A: Hey
B: Hoi
A: Marokaan?
B: Nee Berber
A: Islamistisch?
B: Nee Christelijk
A: Ok man. Welkom.
Soms maak ik wat moois mee.
donderdag 12 juni 2014
donderdag 15 mei 2014
Old.
I once cried during a concert. I´ve heard that´s not an uncommon occurrence when Sigur Rós climb onto a stage, but my tears were probably more sparkly (or just more actually present) than those of the other people around, because a woman came up to me after the show and asked me about them. As usual, I only started to realised why I´d been crying while I was explaining it to her. The song that had first made my eyes water was Hoppípolla. I knew the video (seriously, if you haven´t, go back and watch it!) and it had always made me feel confident in the future. So many people grow old and bent and bitter feeling that their stooped back and the custom made soles in their shoes mean they can't enjoy life anymore. Dear old people, bent double, knock kneed, couching like hags, remember that thing that youngsters spray paint on walls:
More than the tumblr pages with photos of sunsets with words on them, a few people, some of whom were complete strangers, have taught me just how true this is. So, future me, if you ever look in the mirror and only see wrinkles and grey hair, remember these people:
The Ladies on the Bus
I was on the bus, on my way to a concert, when two elderly ladies got on. They were bent over, wearing plastic rain caps over their grey hair and definitely the type of people you´d give up your seat for, but the bus was nearly empty, so that wasn´t necessary. The youngest of the two made to sit on one of the red chairs in the front, the ones with extra leg space and little pregnant women and men with sticks embroidered on the fabric. Then the older lady gently took her arm and they shuffled towards the back of the bus. Softly she said: "Those seats are for old people, dear".
The Couple in the Clouds
I dug my heels in the sand at the end of the short practice zipline. It was a very slow, boring line, nothing like I hadn´t done before, but I was really excited about what was ahead. After the rest of my group had finished the practice course, we headed up to the parking lot where the little van was parked that would carry us past the olympian bobsled track and up into the mountains. From there we´d zip-zag (yeah, I just made that up) over the river that came thundering down into the valley, sending white foam up the steep sides of the ravine it had carved out in the rock.
A group of people in harnesses just like ours climbed out of a van that had just returned from the end of the course. They all looked tired and happy, but one couple caught my eye immediately. A man, he must have been in his eighties, helped his wife out of the vehicle. She, too, must have been about eighty, and they were both stooped and wrinkled in their harnesses. Their bodies may have been old, but one look at their faces told me all I needed to know about their minds. Inside, the handsome young man and the gorgous young woman they no doubt used to be, were still very much alive.
The birthday
A man turns 60. He wants to celebrate this with some of his closest friends and family. And that is where the parallel between a regular 60th birthday party and this man's end. No layered cake from the bakery, no flowers on the dinner table, and no "Your roses look amazing! What's the secret, coffee-grounds?". No. This particular 60 year old gathered his friends and took them on a 6 hour hike through this area in Iceland, to a small hut they'd camped in as boys when they were all in a scout troup together. What he didn't know, was that the man who had been his leader back in those days, had organised a surprise barbeque at the hut, and had arranged for all the not-so-able-bodied members of the f&f to be driven up and guided them over the narrow paths the last few kilometers. And this man wasn't a young Adonis in the prime of his life. This man was a stunning 90!
Magnificent
This man, called Magnus, is in his mid 90's now. I met him when I was in Iceland, and he was a true inspiration. His story is too incredible not to deserve it's own blog post, which will hopefully be written soon.
Growing old is inevitable, growing up is optional
More than the tumblr pages with photos of sunsets with words on them, a few people, some of whom were complete strangers, have taught me just how true this is. So, future me, if you ever look in the mirror and only see wrinkles and grey hair, remember these people:
The Ladies on the Bus
I was on the bus, on my way to a concert, when two elderly ladies got on. They were bent over, wearing plastic rain caps over their grey hair and definitely the type of people you´d give up your seat for, but the bus was nearly empty, so that wasn´t necessary. The youngest of the two made to sit on one of the red chairs in the front, the ones with extra leg space and little pregnant women and men with sticks embroidered on the fabric. Then the older lady gently took her arm and they shuffled towards the back of the bus. Softly she said: "Those seats are for old people, dear".
