Provocative

“If I were gay I would go to the mosque everyday: I have never seen so many men's butts bent over backwards in a row.”

---

Grijs, ‘Vliegen’ [Flying], p94, 2 September 2006, Vrij Nederland

Lady in the train...

It was only when I looked up again that I realised she was crying.

Before I sat down diagonally opposite her I nonchalantly gave her a smile, the kind of smile you give to strangers on the train who you happen to be sitting with. I dug into my sandwich, and the magazine I had with me.

A few moments later I looked her, and from the bottom lid of her eye a big bead of teardrop fell and dampened her white blouse. It was then I realised she was crying. I felt 'guilty' for not having noticed it before. But I didn't want to stare, so looked down again, fumbling nervously with my cheese, ham and buns. At first, like the self-conscious and self-critical me I am, I thought that perhaps it was something about me that smelt bad. From her her swollen and reddened eyes, I realised then why it was that the lady had her hand across her nose.

Though for the ten minutes or so until my stop I felt uneasy sitting there, so close to a middle aged lady who was obviously very hurt. Tear drops didn't stp falling, and she stared with dead eyes out of the window as the morning sun shone inward. Cows, fields, forests and canals flashed by, but their beauty did nothing to soothe her pain. I glanced up at her, pretending to be uninterested and blind to her tears, but deep done I was concerned, concerned a fellow human being was suffering in silence.

I wanted to say something to her, to ask her if she was alright. I wanted to tell her that whatever it was that was hurting her, that was making her cry will pass. I wanted to tell her that sadness, like happiness, and all other feelings and things in life, will come and go, come and go.

But I didn't dare, and my shyness got the better of me. I kept my thoughts to myself, my concern for a fellow human being in need hid within me, because I was scared that maybe she'd react with hostility toward me butting into her life. Was I uncaring and less of a person because of that? Or has society reached a stage in which seeing a stranger cry is better dealt with by pretending not to see? The passenger sitting right next to the lady slept. Or perhaps pretended to sleep.

A few moments before the train arrived at the station, she gathered her bags and wiped her tears one last time. She excused herself as she stood up and brushed against me slightly and made her way to the door. I soon got off the train too. Amid the crowd of travellers I found her again, walking out of the station, with a heavy bag of documents in hand. I only saw the back of her head, but I imagined that her eyes were still swollen, that her eyes were still red.

And soon she vanished in the crowd. But my thoughts stayed with her, as I too was lost in the crowd.

Volkert van der G. & Mohammed B.

What would happen when you put an Islamic extremist and an fanatic animal rights activist in the same prison cell? The theatre play ‘Volkert van der G. & Mohammed B.’ tries to construct a most unlikely encounter between the two people who committed perhaps the most ground-breaking (political) murders in recent Dutch history.

The 90 minutes dialogue between the murderers of Pim Fortuyn (by Volkert in 2002) and Theo van Gogh (by Mohammed 2004) does not reveal much that people do not already know about the murders. Instead, they reveal the people behind the murders. Volkert shot Pim Fortuyn in the back months before parliamentary elections which could very well have thrust the popular politician into the position of Prime Minister. Fortuyn was a right-wing politician, who was openly homosexual and openly against immigration and what he termed the ‘Islamisation of the Netherlands’. He wanted to abolish Article 1 of the Constitution—the foundation of non-discrimination and equality of all citizens in this country, arguing that certain unequal people should not be treated equally. Theo van Gogh was shot numerous times in the chest and had his neck slashed by a butcher knife in broad-daylight by Mohammed. Van Gogh was a renowned filmmaker and columnist, known for his provocative opinions, some harshly critical of Muslims. Shortly before his death, he collaborated with self-proclaimed messiah Ayaan Hirsi Ali in the film Submission, which dealt with skewed interpretations of the Qur’an and abuse of women.

The stage was simple, two old wooden stools and desks, and a worn-out mattress for the two to share. And share the two characters did, pouring out their emotions, motivations and experiences which together help to shape them as self-professed ‘soldiers’ in their individual struggles against what they see as what is terribly wrong with the world today. Not once is the flamboyant politician who or the scruffy filmmaker whose mouth never seems to be without a cigarette mentioned by name. Instead, Volkert refers to his victim as ‘the bald man’ (de kale man), and Mohammed refers to his as ‘the fat man’ (de dikke man). For these are the characteristics of the two national ‘heroes’ which are imprinted in ordinary people’s minds.

