New Year's Address

Drifter. Nomad. Wanderer. Vagabond. Vagrant. Hobo. Squatter. Tramp.

These are all accurate descriptions of me in 2008. I have had an incredible run, having abandoned my apartment almost half a year ago. Since then, I have lived in four different households with people who took me in as if I were family- especially the people who actually are my family already. As many good times as I've had, it has to stop sometime.

I have been looking for my own place in Leiden. Well, a "room" is all I can afford. Yes, I am downgrading from my giant 2 bedroom apartment in Japan, back to the world of student rooms, shared kitchens and shared bathrooms. However, in Holland, they don't make it easy. I remember my Auntie once saying "Holland is full". I never really knew what what that meant until I started room hunting.

To facilitate finding a place to live, the Dutch invented a thing they call "De Internet". The way it works is, it converts everything to Zero's and One's, and when you look for a room, it gives you the zeros. I was given a list of 20 websites for finding accommodation, each with their own convenient joining fees. When a room in your price range became available, you pay some money to send a reply, and if the other party is interested, they arrange a time to meet.

But not only do you meet your prospective housemates, but all the other applicants show up too, on the same evening. This is not due to poor planning, but incredibly, it is done on purpose. It is like blind date, speed dating version of The Bachelor reality TV show, combined with the classy-ness of the Jerry Springer Show. However, without subjecting yourself to this degrading process, you could never get a room.

My first interview evening came up. I found the apartment, a charming building with a cobblestone street one one side with shops like a 2nd hand bookshop and butchers at the ground floor and apartments above, and a quaint canal on the other side. Even as I climbed the almost vertical stairs to the 3rd floor of the decrepit building, I thought "I 'd live here". Apparently 15 other people also thought the same thing. So, in one room, we had 6 people interviewing 15 people for one small bedroom. Half an hour later, we had finished the self introductions, and they asked some questions.

"What music do you like?"

"Where would you take us on a date?"

"What kind of person are you like to live with?"

I mean, I'm not making this up, this could seriously been the script for a reality-TV dating show. The problem for me is, I am like a fine cheese. I might look off-putting, have a funny odour and a pale colour, and you have to get used to me slowly. I can't charm a roomful of strange people, unless somebody says "Does anyone know any cool card tricks?". Although, to be honest, that happens more than you'd think. Just not today. My cards stayed in my pocket. I just can't understand why they couldn't ask only the top few candidates to show up, because this way no-one really got to talk. When someone got the chance to talk, you could feel the unhealthy competition in the room. Maybe some people were just trying too hard, and it was coming off wrong.

I went home, in defeat. It is like going for your driver's license, you never pass your first time. Except for me, I passed both my license test first time (although I think I passed because my dad dropped me off and the tester happened to be the husband of an old colleague of his). The chances of finding a room like this were practically zero. It is such a stupid system. It is the Dutch way...

The next evening, I went back to Leiden for another interview evening. This time, there were only 6 applicants. Two were Chinese and couldn't speak Dutch, so to even the playing field, we all spoke English. I don't know if this was an advantage, or if I am charming to Dutch people when I speak English. All that matters is this: I got the room. In 2 weeks time, I will no longer be a drifter. I defied the odds by successfully finding a room so quickly, and in a way, it validates me leeching off those four households for the last 6 months. It says that I was a desirable flatmate. That I was doing those four households a favour by staying with them.

Mostly though, finding this student room gave me time to think about the amazing transformation this year. 7 months ago, I had no idea what I was going to do. The only thing I knew for certain was that I wouldn't be going to teach another year. I even went to a job fair in Tokyo in June, hoping to find a respectable job somewhere among the greasy yuppie types that are attracted to big city Japan. But there was nothing keeping me in Japan, and somehow, I wasn't worried.

Then, 7 months ago, I stumbled across a masters course in Art History at Leiden University. It was like finding out there is an alternate universe where everything is tailor-made especially for you. I always said that I would continue my studies after Japan, and here I could study exactly what I want to, specialise in Japanese art. And it gives me a chance to live in Holland, the country of my birth, the country which will pay me handsomely to be a student. That was the idea.

Of course, I never applied to the University until after I arrived. I had no idea how difficult it would be to find work until study started. How much paperwork and forms I had to fill out to become a student and start working, or even things so simple as opening a bank account, or how difficult it should have been to find a room. In this last year, I had one moment of clarity where I wondered why I wasn't at all nervous or worried about the future. It was on the aeroplane to Holland. It's true, I suffer from a rare condition where I can't produce the chemicals your body needs to feel angst.

Okay, that last sentence isn't true as far as I know, but when I look at this last year objectively, I can see how recklessly I came here. I have a blind faith that things will work themselves out. They always have. As long as you have sincere friends and/or family willing to help you, and you are willing to laugh at yourself - even when you are working as a mailman and you put letters in the letterboxes of a whole street before realising that you were in the wrong street - not much can go wrong.

I want to say thanks to everyone who has indulged my reckless attitude over the years. Someday I hope I'll stop, but for now I am back on my feet. And unless I am completely over my head with my study, this time next year, I will be a master. I know that won't change anything, and I'll be back to exactly where I started. I haven't really thought about what I'll do next, but somehow, I'm not worried.

Happy New Year!

How the Dutch Stole Christmas
And more unfortunate incidents of an Immigrant labourer















My latest stint in the world of honest employment was "bicycle mail man". Finally, a job that doesn't require a 2nd sentence to explain what it is.

Girl: "So what do you do?"
Man: "I'm a sales analyst executive sub-prefecture of the delta department 2nd in Chief."

Of course, in the busy month of December, the postal service needs extra men on the ground. You may remember that I applied for a postal-sorting job for the month of December. I never gave a re-cap of how that went. I think I feel a flash-back coming on... ming on...ingon...ngon.. on. on...

I got on an unmarked bus, and the bus led me and 5 other hopefuls to an undisclosed location. Wow. The post centre was enormous. How could this go undetected for so long? We infiltrated security, and the receptionist told us to take an elevator. I could feel the group-psychology working here. We were all huddled together like a school of nervous fish, getting into a tiny room, in a building where noone knows we are. The elevator opened, and we walked down the most disorienting set of hallways I have ever seen. I half expected to see people walking on the ceiling.

We came out into a giant room filled with hundreds of computers. A small corner of the room was lit, and there were 30 people autistically tapping away on the keyboards. Noone noticed us there, apart from two old ladies. They were the examiners. The idea was this: we had to take a series of tests of postal sorting, and if we were fast enough, we would have the most boring job for an entire month.

The test was this: A scanned picture of a letter would appear on the screen, and you had to type the post-code and house number. Then you press enter, and the next letter would appear. I had practiced a little at home with a CD, so the first 5 minute test was okay. The next test was 18 minutes, and you could only make four mistakes. This is rather difficult, as many letters are written by hand. (Or, judging by how messily they are written, by feet.) I failed this test four times. It's like playing a computer game, and to open the next level, you have to get a certain time. Only, this was the crappiest computer game ever, which wasn't even fun in the first place. I took a break, and a coffee, and amped myself up. Success! I passed with less than 10 seconds to spare. That was exciting, but not in a good way. I started to understand the true meaning of "going postal".



The next 2 tests were easy, and soon I was up against the big, bad final test. You have to scan 200 letters in 11 minutes, with no more than 2 mistakes. You know when you are playing a computer game, and reach a boss who is impossible to beat? It was impossible. Just impossible. I wasn't upset or annoyed anymore, because hopelessness had won. It was 5pm, and the building was closing. I had lost.

