Persistent Distraction

On a wall outside Delft Central Station...

...someone composed this poem:

Which gives approximately the following, in English:

At the station

The clock ticks the minutes
before the train departs

The destination remains unknown
until the very last moment

The future lies before you in the train
and wherever it may go

Wonderfully limitless
feeling of freedom

Nothing holds you here
Nothing you need

Anything is possible,
everything is permitted

The world welcomes you with a smile

A sweet sentiment, expressed with questionable syntax.  Is it bad grammar, poetic license, or Auntie Shell's poor translation skills?  Who knows...maybe you native Dutch speakers?

Top 2 Terry Wogan Quips from Eurovision 2006

One of Auntie Shell's first memories upon hitting European shores was of switching on the television in May 2001 to witness the horrifying, splendid train wreck that is the Eurovision Song Contest.  An Innocent Abroad, she was unprepared for the earnest enthusiasm for egregious pop that afflicts the continent, at least on that one night in late spring.

At that moment, she would have activated the remote were it not for the acerbic (and presumably alcohol-fuled) reflections of BBC presenter, Terry Wogan.  But Wogan's snarky comments, especially those concerning the Danish presenters ("Doctor Death and The Tooth Fairy") got AS hooked on the yearly extravaganza.

She learned that the voting is political:  that Balkans cast their highest votes for Balkans; that Scandinavians vote for Scandinavians; that Greece votes for Cyprus and Cyprus almost never votes for Turkey; and that pretty much nobody votes for the UK (perhaps because they're yoked to a non-European bully that tends to ignore Europe and invade the rest of the planet), even though they bankroll the event.

She also learned that catchy tunes prevail; that "wardrobe malfunctions" pay (the UK started the trend, when, in 1981, the group Bucks Fizz delighted viewers with a tearaway skirt, and ran away with the prize); that there will always be at least one act that didn't get memo (key of G:  repeat:  KEY OF G!); that somehow the French warrant translation of the telephone voting results into their language (Royaume Uni:  nulle points!); that everyone takes the thing seriously except the United Kingdom, who only pay attention in order to make fun of the event and/or grouse about losing.

Tragically, Auntie Shell missed the first hour of the 2006 Eurovision Song Contest broadcast.

Therefore, she was only able to capture two gems of the Wogan vintage:

#2:  On one country's performance: 

"I don't think Spain cares anymore."

#1:  Who remembers the context; it doesnt matter, it could apply to the whole program: 

"I've had virtually nothing to eat this evening."

Because The Netherlands cannot seem to come up with an act that can make it to the final, and because the BBC, at Eurovision as well as any other time of year, has kept her sane throughout this expat adventure, Auntie Shell is compelled to support the UK.  We thought "Teenage Life" was better cheesy rubbish than much of the other cheesy rubbish on show this year.  Better luck in 2007, chin up, what what.

Party Like It's 1989

On the occasion of the 40th birthday of one of our own, the European contingent of the 1987-1989 Washington State University French House gang reunited in Paris to wrinkle time for a bit.   Ah, the golden days when all we worried about was exams and papers and surviving student life in Pullman, Washington (the Lentil Capital of the World)...until the next semester break.

Click the photo for more...

Stealing Sunshine

The sixth of November?  It can't be!  One last opportunity to skate on the bike path along the Maas river.  Only the chill wind (which was somehow never at my back) and the leaves strewn across the bike path belied the season.  It was so sparkly-sunny, I went back for my camera... and snapped a few shots in the time the capricious autumn sun granted me.  They're a bit samey, so don't click on the photo if you don't like pictures of water and bridges. 

 

Girls' Day Out

Who knew The Hague was so beautiful, or had such lovely passages, courtyards, shops and cafés?  What have I got to do to get a job at the War Crimes Tribunal?

