I was going to first post a small video montage of the holiday I've just come back from, but due to technical difficulties and technology-rage, that will have to come at a later date. Also, this will come as a spoiler alert, because it concerns the holiday and the fact that I was in Spain.

Update... It is an end-of-year miracle, and the video is up. Have a look, or not. It is mainly photos of the sights, and not of the many museums we went to. (It was winter, not really the best time of the year to hit the beach-clubs.)



Basically, in my last few weeks of being in Ho-Land, I would spend most of it in Spain, while the rest of Europe was buried under snow. Not a bad trade-off really. And even though you might think that it was a waste of my last moments in Holland, one of the best things about Holland is its close proximity to other countries. Yeah, that's a back-handed compliment (like dating a girl because her mother is hot), but also kind of true.

(The song used for the video was "Me Gustas Tú by French/Spanish aritist Manu Chao. The song may be familiar from the brilliant soundtrack to Once Upon a Time in Mexico.)


Stupid Observation:

So, we were situated in a small seaside town called Vilanova which is between Barcelona and a small town called Sitges. I was unfamiliar with Sitges so I googled it. This was the screen-cap:

Hmm... My suspicion was a little (a) roused.

Then I wikipedia'd it, and in the second paragraph I came across this sentence:

"Nowadays it is a popular destination for gay and lesbian travellers, as it has become one of the most gay-friendly places in the world."

Now, I've been living in Holland, which I've been told is gay-friendly. But then, people in Holland don't seem particularly friendlier than other countries. Maybe I don't seem gay enough, which is good because it's the kind of the impression I try to give off. But a town that is 'one of the most gay-friendly places in the world'? I was a little afraid to go there. But since Vilanova is manwiched between Barca and Sitges, we divided our time between the two. Why choose just one? You never know, you might like it.

It was a very pretty town, like many other Spanish towns, and not much about it seemed particularly gay to me. keep in mind that I have a finely-tuned gaydar from 5 years of all-boys eduacation.

Here are the only real clues I got to the gayness of Sitges:

• The unusually high ratio of shoe stores. If Will and Grace has taught me anything (and I sincerely hope that it hasn't), it's that the gays love their shoes.
• There is a street called "Calle de San Francisco."
  
• Many of the people walking past in the street spoke French.
  
• The quiet bar we entered had guys ordering cocktails.
• The bar, which had only one (male) bartender, played a Cindi Lauper song.

But that's pretty much all I can think of. Of course, being winter, it wasn't exactly great weather for assless chaps and rollerskating in lycra. But for a place that the Wikipedia gods deemed to be 'one of the gay friendliest places in the world' I was, frankly, a little disappointed. It was a nice city, but not as fabulous as I was misled to believe. Nobody saying "yoohoo". Nobody partying as if WWII ended the day after Don't Ask Don't Tell was repealed. Nobody trying to blow me - I mean, not that I wanted to be blown by a dude, but it would have been nice to have been asked.

Anyway, that was honestly a tiny part of the holiday. A great way to spend the waning parts of the year. I hope that 2010 was a great year for all of you, and I hope that 2011 is extremely friendly to you, no matter what the preferred orientation of your genitals happens to be.

I'll leave you with a ponderance that came across me during this above holiday:

What is a holiday, but time,
Time that you try to enjoy
More than you usually do?

Be safe, be happy, be the best you can possibly be. If you can't do that, just try to copy me.

Beached





Yes, this does mean that Back 'n Dutch is winding up, but I think we all knew that was coming. Never fear, it surely will be reincarnated for the new year.

Training Home

I love trains. In fact, off the top of my head, I can think of three songs about trains that I love.








Also, there is this terrible J-pop song which was always hilarious to sing at Karaoke.


I probably love trains because growing up there were only two in the town I grew up in. One was a miniature train that went around a small lake - and this one wen't the furtherest. Trains are great because they just show up and you get on without having to worry about the driver. Being in Japan for all those years made me learn to expect that trains come on time. The only times I were held up was for earthquakes, suicides and extreme winds, and even then, I wasn't always pleased when they weren't on time.

However, in Holland, not only are delays almost inevitable, but there are delays so frequently that you wonder why. A few weeks ago, there was a fire in the building which deirects the trains into Utrecht, the central station in Holland. Thousands of people were stranded and had to sleep on makeshift beds for the night.

That's why I wasn't feeling too optomistic when I walked into Amsterdam central station and saw that it was full of people. Because of 'extreme weather conditions' all traffic had to be routed through Utrecht. Extreme weather conditions? Really? Because sure there was a nice layer of snow, but nothing that Holland shouldn't be accustomed to by now.
This is the official photo used to show the 'extreme weather circumstances'.

Hell, I remember a news item from Japan how a train driver had to apologise after he tried poughing through more than a metre of snow to avoid making the train arrive late, making the train derail killing 8 passengers. I mean, sucks for those 8 passengers, but I like the attitude. And in comparison, this snow in Holland was just a sprinkling.

After half an hour I was able to get on a train, however it was announced that there was no driver. We had to wait. The driver was probably stuck in traffic. Oh the irony. Another half hour later and we were off. Slowly. And then we had to wait for several other trains to drive into Utrecht because there was a traffic jam of trains.

Luckily I was able to mosh my way through the crowds at the station to make my connection just on time. My travel time was only doubled. But all that extra time has made me seriously reconsider my stance on loving trains.