While Volkert laments the horrendous tests and experiments that millions of animals have to undergo for the sake of our consumerist society, and rants about the destruction nature to provide for our material wellbeing, Mohammed preaches the decadence of the western society we (and he) live in, warning death and revenge against all who do not believe and who live in a state of godless materialism. Both are driven by obsession, but Mohammed seems convinced of his role as the faceless soldier in Allah’s ‘holy war’, whereas Volkert seems to be more driven by bloodlust and his own insanity. Until this unlikely meeting of two murderers, they only know of each other from what they read in the newspapers. But the meeting brings them together, and brings the audience closer to understanding what it is that unites them.

And the meeting is also a therapeutic anti-climax for both Volkert and Mohammed. Being so alike but also different in many ways, they are able to critically comment on each other’s actions and motivations. Volkert accuses Mohammed, and all extremists, be it in the Islamic, fascist, Christian or Orthodox forms, as closeted homosexuals. What unite these extremists is their disdain of certain groups of people, an intense bias and hatred which feeds on their own sense of inferiority and shame and inability to express their nascent but frustrated sexual desires which they have time and again been told is simply sin. For the religious extremists, the oppression of women, as a gender with their weaknesses, feminimity and emotional baggage in general, is according to Volkert but another way to reject them because the thought of anything remotely intimate, like touch, or sexual, like intercourse, is repulsive to closeted homosexuals. That's why women must be chastised, ridiculed and punished as objects of desire, and be subdued and segregated from men.

Women are raped, and often from behind, so that the men with these extremist interpretations of their divine texts do not need to face their shame, and do not need to face the people they’d rather not have sex with. The unflattering remarks go on: monasteries are like ‘dark rooms’, church altars heaven for priests who rape young boys, the back chambres of mosques serve similar functions. Strict religious indoctrination and fanatism seem to be the cause of man’s frustrations, in the way certain natural acts like sex and desire are demonized as deadly sins, and thereby also the cause of man’s ills, in the way that unvented frustrations lead to dehumanising acts of abuse, oppression and suffering.

Provocative remarks and perspectives from a man on the brink of sanity, yes. But it does make you wonder how much truth there is in what he says. Especially the suggestion by Volkert that those who committed the acts of 9-11 were all closeted as well.

Mohammed in return confronts Volkert with his mental illness, saying Volkert has psychological problems because of a deficiency in Vitamin B-12. Volkert never received a life-sentence, but only 18 years, because it could not be argued before the court that he had political motivations, since he was first and foremost an animal rights activist. Mohammed calls Volkert a ‘coward’ for not being able look at his victim in the eye before giving Fortuyn his ‘sentence’. Volkert admitted to the murder, based on the fact that he was convinced Fortuyn was a growing threat to the stability and justice within society, especially for the underprivileged like immigrants and welfare recipients. Mohammed confronts Volkert with the fact that he does not realise that he is himself a soldier of god, and that they have more in common than Volkert would like to deny. Mohammed argues that only with love and compassion can they both be liberated from this world and delivered to utopia. Both are attracted to the notion of suicide, but Mohammed cannot do so unless it is justified in the name of a greater cause. Volkert’s own suicide attempt previously failed, and was rescued by doctors who stopped ‘blood pouring from the pulse’.

The play takes a dramatic turn in the end. Mohammed reveals he stuffed explosives up his rectum. Again Mohammed pleads the case of their salvation, and suggests there is only one way to salvation, a way out of this world that both he and Volkert have been wanting. Mohammed has the hole. Volkert holds the key. They must work together. Love, Mohammed says to Volkert, make love and they can be delivered. They both disappear to the side of the stage. Mohammed tells Volkert to embrace him. Mohammed’s last words was an ultimate cry to his saviour, to the Almighty, to the All-Seeing, the All-Knowing.

‘Oh God’, he cries out, in a voice full of satisfaction and lust.

A loud explosion and blinding lights.

Fin.

Click here for pictures of the performance.

Wereldhavendagen 2006

Braving gale force winds I stood on the Erasmusbrug and watched the evening spectacle of this year's Wereldhavendagen (World Harbour Days). Each year, the Port of Rotterdam opens its ports and gates to visitors and numerous festivities and excursions so that ordinary people can explore the Europe's largest and busiest seaport.





