I had a rather strange conversation on msn just now. A fellow with the email address cubrish@hotmail.com suddenly talked to me while I didn't have a clue who he or she was, and to be honest I didn't really understand much of what went on in the convo. The following happened (his incredibly long and unfunny screenname has been edited to be more accurate on his or her persona):
Mad person says:
quien eres?
Kor - Requiem for a pigeon - says:
Non parlo Español.
Mad person says:
*angry smiley*
Mad person says:
ok
Mad person says:
pasiencia
Mad person says:
where are from
Mad person says:
you
Kor - Requiem for a pigeon - says:
Netherlands.
Mad person says:
fuck you
Kor - Requiem for a pigeon - says:
Are all conversations like this where you're from?
This is where he blocked me. I am confused, though I am happy to have dealt ownage even when confusticated.
23.12.05
Tower of Babel
17.12.05
Requiem for a pigeon
Today when I came to my parents' house I was told that Lotje, our pigeon was very ill. I took a look and noticed it, too. She was lying on the ground with her wings slightly opened up. She had her eyes closed, but when I came nearer she opened them. She was breathing heavily, her entire body going up and down with each breath. I stroked her, and her tiny head turned towards me. She seemed to enjoy it, and I continued it for a bit.
Two hours later she looked much worse. Her eyes were open, but in an unattentive way; she did not close them at any point. Her head lay in her neck, her beak nearly pointing backwards. Her wings were spread out as if in flight, and her body was upright, in stark contrast to her head. For perhaps an hour or two this continued, with the occassional extra heavy gasping and breathing, but we were convinced that she was nearly dead. She was, after all, 18 or so years old.
Then, when both my parents were otherwise occupied and I kept watch, she suddenly stirred. For a moment she seemed to have recovered and her head went back into normal position. But she was not awake, as her eyes still did not blink. Then, suddenly, she started flapping her wings. She aimed upwards, but had not the power to lift herself up. Still, she kept beating and beating her wings until she had pumped out all the air remaining in her lungs. Her head went backward and forward as it tried to collect more air to continue her flight, but each time she was weaker because of it. She finished her last flight.
And I cried.
Two hours later she looked much worse. Her eyes were open, but in an unattentive way; she did not close them at any point. Her head lay in her neck, her beak nearly pointing backwards. Her wings were spread out as if in flight, and her body was upright, in stark contrast to her head. For perhaps an hour or two this continued, with the occassional extra heavy gasping and breathing, but we were convinced that she was nearly dead. She was, after all, 18 or so years old.
Then, when both my parents were otherwise occupied and I kept watch, she suddenly stirred. For a moment she seemed to have recovered and her head went back into normal position. But she was not awake, as her eyes still did not blink. Then, suddenly, she started flapping her wings. She aimed upwards, but had not the power to lift herself up. Still, she kept beating and beating her wings until she had pumped out all the air remaining in her lungs. Her head went backward and forward as it tried to collect more air to continue her flight, but each time she was weaker because of it. She finished her last flight.
And I cried.
6.12.05
An Ode to the President
Apparently a Pakistani school textbook meant for English class included an ode to President Bush.
As usual clinging on to the latest trend, I have decided to write my own!
An Ode to the President
Should war ever threaten his beautiful land
He will heroically push the button with his hand
If soldiers will falter, his brave nukes will fly
To wreak down havoc on his foes from the sky
End
As usual clinging on to the latest trend, I have decided to write my own!
An Ode to the President
Should war ever threaten his beautiful land
He will heroically push the button with his hand
If soldiers will falter, his brave nukes will fly
To wreak down havoc on his foes from the sky
End
A Day in the Life of Black Peter
So, yesterday we had a big Sinterklaas celebration with about twenty students attending. Sinterklaas (Sint Nicholas) is a Bishoply saint who visits the Netherlands each year to bring gifts and sweets to the good children, and bag the naughty children up to take them to Spain, where he spends the rest of the year. He is accompanied by a number of black servants, known as Zwarte Pieten (Black Peters).