I could come back to challenge the boss again, but I knew already that I couldn't ever beat him. I went home, nursing a sore typing wrist.

And I never went back again... Until this week for my stint as mail man. Well, it was a different location, and this one was on the map. I was supposed to be there at midday. It took a long 45 minute bike-ride to get there. Then I was told to wait for my partner to have lunch. I could join him, and he'd show me the ropes. He ate lunch for 40 minutes. Something tells me that people get paid an hourly rate here...

So I joined him, and he showed me what to do. There were 3 steps:
1. Hold letter in hands.
2. Put letter into the letterbox or door-slot
3. go to the next house and repeats steps 1-3

Because it was my first day, he shouldered most of the responsibility. At 1:10, 40 minutes later, we arrived back at the mail centre. The team captain looked at me.
"I'm sorry, we are finished today... You started at 11, right? Okay.. [He looks at the clock]. It's 1:30." And with that, he signed my work slip for 2 1/2 hours. That half makes up for my flashback story.

I had to go back a few days later. This time I joined a different guy. These guys are definitely getting paid by the hour. This postal route was much longer, through a very pretty part of Rotterdam. We biked past a large pond, some well-maintained windmills, charming streets, and so many posh houses. My partner kind of explained the nuances of the job (You should check each letter for the house number...), but mostly I was there to chat to him. He did the entire route by himself. In the entire 3 hours of work, I delivered exactly one letter.

The next day was christmas eve. I showed up at 10 and was told that I had to join the same guy again, on the same route. Okay... This "work" was starting to feel rather suspicious. Still, I went along without complaining... Until... DUM DUM DUM...

I had a flat tyre. Shit. It was a Christmas Miracle! I had no choice but to walk back. I walked back past the same houses, past the windmills, the charming streets. I walked for 45 minutes back to the headquarters. I told the team captain I had a flat tyre. His eye twinkled, and he said: "Do you think you can do a postal route on your own?"

I modestly said that I felt capable of putting letters into slots. So I borrowed a bike, put a bag full of mail on it, and biked away. It was nice weather, and entertaining work. It is perfect for me: I am active, I don't need to be able to write Dutch, and I don't look foreign. I mean, I know it's not fair, but I'm sure the owners of the houses would rather see me walking though their expensive neighbourhoods, than Achmed. I'm just saying. I did 2 routes like this, working a solid, honest 5 hour day. A Christmas Miracle indeed!

My lasting memory from the day was when I asked a lady which house was number 90. She asked me, "Are you the mail man?"

Yes, yes I am.

The Semi-Success Story Of An Immigrant Labourer and Others Like Me.


In this time of crisis, there is one thought that immigrant labourers all over the world can reassure themselves with: People still need to eat. Also, apparently people are generally too lazy to make food for themselves. This is a job for one of us!

For the last month and a half, I have been working inconsistent hours in catering. I have little experience in the field, other than I also sometimes eat food. In that respect, I have a lot of experience for someone of my age. The job varies a lot, as I am actually a substitute caterer. I get a phone-call the day before, and a message with an address. I show up, and have to work 3-4 hours. It's not ideal, but I am hardly in a position to be bargaining.

The very first day, I showed up for 2 1/2 hours of work, and they showed me where the washing kitchen was. I had to pretend to know what I was doing. So, I washed dishes for 350 people - enough for an entire year for myself- presuming that you ate only one meal per day and used a lunch-tray. My point is, that is a lot of dishes.

Other times, I am a lunch lady. I make sandwiches, toasted sandwiches, make orange juice, work the deep fryer, mop, wipe and generally look pretty in an apron.

It is amazing how many different lunchrooms there are in Rotterdam. I had no idea. I have worked at a shipping company, a powerplant, a fertiliser company, a high-rise office building lunchroom, a bank. I never thought that bankers ate food. I just presumed that they got enough nutrition from other people's suffering. I was wrong. Also, I worked at some university campuses.

My word, kids are spoiled in Holland. I was making sandwiches at the time, specifically "Broodjes Gezond", which means "Healthy sandwich". I was shocked at how fussy these kids are. "Can you make one with white bread?... and no tomato... And no lettuce..."

I wanted to reply to them: "How about I inject it with chocolate, deepfry it and ram it in your throat before it cools?"

Maybe I am being tormented by my childhood, having to prepare my own sandwiches for school lunch since I was old enough to wield a bread knife. I did have my lunch made for me once, I remember it clearly because that was for my 17th birthday. I never even once bought lunch when I was at university. Why? Because I was a student! They're supposed to be poor! You are supposed to sit outside on the grass eating from a can of tuna with your fingers!

So, this is how the privelleged half of society live then? Or maybe all students in Holland are in the upper half. In that case, I certainly hope so since I will be joining them soon. "Hippo"-what?

As I mentioned, I am not the only immigrant labourer working in the catering. It really is quite interesting, and a great way to get used to the many different accents in Holland. Most people quickly pick up on the fact that I am not from around here, although it's encouraging that sometimes they don't. (Or possibly they don't care since I am only working there for a few hours.)

The best part about this job though, is that we have to throw away so much food. You know, those pesky things called "health regulations". Yes, even Holland has them too. So, although I only work short hours, I almost always leave well-fed. Brilliant. Left-overs truly are my favourite food, and it tastes even better when it is free. Because sometimes, immigrants need to eat too.

The Many Missteps of an Immigrant Labourer.
Part IIIII (That's romanic writing for "4")

5 Kilometres (as the crow flies) of Missteps, to be exact. "How exactly did it come to this?" I wondered as I was walking around the city of Rotterdam for more than an hour, well after midnight- And I hadn't been drinking at all.

It all began the day before when I agreed to work a day at a football stadium as a Verkeer Regulaator. This is a traffic regulator. These are necessary because Europeans are raving lunatics when they see 22 grown men running after a single ball. Especially in Rotterdam, where the Feyenoord fans are famous for being certified dimwits. Therefore, I had to sign several disclaimers in case, you know, I get killed. So, doing medical experiments to benefit sick people was too dangerous, but I can make an exception for a game.

Okay, I am not being completely fair. Football is one of my favourite sports to watch, and probably 95% of the Feyenoord fans are regular people like me- only they can afford insanely expensive tickets to watch the games live. I had to work.

I arrived early, which was not a good thing considering it was possibly the coldest day of the year so far. I bought some potato fries with mayonnaise while I waited. The guy overcharged me 50eurocent.

I was let into the complex, and had to wait a while longer with maybe 100 other people doing similar jobs as me. I was given an oversized purple Fila jacket and a snazzy orange vest, and was sent to a briefing room. It is all about the uniform...Traffic Regulator, or stripper dessed up as a Traffic regulator? It's hard to tell sometimes.

A man from a security company gave an instructional slideshow. I started now to comprehend the scale of the exercise, for today's match, and other large events. For the entire evening, all the roads in the area were to be strategically cut off to keep the traffic flowing. We were working in association with the police, which meant that we had some of the responsibitities of being in a position of power (Such as "not being seen taking a piss in public") without the advantages ("a prepared dinner"). There was a radio-HQ, people manning security camera's, cops on horses, a van of hard-core riot police, and 47500 spectators at a sold-out match vs. AZ, the current leader of the Dutch Competetion. Feyenoord, traditionally in the top 3 clubs in terms of winning record and spending, is languishing at 11th place.