The port and the city are alsmost inseperable, and have a history closely tied to the Netherlands' economy and life. The majority of goods that arrive and leave the country go through the harbour, which is connected with an extensive network of railways and roads. Rotterdam itself is a modern city, and the only one in the Netherlands with a skyline of skyscrappers to speak of. 'Thanks' to the Germans who bombarded the city and its strategic harbour till Netherlands capitulated during the Second World War, Rotterdam has had to rebuild itself almost from scratch within the last couple of decades. No wonder this harbour-city with its international connections as well as connections with the rest of the country, is the pride and joy of the city. And the events this weekend celebrate that sense of nostalgia to the past when cruise ships moored on the docks, that sense of achievement you can clearly see when you see the tall skyscrappers compete with giant girafe-like cranes, and the sense of hope as the harbour and the city plans to develop into the future.




Laser lights, skylights, neolights boomboxes and ear-deafening music ushered in the evening's programme at 9pm sharp. The crowd was scarce at the time, perhaps deterred by the overcast skies, and, as soon as I stood still for a couple of minutes to take in the music and light show, the strong, strong winds. At times I couldn't stand still, since the sea winds were so fierce and unrelenting on the bridge. I felt a headache start to creep. I felt myself dread pessimistically the likelihood of me having to wake up in the morning with a sore throat and the beginnings of a cold. Forturnately as I left the house earlier on I decided against wearing just a T-shirt and wore a light-blue turtle neck sweater instead. Couples hid behind each other, embraced one another to keep warm. I embraced the wind that seeped through and triggered goosebumps and slight trembles.

There were different shows, each with very different characteristics. A wonderful 'dance of the cranes', as the gigantic steel storks turned their cumbersome bodies and seemed to gyrate on the spot to the beat of the music. With their massive 'hands' they dug into the river Maas and hoisted tonnes of water into the air. When releashed the water shed like a beautiful shower, sending vapour and moisture plummeting to the river below like a trickling waterfall. Colourful lights shone on the water made it all the more dazzling.

Then there was a choir singing so traditional Dutch hits, most about the life and drudgery of a sailor, about the goodbyes, the longings and the loneliness at sea. To contrast, a live DJ mixed and blasted disco and techno songs into the nightsky, this time with spiralling lights and flashing lasers as the dancers in the air and on the surface of the sea. I stood and could not keep my body from wriggling a bit to the beat of some remixes of songs I liked.

Rounding off the evening, the longest display of fireworks I've ever seen, projecting multi-coloured flashes and deafening explosions into the sky from a barge in the middle of the
river. I was bedazzled by the ever-changing kaleidoscope of shooting stars, giant balls of sparkling fairy dust, eliptical wheels of purple and white, rockets and missiles that soared up into the heavens and exploded with a loud sounding bang, leaving a trail of dense fog and smell of gunpowder. Soon I forget all about the cold, all about the pain of having to stand almost two hours.

Because it was worth it.





Go to my travelog for more pictures!

• Wereldhavendagen Fireworks VI
• Wereldhavendagen Fireworks V
• Wereldhavendagen Fireworks IV
• Wereldhavendagen Fireworks III
• Wereldhavendagen Fireworks I
• Wereldhavendagen II
• Wereldhavendagen I
• Rotterdam Skyline II
• Rotterdam Skyline
• Erasmusbrug

Boat, museum and party

Woke up with a terrible headache this morning, and still feel a bit sick. I don't know if it was that glass of Heineken I drank yesterday, the nuts, olives or airline sandwiches, but ever since this morning I've been having this terrible feeling of dizzyness and like there's air in my chest I can't get rid of. When I breathe hard, the back of my neck hurts and my chest feels compressed.

I blame it on the beer. Frankly I don't like beer, and it's been years since my last 'pint', until yesterday that is. I don't know what posessed me to drink something that makes me want to throw up and pee all the time, and feel all gasy and nauseous afterwards...I guess when all the guys were drinking it, I sort of 'had' to too.

Since today's programme didn't start until noon, I could lie in a bit, which helped get rid of the nauseating feeling, if only a little bit. Picked up our 'packed lunch', packaged in a green paper bag, the contents of which look like they managed to skim off the left-overs of KLM's (Royal Dutch Airlines) on-board catering service.

Met some more people, all on the same course I'll be doing. And that was pretty nice, since for the day I basically had company and people to talk to. We did a boat trip, cruising around the canals and lakes around Leiden. This ancient city is shaped like a star and surrounded by moats. It was here that resistance against the Spanish (Catholics) was staunchest. For the sake of religious freedom and freedom of expression, the citizens of the town refused to cave into a siege in 1574. As a token of appreciation was rewarded with a university in that very year by William of Orange ('Father of the Netherlands'). That university is Leiden University, with the motto Praesidium Libertatis, (‘bastion of freedom’) on the emblem. And I'm now a member of that bastion.

