The final countdown, goodbye and hello

Christmas is over and so is another year. 2009 the end. The Big Countdown slowly begins during the last days of the year. Newspapers produce statistics and lists of one kind or other. Dead people is a favourite. All TV channels feel the need to do year overviews of the most shocking, happy, tragic and elating events of the past year often related to specific programmes. Again, lots of dead people.

Although these overviews and backflashes aim to lead up to an all-time high climax at midnight on New Years Eve, somehow the twelve-o'clock 'big bang' becomes more and more of a disappointment as the years go by. Twelve o'clock is not nearly as late as it used to be, the evening increasingly short. The New Year exhilaration of wide-eyed expectation has disappeared. We state it is twelve, say happy New Year and fall in some sort of after-midnight vacuum as we slowly realise the New Year feels exactly as the old one.

Therefore, whilst the nation's television channels seem to compete over the worst offer of programmes ever, my father and I have decided there shall be no climax at all. New Year's Eve in Dutchland is an excellent occasion to be vulgar and sink to an all-time low. Large amounts of alcohol will obviously help the sinking. So will the greasy New Year's Eve pastries called oliebollen.

There is no translation for oliebol and I will therefore try and explain what they are. An oliebol is a pastry of dough mixed with beer and raisins. After the dough has risen, it is in spoonfuls fried in oil (olie is the Dutch word for oil). As one puts the dough in the oil the point is trying to create a sphere. After frying they are ready to be eaten with castar sugar. They are only for sale during the last months of the year and are traditional on New Year's Eve, like the Christmas pudding is at Christmas in Britain for example.

Also traditional are Russian salad, meat balls and warm baguettes with French cheese accompanied by champagne of course. That is how we will stuff ourselves getting increasingly pissed prior to the clock hitting midnight to ensure better times and behaviour in 2010. After all, if it is nearly impossible to sink any lower the New Year can only be an improvement to the old. Dreaming of new chances and better times it is cheers and a Happy New Year.

Trip to those next door in the Country of Christmas

December 14 was a memorable day. Olli turned 30 then and obviously that is an excellent occasion to throw a party and invite old and older friends. This party was scheduled for 28 December and consequently I rose early for the long train journey to lovely Hude, in Germany. Although having slept only 3 hours, I didn't really dare to take the risk to sleep as a train journey between Dordrecht and Hude consists of 5 changes. Luckily there were no long waits at platforms involved, especially since it was rather cold.

The only tricky bit was arriving. Reason for that being that my mobile is sick (it thinks it's ok to switch off randomly) and that I had no credit on my phone either. This combination is asking for disaster. On the other hand, I had told Olli about my approximate arrival in Bremen and so he and Jill had worked out which train should carry me to Hude. So, upon arrival at Hude station they were already waiting.

The rest of the afternoon was spent preparing for the party later during the evening. Olli had rented some sort of restaurant/canteen-like location off the main road. This venue was being equipped with drinks, food and music. As quite a few people had to travel two to three hours, a separate area was reserved to sleep or pass out. People were asked to bring sleeping bags and Olli's mum provided towels. A lack of matrasses however did result in two ex-Peace Studies students discussing war strategies aimed at the occupation of the only airbed.

Before the party we had spaghetti at Olli's whilst Olli's mum was still busy cooking soup for everyone. After dinner it was time to pick Anna up from Hude station and wait for people to arrive. There was not much waiting to do as everyone arrived relatively early, probably due to the distance. During dinner I caught up with Anika, Anna, Jill and Benny. As the amount of food decreased the consumnation of alcohol increased resulting in people collapsing between 4 am and 7 am.

The earlier predicted war over said airbed turned out to be unnecessary: I shared the matras with Jill after having liberated it from occupation by an intruder. The intruder went back to the party, I went to bed to wake up around 11 am. Olli's parents had arrived with breakfast and were having coffee with Olli himself and Jill.

The early afternoon was spent clearing up and at 2:30 pm it was time for goodbye. Big hugs for Anika and Benny. Anika wants to organise a reunion in 2010. Perhaps that is a good idea. It is good to see people from time to time and exchange news and stories. With Olli, Anna and Jill I left for Bremen airport to pick up Maggie. The plane being exactly on time Anna and I ran into Maggie just in front of the airport.

The last left-overs from the party were picked up and we drove back to Olli's house for tea, showers and dinner. Dinner consisted of soup as there was still a lot left over and good German bread. I have to admit, the Germans do know how to bake bread. They also know how to make maltwine which we had later on our evening walk through Hude in a lovely very German inn-type restaurant. Walking through Hude I realised that although I always had Britain down as the place to be for Christmas and everything related to Christmas, probably this was an incorrect assumption. Although big in Britain, Germany is the Country of Christmas.

After our walk everyone was ready to get some sleep, especially as that had been in short supply the previous night. A girls and a boys room was created with the four girls all sleeping beside each other on a matrass and an airbed. Woken up by Olli the next morning we were informed that the world was white once more. Reactions were mixed between excitement and worried groans.

Due to the snow the train to Bremen was delayed and my previously high level of satisfaction with German public transport, which it has to be said was largely based on prejudices rather than experience, was shattered. Not only the train from Hude to Bremen departed five minutes later than scheduled, the train I took after breakfast from Bremen to Osnabrück arrived 10 minutes late at the platform. My then three-minute transfer time at Osnabrück became half an hour.