What happens when a douche meets an even bigger douche


Sometimes you see something that just makes you happy, and watching football last week certainly did that for me. Specifically from the moment the above photo was taken during the the recent PSV vs Ajax football match. In it we see the douchebag Ibrahim Affely dangerously tackling the other biggest douchbag in Dutch football, Uruguan Luis Surarez.

This tackle began an incredibly petty and childish sequence from two players whose entire reputations are built on pettiness and childishness A stupid tackle by Afellay led to Suarez purposefully kicking him on the way down, which led to a lame stand-off and a giant piece of flailing and flopping by Afellay. Affelay earned a yellow card for the tackle. See the entire sequence here:



Soon after, a frustrated Suarez did one of the stupidest things any sportsplayer could do and bit in another PSV player’s shoulder.

Here are some stills:

(Note also how he is pulling the middle finger behind his back. What a toss-job.)

Suarez was banned for two matches by his own club, and 7 matches by Fifa, and he gave a very vague answer as to why he did it, something about competitiveness and 'what happens on the field stays on the field'. Sure, I remember Mike Tyson said after he bit the ear of Holyfield that he was 'protecting his family'. Sure, crazy person, whatever you say. My theory is that Suarez probably mistook the PSV player for a carrot. I mean, seriously, put on some playboy bunny ears on him, and he could be a star alongside Michael Jordan in Space Jam II.



Background
It pains me to call Abraham Afellay a douchebag. I wish it were different, because he is freaking good and plays for Holland. He is just a selfish player who always goes for his own goal rather than making a good pass, flopping as soon as he gets in the box, and stupid whiney stunts like when he elbowed another player last year. He reminds me of a more unlikeable and less-skilled Christian Ronaldo. Excuse me while I throw up.
Thankfully, next year he will no longer be playing in Holland as he is going to Barcelona. On behalf of all people in Holland who don't like douche-bags, thank you. Maybe even he might learn a lesson in humility playing against better players (or even better, by not making the starting 11).

On the other hand, I have zero qualms about calling Suarez a giant sack-of-shit. First of all, he plays for Ajax. Secondly, he falls down and whines and acts like a female tennis player’s overprotective father. See the next two photos as evidence:



I saw an interview once where he said his new year’s resolution was to try cut down on flopping and his whining. He never has, as seen by the biting incident.Not that I need any more reason to hate him, but Uruguay played against Holland in the World Cup semi-finals. Like everybody else who has ever seen any Dutch football, we were expecting to see Suarez fall down more often than a drunken baby, however, in the previous match he had earned a red card against Ghana by something he hilariously dubbed ‘the hand of God’. Seriously, if God had a hand, he would use it to bitchslap him. Until I see that, I am still agnostic.

So let us cherish this magical meeting of two epically douche douchebags for what it was. Because life is too short to not enjoy special moment like this.

They Reminisce Over You

For those who occasionally check by this site and wonder what happened to make me stop writing, I apologise. Unemployment kind of took my internet-writing mojo away for a while, but occasionally something happens that just makes you want to share. Last night I chanced across a video that I had originally wanted to see and show - but most of all see - in May after my puppy Yuki played dead for the last time. This video was from when I came home for the first time in three and a half years, and 5 months before she died.

Watching it made me remember that there was no better possible way to come home... "was".



The song used for the video is a classic Hip-Hop instrumental from They Reminisce Over You by Pete Rock and CL Smooth. After all of this, I kind of realised something: for me, home is where your dog is.

Anyway, thanks for letting me share. I'm sure soon there will be an announcement as to what my next big plans are, as soon as I know them myself.

Dutch Safari

First off, my absence from writing here has mainly to do with the fact that I am unemployed and homeless.

This leads us neatly onto today's posting: other things that don't have homes. Wildlife. Sukkels.

Now, I know there are many words that often come after "Dutch", like "wife", "oven", "date", "brownie", "pile driver"*, etc. However, two words you don't expect to hear after "Dutch" are "safari" and "wildlife".

In fact, Holland is so deprived of authentic wildlife, that they imagine all sorts of wildlife to be living in the mushroom-filled woods.Creepy huh? Why is thhe boy with the flower in his hair humping the ground? And by the way, I really hope that guy in the background is a mushroom. And no, I cannot make it stop. Just read on.

So, just yesterday after dinner I went with the parents to a park. It was actually a hunting reserve for the royal family, but now for 9 months of the year, it is open to the public. (The other three months of the year is a "rest period" for the animals, during which they can mate, fight, and avoid being shot at by blue-bloods. Ironic, that's almost my ideal get-away too)

So, we took a nice walk along car tyre tracks. I wasn't expecting to see much more than mushrooms. (It is supposed to be a good year for "shroomers"). However, the path got smaller, and this is what we saw:

At first, I only saw its tail, and I stupidly said "Is it a donkey?". I mean, this was a Dutch Safari, which I presumed would basically be the same as a petting zoo. But no, it was a wild boar. It had obviously heard us walking, but we saw the moment that it realised we were looking at it. There were also at least three smaller baby swines (Swinelets? Anybody? No? Forget I said anything), two of which you can see to the left of the tree. After half a minute of staring at each other, they all ran away, including another adult.


We continued on, uphill... Yes, uphill. In Holland. It was so strange to finally arrive at this 180 degree view on a vast plain. We spotted a small species of deer grazing relatively close to us, but disappointingly, even with stalker-quality binoculars, there was nothing else to see. Until, this.

Through the binoculars, we clearly saw a large group of deer walking to their grazing spot, including a buck who I would be proud to have on my wall. (I decided, both sides of the wall - head on one side, and ass on the other). There was at least 13 in the main group, and also a group of swine grazing nearby too.