Old(er) students and professors of Leiden include Rembrandt van Rijn (painter), who never actually graduatlly and registered for the sake of getting cheap beer as a student (believe me beer is definitely not the reason why I'm studying here). The Dutch Royal family has traditionally gone to this university too. Rumour has it that during the years when our Crown Prince William Alexander, who is reputed for being a bit...slow, the tradition of publishing everyone's grades in public disappeared. Einstein taught here a while (there's a pub named after him), while Kamerlign Onnes was won the Nobel Prize for Physics for achieving the lowest temperate possible (absolute zero). My law faculty buidling is named after him, and located in the very building where he conducted the experiment. Then there's Huygens, who invented the telescope, and has a space probe named after him. Then there's the likes of Spinoza and Descarte, who escaped to Leiden on account of its libertarian values and freedom of expression. I doubt I'd come close to what these great people have achieved in my lifetime, but it's something to mention when people ask me in the future why I chose this uni as my own. I guess.

A museum visit was also part of the tour, and we were taken to Boerhave Museum, named after the physician who introduced natural sciences as key to the study of medicine in Europe. Besides the famous Huygen telescopes and clocks, the sight of numerous 'pickled' feotuses, ovaries with a fertilised egg, fingers of young children, skinned snakes, inner ear of a dog, drawings of a disected woman carrying a baby, real skeletons of human beings, cats, elephants, horses and a turkey were not all that appealing. Especially when I was already feeling like throwing up the whole day. Dinner was immediate after the museum. I waited at least an hour before I could take a bite and swallow.

It was a bit silly how they organised the programme. By five we were ushered into the canteen and fed. The next event was the party at 10pm. Five hours to kill, in a town, in a country where shops are few and close at 6pm sharp. A bunch of us, three guys and two girls, all on the same course, sat around, got to know each other better, lurked around the empty streets a bit more, sat at a cafe and chatted the hours away. It was surprisingly relaxing, and we were pretty much on similiar wave lenghts, so I had a really good time. Plus that cute Finnish guy was part of the group too : )

To be honest I wasn't really feeling all that well for the party, and the Finnish guy has a severe flu. But the girls insisted we at least go for a while. So we did. The disco was empty when we got there. People started arrives in small droves, amid the loud din and lazer lights, but everyone was just standing around wondering whether anything was going to happen. Huge screens showed girls engaged in a wet-T-shirt competiton, the aim being who can push the other off of a horizontal they were on. Exciting. Nobody danced, and I wouldn't actually dance unless someone else did the same. People suggested I be the one to get the bodies moving, but no thanks.

After less than an hour, the Finnish guy and I decided to go. And we did. A little embarassing meeting people we know in the corridors who were just arriving. Even more so when we turned out to be the first ones leaving. But he put it best when he said to the bouncer: "Clubbing is just not my thing."

Not mine either. A little tipsy, but glad to have gotten away from the crowd and party, we made our way to the station. We talked a bit more, about how we both just don't like those kind of places, and would rather be somewhere quiet where you could actually hear what the other one is saying. He can be a little nervous around people, and tends to mumble a littel at times, but once he loosens up, he's fun and funny to be around with. I didn't realise he was so similiar to me in that sense.

I mean today he didn't make it for lunch and by the time we were all heading for the boat he kept on calling me and asking where I was so he could join me. He could have very well gone on another tour, but he said he didn't want to. When we did finally manage to meet in the museum, he came in quietly as the guide was explaining things. I was on the other side of the room, but as soon as he saw me gave me this smile as if he was so glad to see me. I smiled back. Now and then, there were some funny bits as the guide was explaining things. He'd start to giggle and look in my direction to see if I found it just as funny. And we'd try to hide our giggles, like sharing a secret laugh no one else understood.

At the station just before he disappeared up the stairs in a hurry to catch the train I turned around to him and said: "Take care, and get well soon."

And I meant it.

First day at 'school'...

Woke up this morning a little before 7, and it was the earliest I’ve woken up in months. A laid-back life of being a bum gets you…laid back. Didn’t get too much sleep last night, since, well, ‘worry me’ lay in bed and had thoughts running around like crazy trying to picture what’s going to happen today.

Showered, got dressed, got beautiful, and got out the door. Sat in the train with a bunch of commuters trying to get a shut-eye, or open their eyes into through papers. It’s been over two years since I felt I was part of a community—a community of commuters with a purpose and a destination. Though by the looks of some people’s haggered faces and sad expressions, some may feel less like they have a purpose in life, let alone at work.