Surprisingly trains in the Netherlands were running though, if with delays as well. Still, snow is a serious challenge for Dutch trains and so I think I might say that I was very lucky indeed to arrive by train back at Dordrect station at 6:15 pm.

Pope going on Saint

As the most important Christian holiday of the year approaches, the BBC publishes an article on its website about Pope John Paul II moving closer to sainthood. Thanks to his efforts in helping to end Communist rule in eastern Europe, not least in his native Poland, the leadership of the Catholic church now thinks it should make him a saint.

After reading the article I am left wondering why. I do not doubt the extent of his efforts in helping to put an end to Communism. I am sure they are considerable. But so have been those of Mikail Gorbatchov for example not to mention the numerous unknowns in the Czech Repulic, Eastern Germany and Hungary who fought for essential liberties. Brave people who stood up against their communist leaders. They should not be saints? Apparently not.

This leads to concluding that there is more to sainthood than trying to establish world peace. One also has to be catholic for starters. It seems to me that there are very few, if any, non-Catholic saints. So what does that mean? Only Catholics live well enough to be considered for sainthood? Or is it a lot simpler than that: only Catholics are saints because only Catholics have saints?

Being Catholic ánd trying to establish world peace is not enough though. Sainthood is neither for the ordinary nor for non-Catholics. Or for the living. Sainthood is reserved for a very select few. A dead select few. In all fairness, this is of course understandable. After all, not everyone is a saint. In fact, only very select few are. But the question is, which select few? Why are they selected?

I used to think saints are saints because they had lived exemplary lives. People selflessly living to do good and make the world a better place for everyone. I now start to wonder to what extent I was mistaken. The degree to which someone is active in the Church seems essential in one's application process. A disproportionate number of saints were popes, bishops and nuns in life. So, does becoming a clergyman or woman make someone a better person?

For the Church it obviously does. The institution stands or falls with the people working for it. It seems clearly in the Church's interest that its agents obediently live according to its rules and zealously spread the faith. I can see both clearly applying to Pope John Paul II. He was probably an example to many Catholics. I wonder however to what extent he was to humanity. Struggling to help ending Communist rule can be praised and awarded. Fighting the use of contraceptive means in Africa however, punished. I am aware of catholic views on the subject, but I think that telling people with very little or no education that condoms give you HIV is a crime against humanity.

As the most important Christian holiday of the year approaches, it might be a good time to reflect on Christian values, starting with loving thy neighbour. Although it is not specified anywhere, I would think this applies to all living creatures and all fellow humans we share our planet with. Putting those fellow humans on a path that potentially leads to death hardly seems living up to Christian values nor leading an exemplary life. This ought to be taken into consideration and consequently move Pope John Paul II away from sainthood for good.

At the mercy of the bureaucrats part II: registration

Two weeks. Remember that? Two weeks? Two weeks they said and then I'd be registered as a resident in my country of origin again. Two weeks. Yeah right, two weeks. Rule number one when dealing with bureaucrats: do not trust them.

I counted the days as I waited to be informed about my registration. A week went by. Ten days. Two weeks, but no notification of registration. Time for a phone call. The same receptionnist that hands out the tickets answered. Hoping to be dealt with efficiently this time I explained the whole situation to her. I was told that I was going to be notified of my registration? No that was a mistake. We never send notifications. I beg your pardon? Wondering what is so dificult about having all employees providing the same information, I inquired about speaking to someone who could tell me whether I was registered. "O then I'll have to check there is someone here who can tell you that." And that is how you're put on hold. To wait.

No, there was no one there to help me so she would have someone call me to sort this out. Someone did call, unfortunately with bad news. I was not registered. Feeling more waiting coming up I asked for a good reason for this delay. There was none. The city council was dependent on the Home Office for my registration due to the fact that I had lived abroad. Right. Was there any way of telling me how long they were going to need as the necessary two weeks had already passed? No there was not. Two weeks was normal, but obviously something had gone wrong and now it was uncertain how much longer it would take. "It's probably best to wait another week."

Now, waiting is not something I am good at. I am a very impatient little girl with a very short fuse. So when told to wait, especially by bureaucrats, an explosion is quite possible. Trouble is guaranteed: "I have been contacted by my insurance company that they cannot insure me as I am not registered. Are you paying my hospital bill if I break an arm or a leg, not to mention if I'd need serious treatment in case of a major car accident?". Then you've done it. The bureaucrats become understanding. They will start by repeating what they have already said in an attempt to have you see reason. They will tell you they're aware of the difficulty of the situation. That they're sorry. That they hope it will be sorted out soon. But nevertheless, there really is nothing they can do. Still there was a light at the end of the tunnel: I would receive notification. Will I? I was told you never send notifications? No no, we don't but for international movements we do. From this point on I saw neither reason nor logic.

Whichever way I analysed the situation, I was looking at another week at the mercy of the bureaucrats who themselves were at the mercy of more bureaucrats. Unsurprisingly the week passed without the arrival of my registration. Growling I called the townhall again. At the wrong time. There was no one there to answer my question, I'd have to call back later. Having been spoiled a week earlier by a member of staff calling me, I had them do it again. A friendly young man rang during the afternoon to tell me that unfortunately they had not heard from the Home Office yet but it was expected any day.

