The Land of the Scots

                                                                                                       29-8-2014

Dear Diary

It is my first day alone in this foreign land. I have built a shelter to protect me from the rain that falls listlessly on grey stone out of grey skies. I have not yet laid contact with the natives, Dear Diary, but I sense they are near and I expect to hear from them soon. I must go now, the smell of the bacon over my fire is making my head spin.

Love, Lise

                                                                                                         30-8-2014
Dear Diary

Today I spotted a native. He even whistled when he noticed me. I don't know whether I should feel encouraged to seek them out, or take this as a warning to keep my distance. Either way, Dear Diary, I won't be without a purpose the following days. I have discovered a magical forest where a stream murmurs through the thicket, green grass stretches under ancient trees, and where the bustle of the natives daily life is completely shut out. I must explore every corner of it. 

Love, Lise 

                                                                                                           31-8-2014
Dear Diary

I haven't much to report today but the discovery of a beautiful inlet, sheltered away from the relentless winds of the sea. It is a great place to sit and read or simply lay back with my feet in the sand and my face in the sun. Ah, to be away from granite walls and the roar of traffic..

Love Lise 

                                                                                                              2-9-2014

Dear Diary

I met a native today, and a real gingerbeard at that! He was welcoming and funny and he even had an accent! This first encounter gives me hope for the future. I also learned that I consequently grossly underestimate the time it takes me to cycle to places. The rugged terrain, the small hills that seem monstrous in my Lage Landen eyes, but most of all my lack of courage when it comes to steering my bike into a six-laned street while in the chaos of motorised vehicles, zig-zagging cyclists and people crossing the street even though the pedestrian traffic light beeps loudly in protest it is hard to keep a cool head. Also, the drive on the left!

Love, Lise


                                                                                                               3-9-2014
Dear Diary

I had a horrible day. Being alone here sucks. I have nothing to mention but the bag of cheese puffs I downed in ten minutes.
Good day

Lise

                                                                                                                 4-9-2014
Dear Diary

As you know, I've always loved libraries. I love most them for the smell of old books, the quiet, the art on the walls, rows and rows and rows of volumes just waiting to share their knowledge. The thing I like most about the library here is the elevator. The rest of it is mainly black and white and lifeless, and although the light has enough space to play in, there's no surfaces it can warm up. Nevertheless I enjoyed my visit today, because it was still quiet, and there were books. 

Love, Lise







 

The Oranges

Their heels are thin as needles and high as the Big Ben, and their boobs bulge over the front of their dresses like a fat mans belly over the edge of his sweatpants. They clutch their purses and giggle while they frantically try to hide their booze from the bouncers. All night they systematically scan the club for male booty, the guys willingly objectified.
They are the queens (in the non-homosexual sens of the word) of the British night. They are the Oranges.

Zo kan het dus ook.

A: Hey
B: Hoi
A: Marokaan?
B: Nee Berber
A: Islamistisch?
B: Nee Christelijk
A: Ok man. Welkom.

Soms maak ik wat moois mee.

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:

 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?"

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.

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.