The Couple in the Clouds
I dug my heels in the sand at the end of the short practice zipline. It was a very slow, boring line, nothing like I hadn´t done before, but I was really excited about what was ahead. After the rest of my group had finished the practice course, we headed up to the parking lot where the little van was parked that would carry us past the olympian bobsled track and up into the mountains. From there we´d zip-zag (yeah, I just made that up) over the river that came thundering down into the valley, sending white foam up the steep sides of the ravine it had carved out in the rock.
A group of people in harnesses just like ours climbed out of a van that had just returned from the end of the course. They all looked tired and happy, but one couple caught my eye immediately. A man, he must have been in his eighties, helped his wife out of the vehicle. She, too, must have been about eighty, and they were both stooped and wrinkled in their harnesses. Their bodies may have been old, but one look at their faces told me all I needed to know about their minds. Inside, the handsome young man and the gorgous young woman they no doubt used to be, were still very much alive.
The birthday
A man turns 60. He wants to celebrate this with some of his closest friends and family. And that is where the parallel between a regular 60th birthday party and this man's end. No layered cake from the bakery, no flowers on the dinner table, and no "Your roses look amazing! What's the secret, coffee-grounds?". No. This particular 60 year old gathered his friends and took them on a 6 hour hike through this area in Iceland, to a small hut they'd camped in as boys when they were all in a scout troup together. What he didn't know, was that the man who had been his leader back in those days, had organised a surprise barbeque at the hut, and had arranged for all the not-so-able-bodied members of the f&f to be driven up and guided them over the narrow paths the last few kilometers. And this man wasn't a young Adonis in the prime of his life. This man was a stunning 90!
Magnificent
This man, called Magnus, is in his mid 90's now. I met him when I was in Iceland, and he was a true inspiration. His story is too incredible not to deserve it's own blog post, which will hopefully be written soon.
Remember: You're never too old.
Goede oren
"Jij denkt veel te veel na."
"Ja. Hoezo?"
"Je bent zo stil."
"Klopt."
"We kunnen ook wel praten hoor, ik heb erg goede oren.
"Waar moeten we over praten dan?"
"Wat zei je?"
"Ja. Hoezo?"
"Je bent zo stil."
"Klopt."
"We kunnen ook wel praten hoor, ik heb erg goede oren.
"Waar moeten we over praten dan?"
"Wat zei je?"
maandag 5 mei 2014
Bevrijding
Vandaag is het bevrijdingsdag, en ik ben voor het eerst naar zo'n festival geweest. Ik merkte eigenlijk vrij weinig van het bevrijdingsgedeelte, de meeste mensen kwamen volgens mij gewoon voor de muziek en het bier.
Ik voelde me zelf ook niet bepaald vrij. Het was onmogelijk om je ook maar een centimeter te verplaatsen zonder verstrikt te raken in de massa nog winterbleke maar optimistisch in shorts en losse fladderhemdjes geklede feestvierders, en een dikke deken van smog ontsnapt aan de grilltent bedekte het publiek.
Terwijl we voetje voor voetje over het pad naar de andere kant van het terrein schuifelden, zag ik uit mijn ooghoek een shirt en een korte broek door de lucht vliegen. De jongen die ze had opgevangen stond te juichen en te klappen toen de eigenaar van de kledingstukken ook zijn onderbroek uittrok. Dat juichen verstomde toen die onderbroek vervolgens in zijn gezicht belandde. Een inmiddels poedelnaakte jongeman rende nu tussen picknickende festivalgangers door naar het water. Hij maakte een niet bijster gracieuze duik van de steiger en hing even als een stripfiguur dat nog niet naar beneden heeft gekeken stil in de lucht, zijn man-parts vrolijk bungelend in de warme zomerlucht. Wat moet hij zich vrij gevoeld hebben.