I started to make his life difficult by telling him the insurance-story. As we all know, without registration, no insurance. Without insurance, a short drive in the car becomes a matter of life and death. Going downstairs is suddenly a very risky business which is best carried out sitting down. The guy understood. I mean, really understood. No long, useless explanations but rather asked whether it is actually the case that you can't be insured without a residence registration. I told him it was. Seeing the seriousness of the situation, he was keen to help, however did not know how. I did. What about provisionary residence? You just put me in your computer and get the stuff later? For reasons of severe bureaucracy that is not possible. Of course it isn't. That was to be expected. "I'm sorry but provisionary residence does not exist."

Trying to do some good though he promised me that he would be contacting the Home Office that same Thursday afternoon and then he hoped they would send him the information straight away. These days that was all digitalised so things would then take three working days to be sorted out. That was a bad move. He should not have told me that as I took the opportunity to make more trouble. "Three working days? For what? Emails within the Netherlands take three days to arrive? That is curious since I have no trouble talking to people on the other side of the world over the internet. Message is there straight away." No no no, that was not the case. So where do the three days come from? Yes, the three days come from bureaucracy. I was informed that apart from the Home Office, my last city of residence would also need to send them some documents.

That's right. If you have lived abroad for ten years and you come back, they still need documents from your last city of residence. Regardless that those are completely out of date. I was flabbergasted. The guy felt bad now and in a last attempt to make me happy gave me his direct line, told me to call the following week and hopefully he would have good news.

Apparently the guy was either terrified or on a serious mission to provide excellent customer service, because one week later, my phone rang. Phone number unknown, who's this? The friendly guy from the town hall. With good news: "You are once more a registered resident in this town." That was good news. So although you are at their mercy, they do call you back even if you haven't asked for it. Perhaps at least one bureaucrat can be trusted.

Skirts, shirts and stillettos

If you are pretty much stuck at home applying for jobs, every day out is extraordinary. Especially if during that day you are surrounded by lots of other people you do not know. The advantage of that is of course that you have the chance to make brand new friends. However, it is questionable to what extent that is desirable during a careers fair. After all, all these other people are potential competition.

Bitchy as I am, I decided to focus on the competition aspect. Which is probably why I ended up with a new acquaintance, but that is of no consequence here. Gatherings of a great number of people are an excellent occasion to observe people and their choice of clothing. Career fairs are particularly interesting as 75% of people there have made an attempt to be representable. Some succeed. Some do not.

Before I continue to share my views on other people's clothing at this fair, I should mention that Dutchland is quite interesting when it comes to dressmaking. Although I have been told that Dutch designers exist, I dare say this is not apparent when one walks around the town on an average Saturday afternoon. I will explain why.

Somehow I have the impression Dutch women (I'm more confident bitching about womens' outfits rather than mens) have a preference for a kneelong skirt and knee-high boots. Flat boots. Among the attendants of the careers fair it was no different. Skirts and knee-high boots. But fellow-ladies. If you have short legs: stay away from the boots. Stay away from flat too. If your calves are the size of a standard vase, and you insist on the skirt, please don't opt for the boots as well.

Sat on a bench to eat some lunch I was wondering: "Where are the stillettos?". And before some of you start screaming that you don't know how to work those, as Lady Catherine DeBurgh in Pride and Prejudice says: "Proficiency comes from practice." Go crazy. By a pair. Just do it. Put them on and wobble your way through your living room. Round the table round and round. Don't look down. Head up, don't look down! Straight ahead, keep going, small steps, after all, we're elegant and feminine here. Just keep practising and then one day, you take them out for a walk. A dinner is a good start - you can sit down most of the time.

From Stillettos-for-Dummies to skirts. From my bench, I noticed something else was missing too. A nice pair of trousers. Although I have no idea about bigger sizes, but trousers generally are a better option than a skirt if slim is not applicable. Why do these girls size 42 insist on the skirt that's too long to be...well anything really. It's too long to be sexy, too big to be elegant, too thick to be beautiful. Throw it away. Get rid of it. And get rid of that short jeans skirt too that looks as if it consists of two rectangular pieces of jeans-fabric sewn together. Buy a nice pair of trousers. Long and black. Deep black. Not the cheap kind that starts shining after a while, but deep black. With the heels, that'd be so much more elegant and presentable than the skirt with the flat boots.

My happy moment at the careers fair obviously arrived when I finally spotted a girl with a nice pair of trousers. Thin stripe, black, elegant. With a black gilet. Very nice. Except for the vaguish green vest or T-shirt peeking out underneath her turquoise top. Shame. I thought the same when seeing the girl with the black trousers and black jacket. It looked allright in shadow. However, enter sunlight. The trousers and the jacket both did their best showing their individuality in different shades of black. Too bad. But then, just as I was recovering from this latest disappointment, a woman came in to whom the lable elegant could be applied. Short skirt, thin black stockings and pumps. Yes, elegant could be used here. Daring? Definately not. The skirt turned out to be married to a similarly striped jacket, which made the whole creation a classic example of the Receptionist or Air-hostess-style. Coming to think of it, skirt was a tiny bit too short too, but then, I was completely carried away by the absence of boots. Unfortunately this woman cannot be counted though, as she later turned out to be a lot older and there for her work.