Here are the numbers on the Just About Perfect Saturday a girlfriend and I spent yesterday:

Hours spent on GDO:  12

Temperature:  18 degrees (optimal shopping, strolling and terrace weather)

Pairs of boots tried on:  83

Pairs of yummy brown suede boots bought:  1.  Success!

Number of times Girlfriend quoted Trinny or Susannah as I tried on the Right or Wrong top, or as she pushed a recommended garment through the changing room curtain:  9

Hours spent wandering about the American Book Center lusting after poetry, fiction and cookbooks (me; Girlfriend could have been in the Psychology or Religion section for all I know):  1

Additional hours we confessed we could have spent in the store:  23

Coffees:  2 (one each)

Bowls of spicy coconut-scented spinach soup at lunch:  2 (one each)

Number of times Girlfriend unnecessarily admonished, "you can't just hide these boots under jeans, you have to wear skirts with them:" 17

Number of times I reminded Girlfriend that the reason I was looking for boots was so I'd have something to wear with skirts:  18

Number of stringent When-Harry-Met-Sally conditions Girlfriend set forth for configuration of Caesar Salad before consenting to order it at dinner:  2 (dressing must be house-made, no anchovies must be present)

Glasses of wine:  6 (3 each)

Perfect-ending-to-lovely day chick flicks seen:  1.  Pride and Prejudice.

Tempting Fate with Puttanesca

Every time I pass by the sign for this now-defunct restaurant around the corner from my apartment building, I try to imagine what the hopeful entrepreneurs were thinking when they started it. 

Knowing how many new restaurants "go under," they should have been more careful.  It's as though they sent an engraved invitation to the gods of failure to visit them.

"Giorgio, I've got a great idea.  We'll start a restaurant.  On a boat!  Rotterdammers love boats!"

"Good thinking, Beppe!  Now we just need a name.  Something nice and Italian. . ."

In Praise of Fall in the City

It's gray and drizzly this morning and, inarguably, the summer is not coming back. I’m not wistful. I’m admiring the brave dailiness of the morning headlights from the wide windows of my 13th-floor apartment. This is the time of year where all you need is a bit of distance to see your fellow man just stoically getting on with it, and from the right height the world is as ordered as an anthill.

I welcome the weeks to come and their affectionate routine of working, resting, and catching up. Their  invitation to settle in with a duvet, peppermint tea, and a Victorian novel. Better clothes and better films. The school calendar has it right; this is the true beginning of the year.

Summer belongs to the bronzed and fit, the outsiders. But the best things in life happen indoors, and autumn is mine.

How Did *We* Talk at 15?

Behold the entire text of the latest email from my sister, concerning her son:

I came home on Monday Night to Andrew on the couch with his do-rag on his head watching Monday night football acting all ghetto...I asked him what are you doing  he replied....watching my brother from another mother Michael Vick throw down the mack plays

Postcards

A small furry animal told me I must write something every night.  Another reader suggested I post more photos, though I'm not sure these fit into the category he meant . . .

Tonight's topic:  EU vs. USA.

What's not to like about living here?  Cafés with terraces, bike paths everywhere, 30 days' vacation a year, and though Rotterdam is no Rome, it is a hop skip and a jump away from pretty much any chateau or collossal naked statue worth gawking at.

I'd be happy if I never glimpsed another Walmart or Bush bumper sticker, but every two years or so I'm drawn back toward a culture that speaks my language and understands baseball, free public restrooms, and grocery-shopping at 2 a.m.

And then, there's this:

                                              

(Note:  objects in orange fleece are thinner than they appear).

 

               

                                         (Check out Skeptical Boyfriend in the background).

 

                             

Personal to dr_gonzo:  Please, no comments on that last one.  It's just too easy, man.

                                                 

                              

These last four were taken on my previous trip back in 2003.  During my latest visit, Miss Stars & Stripes lectured me:  "Auntie Shell, you have to come back for Christmas.  That's only six months from now, and six months is okay.  But two years is two long!" 

Okay, Beka.  I've booked my ticket.