I have decided I must be the only woman in Europe who wants to buy a jumper (sweater) with full sleeves that doesn’t reach my knees. What a struggle I had finding one!
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Among the embassies |
It is my last couple of weeks in Holland so I’m trying to enjoy it, but truthfully I am really looking forward to heading out of here. There is nothing I can say against the Netherlands, other than it lacks the wildness, melancholy and atmosphere of my more familiar wild shores. Everything, especially in the Hague is neatly held together. It is exemplified in the perfectly knitted brickwork of the pavements and terraces, with pretty canopies hanging over windows and fairy tale bridges over the canals. Swans glide under weeping willows and I feel entirely safe cycling around at any time of day or night. It is gentile, immensely civilised and so, for me, just a little bit boring.
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| Down town Hague |
That is not to say the famous Dutch liberalism doesn’t offer its wilder side. The Dutch are up front so if its sex and drugs you need, you don’t even have to secret off to buy them. Rent lights are lit above the tram route to work and an area of dimly lit cafes with names as diverse as ‘Happiness’ to ‘Sticky Fingers’ give off a certain scent as I cycle home. And don’t flick through channels after 11pm when the adult channel come to life whether you want them to or not. In truth I find all that seedy stuff very hard to reconcile with the Dutch people I know who seem far more interested in wholesome things like long bike rides and baking gingerbread.
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Twee but effective |
A couple of weeks ago I joined a few people going to a kind of restaurant meets cabaret meets night club in Amsterdam. This is my once-in-a-decade attempt at urban cool. I was a bit scared about what to expect. The website said ‘anything’ goes, which in Amsterdam is a frightening prospect. When my friend made the reservation she was asked if we wanted a table or bed! Turned out the most risque parts of the evening, thankfully, were the unisex toilets (never a pleasure), a girl playing a sparkly hot pink electric violin, and that we were given surgical gloves before our first course. That was because we didn't get cutlery. I just washed my hands and ate with my fingers anyway. Why pay good money to have all your food taste of latex?!
It was a pretty surreal evening,. We had to ring a bell in a back alley to get in the place. The door was covered in brass tags with people's names on but no explanation why, whether they are regulars or what. A balding man wearing a lilac nightie, well gown thing that looked just like the ones I used to see in the Nigerian markets, ticked us off the reservation list and gave us a tiny dutch flag on a cocktail stick with our bed number on it. Twin waitresses wore electric blue leggings, with matching electric blue glitter lipstick that was also smeared all over their eyes, and black wigs. Everything was painted white, and the main focal point was a giant while umbrella with white ribbon draped all over it to look like a jellyfish. We had to take our shoes off at the door to climb a staircase that would never pass any health and safety test in the UK to the 'bed' which was just a long strip of wide padded seats with tiny tables sitting on them so we could lounge around like Arabian princesses. To be honest, I was jealous of the people who sat at the tables, far more comfortable than trying to juggle red wine on white bed linen and eating while sinking into foam mattresses.
It's amazing what constitutes cool I have to say. My choice I'd have spent the same money on a theatre ticket and a great meal out where I could both enjoy the food without giving my stomach a work out trying to sit right, hear why my friends are saying to me instead of a backdrop of inane trance music and enjoyed a proper theatre experience - as opposed to the glittery pink electric guitar and a girl in a showgirl costume miming to Liza Minneli 'cabaret' while sticking various sharp objects up her nose and through her skin.
It was a pretty surreal evening,. We had to ring a bell in a back alley to get in the place. The door was covered in brass tags with people's names on but no explanation why, whether they are regulars or what. A balding man wearing a lilac nightie, well gown thing that looked just like the ones I used to see in the Nigerian markets, ticked us off the reservation list and gave us a tiny dutch flag on a cocktail stick with our bed number on it. Twin waitresses wore electric blue leggings, with matching electric blue glitter lipstick that was also smeared all over their eyes, and black wigs. Everything was painted white, and the main focal point was a giant while umbrella with white ribbon draped all over it to look like a jellyfish. We had to take our shoes off at the door to climb a staircase that would never pass any health and safety test in the UK to the 'bed' which was just a long strip of wide padded seats with tiny tables sitting on them so we could lounge around like Arabian princesses. To be honest, I was jealous of the people who sat at the tables, far more comfortable than trying to juggle red wine on white bed linen and eating while sinking into foam mattresses.