Okay, maybe objectively, this seems like a lame safari, but I just want to dispel some misconceptions about the Netherlands, so that I can enjoy reinforcing them again at a later stage.

Bonus:

While in the small German town of Rheine, we saw this ridiculously cute eekhoorn (squirrel). It was right behind the main chuch on the main square, and it had an acorn in its mouth. I just wanted to cuddle it. I'm not afraide of rabies - it is almost a rite of passage for the homeless.




*"Dutch pile driver" is not actually a known term. As far as I know. But don't let this stop you from thinking about it and ruining your appetite.

Whoring Around

This may be the most appropriate posting I have made since the change of this weblog to "At Home in Ho-land". Okay, sure, the main definition of a "whore" is somebody that offers sex for money, but in the looser sense (no pun intended) of the word, a whore is somebody that does something that they don't want to do for money.

I have had many posts in the past about interesting places I have worked, and over the last year and a half, I have seen so much, been to very interesting places, and met some unforgettable people. In all, this was a great way to reintegrate into my native country of birth. No question. However, reintegration was my keyword of last year. I have nothing left to learn. See, the problem with being a substitute lunch-lady is that whereever you go, you are new. You are inexperienced. You need to be told what to do. Now, I have a little secret to tell you all, but don't tell any caterers this: "All professional kitchens are pretty much the same". But people who stay in the same kitchen for 10plus years love nothing better than to boss around some new person who will probably never come back again.

One year, sure. I can live with that. But now that I have worked for a good half year longer, I am so close to re-enacting this scene from the classic (ly bad) movie, Half Baked:


Honestly, I can't imagine how good that would feel, but I am close. And when you start having these types of fantasies, maybe you should get out while you still don't have a criminal record.

However, it was confirmed that I am a whore. My pimp called me yesterday and gave me a job, and I accepted. Hey, I figure that 'Whore money can buy just as much food as non-whore money.' Just ask a lawyer (they are all whores, by the way).

So, I biked more than half an hour to go the place where I would whore-out my services. It turned out to at be the European Space science centre (think of a lamer version of NASA). Now, most of the people who work here are most-likely, considerable nerds. (and emperical evidence proved that point to be correct). But they are nerds with money. And nerds with money are vengeful. This is why, I beleive, they forced this completely nerdy uniform onto me. For the first time in my catering career, I felt truly degraded. And I have picked up food after people younger than me knowingly dropped it, I have been on my knees scrubbing floors, I have had rearrange an entire walk-in freezer which took so long that my nipples wouldn't subside for days afterwards. But the shame I felt today at the Space Station, as I tried to attach a clip-on bowtie, that cannot be topped. Wait, Yes it can: they also made me wear a stupid paper hat. But i still did it, because I am a whore. And here is the evidence to prove it.

I once wore a bowtie when I was 17, when as a joke I was performing in a talent quest for over 1000 people. My talent was to juggle two tennis balls while climbing through a stringless tennis raquet. However, on the morning of the event, somebody asked me what I was going to wear. "I don't know", I replied, probably in a teenagery way. But it was suggested to me that I go to the costume store to find something ridiculous to wear for it. So I did, and the "costume" I rented for the event was a white shirt and a bowtie. I repeat: this was the most ridiculous thing I could find to wear - at a freaking costume store! So, yes, wearing this today, was so very degrading.

Now, the only other demographic that wears a bowtie are the Chippendale dancers.

So the question is, is being a stripper better than being a whore? Judging from how quickly I took off that bowtie, I think I know the answer.

A Heartfelt Loss

I has been difficult to speak about it, but I should really cover this. The World Cup was a dream come true for me. Now, I am far from a football hooligan, but this was something I had been looking forward to for a long time. I was telling people when I was in New Zealand in January that the main reason I was going back to Holland was for the World Cup. (They often asked "You know it will be held in South Africa, right?" Cheeky bastards. Little do they know that the true Way-Kah party is in Holland.)

But for me, the point was, this was the best opportunity I would ever get to fulfil my 2-year-long goal of reintegrating into Dutch society. I had a golden opportunity, one that only comes every four years (We don't talk about 2002), to really be Dutch. Every goal we scored, I was happy beyond recognition. And every win Holland came away with, I recognised the magnitude of the opportunity for me. And every day during that one month period, whether watching football, or talking about it with friends or co-workers or random customers, or just looking around and seeing entire sections of city decorated in Oron-yeh like the 11th plague, I really was thankful that I was in Holland. Every win in the knockout phase seemed like a wonderful gift to me, letting the experience go on for even longer. I never imagined that we would really have a chance to win for fear of letting the World Cup turn into a disappointment, but then, we made it to the finals.

So we didn't win. I know I should not be disappointed. We did fantastically to make it this far. But once we made it to the finals, I thought about how wonderful it would be if we actually won. Just how amazing the atmosphere would be. I mean, more than 3/4 of the population watched the finals, and I am sure most of the other 1/4 would have wanted to be there, but someone has to make sure that the planes stay in the air. If we would win, I thought, maybe then I would truly know just what it means to be Dutch.

But we didn't win. And Holland has still yet to win a world cup. My only consolation is that, maybe no-one really knows what it is to be Dutch yet. And in the future, if Holland finally raises that trophy, I too will truly know how much it means to me.


These are some images of the party we had outside our place with a large flatscreen TV and a small grand-stand for the epic Holland vs. Uruguay match.