Disillusioned with the girls my age and their ideas of style, I turned my attention to the gentlemen instead. Perhaps they'd do better. Now, apart from being overly-critical about girls, I don't think men and women can be compared when it comes to clothing. For men it is so easy. Just stick to a basic set of rules, and you'll get there. Ok, actually, what can go wrong? Well, a grey suit with brown shoes for example. A badly cut suit. Please spend money. It doesn't need to be Armani, but honestly, 100€ for a suit is not a good deal. O and the semi-smart trousers. You know, the ones which make your but look big. Awful. It's the male equivalent of the knee-long winter skirt: disastrous. It's not sexy, not beautiful and completely unfashionable. Get rid of them and buy something good instead. Like really smart trousers with straight legs. No, taken into account that for guys it's easier to be stylish as they have less options, I remained disappointed with people's efforts.

At the mercy of the bureaucrats part I: the townhall

Time for a slightly more personal entry, born out of sheer frustration. And what can be more frustrating than bureaucracy. I will admit that perhaps Kabouterland's (Netherlands for insiders) bureaucratic apparatus is not as bad as that of some other countries. After flounting my frustration on well-known networking website called facebook, some of my friends informed me it could be worse.

Olli told me that in Nepal you can bribe officials. Now, I am against corruption, I think it's a bad habit and bad for a country's development. But. At least you can pay people to hurry up. Here, I am left at the mercy of a bunch of people that seem to get paid to be as inefficient as possible. According to Francesco however, in Italy things are even worse. There is no bribing, but in the global inefficiency competitions, the country would be likely to be disqualified for being too good. Obviously neither of these messages helped me.

I will explain. Dutchland, as I am sure has been mentioned before, is a neat country. Litterally. Like a well-tended garden. There are rules for everything and there are no exceptions. Not in theory anyway. And yes, this causes problems in practice but that is not important. What is important is that I saw myself forced to register as a resident living at my parents' address. Without registration, there is not much you can do. Without registration, no insurance for example. For entertainment value, it is probably worth mentioning that health insurance is compulsory in this country. See what I mean? People have thought this through.

Anyway, forced as I saw myself to register, I took off one sunny Friday afternoon to the town hall. Recently - as in a year or so ago - the town where my parents live was given a new town hall. Very fancy building with an entrance which has two doors of which one has to close before the other opens. Very fancy. Apart from a fancy building, the council has also introduced a new system of helping clients.

At reception, you have to explain what you're there for and then you're given a ticket with a number. With your ticket, you continue to the waiting area. I doubt other waiting areas live more up to their name than this one. Waiting you shall. Drivers licence? Two hours. Luckily the town hall doesn't deal with visas because they'd be stiff competition for some embassies.

Asking when it's your turn is impossible because the staff's desks are in a separate area closed off by a glass wall. Only when a number is called do the doors open and can you go in. And don't you dare sneaking in with someone else.

Being made of glass, this wall is transparent. Staff can look at the waiting people getting an increasingly high blood pressure and the waiting people can look at the council staff doing nothing. There are loads of desks. Some occupied, some empty. Some of the members of staff at their desks are helping people, some are not. That's where the high blood pressures come from. After all what is more frustrating than waiting and watching people being seemingly improductive whilst they get paid to assist you. Instead they waste time chatting to their colleagues or typing away at their computers.

During my thirty minutes of waiting (or however long it was) I drew the conclusion that the council must have been screening all candidates for these jobs on somewhat interesting criteria. Physical appearance is one. There is an odd resemblance between most members of staff. Most are women wearing the same type of ankle boots with a one-inch heel. High enough to be distinct but low enough to be completely acceptable in this calvinistic part of the world - stillettos would be an extravagance. The women present also had quite a considerable backside from sitting and badly cut trousers which are not quite long enough.

Inefficiency is another point on the check-list. Separate question during the interview: please describe your average working day. You start with a 30-minute coffee-break, help someone, don't understand, ask colleague (15 mins), help someone else, second coffee-break (45 mins), assist a colleague for half an hour before you help your last client prior to going for lunch? Ok, one more thing, when you need some help from a colleague, how do you go about the business? You go there, return to your desk, forget something, go back to said colleague, return to your desk, you think you understand, but are not quite sure and so go to colleague for the third time ans ask him/her to accompany you on your way back and supervise you while you continue the task at hand? Brilliant, you're hired!

Perhaps I have exaggerated slightly but not a lot. After having come up with all this and done some more waiting, my lucky moment arrived: my number appeared on the screen. Off I went to the indicated desk. Please take a seat, how can we help you. "I've moved back to the Netherlands after having lived abroad and would like to register here as a resident." No problem. Address, ID card, and last address in the Netherlands. Was I moving back in with my parents. Yes I was. "Right, I need your parents to provide a photocopy of their passports or ID cards and sign a form stating they are fine with you moving back in with them." WHAT??? And yes, everyone present in the area heard that. Mildly agressive as I am, I started making trouble. Very surprised expression, raised eyebrows and eyes clearly saying : this is absurd. "Can I take the form with me and bring it back with signatures and photocopies or do my parents need to come here in person." Luckily they didn't have to. I wouldn't know how to break that news to them...