Arrived at the place where we were supposed to gather, only to be intimated by a crowd of around 100 people standing around, surrounding by a slight drizzle and the background noise of general chatter. They were doling out tea and coffee, so I got myself one, to keep warm, and keep my hands from fidgeting from nervousness. I don’t function well in crowds. Glanced around, looking for a place I can ‘butt in’, but everyone seemed so engaged in their little groups and conversations already. There were a couple of others who hadn’t managed to mingle yet, like me, and I wondered if they were as nervous as I was. Stood around a bit, thinking what a great way to start.

Then we got divided into smaller groups, according to our studies. Phew, I thought. Much better, since you know then the people walking around with you are going to be your classmates. One thing you have in common, one common topic to break the ice. Once that ice is broken, I guess the conversation just rolls from there…where are you from, what were you doing before, where, smile, why, how, when, smile, listen, talk, relate, answer, ask, smile.

The tour itself was alright, though our group was a little left out. You see, I’m going to be doing a Masters in Public International Law (LLM), and at this uni there are two courses of that: there’s one which is so-called ‘advanced’ LLM, because it offers more choice and better facilities and services, and then there’s the ‘normal’ LLM—the one I’ll be doing. The difference between the two? Oh, only around €10,000, give or take. No surprise why I’m doing the ‘normal’ one.

And from the moment go the differences in treatment were clearly visible. The ‘advanced’ people were taken away for an exclusive meet-and-greet with staff over coffee and a choice between apple pie, chocolate cake and cookies. We were told to hang around and wait to be picked up. There was coffee to be fair, but no pie, or given the choice, chocolate cake.

I guess the time we were ‘abandoned’ to wander the corridors of our new faculty was a welcome opportunity to mingle, meet and greet more people. And I guess it went pretty well. There are lots of Americans and Brits on the course, and all the rest are from the rest of Europe. We basically just talked and exchanged one another’s lives and experiences, and that’s plenty of material to cover. Another topic of common interest was how disorganised the whole course is, since courses start next week and almost everyone I met had no clue when and where the classes are going to be. Complaining, another ice-breaker.

All the new people had a welcome address from the Rector Magnificus (Latin for ‘head rectum rector’). Whenever that name was said a bunch of people burst out laughing. Not too much exciting news there, the usual why-this-university-is-so-great, how-privileged-you-all-are-to-be-the-select-few, and well-wishing for our future studies, because frankly we might not even get to see him again. Then this academic coordinator came up and started going through the list of (almost) all the countries in the world. The point of the ‘game’ was whenever a country is mentioned, people from that country should stand up, and he’ll try his best to say ‘hello’ in that country’s language. The first, being ‘G’day’ (Australia)…half an hour later Zimbabwe. We all sighed with relief that that was the end.

But it wasn’t the end. We were treated to a ‘movie’, made probably more than a decade ago, about Holland. Witty, amusing and revealing, but sometimes left me wondering why I need to know that the highest point in the country is 322,20m, and the lowest is 7m below sea level, or that Amsterdam, with 725,000 inhabitants, is the world’s smallest metropolis. All the facts, figures, need-to-knows, national dish (buttered bread and cheese), national flower (tulip), national sport (football) etc, etc. People cheered when the picture of a cannabis leaf appeared on the screen (cannabis is ‘legal’ in this country).

And that wasn’t the end either. Another lady came up and gave us a lecture on ‘culture shock’. Generalisations of course, but having lived here for years and years a lot of these things I can relate to:

• While visiting someone in their home, when offered a biscuit, take only one. Take two and you won’t be invited again. (Dutch stinginess)
• Complain, curse, whine, lament about the weather (Dutch national topic of discussion)
• Guys will not pay for dinner on a date (heard of ‘Go Dutch’?)
• Men do not hold doors open for women (Dutch sexual equality)
• Don’t call your lecturer Dr, Professor, BA, Bsc, LLB, LLM, PhD, MPhil so-and-so, just call his Jan (typical Dutch name, equivalent of John) (Dutch laissez-faire attitude)

As we left the lecture hall and walked passed town hall, a lesbian wedding was in progress (Dutch sexual orientation equality)—Congratulations to Ilse and Roos!

Well, here’s the (bitter) sweet bit.

I got chatting with this really cute, sweet Finnish guy, who happens to be on my course, and did exactly the same study I did at uni, also in the UK as well. I saw him earlier in the morning in the crowd—wild blond hair, pouty lips, clean shaven, my height, around my age…sort of like ‘Leo’ in my LYLM story. We hung around each other the whole day, talking about this and that, laughing (I’ll say it again: Rector Magnificus...) and joking around.