Actually, I lie. Another consolation is that my other team, New Zealand, was the only team in the entire World Cup who went through the tournament undefeated.

Redemption
When I was about 9 years old, I was forced to stay home instead of going to school. My father said that I must stay home to watch the World Cup football match of Holland vs. Brazil. (Here is the summary of the game). It was an amazing gesture to be allowed to skip school since I never stayed home unless I was certifiably sick. So, we watched the game in the morning which was incredibly exciting, and we had a great time, also with my older brother staying home. Unfortunately, Holland was defeated and eliminated from the world cup. My brother and I then got dropped off at school just before lunchtime.

Now, my teacher, who was not necessarily called but something similar to "Mr. Smithson", was not impressed at my morning absence. I should note that this was New Zealand, a country that until very recently, doesn't care about football. He checked my homework, which I hadn't completely finished, and that was it. He had his reason and I was punished. I forget what the punishment exactly was, but I think it meant that during lunchtime I had to sit outside on "the spot", which was the going punishment at our school. But I was a nerd, a good boy (and maybe still am), so getting punished for watching Oranje, even when my father said it was okay was shocking to me. It was unjust, and in retrospect, this may be a case for discrimination.

Nevertheless, despite the result, this was a great experience, and a subtle way that I was able to hold onto my Dutch-ness despite being on the opposite side of the world. And every four years since, (with one notable exception that we won't talk about) it came back up.

Now, today, was the rematch with Brazil. Finally I am in a country where everyone understands the importance of Oranje. I mean, the place I often work at put up a sign that said they would close early because of "Brazillian Fever". And, in a wonderful turn of events, I took a day off work and went to my parent's place to watch the game. It was absolutely brilliant. Winning was redemption, not just for the loss 16 years ago, but for me. I have waited a long time for this moment, although I never knew that it would come.
Now, 16 years later, I finally feel that I have left "the spot".

Update:
After some deliberation with my father, we have decided that the game which I was punished for was not a game where Holland played (however, I must also have watched the game I just referenced). Apparently, I would have only been a half-hour late to school, but the game was extended an extra half hour, and went into penalties, which added on about an extra hour, making me noticably late to school. This could only have been the final between Brazil and Italy. My father reasoned that, New Zealanders wouldn't think twice about missing school due to a rugby match, and this was the final of the way-kah! And honestly, the Dutch love their football much more than New Zealanders love rugby. (P.S. I hate rugby.)

Important update:I came across this guy while cooking yesterday, and something this culturally significant must be shared with the masses.

For those playing at home, here is some further recommended reading:

http://failblog.org/tag/things-that-are-doing-it/

http://chickandfit.com/fruit-erotica-20-hottest-fruit-photos/

http://www.yurope.com/people/dushan/Botanika/


Discussion topic: A moral dillemma

Would it be a little gay if I ate the carrot?

Consecrating my Dutchness

One of the privelleges of being Dutch is that once every certain amount of years, you get to make a small mark in red pencil. Last year I got to vote for the European Union and the local Elections. This year was the big one, the national elections.

Now, not to show off my ignorance, but although I have been Dutch for as long as I remember, I haven't been actively Dutch for very long. (Only two years, or three elections long). This means that I have little understanding of the political system here, although I presume that since we get to vote so frequently, that Holland has some some sort of democracy.

I have always been under the impression that Holland is a very left-leaning country - or at least a very tolerant country - and this has been a certain point of pride for me growing up overseas. Overall, this still seems to be an accurate assessment, but there is a scary amount of right-wing movement going on here. The party called the PVV, "The Party of the Freedom" grew in popularity under the general premise of "Freedom (unless you're a foreigner)"

Now, this is a very sensitive issue for me, as shown by the extremely long end-year post last year, and I still also often feel like I am a foreigner here. I mean, one of the biggest annoyances of these recent right-wingers, is that many foreigners in Holland have two passports. "Just choose one" they say. Well, if I hear one of these conversations, I chip in that I too have two passports. However, since I am very white and not from a scary religion (unless you include Atheism), this never seems to bother them.

So, going in to vote, I wanted to make a statement. I also happen to live in a very traditionallly conservative town, full of bekakked people. In I walk, with a Communist Red-Army hat (bought for a costume party) and my T-shirt which reads "Hey! Look [out]! It's a foreigner." Maybe they didn't know exactly what my point was, but they knew exactly what my point was.

Here is a better view of my hat (worn at the aforementioned costume party)

Anyway, with the making of such a ridiculous statement to noone in particular, I took that red pencil and made a very non-ridiculous vote. For politics may be a joke, but your civil duty - no matter which or how many countries you have a responsibilty to - is no joke.

Hairvolution: The Update

For those who missed the Hairvolution, I suggest you take a trip down memory highway. And even if you remember, the Hairvolution video is still as awesome as when you first saw it. So, having sent my hair samples away to a charity called Locks of Love, I was concerned that my hair was slightly short of the ten inches requested by their website, but apparently it was enough. Here is a photo of the postcard they send as a thank-you. (and proof that this is a real charity that I really contributed to). I actually wrote a small note along with my hair sample saying that it was a shame that not many people know of this charity, and that there are no known equivalents closer to Holland or Europe, but that even if my hair was unuseable that they should consider it as a show of support.

Sure, they spelled my name incorrectly - and trust me, they completely mangled up my address - but it was a very nice gesture. Besides, who really expects an American to understand foreign languages? They probably think that the Dutch just misspell everything. They might-well be right.