Then it takes at least 15 minutes to fill out this form and ten minutes to photocopy my ID card. Not looking forward to a second time waiting for thirty minutes or more, I requested an appointment for the next morning. Making an appointment turned out to be the way forward. You're helped almost immediately that way. Still not being easy, handing over my papers, I inquired about the time they expected my registration to take. Ten days to two weeks. Two weeks? Yes, as I am registering after having lived abroad, the Home Office will decide in this matter. The Home Office is in The Hague and so my papers needed to be send to the Hague and then returned before my actual registration could be carried out. Two weeks of being at the mercy of the bureaucrats. Remember that: two weeks...

Long live The Republic

Yet another entry about the Netherlands. I am aware that I talk a lot about the country I am currently forced to call my home, but for future reference it is rather essential that I share this information.

The Netherlands are a monarchy. However, compared to other (European) countries they are a very young monarchy of about 200 years old. Most monarchies date well back to the Middle Ages. Not Dutchland. Only during the Restauration of the Ancien Régime after the Napoleontic wars became Dutchland a kingdom. Which, in all fairness, probably was a good decision at the time. Today it is not, or I don't think it is.

In 2009, with 2010 approaching fast, I think it is rather undemocratic to have a head of state by birth. In a modern democracy, people should not be getting money, title or power on grounds of birth. In other words: time for modernisation. In the very least, the royal family should be stripped of all political power. Currently the Queen still chairs the government's most important advisory body: the Council of State. Being also head of said government, she actually advises herself, which I think is quite interesting.

In addition she has power in the formation process after general elections. It is the queen who appoints someone to form a new government. Usually that person is the leader of the winning party, however, theoretically, the choice is hers and she can appoint someone else. After having formed a government, this person usually becomes the Prime Minister. So in fact the Queen appoints the Prime Minister. I know that the English Queen does the same. However, in Britain the party getting the majority of the votes will govern. Alone. In the Netherlands there are a lot of parties in Parliament due to our proportional representative system. Consequently, the government is always a coalition of several parties. In that context I consider it problematic that someone who happens to be born into a certain family, decides who will become Prime Minister.

If someone is to appoint the Prime Minister (indirectly), let that at least be someone who carries the approval of the majority of the country’s citizens. In other words, an elected president. Usually in these discussions, monarchists start by explaining how expensive a president would be, illustrating their argument with the American model. However, we are not in America. We are in Europe. Where the United States have a presidential political system, in Europe we tend to have parliamentary systems which are quite different. A potential Dutch president would not have the power of an American one, but rather be more like the German president. Consequently, he would be cheaper.

He would definitely be cheaper than the Royal family. At the moment the royalties receive money from the government. Or actually from tax payers. For the Queen that is understandable. Rumour has it, even queens eat. She cannot work because being Queen is her job; it is normal procedure to pay someone for the work they do. What is not normal, is to award people benefits in addition to paid work. Ordinary citizens are only eligible for government benefits if they do not work. The Dutch crown prince and his wife both have well-paid jobs. In addition they get money from the government, not to mention substantial travel expenses. Professional and private ones. I don't think this is fair, especially not in times of global financial crisis. The latter seems an excellent opportunity to tell them government will no longer fund them as it will need the money for more constructive purposes. Besides power, claims to government funding should not be based on birth rights.

The Restauration is a long time ago and in 2010 I think it is time to either adopt what we call 'the Swedish model', basically meaning: cut the ribbons and shut up. Better still would be to get rid of the royalties altogether. It is undemocratic and the royal blood of the Dutch royal family is somewhat questionable. They descend from a minor line of a noble family, but by no means royal. The family's highest title was Prince of Orange. I doubt however whether they can still lay claim to Orange as it is part of France.

There was a time we were progressive in this country. Created in 1588, Dutchland may well have been the first country in the world to become a Republic after having been part of the Spanish Empire. Perhaps that is something to be proud of and to cherish. So what about a new Restauration? Wouldn't it be wonderful one day to pay tribute to the Republic by restoring it 500 years after its first establishment? The year 2088 would see the establishment of the Republic of the Twelve United Netherlands, headed by a president we call Stadholder. For old time's sake. Unlike the Stadholders of old he will be elected though. For new time's and democracy's sake.

When the Golden Age is over...

For a number of years now I have been wondering what it is with Dutchland as Katie's boyfriend refers to the Netherlands. As becomes rather obvious when looking at a map, it is a very small country. And yet, it goes out of its way to not be like other small countries, such as Belgium, Luxembourg or Switzerland for example. Perhaps it has to do with Dutchland's past.

Due to a large navy and commercial fleet, it could once compete with Britain at sea. It has a colonial past and although currently being a monarchy it used to be a Republic. Arguably the first Republic the world has ever known. Somehow, I sometimes wonder whether Britain taking over the seas and France invading in the 17th century has not been clear enough a message about the end of the Dutch Golden Age.

End 2009 we still do our best to make sure we count and are taken seriously. In Europe, in the world. We leap at the opportunity to participate in G20 meetings and of course do we help the United States in Afghanistan. Whilst right-wing politicians want to make us believe immigrants cost a lot of money, no one mentions what the army costs. And the Dutch army costs a lot as it apparently needs the newest and best destructive toys (produced in America, incidently).

