Old enough to know better

When people ask me how old my Newfie is I always answer in a barely audible whisper and then instantly distract them by pointing at something with a loud exclamation- Wow, look at that terrifying crow!, So there’s that magic paperclip I’ve been looking for, Was that lightening? – anything that will move the conversation along. The age gap isn’t astronomical but rather slightly… comical. Six short years. Nothing to panic about really. Right?

I often reassure myself (and others) by explaining that he’s actually more mature than I am and that he looks older than me too … (the latter comment usually proving the first).

Fortunately he is usually gracious about his irritating youthful advantage and more than makes up for it by being ridiculously thoughtful and kind. Only occasionally is he unable to resist boasting about these six years as if they were closer to 600. Take a recent e mail for example that was full of his usual insights, news of the day and plans for the evening. Tagged innocently on to the end was the following;

I hope you’re as keen to grow old with me as I am with you. I just find it unfair sometimes that you’ve gotten the head start…

I tried my hardest to be outraged but instead chuckled all day. Well at least until it was time to go home and warn him that I might not give him the chance to grow old!

Hey that’s no way to say goodbye

Gulp! After twelve years I now have only two weeks left in this country. And I’ve never been to the zoo in Amsterdam, or the islands in the North or a horrible tourist-packed live sex show in the red light district. How about a day trip to Zeist? I don’t even know where Zeist is for heaven’s sake – how can I leave yet? There is so much still to do!

Hard and all as I try, my usually sturdy wall of denial is crumbling. It all started a week ago in my favourite late night haunt in The Hague with the music blaring, people jostling to get on the dance floor and a beer in my hand. I’m going to really miss this place and all the wonderful nights I’ve had here with my occasionallies I thought to myself. My eyes welled up and an embarrassing scene was threatening. Fortunately the worlds most annoying song came on and my focus was directed towards that shiny object instead as I began my weekly rant on how irritating that tune is.

But it was Game On from that moment and the thought hasn’t escaped my mind since for more than a minute or two. This isn’t helped by the question everybody keeps asking me – when is your goodbye party? I always answer with a dismissive reply – I’m not sure yet, I’m working on it, or it’ll be in a few weeks time. The thing is that I find it very hard to say goodbye to anyone – no matter how short the period will be. I almost get teary every morning leaving my Newfie to go to work for heaven’s sake. I can’t imagine having to say goodbye to practically everyone I know. It’s pretty much a given that I would be a whimpering, wet, messy, hysterical lump. And I don’t want that to be the last impression people have of me – a howling Conortje with big red puffy eyes.

So I am really hoping I can just find a quiet door to slip out by. Maybe Zeist would work. Nobody would find me there and when I get to Delhi I can just send everyone a postcard saying

You know my love goes with you as your love stays with me

 it’s just the way it changes, like the shoreline and the sea.

I am more than happy for Mr Cohen to say my goodbyes for me.

The moon was a slice of lemon in a gin and tonic sky

Things have been somewhat quiet around here. There is a reason and unfortunately not a particularly pleasant one either. In the middle of me debating what backpack would be best and whether I should invest in a water purifier my Newfie was contacted by the university where he just completed his (second) masters. It appeared they liked him so much they don’t want him to leave.

To make an extremely long and frustrating story short he is currently tied up in the ropes of administration of the university who won’t let him graduate because he was a few days late with an assignment when he was ill - a year ago – even though he submitted a doctors note explaining the situation. They now want him to pay €8,000 and take the three-month long course again next year in February – round about the time we should be figuring out how to get to Kathmandu!

We’ve had all sorts of emotional trauma courtesy of this gigantic spanner which has been hurtled at us. The worst part is the uncertainty of the appeals process, never knowing when we can get a final decision. The unwillingness of the university to help its students is shocking to say the least. So there we have it, our  future plans lie in the hands of some bureaucratic strangers, who, I get the feeling, really couldn’t care less.  Unable to make any real plans I have reoccurring visions of myself, stuck at home playing scrabble with my mother for three months.

To prevent the risk of going completely insane with despair we have decided we are leaving for India at the end of December come what may and we’ll just figure out the rest in time.

