Spanish steps.
If you have ever climed the stairs in front of the Sacre Couer in Paris, the Spanish steps should be a piece of cake. Now, I unfortunately missed it, but my friend suggested to go to Via Margutta, near the Spanish steps, in the Spagna area.




Hostel.
I stayed in the Zen House B&B, cheap, small and a personal touch. The host / owner is a former traveller himself and he basically started the hostel that he would have loved to stay in. This makes it like you're staying in the guestroom of a friends house. He cooks breakfast personally, gives you tips when you want to, or leaves you alone.

Cinema.
For those of you who are anything like me and always forget how tiresome it is to walk, walk, and then walk some more, while at one point desperately longing for the cool and quiet of a cinema; there is one at Metrostation Barberini, called... Multisala Barberini. And yes, they do original language as well. I will not comment on the movie I saw. Let's just say this: I find Brad Pitt combating zombies at fifty as sexy as when he cheated on either Thelma or Louise when I was 14.

Museum.
Missed the Vatican, Palatine Hill or the Pantheon? Don't worry. The whole city is one big open air museum, with plenty of historical buildings / ruins / statues / parks to look at. You might even get the accidental history lesson, like I did. I overheard an American fellow explain some good old Gods to his holiday-party:
"So he went out and hooked up with Venus. Cause that's what you did when you were really cool in those days. You bagged yourself a godess."

Other than young Americans on their gapyear 'doing Europe', be prepared for:
Sigarettes: everybody smokes in Italy, from police-officers, to students, from people preparing your food to the homeless beggars. Electronic cigarettes are up-and-coming in Italy.
Police-sirenes: every hour or so I was shaken by sirens, whether they came from undercover vehicles, firetrucks or proper police motorcycles: Rome was siren-galore. The undercover vehicles were the best, with one guy behind the wheel and the other one hanging out of the passenger-window, holding the blazing siren, the whole thing looked kindof cute.
Guns: every guy in uniform apparently is allowed to carry a gun. From the actual police officers, to museum-guards, to the trainstation personel. Very odd.
Religion: I realized Italy is pretty catholic, with the pope living there and all. But I didn't realize how big religion was, till I noticed all the nuns and priests in the wild, chains with crosses, people reading the bible on the train, making me feel kindof embarrased for my copy of 'Als ik auto had kunnen rijden...', but ah well. 
Transportation: Italians travel by scooter, Smart car or Fiat. This is great, but if you're depending on public transportation: the subway is fine and affordable, but the trains suck.
Dealing with Italians: so, this might come across pretty pityfull, but I found it highly gratifying to start talking Dutch when my English would just trigger angry stares, wild handgestures and a stream of uncomprehensible Italian jibberish. Just to return the mutual feeling of despair when dealing with ignorant Vatican-personal, train-conductors or other locals.

Additional tips:

Another friend suggested 'Il ritrovo del Gusto' for dinner. Unfortunately by the time I got this message I had already worked my way through a quatro fromagio pizza. Which, by the way comes out of the oven looking like a 'cheese fondue pizza', because non of the original cheeses are retrievable, but, who cares.
Same friend suggested a cornershop place at Piazza della Pace for coffee.

Put unused napkins from fast-food in your bag or pockets. This tip isn't limited to Rome, obviously. You never know when you gotta go and all you have at your disposal is a dirty Dixie at the side of the road without any toiletpaper. Or something.

You can find a proper tour-guide to Rome here, it's a pdf, and it will work on your e-reader as well.

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.

Barcelona olae

It's been 14 years since I last was in Barcelona. You know how it is; you're on holiday in Salou, have to do something culturally responsible, ergo, a daytrip to Barcelona. Well, racing up and down the Ramblas, cut the queue of Segrada Familia, having a tapa and spending the rest of the day in a Mango flagship-store was my 19-year-olds idea of making the most of it. But here's some tips on how you could do it. The 'M' refers to the useable Metrostation.