Anyway, even though I hate kids with their dirty little hands and their questions like "are you a man or a woman?", I am very happy to have contributed to this cause. I strongly reccommend that if you have a spare 10 inches lying around, that you give it to children. Unless of course, you are a well-hung Catholic priest. Actually, that was a great part of Locks of Love, that it is a non-religious charity, which means that they do not discriminate and would help a child even if he or she is Catholic.

In related news, my hair has grown back to a more reasonable level, and almost everyone agrees that it is a huge improvement, including strangers who only vaguely knew me. So, the Hairvolution has been a gigantic success, for the self-esteem of some sick child in a society which is incredibly vain, not to mention that it was also a giant boost of my own vanity. It was a win-win, and I declare that the Hairvolution was one of the best ideas I have ever had.

I am a LomographerNo, this does not (necessarily) mean that I am sexually attracted to lemmings. That would "Lemography". Those cheeky little critters. No, lomography is photography with a fish-eye lens. I was given one recently and so have been able to take a new look at this country. And since that is basically what I try to do on AtHome in Ho-Land, here are a few of the better ones, along with cheeky comments where appropriate.


We start with something very Dutch: Tulips. I have worked at the Tulip park a fair bit this season, and I am sick to death of those stupid flowers.


This is in the seaside town of Katwijk, known for its conservative Christians who frown upon neighbours who hang out laundry on Sundays and its beaches which are nice about 3 months of every year. And even during those three months, you'll be lucky to get weather like this.
This is a typical forest of East Netherlands. Tall trees evenly spaced (basically all the forests are planted by people), and easy access walking paths through them. Seriously, on this very path, we saw many cyclists, a horse-drawn carriage, and an old man on a segway. Yes, a freaking segway.
And here is a goodie. In the middle of this forest is this giant hole in the earth. Well, remember, this is Holland, which is flatter than Kelly Ripa, Kate Moss, Keira Knightley and Natalie Portman. (I am stealing this idea from Bill Simmon's 28th August 2009 mailbag of the "A-team" which is the top five hottest females with A-cups)

This place is called the Solse Gat, which was formed by a giant piece of ice that remained after the last ice-age. Or, if you prefer to believe in stupid things, this was the place where a monastry was, where all the monks sold their souls to the devil. Then, their monastry was sucked into the earth like a giant reverse anus.

A Chinese gardens near Groningen. These gardens were huge, and it was created by authentic Chinese people who were brought in as temporary workers to make these gardens. This just goes to show how much unused money Holland has, and how willing Chinese people are to get it.
This building next to the station Leiden Centraal. It has gone up very rapidly. The sheer ugliness of the building show that again, also show that we have way too much unused money.

A windmill on beautiful day with a Dutch cloud in the sky, with a carnival in front of it. Carnies: the under-scrotum of society.

This is my favourite city to walk around in Holland is Den Haag. For some reason it translated to "The Hague". I don't understand. I mean, French people don't call New York "Nouvelle York". Why can't people just mispronounce this city name just like they do with any other Dutch city?






One last note on the Lomograph, it is apparently an old communist invention, intended to be a communistic way to represent the world. That sounds about right. Expect another installment of Lomography in the future.

Spot the Difference

Take a close look at these two photos and spot the difference. It may be difficult to see, but there is one major discrepancy between the two.
These photos were taken in quick succession, so what could possibly be different? I'll tell you. In the 2nd photo, I have just paid off all my student debt. ALL of it. One click, and suddenly, I had a net-worth of zero.

It felt amazing. I was suddenly worth nothing. After years and years of owing money, going back to school, accumilating debt, in one moment I absolved all of my debt.

This all happened a few weeks ago. So, how is all this working out for me?

I am blessed to be Dutch, as it made my student lifestyle much more bearable. I have always lived minimalistically. Hell, I even became mostly vegetarian. And no, it wasn't because of some morally-superior stance that most vegetarians have; I love tearing into a piece of animal flesh as much as the next carnivore. No, I became vegetarian to save money. So, since 2004 I have been living as if I was poor, just to minimise my money-lending.

If I hadn't done this, I am positive that I would be in bigger debt than Greece. However, because I was a student, I always had a safety net. I could always borrow more money if I needed to.

But now, no longer a student, and having paid off my debt, for the first time in my life, I am actually poor. I live week by week. I take the scraps of work that are offered to me, and I dread the letter in the mail containing bills. Being poor is rough!

On the other hand, I love that I am living the romantic artistic lifestyle. I now have the opportunity to become a rags-to-riches story.

The other day, I was coming home from a day of work at the dreadfully touristy flower park of Keukenhof. There was a huge line for the buses, so I decided to use the time to write something. Sure, writing while standing isn't ideal, but I can't waste 90 minutes of my life just waiting. After a while, a girl in the line started up a conversation with me:

Her: "Are you writing a book?"
Me: "No, I'm just writing a diary."
Her: "Oh, I thought you might be a writer."
Me: "Well, I want to be, one day."
Her: "So did you come here [to the flower park] for inspiration?"
Me: "No, I came here to work. Even a writer has to eat."

So, my recent brush with authentic poorness has taught me a valuable lesson. Even a writer has to eat.

Lentils, probably.

Hopefully soon I will be able to take a new "after" photo, one where the difference won't be so hard to spot.