I am aware that weapons are not for free, but to me there seems to be something wrong when there is money available for the newsest material and most advanced technologies, when at the same time elderly people in homes do not get dressed every day due to shortages in staff. The government wants children to be more physically active to fight against people becoming overweight, but if a school wants a playground, it can get tiles, no more. But if the ministry of defence wants new aeroplanes, it has practically placed the order before Parliament has even agreed and negotiations with a Swedish company are reduced to formality rather than a comparative investigation.

I don't think firing all our soldiers and selling their toys is the solution to all our problems. However...perhaps a European army would come cheaper in the end as the costs will be borne by more people and more countries. Perhaps at home we can spend some more on health care, education and police service.

Virtual sweets are a dodgy business

Internet is a scary place. Scary things happen online. You don't know who you run into or who runs into you for that matter. Things get even scarier when you find yourself sucked into networking sites like Facebook, or Linkedin or any of their national equivalents. Started off as a wonderful way to keep in touch with people, they seem to have become a popularity measuring tool (the more friends the more popular) and way to keep an eye on people. What they're doing, where they're doing it and with whom. Everything we want to know and everything we want to share. Apparently.

Now, as long as friends want to know what goes on in your life, that's fine. Genuine, or perhaps not so genuine interest in people one knows. But what about companies wanting to know everything. That's when things get really scary. Rumour has it, applications on websites like Facebook have access to your details. They can see who your friends are, what your email address is, what you look like and possibly even what you had for dinner. The question is what they do with that information. After all, we all know that knowledge is power. This is quite worrisome. Still, as long as we don't actually know, it doesn't hurt.

It does hurt when we do know. When suddenly we are contacted by some unknown in a far-away country about a business deal. That's right. I received an email from someone like that. And yes, of course, I'm thrilled to find out someone has read this weblog (presumably) even though I actually keep it as an online diary. For me. As it is on the internet however, it is open for everyone to see. But it is not a free card for everyone to send me emails because it scares me. I am a little girl on her own who is very suspicious about people she doesn't know and therefore sticks to what her mother used to tell her: do not go with strangers and do not accept sweets. Never.

In the adult world this works out as: do not accept financial beneficial offers from people you do not know. And definately not online. You never know who might be at the other end typing away. I mean you cannot even see them. In the street at least you know it's the unshaven guy in the long trenchcoat with the dark glasses and slick hair you want to watch out for. Online, there is no way of knowing...

Kabouterland

Kabouterland. Dutch word that you will not find in dictionaries. Consists of two separate nouns: kabouter and land. For the translation, we'll start with the easiest: land. Means country. No surprises there. Then the second. Kabouter. Means gnome. They inhabit a place called Gnomeland or Kabouterland where all is good, life is simple and where there are no events of major importance. In Kabouterland there are no wars - kabouters do not fight -, they have no money so no mean kabouter-bankers or financial crises either, they are extremely conservative and will do anything to keep life the way it always has been. Generally, kabouters worry very little, because there is nothing to worry about. Consequently they talk about things we humans would consider trivial, which is probably not that surprising given the fact that they are very small and therefore bound to operate on a rather small scale.

Arguably, the same small-scale type of discussions sometimes occur in small countries. Like Dutchland, dubbed Kabouterland by my grandfather from time to time due to trivial discussions held in Parliament or other nit-picking on the part of national institutions. For example, a recently held discussion in the Dutch national parliament on the impact of the transport of plastic water bottles on the environment. Although this is bad, it has been worse. Two years ago Parliament felt the the need to step in when one of the TV channels decided to pull the plug on the longest running gameshow in the country.

When Holland's most famous couple broke up, it was an item on the eight o'clock news. The Prime Minister even commented on this tragic event. Has he no other things to worry about I wonder? Of course, it is very sad when two people end their relationship but honestly, there are people being killed, tortured and exploited on this planet. We're in a global recession, at war in Afghanistan and the climate is changing. Prime ministers are elected to run the country and consequently to cooperate with other leaders to help addressing international crises. I doubt worrying about the get-togethers, break-ups and back-stabbing in the national world of glitter and glamour are part of the job description.

As much as I am disgusted about the Kabouterlandesque features of this country, I am also quite surprised we still expect to be taken seriously internationally. Despite its size, Dutchland is trying very hard to be considered and pretends to be relatively important in the international arena. In Europe, the Dutch wag their Calvinistic finger at France and Germany whenever given the chance. Usually it's about money. Despite the fact that Dutchland is very small, we apparently feel we can preach moralistically to our big European brothers. Meanwhile, the politicians in The Hague are dancing with joy whenever the G20 Summit invitation arrives - it's almost as if we count! - and the Ministry of Defence is showing off its high-quality material in Afghanistan and Iraq. It is said the Canadians and Australians are green with jealousy and only dreaming of getting the newest and the best destructive toys to play with.

At the same time, we have a Prime Minister commenting on a break-up of two people who happen to be known and a national Parliament discussing a crisis in Sesame street and plastic water bottles. How do we expect to be taken seriously outside if these things happen inside? I doubt Mrs. Merkel involves herself in a glitter-break-up. I don't think President Obama spends time thinking about Sesame street. And I'm quite sure Sarkozy does not mention plastic water bottles in his speeches. In Dutchland, these are matters of national importance. Kabouterland. Still, we don't have a president who sleeps during a memorial service at the occasion of the 20th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall and has affairs with eighteen-year-olds.