On Sunday I was approached about wanting to play a part as one of the two Black Peters of this special occassion, and happily I said yes.
Martijn and Annemarie played the Sint and the other Piet, respectively, and we took about an hour chatting and getting dressed. We then left to go the Tafelstraat, where the celebration was being held, a few blocks away from Martijn's - sorry, the Sint's apartment.
I must admit I hadn't expected the popularity of the feast to be this big, yet I grew up with it and celebrated it as a child each year: wherever we went, dressed up as we were (in professional costumes, we did look the part) people greeted us and got big smiles on their faces. People were waving at us from behind the windows, whether they be windows of houses, restaurants or bars. At some places they broke out in cheerful song. And note, this wasn't just when there were children present. In fact, we didn't see any children at all. Adults seem to enjoy the feast as much as the little ones do, and no one ever broke the pretence.
After a short walk (relatively cold, though we Black Peters had the advantage here over the Sint - you don't want to be a Bishop in winter, Martijn can assure you) we got to the Tafelstraat. I'm not sure whether the people were informed of our coming, apart from the organisers, but the students - particularly the foreign ones - looked absolutely overwhelmed. This may just have been the result of too much warm choco or of them recognising us and thinking we looked mad, but it was great nonetheless.
We then had about 45 minutes of entertaining the crowd (which was very funny but I suppose not very interesting if you don't know the people), before leaving.
Taking a detour, we walked over the Onze Lieve Vrouwe plein, where we bumped into some Spaniards. Now, according to the stories Sinterklaas lives in Madrid, and these obviously were well-informed tourists as they knew it. So the lot of us now feature in a collection of holiday pics made by some Spanish tourists.
Then we passed by a pub, looked inside and... spotted another Black Peter!
This demanded a reprimande, because as Piet you can't just drink in working hours. We went in, had a bit of a chat,
- "Want to share a drink?"
"Unlike you, Piet, we actually feel commitment for our job, and still have half the city to visit tonight" - the people inside all thought it was very funny. And it was.
Then came the cleaning ourselves, which wasn't much fun and took quite a while. This is the part where Sinterklaas has a clear advantage over his servant, as he simply has to change clothes and wash the moustache-glue of his face. Lucky devil.
Quote of the Day:
Me: "Quite funny we should bump into Spaniards like that."
Sinterklaas: "Well, they do say that, when abroad, you always meet people from your own country."
On Sunday I was approached about wanting to play a part as one of the two Black Peters of this special occassion, and happily I said yes.
Martijn and Annemarie played the Sint and the other Piet, respectively, and we took about an hour chatting and getting dressed. We then left to go the Tafelstraat, where the celebration was being held, a few blocks away from Martijn's - sorry, the Sint's apartment.
I must admit I hadn't expected the popularity of the feast to be this big, yet I grew up with it and celebrated it as a child each year: wherever we went, dressed up as we were (in professional costumes, we did look the part) people greeted us and got big smiles on their faces. People were waving at us from behind the windows, whether they be windows of houses, restaurants or bars. At some places they broke out in cheerful song. And note, this wasn't just when there were children present. In fact, we didn't see any children at all. Adults seem to enjoy the feast as much as the little ones do, and no one ever broke the pretence.
After a short walk (relatively cold, though we Black Peters had the advantage here over the Sint - you don't want to be a Bishop in winter, Martijn can assure you) we got to the Tafelstraat. I'm not sure whether the people were informed of our coming, apart from the organisers, but the students - particularly the foreign ones - looked absolutely overwhelmed. This may just have been the result of too much warm choco or of them recognising us and thinking we looked mad, but it was great nonetheless.
We then had about 45 minutes of entertaining the crowd (which was very funny but I suppose not very interesting if you don't know the people), before leaving.