Yuki Puppy: A tribute When I was about 16 or 17, I had a nightmare. At the time, I was sleeping in the caravan. No, I am not a gypsy. The caravan was a basically spare bedroom and it was where I liked to sleep during the summer holidays and weekends, and it was right next to the dog house where my beloved Yuki slept. But in the dream, she was just lying there, lifeless. I woke up, terrified. I slowly went outside to check on Yuki dreading what I had just seen. I opened the kennel, and she came out wondering why the hell I was waking her up in the small hours of the morning. I held her and cried. I cried like a little bitch.

Now, not to be all manly, but I could remember and count all the times I have cried since then on my fingers. This may surprise you, not necessarily the fact that I can count to ten, but that I am such an emotionless shell of a human being. Yuki showed me at that moment, that inside my deceptively strong shell, I did have a heart.

There was another moment that confirmed this suspicion of mine. Some asshole in a 4wD vehicle came barrelling down the road that goes alongside our house. Yuki got scared, and didn't listen to me properly, and the car ended up going between us. As soon as the car passed and I saw that she was okay, I ran to Yuki with my hand ready in spanking position. But all I could do was hold her and say "don't ever scare me like that again".

Yuki died this week, as an 11-year old puppy after a bone tumor was discovered and she rapidly lost the use of her legs. Now that my nightmare has come true, I have to try to express how much I loved that ball of fur and happiness. Losing a beloved pet is something most of us all have to face too many times in our lives, and it sucks. But I won't be spouting a bunch of cliches about her being 'a part of the family', as true as that cliche may be. I truly believe that she made me who I am. Or at least, the good parts of my personality are because of her.

See, we got her Yuki when I was at the difficult early teenage years. I didn't have a licence yet, and I was slowly drifting away from my childhood friends whose interests were different and not always entirely legal. We got Yuki in November which is the start of New Zealand summer. This is relevant because I did not play basketball during summer (which would otherwise take up most of my time), and it was just before the long summer holidays. So instead of long days in front of the television and amiga 600 computer (with 1 Mega-byte!) I spent the entire summer playing with our new puppy. Being a border collie, which is the smartest breed of dog known to mankind, she learnt tricks faster than we could think of new ones to teach. We even emptied out the public library shelves on dog training, and Yuki was easily an A+ student. At some stage, I made the conscious decision to speak to her as I would anyone else, allowing her to listen carefully and pick out the words relevant to her, so it became very normal to just chat to her. She always listened to me, even if I had nothing to say, which even back then was most of the time. Yuki was of course very attentive to other people too (we even asked others to give her commands to teach this to her), but all this time I spent with Yuki in this first summer created a bond that still makes it feel like she was secretly my dog.

Over the years, I tried so many things with her, including creating an agility course in our own garden, which involved hammering together some jumps and other obsticles. She learned to jump them in no time, before I learnt that I had made them much higher than competition-level jumps. I started playing competitive frisbee at school, and Yuki helped me practice my forehands. I also taught her to jump off my back before I realised that her claws had torn open the skin on my back.

But the trick I loved the most was how she knew all her toys by name. I could ask for a specific toy, and she would search the entire house, or garden, until she found it. Because of this, she had more toys than I did as a child. Every Christmas I would buy her new toys. We all bought her toys when we could - as long as it could be called something different. Of course we also taught her to put her toys "in the bin". We couldn't have a messy dog in the house. She also coincided with the purchase of my Minnolta 500 SLR camera, meaning I have a surplus of photos from these early years. I wish I had access to them right now, because she was so damn photogenic.

I also like to think that we taught Yuki manners. For example, I used to purposely leave a dog treat on the coffee table and leave the room for a few minutes.Some people call me cruel, but it was a challenge for her too. What's more, when I came back and the treat was still there, she was more happy that I was happy, than actually recieving the treat.

Yes, I was strict. I never once in her life fed her food scraps. If I dropped food, I would pick it up, which is pretty amazing when you consider that I was a moody teenager. But at some stage, I started feeling bad that perhaps I had taken away some of her doggy instincts. So, I set about teaching her the most difficult trick of all: "speak". I had play with her, chase her, let her chase me, corner her, and then wait until she started barking. Then I would say "speak" and try give her a doggy treat. Once she mastered "speak" and suddenly wished she had an inside-voice, so I had to teach her to "talk". Easy. She also had an inside voice. What a fantastic dog.

However, from the beginning I sometimes turned it around to let her play the way she wanted to. I taught her how to succees and thrive in a human world, but she taught me to act more like a dog. If she wanted to chase me, I would run away, all through our garden. I must have flatted more than a few shrubs in playing this game. I'd hide and let her weak sense of smell sniff me out. (border collies are eyesight dogs.) I remember even during that first summer when she found a grasshopper. I was there for her "first kill".

A few years later, the summer before my 16th birthday, I had my restricted liscence, which meant I could drive a car as long as there were no other people in the car. My parents abused this fact, and said I could use the car, but only if i took Yuki for a walk at the beach. Those were some of the happiest moments of my youth. And as muh as I loved driving, Yuki loved going for drives more. Warm weather, windows down, reggae music up, dog in the rearview, beach ahead... I am yet to find a happier combination of circumstances, and trust me, I have tried. So at the same time I was gaining all this freedom, I also had this awesome responsibility. I had pretty much raised Yuki. She was like a daughter to me, only she had good co-ordination and was able to catch a ball.

I loved to bring her with me whenever I could. I even brought her to school when I had to work late in the school darkroom. And of course, there is no better pick-up line that "do you want to come and walk my dog?" I still have good friends who I swear only befriended me to get close to Yuki. And I am so proud of that. They weren't even dog-people.