And then, just as I was thinking and hoping and wondering, at one point he said something which was a downer: “Hm, I’m looking around to see if there are any hot chicks.”

That wasn’t the first time. And each time I just smiled in reply. *Hmpf*
Anyways we exchanged numbers nonetheless, and I’m sure I’ll be seeing more of him around. But he’s just not… *sigh*

Overall the day went pretty well I guess. But there was one thing I really did not like, and made me feel really, really uncomfortable. Put a bunch of guys together and after a while the conversation strays onto ‘chicks’. I mean it seemed like all these guys were just there and talking to girls in the hope of ‘getting some’. Maybe I’m being hypocritical, since I guess deep down when I talk to a guy I wonder too if he might be ‘one’. Maybe it’s human nature to crave for that sexual appetite and for potential partners who can satisfy it in our interactions with others. But I don’t walk around and talk about who I want to sleep with and how ‘hot’ someone is almost all the time. Maybe I might if being gay were the ‘norm’, but even so I really doubt I’m the kind of person to do that. At least I hope so. And put a bunch of guys, oogling the room for 'chicks', coupled with a few rounds of free Heinekens it gets worse.

In circumstances like that I just say nothing and keep quiet. I don’t even nod, like I usually do when I talk to someone. I just smile wryly. Maybe even that is too much.

Mind you, I did have a number of girls come up to me and just start chatting. At the reception at the end of the day I was alone at one point sitting at a table with olives, crackers and nuts. Many girls just dropped by and picked up an olive or two, some grabbed a handful of nuts, and starting talking to me. A few asked for my phone number. I don't know if they wanted something else more than a friendly chat... I hope it's the latter.

Induction

Got an email today from uni today saying they want me to be there at 8.30am "sharp" tomorrow for induction. A surprise really, because they had over two months to inform me, but did so on the very last day. Better late than never.

So I had a look at the two-day programme: talks, lectures, welcomes addresses, tours, boat trips, museum visits, city walks, dinners and lunches, and a party to finish it off. Exciting. Yes.

But to be honest I'm nervous about attending. I've never been good in social situations, certainly when there are lots of 'strange' new people around. I've never been good tactful in just walking up to someone and introuducing myself or striking up a conversation with the aim of 'getting to know you better'. So as excited and looking-forward I am about starting my studies again, really I'm worried about 'fitting in'.

I know the induction programme is supposed to 'loosen you up', a sort of meet-and-greet, but just imagining myself there with all these other people around makes me shiver... I'm that nervous.

But then again, everyone else will be in the same 'boat'...it helps, to think and know that. Even just a little bit.

The Object of My Affection

Just watched this touching movie: The Object of My Affection (1998)

The plot is simple: girl (Nina played Jennifer Aniston) meets guy (George by Paul Rudd aka ‘Mike Hannigan’ in Friends); they become great friends and move in together. Girl gets pregnant unexpectedly from a fiancé who she doesn’t really love. Girl in truth is in love with the guy. Girl wants to raise the child with guy. One catch: guy is gay.

But even such a simple, and at times cliché, chick-flick managed to move me to tears. The relationship entanglements, the unspoken feelings of affection, the wrangling and choosing between loving one and not hurting another. And all so real, all so human.

Personally I experienced something very similar when I was taking care of my pregnant friend in France. It was as if I saw myself as that guy, and could very well imagine myself in his predicaments. Though my friend and I didn’t kiss or verge on having sex, there were feelings there I felt from her that went beyond feelings for the ‘gay-uncle-taking-care-of-my-child’. Once we even joked about getting married.

Some wonderful lines from the movie:

Nina to George: “I don’t want to look at you and feel so hurt by you”

--

“One shouldn't be too hard on oneself when the object of one's affection returns the favor with rather less enthusiasm than one might have hoped.”

Late summer's rain

Though the leaves are green, they are yellowing. Just a little bit, on the corners.

I stood under a chestnut tree today, trying to escape from the rain. For many days in a row already we've been having sudden freak showers to be followed by sunshine and clear skies. Just as I was cycling home from the station, it started to drizzle. I thought I could just bear the rain, but then within minutes it poured, poured, poured! Water drops splashed on the road, like peas, disspating in all directions as they bombed the tarmac road and cycle path. I had to find shelter, and I sought it under the arms of a chestnut tree.

For a while the tree was enough to protect me from becoming wet. But only for a while. Soon enough it started to rain even harder, rain to the degree it was reminiscent of horrendous typhoons I experienced last summer. In a scenario reminiscnet of that one chapter in "Loving you, loving me".