Taking a detour, we walked over the Onze Lieve Vrouwe plein, where we bumped into some Spaniards. Now, according to the stories Sinterklaas lives in Madrid, and these obviously were well-informed tourists as they knew it. So the lot of us now feature in a collection of holiday pics made by some Spanish tourists.
Then we passed by a pub, looked inside and... spotted another Black Peter!
This demanded a reprimande, because as Piet you can't just drink in working hours. We went in, had a bit of a chat,
- "Want to share a drink?"
"Unlike you, Piet, we actually feel commitment for our job, and still have half the city to visit tonight" - the people inside all thought it was very funny. And it was.
Then came the cleaning ourselves, which wasn't much fun and took quite a while. This is the part where Sinterklaas has a clear advantage over his servant, as he simply has to change clothes and wash the moustache-glue of his face. Lucky devil.
Quote of the Day:
Me: "Quite funny we should bump into Spaniards like that."
Sinterklaas: "Well, they do say that, when abroad, you always meet people from your own country."
20.11.05
Still the Capital of Europe
As I promised in my last post, here are some additions to my Bruxelles experiences, plus perhaps a more coherent description of my trip (although I cannot promise I'll deliver).
So, to begin this story, we were with a total of 14 people. Myself, of course, the only one of us more or less used to Belgian culture; then, the Dutch part of our group, consisted of Elleke, Renske, Ivan, Martijn and Linda; the Germans were Steffen (Linda's boyfriend), Lukas and Catharina (the last two also a couple); there was a Canadian girl, Andrea; three Russians were there also, Valeria and two others - a couple - whose names I don't remember, but who were actually married; and on saturday Esther was there, but she left on the evening, at which time my dad came, as the trip was organised by the Maastricht Student Chaplaincy, where my father works.
Upon arrival, we were greeted by Mieke, the enthusiastic chaplain of the Flemish universities of Bruxelles. We were brought to the chaplaincy at the Beguinage, dropped our bags and then each went our own way. I had brought a Trotter Guide to Belgium, which proved most handy as it had a complete street plan of the city, listed all the museums with reviews, even, and fitted neatly into my coat pocket. I used this time to explore the east part of the city: the city park and the Jubelpark. The first I wanted to see because, in 1830, all the important fighting took place there, as the Dutch troops dug in in the park and Belgian revolutionaries fired at them from the tall buildings. There was nothing to remember that by, but it was clear that the park was a good place to camp troops.
However, new invaders had arrived since the Dutch forces left in a hurry: Bruxelles now boasts a population of 5 000 Ring-necked Parakeets, mostly spread out in the two parks I visited. They were a true plague and their shrieks were audible everywhere. Operating in groups, they were hard to miss.
Surrounding the park lay some of the busiest streets in town: the Belgian Parliament as well as the American Embassy - the latter defended with concrete blocks, bullet-proof police guard houses and policecars blocking the entrance - were situated there, among others. But I hurriedly followed the road further east, to the Jubelpark, as I'm certain the security guard at the embassy would seize me if I halted for too long. On I my way I passed by the European Commission and probably a variety of other EU buildings too, including a EU bookstore, which was closed. Must be an after-effect of the Dutch No!
After about 45 minutes walk from the centre of the city, I finally reached the Jubelpark, where the Army Museum is housed. I already talked about my visit there in the last post, so I'll only add that they had so many Napoleonic portraits, that they covered the walls up to the roof. The hall being tall, this made it impossible to distinguish the upper portraits. I was pleased to see that there were plenty of paintings, uniforms and other objects to remind of the Dutch period, including paintings of General Chassé and the Princes of Orange.
We had arranged to reunite at the station at 19:15, by which time my dad would arrive, after which we would go out to dinner. 19:15 is too late a dinner time for us western Europeans, so by the time I got to the station I was starving, and so were the others. We went to a fine restaurant where they served excellent pies, and I picked the Lorrainer quiche. Strangely enough it was classed under Vegetable Quiches, yet we all know that Lorrainer quiches have meat - and this one was not lacking in that respect!
