Tower of Babel

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.

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.

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

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."