1. Negroni

Here's what happened. Traveling alone is one thing, but going out by yourself is another one. But it's my last night and I wanted a cocktail. The 'all cocktails 3 euro'-joint around the corner of my apartment-style room in the Barcelona Rooms has formed a queue of students with free-drinks-vouchers. I don't queue for drinks, especially not on a monday. I also refuse to consume a cocktail, or anything else actually, in a shop with plastic furniture and bright tl-light. So in the next appropriate bar I asked if they did cocktails. "No," the girl covered in tattoos told me, before whispering "go to Joaquín Costas street. Negroni." And that was it. She turned to the bar to clean some more glasses. Negroni is hidden away behind one-way dark-tinted windows and takes some searching. The whole joint breathes mystery. I sit down and order a pina-colada at the man behind the bar. His clean, black shirt has two small red buttons on the collar and after a while I spot the black tie. He pushes the green-rimmed glasses back on his nose and asks me why I ordered a pina-colada. "I don't mind making it for you, I just want to know what you like about it." When I tell him I just really like coconut and sweet drinks, another girl joins in the conversation. In a heavy Catalan accent, or a cute drunk slurr, I'm not sure, she explains that this is the best bar in town, and that I should let the bartender just fix me a drink. A drink that he finds suitable.
When you are in Barcelona. In a dark bar called Negroni with a very, very good bartender who with the greatest care lovingly grates lemons, crushes ice and slices mint, you let the man fix you a drink.
And that's when I had my first Polynesian cocktail.

2. Montserrat

Highly recommended by a friend of mine. It's a hillside outside of town, but well worth the journey. Apparently Montserrat is an area with a lot of energy, like the Bermuda triangle. I lost a lot of energy whilst climbing the hills, but eh, it was nice, peacefull, people greeting each other with a lot of 'Olae's' and a smashing view. Wear proper shoes and take plenty of food and drink with you, because there are no hot-dog cars of mobile ice-cream vans along the way.

3. Get lost
Seriously. Just get lost in Raval and Born. As soon as you let go of the map, you will see so much more (keep map in bag, don't throw it away). Look up at the walls of the appartments, the balconies, the religic memorabilia, street art and mozaic tiling. Even the laundry hanging from the windows is well worth a view. Second hand lovers should accidentally find their way to Carrer de la Riera Baixa, but that's all I'm giving away.

4. Boat trip
My plan was 'there is no plan. Except I want to be on a boat.' And the fun thing about Barcelona is, it's by the water, so there's boats. On which you can just sit and relax, because there is little else to do than to just sit and watch the water. M-Drassanes

5. Parc de la Ciutadella
Forget Parc Guell. Seriously. If you want green grass, some fountains, flowers, statues, rundown buildings and proper orange-trees, go to parc de la Ciutadella, it's much more fun than the famous Parc Güell and a lot less tourists. On the downside: the conartists instead of the streetartists. So let this be a warning: if someone wants you to sign something, for the handicapped, then asks for a donation and then wants to see your passport to check your signature: you are being conned. Other than that: lovely parc. M-Barceloneta or Arc de Triomf

6. Beach
Because it's there. Nothing says 'holiday' more than sand between your toes and in your butt. Facilities are all present (showers and toilets), and if you're lucky there's a nice grandmother willing to look after your bag because you're desperate to swim in the ocean. That sea totally kicked my sandy ass by the way, with the biggest waves I ever encountered. M-Barceloneta

7. Indulge in Food and Drinks
Experiment with tapas. Please, there's a Buger King at home too. Try something you haven't tasted before. My favourites where the fried green peppers, but patatas bravas are always tasty too. I had mine in the shadiest of all places with locals at the bar sniggering at the tourist whilst ordering one cervesa after another. But, they had a handy menu with pictures, because, well experimenting is one thing, reckless ordering and risking foodpoisoning another. I also tried every zumo (fruitjuice) that had coconut in it, but I already explained my love for pina coladas, so I'll leave it at that.

