I R E L A N D & H O M E - T R A V E L S
(for some reason I can't make this post look pretty in any way; so no headings, links, bold or italics, unfortunately)
So easily you slide back in your old life. Three weeks I was gone from London: two week in the Netherlands and a week in Ireland. And now I have already handed in two papers and am stressing out over the fact I need to do a mini-research project and an exam! But anyway, here's some random imagery from the last three weeks for you.
For train-technical purposes I took on my father's identity (his NS jaarkaart) to travel cheaply around the country. Luckily no train conductor noticed I was maybe a bit young-looking for someone born in 1949. The thing was that not only was I visiting Utrecht to have dinner with my friends there and go to birthday parties, but also was I visiting three universities to compare their courses in Heritage Studies, which, as you may know, will be my (near) future. No results yet, impressions got a good shaking, again. Result: I still don't know which programme I like best. I did send in my applications in the end, but whether I'll be in Amsterdam (UvA or VU) or Utrecht (UU): no idea.
God, already it seems so long ago since I was home. When I was there I finally got to see my brother again, after some 4 1/2 months. He arrived the day after I did, so my father and I went to pick him up. At the airport were two of his friends as well; they kept themselves hidden until the very last moment when they rushed towards him and almost knocked him down. Classic idea, well executed. Iberia managed to lose my brother's luggage for the second time, though. Great service that. Anyway, there was much Mate (MA-tay, not MAYT, look it up in Wikipedia) and it was enjoyed in great quantities by all those who could bear its strong taste and smell (like tobacco, according to the parents). It's good stuff and my brother brought me some and my own Mate cup with reed. Very unfortunately, I managed to lose my reed on the way home from the airport! Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. Now let's hope the cousin can bring a replacement from Argentina.
And then I left for London after the Father's birthday where I got to see the extended family again. The day after my departure Brother went away as well: building tents in France to get himself a living when he starts his studious life in the Great Northern City of Groningen. But only just arrived in London, I took flight to Ireland, to Cork to be precise, there to visit a Croatian friend of mine who's on university exchange in that town and also to see another (Irish) friend living in Dublin.
I admit: I envy my Cork-based friend. She lives in a great house (people-wise, not necessarily architecturally) and it's a nice little town generally, but very impressive. However, I cannot account for my time spend in Cork: it was lost in visits to the local Butter Museum, one day of studying (paper-writing in my case), and almost nightly pub-visits with great people. One of them was a Swede, working at an Apple Call Centre there. You must know, dear reader, that I had infected my Croatian friend with the love of the Swedish band Kent and now we had arranged that we would have a Kent translation / discussion session one night with the three of us. This was finally set for Friday night, my last night in Ireland. Cue for the Swede to get piss- and piss-drunk and maybe something else, who knows? Anyways, he was able to communicate still, but not walking straight and seemingly seeing stuff. He constantly tried to walk the streets as if he were the Pink Panther or something. So, we brought him home: this wasn't going to work with the Kent session, obviously. No keys. Good, we'll drop him on a couch. But the Kent session! Let us have the Kent session! insisted the swede, he was all up for it, he still spoke swedish, after all. So, we ended up listening to Du & Jag Doden in the middle of the night with a piss drunk Swede on whom this had a lullaby-effect, so we stopped quite soon. End good, all good. Next morning it turns out he was carrying two keys on him and despite his hang-over we were going to have the Kent session again. No problem, it's always great music. We listened to Du & Jag Doden again and talked about how big they are in Sweded (huge), and about how their lyrics are so not-standard for a pop-band. (in translation: "I shot a DJ dead last night // His blood splattered and became a Pollock in his booth" (Palace&Main) or, from their hit-single: "500 Miles in the snow // A UFO over the lake // And in a flash I see // Keats standing next to Baudelaire" (Max 500)
Furthermore, I also took a bus from Cork to Dublin to see my friend there. This took 4 1/2 hours, but at least I saw some of the countryside. There were yellow flowered bushes everywhere ("Brem" in Dutch). Interestingly, Ireland has an enormous amount of Polish workers, in a country that in the not so distant past was sending people overseas to work. So, even in the remotest towns I saw a Polski Szklep. But to Dublin! Unfortunately, in Ireland they don't do bus schedules I didn't know when I would arrive. The result however was that my friend had been waiting for me for hours at the bridge... We met though and that's what mattered. He lives in a gorgeous neighbourhood that is getting gentrified fast in this booming economy, but his father is now a pensioned dock worker and his mother still occasionally works odd jobs, so we entered a classic working class neighbourhood hiding behind the splendidly renovated facades at the sea-side (Did I say the view over the Dublin bay was gorgeous? It almost reminded me of Croatia / Montenegro last summer). At his house I finally got to meet the people that inhabited his stories: the mother, the father, the nephews (the tall one and the little jumpy one whose peanuts got crushed by me trying to put him down :-) ). We saw some of the city, which, as a city, is more interesting than Cork, but like Cork seems to breath a certain sadness, especially around their rivers (the Liffey in Dublin, the Lee in Cork). Tide comes in and tide goes again, a difference of metres covereing and uncovering grey stone. Maybe the people of Ireland become as they are in compensation.
I shall stop now, abruptly. I need to sleep. Time as I finish this is 00:40.