I ended up in the German corner of our group, and had a rather interesting discussion about German literature. To my astonishment, not a single one of the Germans surrounding me had read Im Westen nichts neues! However, for compensation, they had all watched the film with their class at one point or another. Still, what barbarism!
That evening Mieke took us on a nightly tour of the city, visiting a pub with an excellent home-brewn beer, Gueuze bière, as well as to an expensive hotel in the lobby of which was preserved part of the city wall. As we then entered its garage where she showed the rest of it, we were kindly shooed out by the butler, or whatever fancy title the man may have had.
After that we made our way up a tall parking lot, from which we could survey the city beautifully, the Cathedral seeming slimmer than it did from up close, and Mieke told us about how people used to jump off of it to kill themselves, so the authorities had had to put up three different means of preventing them - a fence, spikes on top of it and electric wire above that.
We slept in one of the many rooms of the Student Chaplaincy, and I abandoned my sleeping bag at about 8:30, when I had had enough sleep. I brought along the Mabinogion, which I had taken because it was not only light but also highly entertaining. I then read for over half an hour, until Elleke and Mieke had bought some bread.
We then attended Catholic mass - not a traditional mass, as the Priest didn't seem to follow the standard conventions at all, which made it most amusing. He even said "Goddamnit!" twice. Someone actually had to tell me of this peculiarity, as I hadn't noticed it myself.
After that, we made another city walk, had pancakes in a local restaurant, and returned home.
Conclusion: Bruxelles is great.
Quote of the Day:
A haggard man entered the room, with twinkling lights in his eyes.
"My dear Compans, do you not recognise me?"
"No; who are you?"
"I am the rear guard of the Grande Armée. I am Marshal Ney!"
So, to begin this story, we were with a total of 14 people. Myself, of course, the only one of us more or less used to Belgian culture; then, the Dutch part of our group, consisted of Elleke, Renske, Ivan, Martijn and Linda; the Germans were Steffen (Linda's boyfriend), Lukas and Catharina (the last two also a couple); there was a Canadian girl, Andrea; three Russians were there also, Valeria and two others - a couple - whose names I don't remember, but who were actually married; and on saturday Esther was there, but she left on the evening, at which time my dad came, as the trip was organised by the Maastricht Student Chaplaincy, where my father works.
Upon arrival, we were greeted by Mieke, the enthusiastic chaplain of the Flemish universities of Bruxelles. We were brought to the chaplaincy at the Beguinage, dropped our bags and then each went our own way. I had brought a Trotter Guide to Belgium, which proved most handy as it had a complete street plan of the city, listed all the museums with reviews, even, and fitted neatly into my coat pocket. I used this time to explore the east part of the city: the city park and the Jubelpark. The first I wanted to see because, in 1830, all the important fighting took place there, as the Dutch troops dug in in the park and Belgian revolutionaries fired at them from the tall buildings. There was nothing to remember that by, but it was clear that the park was a good place to camp troops.
However, new invaders had arrived since the Dutch forces left in a hurry: Bruxelles now boasts a population of 5 000 Ring-necked Parakeets, mostly spread out in the two parks I visited. They were a true plague and their shrieks were audible everywhere. Operating in groups, they were hard to miss.
Surrounding the park lay some of the busiest streets in town: the Belgian Parliament as well as the American Embassy - the latter defended with concrete blocks, bullet-proof police guard houses and policecars blocking the entrance - were situated there, among others. But I hurriedly followed the road further east, to the Jubelpark, as I'm certain the security guard at the embassy would seize me if I halted for too long. On I my way I passed by the European Commission and probably a variety of other EU buildings too, including a EU bookstore, which was closed. Must be an after-effect of the Dutch No!
After about 45 minutes walk from the centre of the city, I finally reached the Jubelpark, where the Army Museum is housed. I already talked about my visit there in the last post, so I'll only add that they had so many Napoleonic portraits, that they covered the walls up to the roof. The hall being tall, this made it impossible to distinguish the upper portraits. I was pleased to see that there were plenty of paintings, uniforms and other objects to remind of the Dutch period, including paintings of General Chassé and the Princes of Orange.
