Switzerland was astoundingly beautiful. There was no avoiding the nature (but,why would you want to?) and the breathtaking views at every turn. I would love to go back some day for a little bit longer. Tranquil, connected and blissful. Some photos from my first day in Herisau, Laura's home town.
The view from Laura's apartment living room.
The view from Laura's kitchen window.
A little meander through the village.
Just down the road from Laura's place, the cows graze, in sunny bliss.
Herisau
Herisau
A visual merchandising delight: Chocolate in the local Herisau Supermarket
11th July 2010, World Cup Finale, Oranje (NL) Vs The Red Fury (ESP)
The first time in 32 years that Holland has reached the Finals.
The cycle from my hood, to Museumplein to join 160,000 other peeps, the shower of orange flowers, and the escape from claustrophobia to a cosier neighborhood street party in the Old South.
3.30pm: The Brown Bar opposite my house starts to buzz.
6.05pm: "I'll meet you at Museumplein in ten mins.. Wait, there's how many people there?! Do you think we should change the plans???" ; Corner of Bilderdijkstraat and De Clerqstraat
4.08pm: A pretty orange peacock; Corner of Bilderdijkstraat and De Clerqstraat
4:10pm: Museumplein, facing the West
4:11pm: Museumplein facing the Rijksmuseum
8:00pm: A great address for watching the madness, Museumplein
8:25pm: Museumplein facing the Rijksmuseum
8:27pm: The choppers convene for the shower of Orange, Museumplein
8:29pm: Let it rain, let it rain, let it rain, Museumplein
9:35pm: Escaped the claustrophobia to a neighborhood widescreen party in the Old South
There are things you do in life that you never thought you would do. Or have the opportunity to do. Or rather, be GIVEN the opportunity to do.
This is mostly what this blog is about. Taking the time to sit back and lament about the things that my eyes see, my hands touch, my ears hear, and appreciating the moments, the gestures, the experiences.
I went to Manchester this morning for work. I came back from Manchester this evening. I was in another country for approximately 7.5 hours.
I woke up at 6 am and cycled myself and my briefcase to a train station, got on a aeroplane to England and spent the day in discussions with an advertising agency about how to creatively solve some commercial concerns that my company are experiencing. I got back on an aeroplane and then cycled me and my briefcase back home. I was home by 8pm.
I resisted. Ooh, how I resisted. I was like Scarlett O'Hara, under Rhett Butler's charming clutches; struggling, fussing, cussing.
When they asked me if I wanted one, I said "no, thanks."
When they suggested, I said "how about a good old fashioned Nokia instead? You can call anytime between Monday and Friday - 8.30am until 5.30pm. Email access is overated. Calendar synchronisation is an organisational myth!"
Then it turned into more of an issue, like "If you had a Blackberry, and responded to your email at 8.35 this morning, situation X might not have turned out like that" and then I knew, it was more like "Organise one, or perhaps organise another job."
I relented.
I think this is part and parcel of the "growing up" thing.
I would still like to think that I have not lost ownership of my soul, free time, or dignity by being in possession of this black plastic device. Allow me to be disillusioned for at least a minute.
At least I know (and now you all know) I didn't sell out; I got beaten down.
I watched the first half of the 2010 World Cup Final in the vicinity of 159,999 ( approximately) other people. It rained orange flowers. Pictures to come.
I miss your bustling,Chinese restaurants where I know exactly what to order and what to not make the mistake of even glancing at, on the menu. I miss giving the exceptionally tall waiter called Raymond a chin check, as I wait in line to get a table, and the msg laced food that usually sails past me as my stomach growls.
I miss your delicious, and insanely cheap Vietnamese restaurants that reminded me of being a kid and eating out with my dad, as a special treat. The shiny grilled pork balls, silky and partially translucent cold rolls with thin green stems of chives that stick out, and the gourmet spread of other fried and grilled delights that I usually share with people that are family by blood or otherwise.
I miss your balmy summer nights in January.
I miss the glossy weekend magazines, bundled with the Saturday edition of the high brow national paper, allowing me to immerse my mind into the topical feature articles of the week, and capping the read off nicely with national real estate porn.
I miss hearing your endearing and lovely accents on the other side of the phone whenever I call a bank, insurance company or doctors office.
I miss your fashion: bright funky prints, flowing dresses, inexpensive and well made accessories and a fabric scope that extends beyond jersey and leather.
I miss your boys with short haircuts.
I miss your 10pm clear skies with hundreds of stars, that with a squint of the eyes, turn into thousands of stars, the further out of the city limits I drive.
I miss your wide roads that take me through familiar inner suburbs, winding hills and stomach churning dips and pristine natural landscapes.
I miss your takeaway gelati that comes box wrapped in bright, lolly coloured paper, making evening sweet treats feel like a celebration, not just a superfluous indulgence. And brunch - a whole meal that doesn't exist where I am.
I'm coming back at some stage. But not yet. I'm not done yet. I don't know why. I'm just not.
Pretty amazing stuff to be experiencing here. Honestly, I never thought they were going to be able to do it. What do I know about soccer... I was going to say "nothing", but I know more than I know about cricket. But I didn't think the dutch had a chance really. I'm thinking Brazil, Argentina, Italy, Germany - Yes, Yes, Yes. Netherlands? Meh.
I cycled home from a soccer party (Who am I?!) held at a monstrous dutch student household that a kiwi friend, Christina, invited me to. (These jongens weren't fooling around. Their backyard had couches, tarps and a projector beaming the game on a white piece of fabric. Heineken flowed as freely as cursing, and eventually, man hugs.)
As I made my way home, right hand steering the bike, bandaged hand flailing about, (notably, I was taking a major chance with the one handed cycling. I won't get into the part where I narrowly missed an ill fated 2 car, 3 bike pile up on my way to the party) the noise of trumpets and cheers was deafening. Orange clad blonde giants spilled out onto the streets, chanting dutch songs about victory, championship and just blatant non sensical noises of jubilation. Cue random strangers clutching each other, misty eyed. Spot conga lines gyrating past suddenly grounded trams, motionless due to being enveloped by throngs of people. As I cycled past bars and weaved across streets, people were trying to high five me and grab my bandaged hand. I had to smile nervously and pedal faster, gritting my teeth;
"Thanks for reaching out to me in this moment of solidarity but if you touch my hand I am going to have to get off my bike and smack you in the face with that trumpet."
Ja, sorry hoor, ik ben heel blij voor jouw, maar ik wil niet dat je nu me aanraken!
Tot Zondag - Wie zal de Wereld Kup winnen? Nederlands of Spanje of Duitsland?
Waiting quietly while your moroccan - dutch beautician finishes a conversation with her friend through the open doorway of her therapy room - midway through your leg wax - while you are pantless.
Hot Soup on left hand @ work = scalding 2nd degree and 3rd degree burns.
Ow.
Sometimes I get really fed up with living in a foreign country where things like this throw me into a spin. Realising that I live somewhere where I am unfamiliar with processes and policies on lifestyle infrastructure (insurance, hospitals, rights, laws etc) make me completely vulnerable, and I hate feeling vulnerable because it makes me feel pathetic.
Just down the road from Laura's place, the cows graze, in sunny bliss. 