Ik voelde me zelf ook niet bepaald vrij. Het was onmogelijk om je ook maar een centimeter te verplaatsen zonder verstrikt te raken in de massa nog winterbleke maar optimistisch in shorts en losse fladderhemdjes geklede feestvierders, en een dikke deken van smog ontsnapt aan de grilltent bedekte het publiek.
Terwijl we voetje voor voetje over het pad naar de andere kant van het terrein schuifelden, zag ik uit mijn ooghoek een shirt en een korte broek door de lucht vliegen. De jongen die ze had opgevangen stond te juichen en te klappen toen de eigenaar van de kledingstukken ook zijn onderbroek uittrok. Dat juichen verstomde toen die onderbroek vervolgens in zijn gezicht belandde. Een inmiddels poedelnaakte jongeman rende nu tussen picknickende festivalgangers door naar het water. Hij maakte een niet bijster gracieuze duik van de steiger en hing even als een stripfiguur dat nog niet naar beneden heeft gekeken stil in de lucht, zijn man-parts vrolijk bungelend in de warme zomerlucht. Wat moet hij zich vrij gevoeld hebben.
maandag 31 maart 2014
Reykjavik Rooftop
I´m standing on a Reykjavik rooftop watching the aurora
gracefully stride through a sky freckled with stars. My wonderful new friend´s
arm is around my shoulder, the buzz of the party coming softly through the open door and up
the stairwell.
My disguise is good. No-one seems to suspect I´m young, and
have never been to a house party before, nor drunk fruit punch with vodka from
the plastic 2 liter bottle we brought. I don´t think they´d care anyway, but I
wonder if there´d be pressure if they had been my peers, or whether it´s simply
the free thinking caused by long periods away from home in this stunning dark,
snowy country.
Downstairs a large, white-blonde Icelandic man in a full
suit and bow tie introduces me to a Dutchie. I try to say ´hoi´, and ´waar kom
je vandaan?´, but the words leave my mouth muddled up and we quickly switch
back to English. His German friend smiles thankfully. It´s surprising she
hasn´t found any fellow countrymen yet, I´ve met more Germans than I can
remember since I got here.
I wash away the tortilla chips with pesto dip with the last
of my water and get up. The Oxford boy I´d been talking to has followed his
friends to Prikið. Most other guests are starting to relocate to bars and clubs
as well, and part of the way
home I am accompanied by suitman and his companions. In his thirties, he nonchalantly puts his arm around my waist, Maybe I wasn´t in disguise to begin with.
vrijdag 28 maart 2014
Mesmerising Music III - BOY
Hey mum, you know Vonder and Bloom right?
BOY is sort of a lighthearted, Swiss-German version of them.
I´ve been listening to them a lot here, at the Icelandic Scout Centre where I´m currently working for room and board.
Wait, Swiss-German you said? So no Sigur Rós, Ólafur Arnalds, Múm, Frakkur, then? Nah, surprisingly. You know how when you listen to Glosoli, or 3055, or Green Grass of Tunnel, you can kind of see and feel the mountains, the black sand beaches, the little streams all around you? Well, the mountains, black sand beaches and little streams kind of make you hear the music and that makes for quite enough impressions :)
So back to BOY. Upbeat in a calm way, dreamy but with both feet on the ground, happy in a non-ecstatic way.
The song that first introduced me to them is this acoustic version of
´Drive Darling´.
The next link I clicked on was their video for Little Numbers, but it was only yesterday that I really listened to the lyrics, and I loved the ease with which they put that first stage of being in love into words and sounds:)
Oh Boy (just to keep things interesting, titlewise) is a song about that one perfect person we all know and none of us can reach.
Another thing we´ve all felt is stuck, in school, an job, a relationship, a life that provides us with all we require but none of what we need. We´ve all felt like this Waitress.