We had arranged to reunite at the station at 19:15, by which time my dad would arrive, after which we would go out to dinner. 19:15 is too late a dinner time for us western Europeans, so by the time I got to the station I was starving, and so were the others. We went to a fine restaurant where they served excellent pies, and I picked the Lorrainer quiche. Strangely enough it was classed under Vegetable Quiches, yet we all know that Lorrainer quiches have meat - and this one was not lacking in that respect!
I ended up in the German corner of our group, and had a rather interesting discussion about German literature. To my astonishment, not a single one of the Germans surrounding me had read Im Westen nichts neues! However, for compensation, they had all watched the film with their class at one point or another. Still, what barbarism!
That evening Mieke took us on a nightly tour of the city, visiting a pub with an excellent home-brewn beer, Gueuze bière, as well as to an expensive hotel in the lobby of which was preserved part of the city wall. As we then entered its garage where she showed the rest of it, we were kindly shooed out by the butler, or whatever fancy title the man may have had.
After that we made our way up a tall parking lot, from which we could survey the city beautifully, the Cathedral seeming slimmer than it did from up close, and Mieke told us about how people used to jump off of it to kill themselves, so the authorities had had to put up three different means of preventing them - a fence, spikes on top of it and electric wire above that.
We slept in one of the many rooms of the Student Chaplaincy, and I abandoned my sleeping bag at about 8:30, when I had had enough sleep. I brought along the Mabinogion, which I had taken because it was not only light but also highly entertaining. I then read for over half an hour, until Elleke and Mieke had bought some bread.
We then attended Catholic mass - not a traditional mass, as the Priest didn't seem to follow the standard conventions at all, which made it most amusing. He even said "Goddamnit!" twice. Someone actually had to tell me of this peculiarity, as I hadn't noticed it myself.
After that, we made another city walk, had pancakes in a local restaurant, and returned home.
Conclusion: Bruxelles is great.
Quote of the Day:
A haggard man entered the room, with twinkling lights in his eyes.
"My dear Compans, do you not recognise me?"
"No; who are you?"
"I am the rear guard of the Grande Armée. I am Marshal Ney!"
15.11.05
The Capital of Europe
As previously announced, the past weekend was spent in the capital of Europe, known as Bruxelles or Brussel or by some languages, incapable of properly writing location names, as Brussels, which is neither here nor there.
With a group of about 15 students we set out from the stately station of Maastricht and boarded the train to Liège, which doesn't have a stately station but has one that is a complete mess - but it is currently being renovated (and has been for the past few years) so it is even more confusing than it would be in normal situations (and it seems like it won't be worth it, as the station will mix a 1920's building with modern architecture, creating some sort of ugly monster).
The train then passed through the familiar city of Leuven, making clear once again the difference in wealth between Flanders (Leuven) and Wallonia (Liège); the locomotive continuing its voyage, we entered the mixture of Flemish-Wallonian culture that is the district of Bruxelles, the only place where one can find people who consider themselves Belgians (except if the Royal Family are abroad or in one of their countryside palaces, of course) and a strange combination of different cultures - a very charming brew, many must agree.
Bruxelles is a huge city, of which I only saw a fractions, primarily the city centre and the European part, including the building(s) housing the European Commission. It is funny to see the differences in the city - from the grand medieval Great Market to the Art Nouveaux buildings of Victoire Horta to the modern EU and NATO buildings, there's something in every style and many of them are truly impressive, like the Brandenburger Tor-like building in the Jubelpark housing the Royal Army and Military Museum, the Museum of the History of Art and "Auto-world", a museum that probably has a lot of enthusiastic fans around the world, among which I cannot count myself.