As a semi-authority- in terms of not being able to pee publicly- we were warned that we might be a target for some hard-core fans, who I like to call "fuck-heads". Mostly though, my partner and I were human-road blocks. We had barricaded a road off, and we had to send the cars back, and give them directions. There were two kind of reactions from drivers. The first was a very cordial one. The driver was very sympathetic and understanding of the unusual circumstances, and politely thanked us for being here.

The second reaction was annoyed sarcasm, teary lies, or borderline rage.

"Oh, the football is REALLY important." (A nerd wanting to go to a movie)

"You're going to make me be late for a meeting" (As if she really had a meeting at 7pm)

"Fack man, dit is Facking Facked-up Man!" (This is a direct quote)

I can understand the frustration. Driving in a big city is never much fun, and if you have to make a huge detour into the heavy traffic, then rage-away if you need to. Luckily no-one was enraged enough to try and run me over. As it became later, the wind picked up, and the -2 degree temperature was piercing my snazzy outfit. I regretted wearing only one pair of socks, and I regretted listening to the instructions that I wasn't allowed to wear a hat. It was like being cryogenically frozen, except you remain conscious and time slows down. One time I tried giving directions, and I couldn't feel my face. It frozen and numb. I must have sounded like a Dutch-foreign Sylvester Stallone.

20 minutes after the game had begun, we could sit inside and chat while drinking coffee until just before the game ended. The coffee tasted so good, but whiskey would have at least kept me warm after going back outside. I bought more fries with mayo. My word, they truly do "drown it in that shit". I ate it all, including the cardboard container which had turned clear from the mayo-fat, in the hope I could build up an emergency layer of blubber.

Back outside, we heard the bad news. The game had ended in a 1-0 loss. We were hoping for a draw, so the fuckheads wouldn't be too angry and would go home to their mud-huts. But no, thousands of soccer fans- whose team had just lost- flooded out of the stadium, right past me, my partner and one police officer, swarming the road. The officer said "this is what 50000 people looks like". That was such an impressive and odd sight, and very intimidating after hearing some stories.

Everyone was reasonably well-behaved, except for the fuckheads who exited the stadium on the other side. Disappointed in their team's performance, they tried to remedy it by tearing up a round-a-bout garden, and walk down to the police station to wreck a police car. Can you imagine the conversation that would lead to that? I can. It goes like this:

Fuckhead A: "Üghhh"

Fuckhead B: "Argh! Ghummm"

Fuckhead A: "Üghmm Agh!"

Sorry for the profanity, but although they did not come our way, they held up the entire operation and were a big inconvenience to me. You see, we weren't allowed to leave our post until the police gave the all-clear. This came at much later at midnight, causing me to miss the last tram back home. Great. I was alone, and stuck in a metropolis after midnight on a freezing cold night. Well, not entirely stuck. The metro had already stopped, but I was pretty sure there would be night-trains. However, the smaller stations were closed, and Central Station was quite a walk away. Here is a map.

You could imagine that I was pissed off, and you would be wrong. Honestly, I really have nothing better to do that wander about. And I had never walked across the Erasmus Bridge, the "Swan". Magnificent isn't she?

I walked until my feet warmed up enough for me to feel them. They were sore. Just under an hour later, I arrived. There were trains that went my way every hour, only they didn't stop at my stop. I could technically waited until 6:30 AM, but not even I could wait that long. Great... So I had to cut my losses and caught a taxi.

So in conclusion, I worked about 7 hours in the freezing cold, and got home at 2:30, and 2 hours of my earnings went towards getting home. That is a lot of misstepping.

The Continued Missteps of an Immigrant Labourer. Part IIII

I have spent the last 3 days disguised as an Enqueteur. Fighting for freedom, justice and the gorgeous women that are, unfortunately, an integral part of the job description. Traveling to the ends of the city, with unrestricted freedom of passage, greeted as liberators, and most importantly, wearing the yellow jacket, which can only be described by one word: "Snazzy".

I have to come clean a little bit, I may have sexied up the job description a tad. "Enqueteur" is actually French for 'Somebody Who Accosts Strangers And Asks Them To Fill In A Survey". But that was only a small part of the job. The other parts of the job was handing out pencils to willing participants, and counting passengers. [The counting was mostly performed by a small contraption called a "counter".]

Day One: The First Day.

I got briefed, or de-briefed, whichever one means that stuff was explained to me. This was an independent survey of the public transportation by the Ministry of Traffic, which was outsourced to a data/survey company, which was outsourced to the student temping agency where I am signed in. I truly am the algae which the plankton feed on. Me and my partner Enqueteer were given a list of buses to ride, and a bag of equipment.

To get to the first bus stop, we had to take the metro to the end of the line. Halfway there, we realised that we had not been given the counter. Because they couldn't entrust us to count passengers by traditional methods (on my fingers), we had to go back to get the counter.

Once we got there, we had to wait for an hour until the first bus. Getting paid for waiting: That's a profession? Apparently so. However, it is also a cold December, and there are hardly any places to sit inside at the ends of a metropolis. So we rode buses for the rest of the day, and had to wait for a long time between each bus. Sometimes it rained. Sometimes we could wait in a bus shelter. Those two things were mutually exclusive.

It was a very easy day of work, but my partner Enquetuer became irritated and grumpy at the crappy job. It was clear that one of us had too much dignity to work one more day of this. As luck would have it, all the buses were on time, except for the very last one. And, once the bus came and we got on, it broke down. The bus driver called on me to fix it. She must have mistaken me in my snazzy jacket for a bus-repairman. I had to press the emergency stop button, which seemingly fixed it. Who knew? I guess it it like the Ctrl Alt Del on your computer. [wouldn't it be cool to have a giant red emergency button on a computer instead? No, it wouldn't be cool at all.]Unfortunately, we did not get to ride one of these super-awesome driverless buses. I guess you have to have some ambition left.

Day 2 Metro Enquetteering

Rotterdam is a small metropolis. The actual city has about 600 000 people, with around 1 million in the greater city area. The greater city area is connected not just by buses, but also by a Metro. This was to be my enquetteering assignment, counting people on the underground, and asking them to fill in surveys.

Now, this is a picture of the inside of the metro. They are always lovingly adorned with graffiti. Although this is probably one of the cleaner ones I saw. I understand that graffiti is a form of art and expression, I just don't understand why the only three things they like to express are "West Side", or "Niggaz" or "Edwin Loves Sara".

Originally, we were supposed to survey the metro's with a team of four. That meant that each carriage could have a person counting, and another person irritating the passengers. However, two people called in sick, and we had to power-on nonetheless, alone in the carriage. It was a mixture of furiously pressing the counter- guessing how many people were coming in the 6 doors, and passengers avoiding me when I wanted to ask them. I mean, I completely understand: I wouldn't fill in a survey either. But maybe I am just an asshole.

The atmosphere on the metro is understandably cold. It's mostly underground. You can't look outside. It's dirty and smells funny. Most people listen to walkmans (which is like a portable ghettoblaster) or read books, or avoid eye contact by playing on their telephones. Many people ride the metro illegally as there are few ticket checks, and then there are strange people wearing yellow jackets, and they could be police or something.

On the whole, under 5% of the passengers filled out surveys for me. These were mostly old ladies- the demographic I apparently appeal to the most. The day drew on, going back and forth on the same metro line. Outside it began snowing, and the people became even colder. So much for Christmas spirit. Again, my new partner vowed never to do this kind of work again... This is a classic case of 'Only the weak-willed survive'.