At least My Occasionally Sober Friend sorted out my other problem re the water. Just do what my mother does when she’s travelling – avoid water and only drink G ‘n’ Ts.  Terrific advice I felt, so good in fact that I decided to heed it immediately – why wait till I am travelling?

Where do I begin?

I love seeing people’s responses to the news that I am leaving to go travelling for a year. It’s mostly a positive, excited reaction although I did meet one colleague who felt the need to tell me that’s the oddest thing I’ve heard in ages.  Each to their own I suppose. The reactions become less enthusiastic however when they hear my vague answers to their questions about my exact route or whether all my tickets have been booked and purchased. 

But now, finally, I am able to say to them that I have at least bought the ticket for the very first leg. They usually get a little shiver of excitement and a dreamy look in their eyes as they ask where are you heading first then?

Cork! I answer proudly. I then enjoy watching them struggle to muster up some encouraging words at this news. On the 3rd of December I leave the Netherlands after 11 ½ years and I make my way back to the Emerald Isle for a month.  Their obvious disappointment doesn’t phase me though as I have already lined up a stay with my Occasionally Pole-dancing Friend and his certain someone in Waterford. There is surely no better way to begin the whole adventure than by spending time with good friends back in the mother land!  I can’t wait.

Food glorious food

I can turn into a startling hybrid of the Cookie Monster and Taz the Tasmanian Devil if I’m hungry. Really hungry that is. I cease all activities and that can include talking or being reasonably friendly with whoever I’m with, until I have food again in my belly. After which I continue on merrily as if nothing had happened at all, almost instantly!

This is of more than moderate concern for our world tour ahead. Especially considering that we are both vegetarians. For some reason many people still struggle with the notion and seem more satisfied to simply believe that we are just being unnecessarily problematic or demanding. Considering the difficulties I’ve had in Europe I can’t imagine what lies ahead of us in some less progressive places. One time in a restaurant here in Den Haag the waitress, upon seeing my disappointed face when served my horrific looking meal announced in a very patronising voice It’s your fault for being vegetarian!

France has always proved to be a particular challenge. For a country with a reputation for good cuisine they can be astonishingly narrow minded and unadventurous when it comes to food. I was once forced into a debate with a waiter in Paris about the sandwich he served me after I had asked for one without meat. This, is not meat! he yelled pointing at the ham in my sandwich. Of course it is I retorted, deciding that my argument was strong enough to keep my line of defence simple. After a moment’s thought he simply spat back It is not! like a spoiled 10 year old, turned his back and stormed off leaving me to contemplate the ham sandwich and the bill he’d left with it.

My last trip to Paris was no better when it came to food. The worst was in a restaurant where we ordered the stuffed peppers, being the only item on the menu not to have meat in its description. When it arrived it was a pepper stuffed with beef. Describing our dilemma the waiter informed us they could whip up an omelette and vegetables. While a little underwhelmed my hunger monster was beginning to grow so I agreed to the offer. When they arrived the omelette and vegetables turned out to be a half raw poached egg on rice with tasteless green beans. The dish was inedible. When the waiter returned later to take our plates he didn’t say a word at our obviously untouched food but the implication was that he shared the views of that Den Haag waitress.

So I’ve decided to employ some preemptive strikes against the inevitable challenges ahead. I’ve come to the conclusion that it is actually a ridiculously fabulous excuse to eat as much as I want! I keep telling myself that it is essential I store up an impressive reserve of fat for the difficult times ahead. At this rate I’ll be rolling into South America.

I’m a loser baby

My Newfie is a loser!  Now I mean that in a literal way rather than as a mean insult. Put more straight forwardly, he loses things – regularly! His keys, bank card and mobile phone have all been victim to this misfortune in the last couple of months. I like to think it is the result of his being driven to constant distraction by my brilliance but I think it is more likely just a series of bad luck and carelessness. That doesn’t stop me quietly moaning inside whenever it happens. The last time I counseled him that perhaps it was time he started taking more care with his possessions. Obviously this was conveyed in a ridiculously calm and supportive manner that underlined my astonishing sympathy and understanding. What else?