The only museum I visited during the weekend was, unsurprisingly, the Army and Military Museum. Its collection can only be described as impressive, showcasing a huge collection of portraits, armour, uniforms, contemporary drawings and paintings, weapons, planes, tanks, musical instruments, etc. Sadly I only got about half an hour to view it as the place closed at the surprisingly early time of 16:30, giving a subtle hint five minutes in advance, when they turned off all the lights. Even though my visit was short, it was enough to make me appreciate the vastness (and value) of this Belgian collection of war-related objects. Their sets of full plate armour on display - of the highest quality - must number over three dozen, and they have virtually every imaginable type of armour (yes, even equestrian armour) produced between 1300 and 1600, including a rather rare surcoat with tiny metal plates still attached to the inside. The fabric of this armour doesn't usually stand the test of time, so to see one complete and showcased in a museum both surprised and pleased me. It was indeed excellently done, and it was also the finest collection of armour I have ever seen.
Mieke, our guide, also took us around the city on saturday evening (visiting pubs, tasting some local beers, including the rather delicious Gueuze Bière) and showed us some of the places you will never see when you go on your own, including Bruxelles from the top of a huge parking building and through the tiny streets within houses.
Surely there is more to write about this wonderful visit on this page later on, but I do not have the time now. I realise I have hardly spent a word describing my companions on this trip, and I shall do so later on, as well as give some account of the mass we visited, the peculiar pancake restaurant, the most expensive hotel and its butler, and the American embassy. But don't worry, I won't waste any words on that travesty, Manneken Pis.
Quote of the Day:
"No, applejuice is finished, is finished!" - our French waiter
With a group of about 15 students we set out from the stately station of Maastricht and boarded the train to Liège, which doesn't have a stately station but has one that is a complete mess - but it is currently being renovated (and has been for the past few years) so it is even more confusing than it would be in normal situations (and it seems like it won't be worth it, as the station will mix a 1920's building with modern architecture, creating some sort of ugly monster).
The train then passed through the familiar city of Leuven, making clear once again the difference in wealth between Flanders (Leuven) and Wallonia (Liège); the locomotive continuing its voyage, we entered the mixture of Flemish-Wallonian culture that is the district of Bruxelles, the only place where one can find people who consider themselves Belgians (except if the Royal Family are abroad or in one of their countryside palaces, of course) and a strange combination of different cultures - a very charming brew, many must agree.
Bruxelles is a huge city, of which I only saw a fractions, primarily the city centre and the European part, including the building(s) housing the European Commission. It is funny to see the differences in the city - from the grand medieval Great Market to the Art Nouveaux buildings of Victoire Horta to the modern EU and NATO buildings, there's something in every style and many of them are truly impressive, like the Brandenburger Tor-like building in the Jubelpark housing the Royal Army and Military Museum, the Museum of the History of Art and "Auto-world", a museum that probably has a lot of enthusiastic fans around the world, among which I cannot count myself.
The only museum I visited during the weekend was, unsurprisingly, the Army and Military Museum. Its collection can only be described as impressive, showcasing a huge collection of portraits, armour, uniforms, contemporary drawings and paintings, weapons, planes, tanks, musical instruments, etc. Sadly I only got about half an hour to view it as the place closed at the surprisingly early time of 16:30, giving a subtle hint five minutes in advance, when they turned off all the lights. Even though my visit was short, it was enough to make me appreciate the vastness (and value) of this Belgian collection of war-related objects. Their sets of full plate armour on display - of the highest quality - must number over three dozen, and they have virtually every imaginable type of armour (yes, even equestrian armour) produced between 1300 and 1600, including a rather rare surcoat with tiny metal plates still attached to the inside. The fabric of this armour doesn't usually stand the test of time, so to see one complete and showcased in a museum both surprised and pleased me. It was indeed excellently done, and it was also the finest collection of armour I have ever seen.
Mieke, our guide, also took us around the city on saturday evening (visiting pubs, tasting some local beers, including the rather delicious Gueuze Bière) and showed us some of the places you will never see when you go on your own, including Bruxelles from the top of a huge parking building and through the tiny streets within houses.