Day Three, Tramming.

Aside from the bus and the metro, there is an extensive tram system in Rotterdam. This too needed to be surveyed. I traveled out to the end of the tram-line to start at 8:30, which required a criminally early wake-up. Again, two of the 4-man team called in sick. It was again just me and a new partner.

A tram is like a shitty train that has to obey road rules. The atmosphere is better, but the lines we were surveying went right through the heart of the city. Most people don't stay on the tram long enough to fill in a stupid survey. I mean really it was stupid, the first question is:

"was it easy to find a seat when you got on?"

Well, I'm not going to ask people who don't have a seat to fill in a survey, am I?

There were also long breaks between rides. However, the end of the metro lines are generally not the most exciting parts of town. Luckily for us, each tram always has a conductor and a driver on board. Most of them need to occasionally urinate, excrete and hydrate, and at the end of the line there is a purpose built tea-room for tram employees.

A wise person once told me: "You can go anywhere in life, as long as you carry a clipboard."

It's true. We had no right to be there, but me and my snazzy yellow be-jacketed partner just walked in, drank their coffee, sat in their seats, abused their toilets and had some colourful conversation. This was the routine for the entire day. Until 8pm. Yes, we rode the trams for an entire day, until we got sea-legs, and had heard every excuse and seen every stereotype. I came across all kinds of people. A deaf Moroccan kid, an old lady swearing at the driver, a Polish exchange student who got caught without a ticket, a gangsta guy playing music so loudly that the conductor was too afraid to tell him to shut up, a boy who scoffed when I approached him "What, are you a drug counselor?", a cheesy American who hit on the female conductor who flirted back with the subtlety of a soft-core porn actress, a guy who just wanted to complain to me as if I actually cared, a pair of drunken 16-year old girls...

The girls at the temping agency told me that I was their "Topper of the Month", after working only 2 days. I laughed at them, as it was only the 2nd day that I had worked for them. Did everyone else hate this job so incredibly much? From the high attrition rate, and the cancellation rate, I'd say yes. But to me, everything is still new to me. It was the first bus I had ridden in Rotterdam. I had never been to the where the trams went. I have never been the kind of person to talk to strangers, let alone ask them to do something. All the people I meet and the things I learn. Like, while young white kids who are trying to look cool will usually fill in a survey, cool-looking minorities won't. And the opposite is mostly true too. Girls in their 20's and guys in their 30's are good to ask. Old ladies often don't have glasses, but want to complain anyway. And elderly minorities just look at me funny. Now I have been part of the system, I will never trust statistics and polls again. It is so obvious that not all types of people respond in the same proportions.

What's happening is, I am learning about the dynamics of Dutch society and the nuances of Dutch language interaction far faster than I could have hoped. I thought that this might be the true value of my research work. Well, that and 9.45 Euro per hour. I am working another 8 1/2 hours tomorrow. No job is below me, especially for a price. I'm just along for the ride.Enquetuer, or stripper dressed up as an enquetuer? Either way, I have something for you to look at...

The True Unhappened Chronicled Misdeed of an Immigrant Labourer: Part III

Times were so rough, jobs so scarce and the forecast was so bleak, I even considered the unthinkable. I was made aware of an advertisement for a very lucrative proposition. It was 4 weeks at a resort with all amenities, including TV/computer/Playstation lounges, a pool table, a well-kept garden premises, self-improvement classes, 3 catered meals per day. And the pay was an incredulous amount that would cover a huge chunk of my study year. All the advertisement said was:

"Are you a healthy male between 18 and 45?"

Yes. Yes, I am. Can I have the money in a large sack with a dollar sign on it, please?

Of course, there was a catch. This was an advertisement calling for subjects for medical trials. This calls for a movie flashback!

Okay, I did not believe there would be superhero-like consequences, however, I was still intrigued. This particular trial was testing new medications for nerve ailments or diseases. Would "Superstrong Ligament Man" pass for a superhero? (Well, if Hollywood is making a movie based on the board game Monopoly, then yes.)

My point is, my word, this was tempting. I am very acclimatised to failure by now, and this was so tempting. I figured, I can sit around waiting for temping agencies not to call me for work, or I can pretty much do the same thing, get drugged up and made to run on a treadmill for an hour a day. Hell, for the amount they were offering, they could smash my knees and study how fast my ligaments heal. Everything has its price. Beggars can't be choosers. If something seems too good to be be true, it probably is (a medical trial).

An interesting aside to this story, to show my dramatic fall from grace. I have a friend from my time in Japan, who lived in the same town, with the same job, for the same length of time, and he is now working a sweet job for a company that finds people to participate in medical trials. Oh the irony! 4 months pass, and we are on the opposite sides. I must have been really bad in a previous life, or I will be really good in a future life. (Irony number 2, he said that he wouldn't do the trial if he were me. Far from me to call him a hippopotamus, I'm sure I would say the same thing if I were him.)

In the end, mother knows best. Unsurprisingly, she guided me away from this preposterous idea of becoming a human lab-rat. I mean, I realise that the drug trial companies take all precautions they can to avoid liability, but the fact is, some lab-rats do not survive. A philosophy that I have lived by my entire life is "Stay in school, never get a job". I have the luxury of knowing, as a student, I can easily take out another fat student loan. As much as I would love the comfort of extra cash, it isn't too important or urgent. I would rather mortgage my future than gamble my present.

The Non-Chronological Chronicled Misdeeds of an Immigrant Labourer: Part II

With it becoming clear that it might be far-fetched to find work until February, I signed up for a job for the duration of December. December, the month of Christmas. It is no coincidence then, that this job was for the postal service, sorting mail during this, the busiest time of year.

Fun fact: The actual job is even more boring than "Mail-sorting" sounds. You know, you picture a giant conveyorbelt with an endless amount of letters, and you put them onto other conveyorbelts. At least, that was the image that I had. But no, the job entails sitting at a computer, where the scanned picture of letters comes up, and you type in the post-code and house number. That's exactly all there is to it.

To see if I might be a viable candidate, I was immediately asked to do a practice excercise at a computer in the temping agency. The girl explained it to me, and 90 seconds later she left me alone to finish the excercise.

I finished, and the final time came up. I had completed it within 16 minutes. The target was 5 minutes 30 seconds. Okay, so speed was key. I tried again and completed it in 7 minutes. They agreed to allow me a trial day (unpaid) at a later stage, and sent me away with a CD with the post-sorting program. I sign up for a job, and I get a computer game to take home! Sweet! If I was fast enough on the trial day, I would get the job.

So, over the next few days, I practiced at home, reminding myself where the buttons are on the keyboard, and learning how to read people's handwriting in the process. My god, some people have awful handwriting. I don't understand. We postal sorters don't ask much. Only that you write about 10 digits neatly enough to be read. Writing an address messily is like a hot girl asking for your phone number, and you give her a false number. I suspect that these messy-writers are the same people who drive 60kmph on the highways and change lanes without warning.

So, I got well under the 5:30 for the same test, only I was a little bit worried because of some special code nuances. Hopefully I could work those out on the day. It would just be very very irritating if I failed, and had to try again before December.

So, I was told to wait for a bus outside a Metro station on the other side of Rotterdam. I wanted to leave a good impression, so I made sure I was early. I well overdid it, and was 45 minutes early. I bought a coffee and made it last the 45 minutes. Then I waited at the X where the temping agency had drawn on a map.

