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.