Surely there is more to write about this wonderful visit on this page later on, but I do not have the time now. I realise I have hardly spent a word describing my companions on this trip, and I shall do so later on, as well as give some account of the mass we visited, the peculiar pancake restaurant, the most expensive hotel and its butler, and the American embassy. But don't worry, I won't waste any words on that travesty, Manneken Pis.
Quote of the Day:
"No, applejuice is finished, is finished!" - our French waiter
12.11.05
For feck's sake...
Just watched the final episode of Spooks series 4, and my reaction is sort of difficult to describe. Surely those devoted followers of the series remember the suspenseful endings of Series 1 and Series 2, which had the viewer crying out NOOOOO!!!! as the episodes ended in ways that put even the summer cliffhangers of soap series to shame. Series 3 had a relatively normal season ending, which I was quite happy with, but now the makers have gone back to their roots and here we are, suspense and tension as we wait for another year before we'll see who survives and who dies.
Luckily, Spooks puts not only the cliffhangers, but also the acting, scripts, locations and overall quality of soap series to shame, and it'll be well worth the wait, I'm sure.
But who will survive?!
Also, just a thing I forgot in my previous post:
Quote of the Day:
"Grenadiers and Chasseurs, I say to you again: if you do not stay with me you are f----d. And anyway, I don't care a f--k. You can all go and f--k yourselves." - Marshal Lefèbvre
Luckily, Spooks puts not only the cliffhangers, but also the acting, scripts, locations and overall quality of soap series to shame, and it'll be well worth the wait, I'm sure.
But who will survive?!
Also, just a thing I forgot in my previous post:
Quote of the Day:
"Grenadiers and Chasseurs, I say to you again: if you do not stay with me you are f----d. And anyway, I don't care a f--k. You can all go and f--k yourselves." - Marshal Lefèbvre
11.11.05
Now, lords, for Belgium!
With winter fast approaching, showing its arrival with teasingly warm days of sometimes twenty degrees in the sun, it is pivotal that we move now to Bruxelles, if indeed we do want to visit the city before the cold season arrives; waiting a month longer could mean that the fair city be surrounded by snow, trains grinding to a halt as avalanches bury the railway tracks from the human eye, birds will freeze in mid-air, their playful music exiting their throats for the last time, and cars will implode from the cold. These things have happened before, and have been well-documented by astronomers. If not this weekend, the snow will arrive soon after. There is in fact every possibility we will all be trapped in the city and die from starvation, as there are not enough birds there to feed the inhabitants for an entire winter.
In other words, I'm going to Bruxelles this weekend.
In other words, I'm going to Bruxelles this weekend.
31.10.05
Who'd have thought it?
So, here it is, my first blog installment. I am not sure if my life in interesting enough to deserve its own blog, but this is not the time to judge; that'll be much later, when I'll try and sell it to a publisher.
To start this off with an exciting episode from my life, I'll recount yesterday's visit to a Slavic Orthodox service. The Slavic Orthodox church is basically the same as the Russian Orthodox one, only it's officially part of the Roman Catholic church. Still, they do everything the same.
As the Slavic Orthodox church has been in Maastricht for forty years, they had a special celebratory service yesterday, and I attended. We were actually going to attend with a lot of people from Tafelstraat, but I presume most of them overslept or couldn't be bothered in the end, as only myself, Noémi and her sister, who came over from Groningen for the weekend, were there.
There were a lot more people than I had expected - I had envisaged it in advance as ten elderly people in the church, and there actually being more clergymen than visitors, with us clearly the youngest and then subjected to lots of questions as to why we were there. We were still some of the youngest, and we were asked some questions, but my thoughts on the clergyman/visitor ratio as well as the attendance numbers were off in the extreme - the church was so crowded we had to sit in a chapel on the side, from which we couldn't see much of what was going on (only the occasional incense-waving and bible-lifting, really).