I waited for 20 minutes in the biting cold. My phone rang. The bus would be late. They didn't add details like how late. Never mind. I waited another 20 minutes. I called them. They told me to wait another 15 minutes, and then added a little detail that it was a small blue bus. Shit, I had seen an unmarked, small blue bus about 10 minutes earlier, but nowhere near the X. And noone had called me then. Great. So, in defeat, I retreated home. I would have to try again tomorrow.

I have become so good at failure, I failed even before I had a chance to fail. Now, that is talent. Obviously, I am not impressed by the temping agency or the postal service, so please, until further notice, do not send me any letters. Or if you really need to, write the address with your feet, while you are driving. That'll learn them.

The Misdeeds of an Immigrant Labourer

They say that immigrants are the ones who get forced into the unwanted jobs and get hated on for taking all the jobs. This is one such story.

Prelogue:
In my quest for money for my student future, I have signed up to several temping agencies. The way they work is, they work for certain companies in finding people to work for them. It is a good system that allows the companies to delegate finding workers, and it is helpful for unemployed bums like myself because I don't have to go to each company or call each job advertised in the newspaper. Also, the temping agency can look at the strengths and experience of each prospected worker and put them into a fitting job. Everybody wins- and the temping agency gets a generous slice of the pie.

That is the theory. First of all, I have no strengths or experience that is relevant in the job market, and I am only looking to work until February. I'm not educated enough and Dutch literate enough for a white collar job, and I'm too inexperienced for a blue collar job- and too educated.

Another problem is that there are now so many temping agencies, that they are constantly fighting each other for lucrative contracts with companies, and they are spread so thin, to the point that the entire inner city of Rotterdam appears to made up entirely of temping agencies, and I suspect that all they do now is find employees for each other. These agencies are looking for talent. Fresh, young, healthy, nubile minds and bodies. Many of them tell me to go away. They say, "I'm sorry, there are no jobs, for you. Good luck finding a job."

Also, there is this little thing that you may have heard of called the "credit crisis". Now, I don't believe in imaginary concepts or value having a true impact on my life. In other words, I don't believe in credit or Christ. Certainly, neither is helping me get a job.

I haven't been totally without success. You may recall a few weeks back the story about the day I worked in a factory putting pieces of metal onto a table, and putting them back onto a rack, for which I was told this wasn't the job for me. What is the job for me, was the question I began to ask myself.

Part 1 (Apart from my stint working in the factory)

One of the semi-successes was writing in at a temping agency that specialises in catering. Now, this is something that I could- in theory- do, since it does not require a high standard of written Dutch. Perfect. Right? No, not really. It is on a on-call basis, and usually they only ask people to work a few hours each time. Second and thirdly, I have no experience in the field of catering, and I didn't exactly look the part.

See, the explanation meeting talked about self-presentation. Black shoes, socks and pants or skirt, with a white shirt. Also, long hair must be tied back. My hair was long, having successfully evaded the hairdresser for 8 months, and I was starting to look the part of an unemployed man. I have a terminal fear of hairdressers, and ever since an older boy with blond hair in a pony tail at the bus stop used to punch me, I am terrified of blond men with pony tails. I could never become that guy, and I love mirrors too much. I also hate paying money for hairdressers, but I would never allow someone I know to cut my hair. I consider the fee I pay as the right to hate that person who de-faced my hair until it (my hair) grows back. Yes, I can imagine how awful it must be to me.

So, I was told about a cheap hairdresser in the next town. I did like my image as an unemployee, but that is no longer the image I am going for anymore. On Monday morning, I biked halfway there, when I noticed that I had a flat tyre. Nothing comes easy to me... I continued on, pushing my bike, miraculously finding a bike store open on a Monday morning. Then, I saw a shop open too, and to my delight, it was a foreign-run barber. That meant that it was cheap, AND until my hair grows back, I could curse not just one person, but all foreigners for butchering my hair. What luck.

Anyway, this is more the kind of shop where regular customers come every week for a chat, and to trim back the side-burns. I walked in, tore off my beanie and shook my hair out like a hit chick on a shampoo commercial. "Halve it", were my general instructions. It turns out that his Dutch was even worse than mine, and he began snipping away at the tips. Great, that is not how you avoid going to the hairdressers as well as I do. I don't rip the plaster off, I prefer to rip the entire wound out. I told him to keep going, and he did. It was looking okay, I suppose, until he revealed the back of my head. He had left a blatant, flagrant neatly-trimmed mullet hanging there. Holy crap. This is one of the countries of techno music, after all. Or perhaps that is what Muslim girls have under their scarves. I don't know, but I didn't like what I saw. My fear of hairdressers, guys with blond ponytails and spending money put together don't even come close to my fear of having a mullet.

I told him to keep going, and I felt terrible for asking him to continue doing his job. In the end, objectively, I don't think he did a terrible job considering how paranoid, insecure and vain his customer was. Whatever, I no longer looked unemployed. Instead, I looked 17 years old. Whatever, I was now eligible to cater. I was eligible to start doing the jobs that regular Dutch people don't want to do.

Join us next time for the stunning followup of the chronicled Misdeeds of an Immigrant Labourer.

Will he find job satisfaction in the credit crisised market?
Will he ever confront his fears and pick a fight with a man with a blond pony tail?
Will the Xi Chao the panda bear ever find true love?
Will the immigrant cater to what?

SP AR TA

Whoops. Wrong PictureMy reintegration with Holland reached a new high point last week when I went to a football game. Yes, look at me being all European and refusing to call it "soccer". It is already working.

The most famous football club in Rotterdam is Feyenoord. It is famous for a mixture of good reasons (a winning history) and bad reasons (hooliganism). However, the football club closest to where I was born is famous for neither of these reasons. The club is called Sparta, and it is the oldest professional club in Holland. Yes, it is a storied history. They are currently sitting comfortably in the top 15 in the top division.

But try telling that to the 1/3 filled to capacity 11,000 seat stadium. "The Castle". Everyone was so jovial. Or at least the beer was making them that way. The stadium was filled with middle-aged men drinking coffee and/or beer, and jovial music composed before music was invented. I must have been out-of-place, as I was the only one in our group of 15 who got a pat-down. "aren't you lucky?". No, no I wasn't. He only touched my head.

The players came onto the field, with little children. You see this on TV often, but I don't know, are the kids disappointed when they get chosen to come out with a losing team? I guess you can just lie to the kids. That is always a good solution, and it is good fun. Then everybody stood to song the age-old Sparta anthem, with the rousing lyrics:

"S-P
A-R
T-A"

Yes, 100 years before Snoop Doggy Dog and Sesame Street were spelling things out in their lyrics, Sparta Rotterdam was already doing it. Take that. As soon as the song finished, the whistle blew and the game started.

You know, apart from the semi-professional basketball games I went to in New Zealand and Japan, I have never been to a pro-sport live. Not even rugby or cricket. For someone who likes sport as much as me, it was quite surpising. I guess I wanted my first time to be special.

I wouldn't consider myself a football fan, but I do like watching it. If there is an international tournament on, I will watch until my eyes bleed. So I do appreciate top-quality football. Sparta was also okay. It really is different watching live than on TV. first of all, the field looked nearly square from our perspective behind the goal. And you can't hear them kicking the ball. I still wonder how they do that on TV, because you can hear every single pass despite the rowdy crowds. Do they have a microphone in the ball? Or is there someone in the studio who pushes sound effect buttons? It is a mystery to me.


