A Shroom of One's Own

(I am sorry, Miss Virginia Woolf)

A foreign correspondent par excellence has to camouflage himself trying habits and customs of the place where he momentarily lives. A professional conversationalist as well as a great connoisseur of journalistic techniques, the brilliant modern reporter can cheat in many languages.

As Ryszard Kapuscinski puts it on his book Imperium talking about his dangerous mission in Nagorno Karabach dressed like an Aeroflot pilot:
"If a Russian patrol starts to talk me, it's not a big deal: I pretend to be Armenian and I answer in Russian with an Armenian accent. If an Armenian patrol starts to talk me, it's also not a big deal: I answer in Russian but with a Lithuanian or Latvian accent".

That's exactly what I did in these five Dutch months. No, I did not learn Russian. Or Latvian.


Yet,

I cycled a lot, pedaling backwards to stop.
I ate cumin cheese, pindasaus, bitterbal, frikandel, vla, hagelslag and stroopwafels.
I went to the National Cheese Museum (in Alkmaar).
I also went to the National Bicycle Museum (in Nijmegen)
I made pannenkoeken (in Utrecht).
I did the Herring Ritual (in Den Haag).
I survived to a Febo's kipburger (in Amsterdam).
I drank Grolsch, Bavaria and Jupiler.
I joked on the Belgians and dated a girl from Friesland.
I gave money to local celebrities Albert Heijn and Super De Boer.
I got tired of chipknips, strippenkaart and welpies.
I wore in orange more often than necessary.
I blew in a plastic horn cheering up for Holland.
I read the most intellectual free press.
I pretended to be one of the tallest person in the world.

Thus I can say that except for carrying a local blond lady on the back of my bike I behaved in a typical Dutch way. What? Wat? Are you telling me there is something else I forgot to try?

Excuse me, did you say drugs?
Well, it's not my style, you know.
I am not Norman Mailer or Truman Capote.
But you have a point.

Listen,
I tried mushrooms days ago.
Those mushrooms.
Together with three colleagues from Munich, Vienna and Toronto we made a focus group.

As we crossed the threshold of the closest smart shop we were immediately asked
"Where do you wanna go?
"Sorry?"
"I mean, what kind of trip do you wanna try guys?" said the shop owner (we will call him Leopold).
A travel agency, we assumed.

Silence. Embarrassment. Two steps forward. Six steps back.

"Wait! - Leopold yelled- "Aren't you looking for mushrooms?"
"Yup"
"Well, so you are in the right place!" Smiled the shop owner moving his long ponytail.
Lesson number 1: speak the lingo.

"May I suggest you these Thai? They give you an excellent ticket to ride".
"Oh, do you really import them from Thailand?"
"Ehm, actually we cultivate them here."
"Oooh"
Lesson number 2: do not get fascinated by exoticism.

"Have a nice trip!"
"Thank you, Leopold".
"And don't forget to tell me what you will see!"
"Sure. Doeg!".

But we did not send him a postcard.

We had the Thai mushrooms in my room and then spent hours laughing at the Oog in Al (Bambi Park for insiders). We shared a childish happiness and a bowler hat while three generations of Dutches were staring at us from the benches around. What a perfect disguise we had!

All that I can say by my side is that when I am under mushrooms I can see every detail and feel every smell in a clearer way. The colours of flowers. The perfume of sun tanned skin. The stripes of a t-shirt. The aroma of Euroshop hazelnut chocolate.

Someone in our focus group saw a lot of action happening in the sky among the puffy white clouds. Someone else stared for a long time to a pair of jeans trying to convince us that there were blue dots moving in waves and circles. I tried to get the same show on a pair of socks but it did not work. Perhaps I looked there during an intermission.

Once an important poet (T.S. Eliot?) wrote that anticipation of pleasure is better than its fulfillment. That's utterly true. And not only about love.
I was not expecting that much from our Leopold's Shroom Day, but as a reporter I am quite disappointed. I guess I chose a wrong angle.

Of Mice and Women

I called him Bart.
Actually I just suppose he is a he, but I have no clue. For sure he is a mouse.
I have never seen him, yet sometimes I can hear Bart.
He uses to chew plastic bags, but in a very silent way.

Bart is my housemate.
I live on the attic, he lives just below the floor.

Two days ago Bart decided to remind me that we share a room somehow.
I was trying to sleep in my bed, while my visiting friend Giacomo was trying to do the same on his mattress on the floor.
It was around midnight and perhaps the house was too silent.
I turned on the light. And Giacomo told me. "Yes, it's a mouse!"
Bart cried twice. Embarrassed and confused, I turned off the light again.

I wondered why he decided to disturb my guest so much. He should be scared by people after all.
Bart never came out from his hidden hole when I am listening to the Field Mice, Modest Mouse or Boomtown Rats.
Perhaps he cannot accept having illegal people in his room.
Who knows?
I felt bad after we saw the chewed Aldi bag on the carpet. I never had problems with my housemates. Bart is the first exception.
Now I am meditating on revenge. Should I kill him? Should I make a trap to glue him on a plastic box while he tries to eat a piece of Gouda?