The service altogether was an entirely new phenomenon to me: to me, going to a church service is basically sitting in the church benches for about an hour, listening to the pastor, singing a psalm or protestant song - usually at a very slow pace, the way we Dutch like it (even our anthem's tune was taken from a French battle-song, but we toned down the speed so much you'd expect the music to have come from a funeral march instead!). Then, after the singing and listening, you have a cup of tea or coffee and go home.
FORGET ALL THAT
That is nothing like a Slavic Orthodox service at all.
Firstly, imagine a service where everything, yes, EVERYTHING, is sung. And not simply sung, no. IT IS SUNG IN RUSSIAN. That may seem a little odd. Then remember (or hear for the first time, whichever applies), that Orthodox services think long = good. So, basically, we sat in church for two hours, by which time the service had progressed to the communion part (after three quarters of an hour of foreplay). However, Orthodox communions are different - you have to tell the priest your Christian name, put your head back and then the priest will stuff the communion down your throat (the Protestant communion is to be preferred, as someone will hand you the bread and the wineglass and you can take as much as you like). As this was a longer procedure, and apparently many people were interested in getting the communion (not including us), and we weren't all too keen on sitting for another two hours, we decided to call it a service and leave. Apparently, it is not uncommon in the Orthodox church to leave in the middle of a service. Now you know why.
Then we went to a terrace on the Slevrouwe-plein, where we had a drink and some vlaai.
Quote of the Day:
"English villages aren't run. They just happen."
To start this off with an exciting episode from my life, I'll recount yesterday's visit to a Slavic Orthodox service. The Slavic Orthodox church is basically the same as the Russian Orthodox one, only it's officially part of the Roman Catholic church. Still, they do everything the same.
As the Slavic Orthodox church has been in Maastricht for forty years, they had a special celebratory service yesterday, and I attended. We were actually going to attend with a lot of people from Tafelstraat, but I presume most of them overslept or couldn't be bothered in the end, as only myself, Noémi and her sister, who came over from Groningen for the weekend, were there.
There were a lot more people than I had expected - I had envisaged it in advance as ten elderly people in the church, and there actually being more clergymen than visitors, with us clearly the youngest and then subjected to lots of questions as to why we were there. We were still some of the youngest, and we were asked some questions, but my thoughts on the clergyman/visitor ratio as well as the attendance numbers were off in the extreme - the church was so crowded we had to sit in a chapel on the side, from which we couldn't see much of what was going on (only the occasional incense-waving and bible-lifting, really).
The service altogether was an entirely new phenomenon to me: to me, going to a church service is basically sitting in the church benches for about an hour, listening to the pastor, singing a psalm or protestant song - usually at a very slow pace, the way we Dutch like it (even our anthem's tune was taken from a French battle-song, but we toned down the speed so much you'd expect the music to have come from a funeral march instead!). Then, after the singing and listening, you have a cup of tea or coffee and go home.
FORGET ALL THAT
That is nothing like a Slavic Orthodox service at all.
Firstly, imagine a service where everything, yes, EVERYTHING, is sung. And not simply sung, no. IT IS SUNG IN RUSSIAN. That may seem a little odd. Then remember (or hear for the first time, whichever applies), that Orthodox services think long = good. So, basically, we sat in church for two hours, by which time the service had progressed to the communion part (after three quarters of an hour of foreplay). However, Orthodox communions are different - you have to tell the priest your Christian name, put your head back and then the priest will stuff the communion down your throat (the Protestant communion is to be preferred, as someone will hand you the bread and the wineglass and you can take as much as you like). As this was a longer procedure, and apparently many people were interested in getting the communion (not including us), and we weren't all too keen on sitting for another two hours, we decided to call it a service and leave. Apparently, it is not uncommon in the Orthodox church to leave in the middle of a service. Now you know why.
Then we went to a terrace on the Slevrouwe-plein, where we had a drink and some vlaai.
Quote of the Day:
"English villages aren't run. They just happen."
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