From hell with luck

Three weeks down the line, I have finally arrived at Go. After a rather difficult journey and a very nice holiday in France. And a journey from hell it was. I didn't quite check, but it's possible I have carried around my own bodyweight with me (I should mention I am not very heavy but still) and looked like a tramp.

As I had to take everything with me that was left in my room, including a duvet and pillow, I had to take both my backpack and a small suitcase. By the time everything was packed both were on the point of exploding. On top of this I carried around a big laptop bag containing several books and other papery stuff plus my laptop. Add to this a plastic bag with food, a small handbag and some posters. I was wearing all clothing that wouldn't fit into my luggage anymore. My flatmate Myint ran into me as I was leaving and felt so sorry for me, she took me to the tube station where she worringly gave me all the things she had been carrying whilst double and triple checking whether I would be fine. Off to Gatwick Airport it was, with all my luggage and wearing a jumper, a big cardigan, and two coats.

The tube was fine, not many people around at 11 pm, the train to Gatwick at 12:30 however was somewhat more challenging. I have to admit my fellow passengers looked at me with something between mild curiosity and sceptism, whilst I tried to pretend this was completely normal. The advantage of travelling around like this, is that people start worrying about you and want to help you. Until the check-in desk that is. The Easyjet employees at check-in have been instructed to be merciless. They have been told to charge for every gram exceeding the weight limits unless those grams, or in my case kilos, are on your person. Although I am sure they will implement new rules for that too. But to date, the only limit to personal weight is the size of the seat.

There I was with my luggage exceeding the weight limits by eight kilo. Cheap as the tickets come, that expensive are the extras with 10 pounds per kilo overweight. However, as it happened, luck turned out to be on my side. To the question whether I wanted to pay by card or cash, I handed over my bankcard, which was refused by the system. There was no choice but to go and get cash. The girl at check-in was friendly enough and said I could come to her straight away and wouldn't need to queue again. Well rid of my hold luggage, I went to the cash machine, got the eighty quid and went back to the check-in desk that had meanwhile been stormed by a group of young boys and their youth workers.

Having worked in hotels, I know that groups, especially of children or teenagers, can be quite challenging. They're all over the place and usually don't know who they're sharing what with. Apparently, the same goes for flights. The girl at check-in was either just starting or very insecure, or both. In any case, she was profoundly confused at this point. So I waited until she'd finish. Time passed, I waited, the boys waited, whilst she mildly panicked and had her colleagues assist her.

Now, if you're a low-cost airline trying to get as much profit as possible, there are several ways to go about the business. Number 1: charge for everything. Rumour has it, Ryan Air now charges for toilet use. O yes. Very soon, you will have to pay extra if you want a life jacket in case of emergency. Number 2: be efficient. Very efficient. No tickets, and one big check-in desk for all destinations. So imagine, 6 am, an immense queue, screaming kids and lots of suitcases. There usually is a host trying to manage all this, whilst looking which check-in desk is free.

Out of the corner of his eye, the host on duty spotted me standing beside the queue, waiting. That is strange and needs to be investigated. Could he help me at all? "Yes, I need to pay and am waiting for my boarding pass that your colleague over there has made ready for me." Helpful as this guy was, he went to his colleague, exchanged a few words, came back and handed me my boarding pass. To say I was flabbergasted, is an understatement. Apparently, he completely missed the sheer surprise and bemusement on my face and went back to his duties of managing the group of young boys. Still recovering, I thought...go...go...just walk away now, before they remember the dosh, just quietly creep away, don't smile, definately don't laugh and pray you're not stopped at a later point.

The challenge didn't end there though. Easyjet has a new rule. Every passenger is allowed one piece of hand luggage. And yes, if you have more, you will be charged at the gate because Easyjet is a low-cost airline trying to make as much profit as possible. However much I would love to write to them about this latest attempt to make more money (I think they are potentially harming the economy of the local airport, I mean, what's the point of tax-free shopping if you're not allowed any more hand-luggage?), I had other things on my mind at this particular time. Being how to make three pieces of hand luggage into one if everything's full. Obviously, one can go to the nearest shop and ask for the biggest bag they have, put everything in there and happily potter off to the gate (second reason why the hand-luggage rule is absurd). Instead, I decided to stuff the pockets of the second coat I had with me, to eat all the food left and try to hide the handbag. With success.

The final hurdle to take came upon arrival at Lyon Airport. Lyon Airport is under construction. The French have decided to build a brand new, very fancy airport near the capital of Provence. Although I am sure it will be very nice once it's finished, at the moment, the custom officers are sat in a tent and so is the luggage belt. There was one poor bloke checking everyone's passport and naturally, I was the last one in line. My parents waiting at the other end thought I had missed my flight. Showing this person my ID card was not a problem, getting all my luggage together and hoisting it on me was. As things litterally fell off, I was close to tears whilst telling myself, out of the door, that's all. Then you can drop everything. Needless to say, this was exactly what happened.