I certainly wasn’t calm yesterday when my departure from work was delayed by the absence of my own keys. Why would someone take my keys from my bag I shrieked. I combed my office just in case whoever it was had simply moved or dropped them. Backtracking down the corridor and the main lobby I scoured the entire path and even employed the assistance of two security officers who had been informed of this heinous act against me. 

Even with all that help they were nowhere to be found! Feeling very sorry for myself I stepped out into the rain wondering how I was going to get into my Manhattan-Style Loft Apartment. As I glanced at my locked bike ready to reluctantly abandon it for the forced walk home something caught my eye. It was a glint of metal dangling from the bike lock. I walked over to confirm my growing suspicions. Indeed, there were my keys. Someone had clearly gone into my office, found my bag, smuggled my keys out of the building and stuck them in my bike lock. They had been there all day, practically shouting at each passer by Come take me, I’m yours! What fiendish soul could have done such a thing I asked myself as I cycled away in shock.

When I got home I began the long internal debate of whether or not to admit this series of events to my Newfie. Better not I decided, it’s important we have established roles. Any change in the status quo would be far too confusing.

Time to say goodbye

The waiting game has well and truly begun. Every day I seem to be looking around for more signs that I made the right decision. This is probably mainly to distract myself from the big issue of having to say goodbye to all my wonderful occasionallies. I am ridiculously excited about travelling with my Newfie (formerly known as Occasionally Sleeping Friend) and about the future until I picture myself having to say goodbye to any one of my wonderful friends – let alone all of them!

However it is also with a heavy heart that I read two news items in the last week that have made me braver about leaving The Netherlands. In my 11 years here I have sadly watched the country become more and more conservative. I have a feeling that the proud history of open mindedness and tolerance eventually resulted in people here being somewhat complacent and slowly things are creeping backwards without much of a fuss.

On a first reading this story made me laugh but considering how the country seems to be moving more and more towards a police state it also frightened me a little. The police here seem all too eager to fine you for anything they can and lord knows there are enough rules and regulations for them to choose from. I have always had the feeling that they are against you rather than there to make society better.

On a more serious note it seems that now it is legal to refuse to employ somebody (and possibly even sack them) in a Dutch state-funded school based only on their sexuality. A progressive, modern, tolerant country?

It’s like the end of any relationship – if you focus on the bad things the transition just might be that little bit easier.

The Final Countdown

In a dramatic flurry of excitement I handed in my notice at work. My last day will be the 30th of November I announced in a high pitched Conorsqueal of excitement and basked in the ensuing reactions and attention. Some were shocked, some cried, some hugged me, some grunted and others’ minds wandered towards what they were going to have for lunch. I had to answer questions on dates and destinations and a whole array of details big and small regarding our travel plans and did my best to paint a picture that would describe a well thought out adventure rather than the haphazard loose idea that it currently is.

It was the talk of the place for a whole five minutes and I revelled in the attention.  Even though I really like my job and love my colleagues there was something so satisfying about the whole event. It felt like progress, turning a page and moving on with my life. 

I sat back at my desk with a huge grin on my face and it took me a good few minutes to slowly calm down. But I noticed that everybody else had quickly returned to their work and were going about their business as usual. Hmmm I thought to myself – maybe I should do it again - only this time louder and with more pizzazz! But no, the realisation hit that while I may indeed be leaving it’s not for another two months and life goes on. Worse than that was the understanding that I am still expected to work just as hard, right up until the end.

Ah well, in my head at least, the minutes are racing towards an end.

He’s the universal soldier

North America was just about the last place I had expected to see queen’s guards doing their I am not really a human I am a pole act but there they were in Ottawa guarding the tomb of the unknown soldier. And just like in London they were attracting tourists like flies who were alternating between trying to get a reaction from underneath the hairy hat and having their photo taken next to the furry pole.  I half expected to turn around and see a red double-decker bus pass by or a group of girls on a night out wearing belts as skirts.

Do you want to wait and watch the changing of the guards my OSF suggested. Remembering my less than gracious outburst in the parliament not so long before I decided it was safer to stay far away from anything remotely queen related.

Hmm I replied, I think I’d rather watch the changing of the guards’ uniforms.

If you want me I’ll be in the bar

happily asking everybody to add the letters MSc to my name. Because now I can, finally!