8. Gaudi

I declared the sunday 'Gaudiday'. So I did the whole round, Sagrada Familia, Casa Batlló, Casa Milà also know as la Padrera and Parc Güell. What the guy did was awesome, introducing fairytale-like aspects in everyday architecture, that's why you should see it. In all fairness, there's no way of missing Gaudi's influence in the city anyway, because it's everywhere. Mainly in the form of calenders, books, cards, tiles, etc. The queue in front of Sagrada Familia turned me off, but I discovered the option of online buying (too late, but eh). Best part of Parc Güell were a superhappy Reggea band called Microguagua who made a complete party, but I'm jolly as long as there's beards and trumpets involved anyway.

9. Tarantos
Even if you're not a big Flamenco-fan, and I'm not, you should see a show. Heritage and respect for music and local culture and all that. Here's the easy option: go to Tarantos. It'll cost you no more than 8 euros and 30 minutes of your holiday and who knows? You might be surprised. I sure was, pleasantly. The music will never grow on me, and the rhytms are confusing at best. But the outfits are something to look at, the atmosphere in the venue is friendly and the dancers know what they're doing (or at least, it seems that way). Tarantos is located at Reial square, M-Liceu.

A big thank you to Tanja, Brigit and Tom who patiently answered my 'what shall I do in Barcelona' questions.

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.

post-Hamburg

It's been a month since my last blog on 'meanwhile back home'. I've been neglecting it. Again. In my defense, I did write a lot for my criminology blog. Reluctantly I open up my journal, has really nothing interesting happened in my life, that is worth writing about?
I wrote a couple of application-letters, well, 6 to be exact, had a few coffee-dates and a dentist appointment, went to Hamburg. What the...? Did I not write about Hamburg? I guess I didn't. That's unfair, because my weekend in Hamburg deserves it's own blog.

When I saw my old Canterbury friends come up with a plan to meet in Germany on Facebook, I realised with a pang of jealousy that I wanted to be part of it. And my current situation allows for instant plan-making, so I booked a cheap flight.
Obviously it was really nice to see my Canterbury group, Evi, Jenny, Verena, Sandra, Nicolas and Yarin, again. They are a good bunch and I am proud to call them my friends. My weekend was calm and mellow. Just like life in a warm country slows down, the same goes for the freezing cold. With my limbs unable to heat up and my head suffering from a contstant brainfreeze, I was punished for packing wrong. Layering up might seem like a good idea to avoid check-in luggage, but when it's -5, you need proper snowboots and two pairs of jeans. Lesson learned.
But, we managed to deal with he cold and with an extra pair of Verena's legwarmers, I was even persuaded to do some ice-skating on a frozen lake. Along with the rest of Hamburgs inhibitants. My brave moves were rewarded with a nice plastic cup of mulled wine. Hot cocao might have worked when I was 5, but I now I need better bribery.
Other than that, it was the perfect weekend getaway that involved the right mixture of friends and food (lots of kaffee, kuchen and gewurst). Picking up roommates and boyfriends scattered throughout the city allowed for some interesting sightseeing. Watching a half-Turkish Yarin and a half-Greek Evi cook together in a tiny kitchen whilst listening to their ideas on politics and criminology, makes me believe in Europe. My meeting with Hamburgs nightlife was a one off. My cold limbs and tired body only allowed me to go dancing once, in a dark reggea basement. Dark because of the weedy smoke, not necessarily the lack of proper lights. Highlight must have been spending an afternoon on a boat, muddling through slushpuppy-like icewater, watching both the coast of Hamburg and the containerships pass by at a very slow pace. I felt truly blessed that I have been able to meet these guys and spent some extra time with them after my 6 weeks in Canterbury. I can't wait to see them again, and I hope they know that they are welcome in Rotterdam.

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!

Meanwhile in Minsk

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

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

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.