Unfortunately, I grew up. Yuki's name almost predicted that I would end up in Japan, which is very far away. While overseas, she was the only thing I missed. Occasionally, I would find myself in front of the dog-toy section of department stores, similar to how a raging alcoholic would miraculously end up in front of the hard-liquor. Sometimes I would buy a toy to send home. At the end of the year I didn't want to leave Japan, but Yuki was the only reason I wanted to come back. My orders to my parents on my immenent arrival was "do not bring Yuki to the airport", because I wanted a proper home-welcome. The welcome was almost worth the year away. My univiersity years were 3-month stints of this, and I would always try bring back a toy for her. It now seems so obvious to me. I have been obsessing about the concept of "home" for so long. Is it a place, is it an idea? No, it was a puppy.

In 2006, after my graduation, I had one precious half-year of quality time with Yuki. Sure, coming back to live at home for 6 months was difficult, especially since I had few friends in my hometown anymore, but Yuki made me really appreciate this time. Especially since after then, I didn't see her for 3 1/2 years.

Again, being overseas, she was the only thing I truly missed. It is difficult to skype with a dog. At any opportunity I would talk about her, show photos. I even made an entire lesson for my Japanese students with using the many videos and pictures I have of her of her. An alert student even commented that she could see how much I loved that dog.

Anyway, the rest is recent history. 3 1/2 years later, Yuki hadn't changed at all. Sure, she had a little grey hair above the eyes, but she still had that puppy-fur behind the ears, and looked up at me like an intellegent 4-year-old with her whole life ahead of her. We had a great 3 weeks together. Long walks, long drives, and we even bought some new toys of which she learnt the names within minutes. I missed the dog smell, dog slobber, and the feel of warm dog poo through a plastic bag. I knew that when I left her that she was 11 years old. But I always presumed I would see her at least one more time. One more walk. One more drive. One more "welcome home".

It wasn't the way it played out. Within three weeks of the first signs of trouble, the bone tumor was too much to handle. It is cruel and unfair, but I can't complain. I got more than my fair share. She taught me so much, she let me be myself, and it was just unfortunate that 'myself' was not in the same town and country as her. The last week has been so difficult, knowing that my puppy is sick, and I can't do anything about it. I went to the beach last week, and I felt like there was no point. What is the point in walking without a dog? Why else come to a beach? The last time I saw Yuki just a few months ago, she was disappointed she couldn't come in the car with us. It cut me up thinking about this as I began the long journey back to Holland. On the plane with the in-flight entertainment, I came across the Jack Johnson song "Go On", which seemed perfect for the occasion. I listened to it so many times on the flight, on the verge of tears.

The tears never came... Until the nightmare, finally, came true.

I am sorry for leaving you. I miss you. I love you. And I am who I am because of you.


Thank you to everyone who has been even but a small part of Yuki's life. And to those who haven't but still know me, I assure you, you have Yuki to thank.

Ah Ruben Day 2010

My birthday has always been a special day (although unfortuantely often not for myself). It is the first day of the Star Signs, it is the autumnal or vernal equinox (depending on which hemisphere I happen to be) so it marks the beginning of a new season, on several occasions it has even been 25 hours long due to daylight savings (summer/winter time), and it is even a public holiday in Japan. This year, however, was even more special. It was A-Ruben celebration day.

For those not in the know, Aruba is a country which sounds like a place where Captain Jack Sparrow liked to frequent. It is part of the Kingdom of the Netherlands, and yes, that is a real Kingdom, hence the link to Wikipedia. So, my birtday was also the Aruban Independance day celebrations. Ruben, Aruban... Coincidence? I don't believe in coincidences.

Okay, it is probably a coincidence, but I'll add this to the list of why my birthday is awesome.

Open Application

Life as a graduate is rough, especially in times of depression. Luckily, the Leiden University provided an arbeidsmarktcongres, which ,I think has something to do with strawberries, for the Geesteswetenschappen, which I think has something to do with ghost ships. I asked around, and I found out that it was also a job market where recent graduands and graduands-to-be can inform about which fast-food restaurants they should apply at.

In principle, I am against any type of event which is advertised as a good place to "network" or "interface", because, let's face it, people who interface and network are douche-bags. It is just for people who want to make "talking to people", and "trying to get people to like me" sound important and business-like. But at this phase in my life, washing dishes when I am lucky enough to be given dishes to wash, I had to go to the job market, because if I didn't it would have been good ammunition for that guilty voice in my head.

So I signed up, costing me five Euro. However, I more than earned that 5 Euro back just in terms of pens. Why is it that at these type of events, everybody wants to give you a pen? ("People who have a pen look employable!"). There were also three D-list Dutch celebrities who came to speak to us, which would be like the hairdresser for Cher's stylist giving a speech on how to be successful. Amazingly, I who knows no Dutch celebrities, had seen one of them on TV before. I remembereed her because she was weird.

Let's face it, she wasn't speaking to us to give beauty tips.

They were actually great speakers, although there was no actual useful information, since all three of them had such crazy and incidental career paths that it's not followable. But it was nice to listen to three success stories to help soothe my unemployable miserableness. Thanks! You made me feel a lot better. There was also lunch included, and there was extra left over because there were only about 50 people out of the 5400 targeted students who came, so good feelings all-round.