And mixed with the falling rain were pea-sized chuncks of hail. They broke through the leafy shield and struck, bombarding my coat, jeans and cheeks. I was soaked, completely soaked like I had fallen in a pond. Water ran down my eyes till all I could see were blurs. My hair plastered to my forehead, and I could just feel the papers and book I had just bought for my studies in my bag go soggy.

And then it cleared. And the sun came out, surrounded by beautiful pure white clouds. Like it never rained.

Still dripping, I cycled home.

New 'job'!

The last couple of days I've been preparing for this 'interview'. Read about it last week online about this great position at the Telders Organisation Office. Basically the office organises an international moot court in the International Court of Justice (ICJ) every year, and is participated and attended by students, academics and real international law judges. Teams from all over Europe are given a fictional situation which they have to argue and defend to the best of their abilities.

I went there a little anxious, not knowing what to expect. Dressed in a smart light blue shirt, navy blue trousers. I guessed I looked good. And it turned out to be quiet informal. Two ladies 'interviewed' me, and were already thoroughly impressed by my CV and experiences. I soon relaxed, and it was more like chatting to friends you've just met, with a bit of exchanging information about my past and what it is I'll be involved in. I've organised a big international conference before, almost completely by myself as an intern at Leiden University last year. And that went very well. The lady interviewers said that would prove useful in my new role.

There were two embarrasing moments was though. At one point one of them asked quite ambiguously "How's your finance?" I hesistated a little, thinking why they'd want to know about my 'finance', but then went on to talk anyway about my part-time job and how I'm about to receive the government grant for my studies. They both started laughing at the misunderstanding. The lady meant how I am with finance, ie how good I am dealing with numbers and budgeting and compiling financial reports! Made a fool of myself there, but we laughed it off.

The other embarrasing moment was when one of the ladies, who happens to be French-Canadian, asked me about me living in the 'egg'. I was like "I'm sorry, me living in the egg?" See, problem with French-speaking people is they don't pronounce the 'h', and what she really meant was the city 'The HAGUE", where I do live! Again made a fool of myself, but we laughed it off all the same.

In the end, I got the part : )

Message from past self

I received a couple of emails today, from my 'past self' to myself.
You see, about half a year ago I made some plans (some more like promises) with myself.

• meet someone I love
  

  Uh…not such luck yet, but then again the last couple of months I’ve been either (hiding) at home or moving from place to place. Did meet this potential guy in France, but then not heard from him in two months. Besides, he’s far away and much older.

• meditate every moment of the day
  
  It's hard to be mindful and live in the present moment. It's difficult to concentrate on what you're doing and saying without having background thoughts, worries and anxieties. But I do try to remind myself that I should be more mindful, be aware of my thoughts and things around me, in the here and now. That way I can have inner peace and live happier.
  

• complete my degree
  

  Instead of complete, I’m just about to start! I do hope by this time next year I’ll have succeed in my exams and written up a 25,000 word thesis!

• decide what I want to do next
  
  Still not sure what it is I want in life, but for the next couple of months I should be more or less set and busy with my degree. Who knows what that will take me one year from now.
  
  
• not get involved in my parents' problems anymore
  

  I don’t really think about my parents any more, not that much anyways. The weekly phone calls are more or less just the only times I’m involved in their lives, and that’s when I hear complaints and things going on at home.

You can see more of my plans on the right---->

'Growing up with two mothers'

Annemik Leclaire, ‘Opgroeien met twee moeders’ [Growing up with two mothers], p24-30, 26 August 2006, Volkskrant Magazine

The ‘pioneering’ children of lesbians relationships have grown up and are now in their t(w)eens. Most of these children were conceived through artificial insemination, either with help from anonymous donors or acquaintances. An important question is how different these children are from other children with ‘normal’ man-woman parents. Here are two reactions from such children.

A 19 year old girl, Djoeke:

”I have always seen my family as a standard family. I have two parents, we have always had a dog and a cat, a corner house with a garden pointing south, and a boy and a girl. The only difference is that I have two mothers instead of a father and a mother. For me that is actually a very small thing. That gender-aspect is not that meaningful. Also not in the practical sense. I’m living in [a rented] room [for students] and my mother can hang [wooden] planks up, drill and carry really very well.”

16 year old boy, Jelmer:

“For me my family is completely normal. I’m used to it. I like it this way. The only thing that is not normal is that others don’t find it normal. […] I played football for eight years, and one of my parents always went along. They were just between the fathers, and those fathers were always pleasant, they didn’t make it difficult. And my mothers could get along with them very well.”