This is the Sparta team. I just wanted to show them in their uniforms, because I was watching the game, and it all seemed so familiar somehow. I kept finding myself thinking, "found him", "found him", "there he is", and so on.Okay, that was a poor joke. I'm sorry.

But it it turned out to be a very exiting game.

I was only close enough to take semi-decent photos at our end, but Sparta definitely had the team swagger at the start. In the first half, Sparta got a free kick just outside the box. It broke the wall, and dribbled into the net.


The villagers rejoyced, and everybody spontaneously burst into song: the Sparta anthem. Oh, football fans have such a likeable culture when they aren't fighting each other and vandalising stuff.

At half-time, everybody stood up. I'm not sure why, but what the hell, I'm reintegrating. The 2nd half was more of the same, scoring a 2nd goal off a breakaway.
Then the other team brought on a substitution. I looked at him, and knew he was trouble. It is amazing in football how much a team can have a swagger. They were definitely swaggerig now. Within 15 minutes, he headered in a goal, making the last half hour tense.

It was a jovial ending to the night too. Unfortunately, this was a cup-match, and did not count towards the season charts. So, for the moment, Sparta is still comfortably in the top 15. And my reintegration is nearly complete.

Magneto

My 3 month hiatus from working came to an end this morning. I was finally awarded with a tax number, and within no time, I was offered a test day on-the-job trial at a company named "Magneto". (Excuse my lame TV references. I personally never watched the X-Men series, although I did read the comic books that came my way.)

So, nompany which makes titanium diodes. Or was it annodes? Is there a difference? What are they anyway? They sound like delicious. Or were they the names of two of the Cosby kids? An internet search explained it to me, and yet, I didn't understand a thing. All I know is, it apparently has something to do with electricity and receivers.
I don't know if the latest Magneto, Sir Ian McKellen, knows anything about diodes or annodes, but he sure knows about receiving.

I do, however know a little bit about titanium. I first heard about this wonder-substance from an after school cartoon that used to be on TV. It was called "Extreme Dinosaurs", and it was the most bad-ass cartoon ever. It was about four dinosaurs who are heroes and fight against an evil T-Rex with a robotic jaw and his hench-velocaraptors. It was part of the early 90's Dinosaur Craze, along with Denver the Last Dinosaur. You know, "he's a friend and a whole lot more". Yes, Denver had a very memorable theme tune, but the theme tune for the Extreme Dinosaurs was 100 times cooler than Denver the Last Dinosaur. Take one minute out of your day to watch this.


"Fossilize 'em!"

Now tell me that isn't totally Bad-ass! Oh man. Freaking awesome. I can't describe the feelings of awesomeness that glow from this video like a good radiation, you know the ones that give you superpowers.

So anyway, the point of me mentioning the Extreme Dinosaurs, apart from highlighting the awesomeness, is that they were amazingly strong. I mean, of course they were, they were dinosaurs. And not the wussy types of dinos like Denver, or E.T. No, these Dino's would tear through walls rather than open a door. (Except, I remember one of them being a bit of a computer nerd in an unnecessary attempt at character development). So, these dinosaurs could tear through absolutely anything. Anything, except titanium. I swear, every single episode, one or all four Extreme Dinosaurs would be trapped in a room or be put in shackles, and you would here these epic lines:

"IT'S TITANIUM. I CAN'T BREAK IT!"

I had no idea what titanium was, but I knew then, that it was an awesome material. The TV show, unfortunately did not last very long, so the next thing I heard about titanium was years later that titanium golf clubs became the most sought-after target for burglars. Haha, take that golf!

So, when the temp-agency said they might have some menial labour job for me that involved the words "Magneto" and "titanium", how could a straight man say no? I'm glad you agree with me. They had me at "titanium.

So, I biked to the factory this morning and they had no idea who I was and why I came. I explained to them that I was sent by the temp-agency, which might have been from the future, or the past. I got led through the factory and I was sat down in a cafeteria for 90 minutes while someone went to make some calls, presumably with diodes. Now that I think of it, this sitting down might have been part of the test-day. I just sat and drank coffee.

Then, a big-wig came into the room. Wow. Just wow. A slick straight talker with winky smile. He gave me a quick explanation of what the company does, although he strangely skipped the part about telepathy and dinos. I didn't understand what he wanted me to do, although he emphasised that it was "Not unimportant work". This just got more and more promising.

Then, I got given a white lab-coat and latex gloves, and met some of the people in the painting department. And it wasn't just any paint, it was titanium paint! Was I aiding in the making of materials to finally capture the Extreme Dinosaurs? I mean, I presume that the evil velociraptors didnt produce their own evil contraptions since they have those foetus-like arms.

My responisiblity in the factory was assisting in the painting of boringly shaped pieces of metal. But the painting of titanium was very complicated, and I wasn't allowed anywhere near a paint roller. My task, all day, was taking pieces of circular metal off a rack and placing it on the table. Then, once my superior painted it, I could place it back onto the rack. Life is beautiful, isn't it? Life, death, seasons. Always coming back to where you began.

After lunchtime, I started to question everything around me. I hadn't seen one flying piece of metal, or one dinosaur. Also, with how carefully I was supposed to treat the titanium paint coating, I even started to question the strength of the Extreme Dinosaurs. You could damage titanium with a dead rodent. Why couldn't the Extreme Dinosaurs break it? It didn't make sense!
The ghost of Stegz and T-bone told me something was amiss...

There was only one logical explanation, it wasn't really titanium paint, and this had nothing to do with dinosaurs. It was a clever front. For all I know, we were making nuclear weapons for North Korea. I looked around me, the lab coats, people working obeintly on nondescript objects... I had just watched James Bond, Golden Eye the night before, and I could picture James Bond blowing the entire facility back to the iron(curtain)age. And I couldn't be angry at him. I was fair game in my lab-coat.

At the end of the day, the big-wig came back and asked me into his office. At this stage, I had not decided to not take the job. We sat down, and he talked, looked me in the eye, and this is what he said:


He gave me the "It's not you, it's me" speech! Apparently my resume was sent through, and he was discouraged that I had received an education and might have learned to question things. And that maybe this job didn't suit my personality. Maybe he was right to let me go. If after one day of work, I can get so paranoid and fanciful, maybe this wasn't the job for me.

Signs.
Don’t worry, this has nothing to do with that crappy film about Mel Gibson doing absolutely nothing when aliens come to earth who are somehow smart enough to build invisible spacecrafts, but not a raincoat.

I want to share a collection of signs that I have seen since recently. Pictures have been used for thousands of years to communicate ideas directly, especially to those unable to read. But sometimes, the iconography becomes so complicated that each picture needs its own interpretation, far beyond the original intended idea that it was supposed to convey.

For instance, look at this board that explains the types of toilets there are. It has simplified and stereotyped people to convey the idea of a man, a woman or a child. You know, the dress for the woman, pants for the man, the child is smaller version of a man. This board also takes no risks and has the idea underneath in written languages of Dutch and Engli sh, just in case the reader is literate. You can never be too sure.