It's amazing what constitutes cool I have to say. My choice I'd have spent the same money on a theatre ticket and a great meal out where I could both enjoy the food without giving my stomach a work out trying to sit right, hear why my friends are saying to me instead of a backdrop of inane trance music and enjoyed a proper theatre experience - as opposed to the glittery pink electric guitar and a girl in a showgirl costume miming to Liza Minneli 'cabaret' while sticking various sharp objects up her nose and through her skin.
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| Hotel Des Indes, by the Escher Museum |
Yesterday I decided to take a last cycle around the Hague and just photograph some corners and explore some pockets I’ve meant to reach. There is a very beautiful mausoleum in the ‘posh’ area among all the embassies, heading out to the beach and near the Peace Palace. I’ve just past it. It is almost on a hill. At least it is as high a point as I can find in the Hague, looking down Bankstraat to the towers that indicate Den Haag Centraal Station. I wandered between the headstones for at least an hour. I was struck that the Dutch are respectful enough that people could leave tiny trinkets on gravestones and they remained untouched. One for a lady had 3 china tea cups and saucers lain out. I’d love to know the story behind it. Lots of wind chimes and little sculptures that would all be broken and graffitied at home, set within a beautiful walled garden. It didn’t feel in the least morbid or sad, just restful.
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| Beautiful place of rest |
Occasionally on my way to work I see 4 parakeets flying. They have a range of a few miles, and never more than 4 of them so they must be escapees. I like that the signatures of other worlds is forever available, in The Hague especially I think, which has the International Court, Europol, European Patent Agency, Shell and several other large multinational companies and agencies so a massive ex-pat/immigrant community. I sit in my office with people from Russia, Germany, USA, Sweden, Denmark, Belgium, Trinidad, and Holland of course, but that is not Shell, that is The Hague. Even the street names reflect a historic and global past. Our office sits on Sir Winston Churchill Laan, I cycle past Durbanstraat, and live near President Kennedy Laan. My road turns into Javastraat, which bisects Nassauplein, Suriname Straat, and Balistraat. The Hague is almost like a giant Monopoly board – world edition. Paris is 2.5 hours from Rotterdam on TVG trains. Germany and Belgium even less. So there is plenty to like.
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| View down Bankstraat 'hill' |
Today is December 5th, which is Sinterklaas Eve, the big day for children in Holland for presents. Our office is full of sweets and they held a big party for families a couple of Saturdays ago. He is the origin for Santa Claus. And in Holland (and elsewhere) he is accompanied by Svarte Piet which coming from the land where gollywogs are both banned and a bad word with deep overtones, is a surprise. My coloured friend said she felt a ‘uncomfortable ‘ when the shops started filling with Zwarte Piets, and they are everywhere, climbing ladders, holding swag bags (taking away the naughty children) and decorating everything, but as most coloured or black people here didn’t seemed bother, she’s decided to go with it. It is odd to see it though. I’ll let wiki explain:
Zwarte Pieten are often portrayed as mischievous but rarely mean-spirited characters. The character is believed to have been derived from pagan traditions of evil spirits. Also told for decades is a story that the Zwarte Pieten are black because of chimney soot and/or in mockery of the darker Spanish occupiers of the Low Countries in centuries past. {My friend asked, if it is just soot why have they all got afros?!)
Foreign tourists, particularly Americans, often experience culture shock upon encountering the character (to dress in blackface is a gross taboo in America). Since the last decade of the 20th century there have been several attempts to introduce a new kind of Zwarte Piet to the Dutch population, where the Zwarte Pieten replaced their traditional black make-up with all sorts of colours.[10] In 2006 the NPS (en: Dutch Programme Foundation) as an experiment replaced the black Pieten by rainbow-coloured Pieten, but in 2007 reverted to the traditional all-black Pieten.[11
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| Giant Zwarte Piet in the department store |
Back to safer terrain. It is triple party week – 2 staff parties and my birthday! We’re taking an evening canal cruise in Amsterdam with a little music and a lovely meal. It should be very sparkling! But perhaps I'll sign off to a final note to the quirky dangers of Holland that sit between it's ornamental charm. Aside from the canals everywhere which could be a constant hazard, I have never seen petrol stations on a pavement anywhere else! Let's hope no cyclists drop a cigarette as they go by!
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| Pavement side petrol pumps, between the cycle lane and road! |