Life in a Box

Other than the previous entry suggests, I have not yet arrived at Go. I am still in London, but only just. With the time ticking away fast now, my last week has officially started. A week from now I will be hoisting my backpack on my back, take my suitcase and close the door of yet another room I inhabited for a year. Until then, there's a lot to do and quite a few people to say goodbye to.

Starting with the practicalities, it is time to arrange the shipping of my things. More of my possessions are packed away in a number of boxes. Clothes, DVDs, cds and kitchen utensils. Interparcel will be taking charge of it all on its way to my parents'. Coming Monday I will be housebound whilst I wait for my parcels to be picked up. Before then, I will have to fit my remaining things into one last box. And hopefully it will be just one last box, but I have a feeling there might be more than one. Still, better to send it than to take it with me having to pay extra kilos to Easyjet. As cheap as Easyjet is with its tickets, as expensive it is with surplus luggage. My backpack and suitcase together will have to be exactly 20 kg or less.

Apart from packing, I will have a visitor this weekend. Waqar is coming over from Bradford. Arriving tomorrow, he will be staying one night. Before I will meet him at Victoria Coach station, there is tea with Francesco, who will need to complain about his work, as he does. After tea, dinner with Waqar and then probably a movie once we get home. Saturday a small reunion of Bradfordians is planned. Waqar's ex-girlfriend Kristin is coming to London as well, as is my ex-upstairs-neighbour Tosin. Tosin is arguably the coolest neighbour I have ever had, being confronted with my music on a daily basis and not once complaining. Quite the contrary, he preferred coming down to take some off my computer.

Next week will see my last three days in my first job. Although I liked it, and learned a lot, I don't mind leaving now. It is time for something else. Something new. Something where my heart is, if possible. As usual though, I leave little time to breath. On Thursday, the last event I have organised will take place after which we will go and have drinks in the pub. At eight the latest I will have to leave though, to go home, eat something to then take the last train to Gatwick Airport. At 7:10 am my flight will take off to Lyon Airport, where my parents will be waiting to take me home.

Crossroads

This is the end. It is also the beginning. The beginning of the next part of my life. A part that will be longer than the staged past. Perhaps. Over the past three years I have started a new piece in a new place. I think you will find I move a lot. The weblogs I have kept are there to prove it. From Utrecht to Paris. From Paris to Bradford. From Bradford to London. From London to Somewhere in the World. I don't know where Somewhere is, but I do know it will take some time to get there. I will keep a weblog to prove it.

The new part starts at a Crossroads at a place called Go. Go is my parent's house. The house I grew up in, somewhere in the Netherlands, near Rotterdam. I start with nothing. No job and no place of my own to live. I also start alone. On my way to Go however I have met people who will come with me to Somewhere. Who will stay with me all the way to my Thirties. I think this is a good point to introduce some to you.

My oldest friend Wendy I met as a child at school. She now lives in Innsbrück, Austria, rides a motorbike and works for Burton. For those of you who don't know, Burton is a company that sells sporting gear. She's also a qualified snowboard teacher and has promised me free lessons. Which I still did not take. We meet once a year at Christmas and sit on her bed drinking tea as if we never moved since we were at school.

There's Nenna. Loud and Dutch, like me. We met in Paris. We worked together, later lived together and spent every minute of every day together. She now lives in Barcelona, has recently graduated but due to not having found a job in her own field yet, she now works for Heineken at the IT help-desk. Says 'doe jij dat nou eens' and 'dat vind ik nou weer eens niet zo leuk'. Translates as 'you do that' and 'now there is something I don't like very much'. She also thinks it is not at all fair not to be given a biscuit.

Katie has been my friend for two years now. She is British but loves Europe and works as a translator in Strasbourg. Says 'the way forward' and 'it's all good', sentences I copied from her. She claps her hands in a cute way when she's happy and about to indulge in some icing sugar. She's also one of the people in this world that when they smile, they seem genuinely happy and the day seems a little brighter.

Although these three girls are arguably my closest friends, there are a number of others that will feature here. Olli alias Mr. Ex-Flatmate I lived with in Bradford for nine months. Is German and whines in a funny way when about to lose a game. Waqar, WaQ for close friends and relatives, lived one floor higher in the same building. Likes talking about Pakistan and quoting from the latest tv-series he is addicted to.
Bronia is my friend in Paris whose door will always be open for me. I don't really use the word, but when she smiles, adorable is the best description. Kamel started out in Paris as my neighbour. From an Algerian, he recently became a French national. Sticks his tongue between his teeth when winding me up.
On my journey to Thirty, Marta will come with me. She is my opposite in every way. If you'd see us together, you would not believe we are friends. She screams and gets drunk when going out. I take her home and she calls me up the next day to say she argued with boyfriend. She's also the person that unknowingly makes you feel better when sad. Francesco 'Facebook, Facebook' was my colleague. Italian and a great cook. He's also got a great accent. Starts sentences with 'welle'.
And at home, there's always Peter. Peter I met in secondary school and has become my cinema companion when I first went to live abroad. My mother used to tell me "the people you stay in touch with might not be the ones you expect it from." For Peter, that is definately true. He's in IT and probably one of the loveliest people I know.

Although this is only a selection and other people will feature, I cannot possibly name everyone here but will introduce them when appropriate. Along with new people I will meet on my way and new friends I will discover. Between London and Somewhere in the World.