There are two things strange about this sign. First is the Englisch of translating “Women” as “Dames”. I’ll let it slide. Maybe the pictures are there incase their language is wrong.
The other thing, however, I can’t understand. Why is there a family toilet? I have never been a parent, or a Dutch parent, so I could be way off, but I cannot imagine any scenario where a family would have to go to the toilet together. Wouldn’t the parents usually take turns? When would a mother, father and child ever want to take a crap together? Talk about bonding…

Next is this elaborate sign found on a water bus.
Now, this is a very clever sign, using three scenes with cartoon movement-lines to warn of impending danger of falling into the water in scenarios when there is rough water, or when the boat is stopping at a dock (or crashing). Now, as well made as this sign is, by the time you finish deciphering it, you could already have fallen into the water. Why not a simple:
“Beware of rough water” or “Hold onto rails”.

This next one is just a dog taking a crap. It is very detailed in a cartoonish way, with the big Rudolph nose, the floppy ears, and the soft-serve dog shit. And the fact that your dog is encouraged to shit. (This sign is apparently a hot target for young people as decoration for their bedrooms.)
And here is one where your dog is forbidden to shit. Again, there is great attention to cartoon detail, to the point where there are actual flies on the sign. It is clear by the body language that the dog is about to drop one, but sees the red line and decides not to break the law.

This was a sign in Antwerp. Admittedly, the Belsch are known to be a little e ccentric. I have no idea what this sign is supposed to mean. My best guess is: “No cleaning up after your elephant”.

Next are signs where my native English turns innocent signs into joke victims.

Now, I know Holland is a liberal country but… this is going a little bit too far, no?

Somehow, this company name does not inspire me with confidence. I have no idea what they do, but I wouldn’t do business with them, let them into my house or tell them my date of birth.

Brilliant, a button on the tram in case you see nipple. I presume that the driver wil l then slow down for you.

This is a doorway at the public library. Every time someone went near it, I screamed: “Don’t go in there, it might be a trap!”

Here is a picture of me under a 2-metre high sign that says that it is 2-metres high. I have no idea why this sign was here, but it represents that Holland is a country that is tailor made to me. After living for 2 full years in constant fear of hitting my head, this is a fortunate change of circumstances. They say that cricket gives you cancer, and I say that Japan gives you a bad back.

And finally, here is a bonus photo of me embarrassing myself.

Give me my B.S.!

The great thing about Holland is that everything is well-organised. Sure, it is a very liberal country, but it isn't a Mad-Max or Waterworld type of liberal chaos. For example, prostitution is taxed, regulated and unionised. Prostitutes are part of the Dutch society. I am not. I don't understand. But then, I also don't exist yet. I don't have my number. I'm unemployed, uninsured, undesireable and uninspired. All because I don't have my Burgers Service number. (This has very little to do with burgers, as I will explain below).

The problem began in 1989, when a four-year-old version of me immigrated to New Zealand. I did not then have my own passport and I had never worked (my attempts at child-acting failed miserably) meaning that I did not yet have a tax or a citizen's number assigned to me, although five years later they began tattooing the numbers on newborn babies to prevent the mess that I am in now which came about because I am attempting to rejoin the Dutch society without this special number that usually is printed on your passport but since I requested my first passport in 1999 from the embassy in Wellington, they did not request my number from the tax department in Holland and left the space blank, and now the allocation and management of these numbers has been recently delagated to local city halls, where I am still registered despite my 19 year absence although they can't just allocate a number to me without proof that I live somewhere, and that I know my parent's birthdays - which I didn't, but I will never forget now, and my previous address in Japan which they will never check up on, and even then it will take up to six weeks process the paperwork to prove that I am a citizen here despite me already being on the computer files and being able to present my Dutch passport which would be too simple and neanderthal for a country where technically, hookers could go on strike, so I am currently unable to work, open a bank account, get insurance or even exist as a citizen of a country in which I am unquestionably a citizen of.

It is really that simple. All I need right now is my B.S. number.

"Rocket Science"

My cellphone alarm woke me at 5:45 this morning, and I dutifully snoozed it, and hid it under the covers to dull the sound to give me 5 minutes more sleep. After 30 minutes, I woke up when I realised that my alarm had been on vibrate mode. I put on the clothes I had neatly piled up on the floor the night before, put on my watch, my scarf, my hat, and two bags and went outside into the dark morning. I walked to the local station and caught a train to Rotterdam Central, where I looked around for an ATM to withdraw a large sum of money. By now the light was starting to glow dimly through the high cloud cover. I went into the train ticketing office, took a number and waited for my turn.

I had been thinking about this trip for a while. It started on my flight over to Holland. On the in-flight entertainment, a I watched a movie called "In Bruges". It's an English hit-man film starring Colin Farrel, Brendan Gleeson, Ralph Fiennes and the city of Bruges, Belgium. It is a one of the most well-preserved old cities in Europe, a fairy-tale city, sometimes called the Venice of the North. I wanted to take a sightseeing trip to somewhere pretty, and cheap. I had it all planned out, 2 nights in Bruges, take a walking tour on the first day, drink local beers at night, hire a bike on the 2nd day and explore further, and then visit some museums in Brussels on the way home.

"All the trains in Belgium are not running today", the lady told me. "The strike in Belgium..."

What? But, I woke up at 6:15. I packed a nice lunch. I studied and took notes for the trip! This is possibly the most organised I have ever been. And it was thwarted because Belgium is on strike?

General strike paralyses Brussels

Yes, from what I gather, the entire country is on strike, not just the trains. And they want more money. Sure, I used to think that strikes were great ("Yay, no school"), but this is clearly going too far. I watched an episode of South Park recently where Canada went on strike, and now I hate South Park for giving Belgium ideas. Because, when you really think about it, Belgium is to Holland what Canada is to the USA, or what New Zealand is to Australia. It's the weaker, underappreciated little brother, who gets less attention, and more farts on their face.

I really didn't want to do this. I really didn't. I wanted to ignore the petty rivalry between Holland and Belgium. I had no reason to dislike Belgium until now.

This whole strike is a big attention stunt by a whiney know-it-all little brother. Trust me, I know the mentality: I was that little brother once. This article says "Trade unions called a one-day strike to draw attention to the rapidly rising prices throughout the country."

Great, thanks Belgium for pointing out that little-known fact for us. Next week I expect them to call a national day of fireworks celebrations to raise awareness of fireworks-related injuries and unneccessary CO2 emissions.

"Belgium, I know what it's like to be the younger brother, but trust me, you don't have to be a dick about it."

Uncovering my Jeanealogy

I pride myself on having a reasonably good memory. I mean, I won't necessarily always remember trite details like what someone's hairstyle was the day before, or a close friend's name. But then, who does? I do excel, however, at remembering events. With a single reminder, I could recount the events of a day, or a weekend. I could possibly be a professional reminiscer.

Last week, I got a box from the postman. Despite the fact that I had sent to myself, a few months ago. It was full of books and posters and stuff that I couldn't bear throwing out. Basically, it is stuff that I will never really use, and will be dead-weight for the rest of my life.

Still, I made like Christmas and tore the box to shreds. I was pleasantly surprised to see some clothes in there too. I didn't recall putting them in, but my laundry cycle is already short enough, and I can use a few extra clothes.

However, one of the items of clothes, was a pair of jeans. Not only did I not recall packing them in the box, I didn't recognise them at all. Look, if you hate to go shopping as much as I do, you remember where you got every single purchase. My clothes get their mileage. I still have undershirts from 9 years ago.

So, considering my memory, and my profound hate for shopping, where did these jeans come from? This was a deep mystery, and I would have to solve it in the style of NYPD Blue, Law and Order, Criminal Intent, House, CSI, CSI:Miami, CSI New York, NCIS, Six Feet Under, Bones, Tru Calling, Numbers, LA Law, Ally McBeal, The Practice, Missing, Inspector Gadget, and Dude Where's My Car.