(for some reason I can't make this post look pretty in any way; so no headings, links, bold or italics, unfortunately)
So easily you slide back in your old life. Three weeks I was gone from London: two week in the Netherlands and a week in Ireland. And now I have already handed in two papers and am stressing out over the fact I need to do a mini-research project and an exam! But anyway, here's some random imagery from the last three weeks for you.
For train-technical purposes I took on my father's identity (his NS jaarkaart) to travel cheaply around the country. Luckily no train conductor noticed I was maybe a bit young-looking for someone born in 1949. The thing was that not only was I visiting Utrecht to have dinner with my friends there and go to birthday parties, but also was I visiting three universities to compare their courses in Heritage Studies, which, as you may know, will be my (near) future. No results yet, impressions got a good shaking, again. Result: I still don't know which programme I like best. I did send in my applications in the end, but whether I'll be in Amsterdam (UvA or VU) or Utrecht (UU): no idea.
God, already it seems so long ago since I was home. When I was there I finally got to see my brother again, after some 4 1/2 months. He arrived the day after I did, so my father and I went to pick him up. At the airport were two of his friends as well; they kept themselves hidden until the very last moment when they rushed towards him and almost knocked him down. Classic idea, well executed. Iberia managed to lose my brother's luggage for the second time, though. Great service that. Anyway, there was much Mate (MA-tay, not MAYT, look it up in Wikipedia) and it was enjoyed in great quantities by all those who could bear its strong taste and smell (like tobacco, according to the parents). It's good stuff and my brother brought me some and my own Mate cup with reed. Very unfortunately, I managed to lose my reed on the way home from the airport! Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. Now let's hope the cousin can bring a replacement from Argentina.
And then I left for London after the Father's birthday where I got to see the extended family again. The day after my departure Brother went away as well: building tents in France to get himself a living when he starts his studious life in the Great Northern City of Groningen. But only just arrived in London, I took flight to Ireland, to Cork to be precise, there to visit a Croatian friend of mine who's on university exchange in that town and also to see another (Irish) friend living in Dublin.
I admit: I envy my Cork-based friend. She lives in a great house (people-wise, not necessarily architecturally) and it's a nice little town generally, but very impressive. However, I cannot account for my time spend in Cork: it was lost in visits to the local Butter Museum, one day of studying (paper-writing in my case), and almost nightly pub-visits with great people. One of them was a Swede, working at an Apple Call Centre there. You must know, dear reader, that I had infected my Croatian friend with the love of the Swedish band Kent and now we had arranged that we would have a Kent translation / discussion session one night with the three of us. This was finally set for Friday night, my last night in Ireland. Cue for the Swede to get piss- and piss-drunk and maybe something else, who knows? Anyways, he was able to communicate still, but not walking straight and seemingly seeing stuff. He constantly tried to walk the streets as if he were the Pink Panther or something. So, we brought him home: this wasn't going to work with the Kent session, obviously. No keys. Good, we'll drop him on a couch. But the Kent session! Let us have the Kent session! insisted the swede, he was all up for it, he still spoke swedish, after all. So, we ended up listening to Du & Jag Doden in the middle of the night with a piss drunk Swede on whom this had a lullaby-effect, so we stopped quite soon. End good, all good. Next morning it turns out he was carrying two keys on him and despite his hang-over we were going to have the Kent session again. No problem, it's always great music. We listened to Du & Jag Doden again and talked about how big they are in Sweded (huge), and about how their lyrics are so not-standard for a pop-band. (in translation: "I shot a DJ dead last night // His blood splattered and became a Pollock in his booth" (Palace&Main) or, from their hit-single: "500 Miles in the snow // A UFO over the lake // And in a flash I see // Keats standing next to Baudelaire" (Max 500)
Furthermore, I also took a bus from Cork to Dublin to see my friend there. This took 4 1/2 hours, but at least I saw some of the countryside. There were yellow flowered bushes everywhere ("Brem" in Dutch). Interestingly, Ireland has an enormous amount of Polish workers, in a country that in the not so distant past was sending people overseas to work. So, even in the remotest towns I saw a Polski Szklep. But to Dublin! Unfortunately, in Ireland they don't do bus schedules I didn't know when I would arrive. The result however was that my friend had been waiting for me for hours at the bridge... We met though and that's what mattered. He lives in a gorgeous neighbourhood that is getting gentrified fast in this booming economy, but his father is now a pensioned dock worker and his mother still occasionally works odd jobs, so we entered a classic working class neighbourhood hiding behind the splendidly renovated facades at the sea-side (Did I say the view over the Dublin bay was gorgeous? It almost reminded me of Croatia / Montenegro last summer). At his house I finally got to meet the people that inhabited his stories: the mother, the father, the nephews (the tall one and the little jumpy one whose peanuts got crushed by me trying to put him down :-) ). We saw some of the city, which, as a city, is more interesting than Cork, but like Cork seems to breath a certain sadness, especially around their rivers (the Liffey in Dublin, the Lee in Cork). Tide comes in and tide goes again, a difference of metres covereing and uncovering grey stone. Maybe the people of Ireland become as they are in compensation.
I shall stop now, abruptly. I need to sleep. Time as I finish this is 00:40.
posted by Isalicus at 23:20
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