BOY is sort of a lighthearted, Swiss-German version of them.
I´ve been listening to them a lot here, at the Icelandic Scout Centre where I´m currently working for room and board.
Wait, Swiss-German you said? So no Sigur Rós, Ólafur Arnalds, Múm, Frakkur, then? Nah, surprisingly. You know how when you listen to Glosoli, or 3055, or Green Grass of Tunnel, you can kind of see and feel the mountains, the black sand beaches, the little streams all around you? Well, the mountains, black sand beaches and little streams kind of make you hear the music and that makes for quite enough impressions :)
So back to BOY. Upbeat in a calm way, dreamy but with both feet on the ground, happy in a non-ecstatic way.
The song that first introduced me to them is this acoustic version of
´Drive Darling´.
The next link I clicked on was their video for Little Numbers, but it was only yesterday that I really listened to the lyrics, and I loved the ease with which they put that first stage of being in love into words and sounds:)
Oh Boy (just to keep things interesting, titlewise) is a song about that one perfect person we all know and none of us can reach.
Another thing we´ve all felt is stuck, in school, an job, a relationship, a life that provides us with all we require but none of what we need. We´ve all felt like this Waitress.
woensdag 8 januari 2014
Jammin!
(I started writing this blog post when I was in England but for some reason never finished and published it. Now I did. Yay!)
Girl on a gap year in a city full of students with a lively music scene. Jamming. She must be sitting 'round a campfire with a guitar/violin/djembe/etc or at least longingly staring at the people who can actually play these instruments, right?
Wrong.
A few days ago I joined a some people from a volunteer group to harvest the fruits of a local tree. The greengages (a very sweet kind of plum) on the bottom branches were picked with a long stick with a small net on the end. Then something wonderful happened: I was asked to climb up the tree and pick the rest of the fruit by hand. (I usually get disdainful looks from the 'grownups' when I'm Climbing trees and loving it.) I made my way up to the top with a bag strapped to my chest, and I filled it to the brim, taking a short break every now and then to gobble up a gage or two. Then I relieved the tree of the last of its burden by shaking the branches, cascading the others and the large piece of plastic they were holding out in sweet sticky green goodness.
Later that week we gathered at the home of one of the volunteers and turned the greengages into even sweeter jam, Bach playing in the background. I made another friend that night, who talked passionately about midwifery. Or more specifically, how much she loved her job as a Doula, a woman who assists mothers-to-be during birth. As you can probably imagine, I was very surprised to hear that she was 18!
I got home with several jars of delicious jam and a lot more appreciation for organic, homemade food and Bach, and a new friend :)
Girl on a gap year in a city full of students with a lively music scene. Jamming. She must be sitting 'round a campfire with a guitar/violin/djembe/etc or at least longingly staring at the people who can actually play these instruments, right?
Wrong.
A few days ago I joined a some people from a volunteer group to harvest the fruits of a local tree. The greengages (a very sweet kind of plum) on the bottom branches were picked with a long stick with a small net on the end. Then something wonderful happened: I was asked to climb up the tree and pick the rest of the fruit by hand. (I usually get disdainful looks from the 'grownups' when I'm Climbing trees and loving it.) I made my way up to the top with a bag strapped to my chest, and I filled it to the brim, taking a short break every now and then to gobble up a gage or two. Then I relieved the tree of the last of its burden by shaking the branches, cascading the others and the large piece of plastic they were holding out in sweet sticky green goodness.
Later that week we gathered at the home of one of the volunteers and turned the greengages into even sweeter jam, Bach playing in the background. I made another friend that night, who talked passionately about midwifery. Or more specifically, how much she loved her job as a Doula, a woman who assists mothers-to-be during birth. As you can probably imagine, I was very surprised to hear that she was 18!
I got home with several jars of delicious jam and a lot more appreciation for organic, homemade food and Bach, and a new friend :)
 |
| Greengages |
Abonneren op:
Posts (Atom)