Material Facts:

1. They were straight-legged blue jeans.
2. They were relatively new and unused, as the faded portions were still crisp and new.
3. No other item in the box was unknown to me.
4. I personally packed and sealed the box before taping it shut and posting it. (Take that terror!)
5. The box did not appear to be tampered with before I tore it open.
6. The postman who asked me to sign for the box was very courteous. Perhaps too courteous...
7. The rear-right pocket contained a folded piece of same type of tape as was used on the the outside of the box.
8. The jeans did not smell particularly bad. Which is lucky, because I did sniff them.
9. They were "wrangler" jeans, which apparently is a decent brand. Too classy for myself, for sure.

and most oddly:
10. They fit me perfectly.

The plot thickens.

First of all, I needed to be sure that they were not my own jeans. I shouldn't read too much into them fitting me perfectly. I am a human coat-hanger: thin, wiry, long, one drug-addiction short for the fashion runways. However, it is unlikely that these jeans come from Japan. The only time I tried to buy pants in Japan was a complete disaster. I told the store clerk that I needed jeans. She asked me what my size was. I didn't know. She measured my waist. She handed me some pairs to try on, led me to the changing room, and shut the curtain for me. Every single pair came down to halfway down my shins. Each time, I walked out feeling more and more sheepish. The clerk called over another clerk - to laugh together, and to try find some new pairs. It was a complete failure.

I found out that it sometimes is possible to find jeans long enough, but they are usually far beyond what I'd imagine to pay for human-gift-wrap.

I had one last reasonable theory. Maybe... someone gave these jeans to me just before I left Japan. I mean, many of us were leaving at the same time, and possibly they didn't want to send those jeans home. I know I was trying to give away many things. One extra helping hand of credibility to this hypothesis: That entire month before leaving, I was drunk.

So I asked the relevant friends, and they all denied any knowledge. Without seeing them face-to-face, I couldn't tell if they were lieing. Internet interrogation still has a long way to go.

I guess this will be remain an unsloved mystery in my life.

Last week, I was idly looking through my old photos and I came accross my Shanghai photos, where I went 1 1/2 years ago. This was a self-portrait I took at the People's Park. It was the last day for me. It had been an incredibly strange four days. My father was supposed to meet me at the hotel on a stopover back from Germany to New Zealand, however, the Chinese Customs voided his visa, and he wasn't let into the country. In fact, he wasn't even allowed onto the plane. At least I didn't have stay a night at the airport. But it did become a very lonely trip. In fact, this led to the perfect conditions for me getting scammed by three girls claiming to be "Inner Mongolian students of English in Shanghai for holiday"... Let's not get into details again. However, in Shanghai, I walked and wrote all over the city. I went to and saw so many things, and then I found a seat somewhere and wrote. Seeing this photo again reminded me of how wonderful those four days were. Japanese cities weren't really walking-friendly places, but now I am in Holland (Which is so small, you could start to walk around its borders on monday, and be home again for dinner). It was a reminder that I need to do this more often. Just me, my feet and a pen. And, as weather may dictate, a jacket and je...


That's them! Where did these jeans come from? Now have photographic evidence from a cloudy past. This only makes things more complicated. Why don't I remember these jeans? Was purchasing them so traumatic that I blocked the entire memory out? If anybody can help me; either with the number of a good pyschologist, or information or sightings of these jeans (photographs?) please do.

BabelDutch

Admission: The following post is written by a childish Ruben in Dutch, and translated with the aid of Babelfish, the online translation program. (Italics are English)

Thus, many people question me or I well Dutch can talking. Or I everything on TV understand, or if I can write well. It is Difficult a thing exactly, say because there is no real level where I sit on. Everything that I know in the Dutch are to my sometimes Nazi grateful--like parents. Then we at home were, a house rule was that was prohibited English. Was extremely annoying, and I a lot of time has had sentence for when I English spoke.

I mean, because Dutch always my language was in the house, most things is easy for concerning at talking. What is for evening meal? what I you done today? I can it car has tomorrow? No? Why not? Ya, but (brother) had used it today! That is not honest! Why do you hate me? Ya but, I I, no goeie… goddammit. Listen to me. No! No! Ya but I must go there for... Okay FUCK OFF! I' ll go to my room by myself, thanks you very much. Good fucking night, and thanks!

I entirely never Dutch have taken lesson, I never look at Dutch TV if film then I lived in new sea country. I had no Dutch friends, and the children who it was possible, however, it will be simply stupid for with each other in Dutch at talking. It was not be nice for differently. Neither with my brother, even now, he feel simply strange for in and other language at talking then English. Thus, I used Dutch actual only measured my parents. Plus, I was for two three years in Japan, with perhaps telephone each couple of weekends. There never this way much chance was for Dutch at talking. But, it goes. I have to no problem follow an interlocution, or to teleview. Sometimes, if it concerns economy, or of the foreigner is to talking, know I not entirely where concerns, but in context, it a problem is not.

But write, ordinary… yes, how can am I best say? It feels just like if I am really stupid. Just like or I to school have not gone. That I have things in my head who not come. I feel almost as demented… I know that there a better word for that is. Gestilijke… It is this way…!!!!


Okay, that actually makes me look incredibly stupid. But I swear, some of that is Babelfish's fault. I don't agree with translation. Things must be interpreted, not translated.

The point is, I am finding it difficult to judge where I am with my language ability here. On the one hand, I hardly ever have to stop a conversation because I can't follow. Sure, sometimes I like to clarify a certain word that comes up frequently. I wrote this last time I came to Holland, but it does feel like I have had been shot in the head, and I am trying to rewire my brain around the things I have lost. Then I will kung-fu fight Lucy Liu to the death.

Even in small social situations, I am even more awkward than usual. The language isn't the problem, as much as the subtle nuances of how to use it. When I buy something at a shop, I hardly say a word. What am I supposed to say? Would it be wierd to say "here you are", when I hand over the money? Am I thinking too much? Oh shit, I just dropped my change. Evacuate before you look like a fool!

One thing I have noticed is that Dutch people speak from their intestines. My god, they belt out their sentences, as if they have all been trained in the Opera. Especially coming from Japan, where people are meeker than a gay kitten, this is going to be an adjustment for me. But in general, I can dance around the words I don't know or am not comfortable in using.

Writing, however, is the zinger. See, I have never been very good at speaking. Or, at least, I try not to speak too much. It has never been so important to me. I like to be compact with what I say. That's why, I prefer writing. The written word is a glorious thing. "I think with my pen"s is my motto. I have a stack of Diaries that document every boring day of my life since 7 1/2 years ago. (They are very boring. They usually say things like: "I went ___ and I write for a while. Then I went home and wrote some more...").

What I am saying is, I define myself as someone who writes a lot, and in Holland that doesn't mean so much. Apparently, my Dutch writing sounds like I am South African. (This is supposed to be a jesty-insult), so I have a lot to work on. Just living here isn't enough. Watching TV isn't enough. I have a notebook where I write down unknown words I come across and look them up later, but even that might not be enough.

I guess you can't have it both ways. When I was in New Zealand, no-one ever considered me to be Dutch. I wanted it to be somehow obvious. In Japan, I wanted to blend in completely, like a leaf-shaped insect. In Holland, I can't decide which way I want to go yet. Hopefully I can decide soon, and express it in my "interlocution"...