I think I have a problem with this mouse.

***

I called her Callas.
Actually I just suppose she is a woman, but I have no clue. For sure she is an opera singer.
I have never seen her, yet sometimes I can hear Callas.
She uses to sing famous arias while a piano plays.

Callas is my neighbour.
I live on Vleutenseweg 155, she lives at number 157

Yesterday Callas knocked on the wooden wall which separates my bedroom and hers.
I was listening Shostakovich. An allegretto for piano, cello and violin. One of my favourite pieces of classical music.
It was around midnight and perhaps the volume was too loud.
I turned down the speakers. But just a little bit. It was Shostakovich!
Callas knocked twice. Embarrassed and confused, I turned down the volume again.

I wondered why she dislikes Shostakovich so hard. She should appreciate this kind of music after all.
Callas never knocked the wall when I am listening primitive forms of rock, distorted wall of guitars or sudden post rock explosions.
Perhaps she prefers The Sonics, My Bloody Valentine, Mogwai and Slint.
Who knows?
I felt bad after she knocked on the wall. I never had problems with my neighbours. Callas is the first who complains.
Now I am meditating on revenge. Should I take it? Should I knock on the wall while she tries to perform decently a work by Rossini?

I think I have a problem with this woman.

Captain of Quarantine

I am facing a Sunday of physical illness in which all that I can do is drinking microwave warmed tea while inhaling cheap frikandel bought at the closest Nettorama.

This is what I call necessary decadence also known as social debauchery. This might happen in the Lowlands, especially when you went to bed before 1 AM for the first time in months. And on a springlike Saturday night. That's something shameful, I know. I also reckon how missing parties when your body and soul are getting used to them is an unhealthy affair.
Moreover my sober head hurts since my Cameroonian flatmate downstairs is pumping up his music all over the Bhawanie Mansion we share. There is nothing strange in this. On weekends he usually delights us with insisting drums juxtaposed with hardly understandable hip hop lines from 11 in the morning till the 6 on the dawn after. The green carpet of my room is raising up in waves here and there, now and then following the unsustainable rhythm coming from below.

I am pissed off and ready to write about something else.

Be prepared for a delightful Ying and Yang short trip into Noord Holland. Bring Your Own Bike.
(update: Alkmaar and Zandvoort postponed)

Merry Dutch Life: Chapter Two

De Nederlandse Keuken - Pannenkoeken
The Dutch cuisine - Pancakes

While living in a foreign country, among foreign people you have to change your habits. A good suggestion could be: behave like them, eat like them. I don’t know if anyone has ever written something like that, but I made this motto mine. And yet, it took eleven days to find the courage of doing my participant observation. Having no Dutch flatmates, I decided to involve in this anthropogical project a Spanish and a Hungarian girl. S & H were in the kitchen. They couldn’t escape me.
"Are you hungry girls?
"Mmh, yes. Perhaps.
"Let’s have a Dutch dinner!
"Yeah!
"Great!
"….
"So?
"So what?
"What are we supposed to cook?
"I have no idea.
"But you just said Dutch dinner. Were you serious?
"I was. And I am. Yet I don’t know what and if they eat.

(Yes. What do They eat? Saint Malinowski help us!)

"Herrings?
"Stuffed potatoes?
"Oh, don’t look at me! I come from Canarian Islands. You should know more than me.
"You’re right. I should.
"Mmmh.
"….
"Let’s check on the internet.
"Right!

Dutch Pancakes. Thus Spoke Google.

Step 1: buy an original Albert Hejin Pannenkoek Mix in the closest supermarket.
Step 2: pretend to understand the Dutch written preparation instructions.
Step 3: make your own pancakes.

We accomplished successfully the first two steps, albeit zouten (salt) and eieren (eggs) were uneasy to guess. The third step was harder than the previous ones. Yet we managed to have a dozen of perfectly roundshaped Dutch pancakes. H did a great job cooking. I washed the frying pans and the pots we used. S served the hot pancakes on the coffee table in her living room.
Without having a real conoisseur of pannenkoek among us, we didn’t know how to fill them properly. Cheese? Bacon? Caviar? Mayonnaise? Hence, I came out ringing the doorbells along the road where we live looking for a Dutch. I rang at numbers 151,153,157,159. Nobody answered me. Just a rasta guy from Suriname. I failed. Apparently we don’t have Dutch neighbors. What a pity.
Eventually we decided to fill the pancakes with strawberry and raspberry jam. Believe me, the final result was delicious. Perhaps not that Dutch, but who cares of? More culinary experiments will follow pretty soon. S & H are going to ask me for a Surinamese dinner. At that time we’ll have the expert in our neighborhood.