The afternoon had a few more speakers, one of which was about translation agencies in Holland. Now, I don't want to be mean, because I really appreciated such an excellent opportunity to recieve a big lunch, but I have a bone to pick with the event. Below is the image from the website.
Now, there might not be a lot of career opportunity in Holland for me as a translator because my written Dutch is probably at the level of a 9 year-old, but I think I found a niche: an English ant-fucker. Dutch people are proud to have a high level of English especially compared to other countries, but it is still a 2nd language. They wrote this slogan in English probably to try and be cool, but if they had employed someone like me, they would see that they are, in fact, not cool at all.

First off, "upto"? Really? I sincerely hope that by omitting a space they were trying to make fun of Chinese people's poor English, even as ironic as this might be.

Secondly... This is an incorrect usage of "up to". It is only ever used in common English in a question format, or in vague situations ("I was up to no good"). Let me give you a conversation format of what the above fortune cookie appears to be saying:

A: "What are you up to?"
B: "Not much, just a job with talent"
A: "Oh, you have a job already? Never mind."

Moreover, the job appears to have talent, upstaging the candidate. Burn!

Although the entire day and the speeches were conducted in Dutch, there was a link to a page for "foreign students". Since I used to be an English teacher, I took out my virtual red pen and made some corrections. With just a few changes (per line), this paragraph actually starts to resemble authentic English.

So once the depression is over, if any people need an English ant fucker, I should be able to find some time between doing dishes.

The Hairvolution

Over the last 15 months, I have changed. And then, a few weeks ago, all of that changed, and I went for a change. I got a haircut.

In November 2008 I wrote this passage:
"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."

That was the last haircut I got, and since then, I successfully avoided the salon experince. I figured I would fully immerse myself into the student lifestyle and tried to capture the look of a Dutch hippy carefree student. I wonder if anyone noticed. Then one day, I was approached at the train station by some idealistic young kid who asked me to give monthly donations to his charity so he could go to some poor African country and build a school.

Great. I am not going to sponsor some hippy douchebag to go to Africa to lay a few bricks, and go on a few safaris. If he thinks it is such a great cause, surely he could get a normal job and send his money himself, instead of guilt tripping poor students like me. He argued that a few cups of coffee is all that it costs per month, but I have a caffienne addiction - not the poor African school children. Besides, aid doesn't work. Still, I am not a completely heartless person. In fact, I have a freezer-full of human hearts in my fridge. But I thought, I am not going to give my caffienne allocation to charity, but I will give them something they have to use: my silky golden locks.

I decided to set myself a goal: to donate my hair to charity. For that, it would need to be a minimum of ten inches long. In the metric system that would be equivalent to two middle fingers (America is never going to go metric.) This served me two purposes. Firstly, it gave me a reason to grow out my hair, and secondly, it would give me a reason to cut it. This way, I would overcome my dual fears of blonde men with pony tails, and my barberphobia.

It was an amazing experience having long hair. Here is a bullet-list of events that I never thought I would ever have.

• Non-Japanese people thought I looked like David Beckham. I still think I looked more like Gwyneth Paltrow.
  
• My girl flatmates, and girl neighbours asked ME for a hair elastic! "Ouch" said my dwindling masculinity.
• I would spend more than a few minutes brushing my hair. Seriously, I felt like a hot Hawaiian girl sitting next to a waterfall.
• My sunglasses - which I often used as a more manly versio (but not by much) of a hair clip - became so entagled in my hair that I needed assistance to cut me loose.
  
• I started - shock - tucking my hair behind my ears. It was official. I looked ridiculous.
  

I badly wanted my hair to be long enough, but my hair was growing so slowly! I know there are other ways of finding this out, but for me, this is how I realised that ten inches is really quite long. So, I truly rocked a pony-tail for an extended period of time, mostly against my will. Hey, but at least it was for charity, right? So I didn't look like a complete douchebag.

Everyone I told about my charitable goal had never heard of such a thing, but it does exist. It is called Locks of Love, and makes wigs for children with diseases that cause hair loss. Not even the hairdresser had heard of such a charity. He then had to explain it to his boss (in ... Turkish?), and then he gave me over to another hairdresser and explained it to her (in... Belgsch?). And bam, the pony tails came off.

I was actually about one inch short of the 10 inch goal. So, if they even end up using it, it will be to sell it to help offset the production costs. It doesn't seem like much hair either. It is a little disappointing. It's like the sample you give to the doctor, it never seems like very much.

Below I have made a video compilation, a video montage of the last 15 months. Sorry to everyone who had to witness my pony tail or tucked-behind-the-ear-ness. I promise that I won't change, at least not for a long time.

My Bul is Got

Almost exactly a year ago I was completely lost. I had been accepted and apparently become a student at Leiden University, but I had no idea what classes I would take, what classes I needed to take, or even what classes were available. It took several meetings with different people to figure it all out. It all seemed rather unorganised.

Fast forward to yesterday, standing in the old university building of Leiden, waiting for my graduation ceremony (the "bul"). I had no idea what to expect or what the general ceremony would be like. All I knew beforehand was the address, the time, and that I could bring a "limited amount of people".

It turns out, it was my own private ceremony. I was part of the Graduation Class of Me. Every day that I wake up will be like a reunion! Man, I felt like the total attention-whore. I had invited four people to a party just for me. It was like my own super sweet 16 party, except without a video message from Puff Daddy.

But it all finished, and as all masters graduates at Leiden University do, I got to write my name on the wall in a certain room called the "zweetkamertje". This is a tradition going back four hundred years. So now my name is among lots of famous people that I have never heard of.


And with that surprise, the year of study is all over. I feel like somehow I cheated the system by studying something I actually like, and that I don't feel like I deserve this diploma. But I have already buried it somewhere so they can never take that away from me.