New shoes...

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

Jeugdcultuur in Pijnacker

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Confessions of a Werchter diary

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

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

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

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

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

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

Route du Nord

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

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

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

Commit color

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

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

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

Therese vs the Now

This blog comes with a Flow-warning.

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

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

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

Rotterdam vs the world...

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



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