And what about ‘expert’ opinion on how children from heterosexual differ (or don’t differ) from homosexual relationships? At the University of Amsterdam, Dr Henny Bos conducted a research into this. And it appears that children growing up in lesbian relationships tend to receive more love and are more free to develop themselves:

“Between lesbian biological mothers (who carried the child) and the heterosexual women, she found no difference in the experience of parenthood or the way contact with the child is made. But [there is a difference] between the social mothers (the lesbian mothers who do not carry the child in birth) and the heterosexual fathers.

The ‘co-mothers’ felt more need to justify their parenthood, because they did not have any bloodtie with the child, and because they realise that they had put a deviant form of family on the world. Therefore, according to Bos, they do more than their best compared to fathers to be good parents. Also because they have longed for motherhood, and had to travel a difficult path in order to achieve that.

Further they put less emphasis compared to the fathers on traditional ideals of nurturing, such as self-control and conformist behaviour, and they put down less structure and boundaries on the child.

The differences in this study do not show up in the children. In terms of interests, behavious and psychological wellbeing, the offspring of lesbian women did not differ from children from man-woman relations. […]”

Can we just talk?

Distrust, conspiracy, plots and miscommunication. That’s how I’d describe what governs the relationships between people in my family. There’s only four of us, spread across two countries and continents, but it’s ugly and very, very sickening.

I got off the phone today with my parents feeling upset, again. Talking to my mum was alright, but in the less than four minutes I talked to dad it was like talking to a brick wall.

As usual, it was about money, money, money. The problem is that my parents have really poor relationship with my brother, and any sort of communication goes through me. Now, they’ve always distrusted my brother with money, because he can be a big spender sometimes. But when every single time I talk on the phone they (dad in particular) go on to complain and scold me for how my brother is always just spending and not saving it gets very tiresome.

Frankly, what my brother wants to do with his money is his problem. I have my own savings, and make a little from the part-time job I do, and will soon receive a government student grant. I don’t like to get involved financially with him, because he can be very stingy and protective of his own stash. Just today I asked him to lend me some to pay for my health insurance (two months overdue). He huffed and puffed and sighed, gave me the evil stare and silent treatment, and reluctantly agreed. Left me feeling like a complete failure and idiot begging him for money, but I wouldn’t think of doing that at all if I didn’t have to. I told him, I’d pay him back once I have it. He said I don’t have to, but in a tone that was bitter and spiteful. I don’t want to say how great I am, but my goodness, how many times have I helped him out in the past by digging into my own savings, without even thinking of getting anything in return?? I’ve lost count already. And how much does he owe me now? Tens, hundreds, even more than a thousand…

And then there’s the bad attitude. It seems like nobody in this family can talk, just talk and listen to the other speak without ending up all heated and frustrated. Between my mum and me it’s quite fine. We can understand and talk to each other well. But all other relationships seem to be rooted in aggression, suspicion and fear of being stabbed in the back. My parents seem to be in limbo, overshadowed by a suspected extramarital affair on my dad’s part, loosely tied together by a marriage of convenience rather than of love—though to be fair my mum asserts that the situation is improving. As I’ve mentioned between my brother and my parents there’s practically no interaction of any kind. Conversations are brief and blunt. As the days go by, both sides do not understand, let alone can manage to tolerate the other. And between my brother and me, there’s really not that much talking either. We live under the same roof, and talk only on a need-to (know) basis. I try to avoid him if I could, because the atmosphere and air whenever he’s around always seem so tense and suffocating (cigarettes). The condescending tone, that constant demand for respect and assurance that he is boss, and that deadly stare of shame and silence is frankly frightening.

More and more it’s resembling the Cold War, a symbolic analogy I came up with a couple of years ago for the poor state of ‘inter-national relations’ between the four of us. And there does not seem to be an entente in sight. People are either not talking to each other, or when they do, it’s in tones and ways filled with anger, ill feeling and distrust. When need be, they threaten to ‘press the button’ to de-recognise (disown) one another. I often hope that they would, and end this permanent state of war and madness, because there’s really not much that binds up, but a lot that separates us. And by that I mean more than the distance and time difference.

They say you can't choose your family, but can choose your friends. I certainly hope it's the other way around.

Sex for Animals

A campaign by ‘Sex voor Dieren’ [Sex for Animals] last week is collecting signatures to initiate a citizen legislative proposal to make it a right for animals to have sex.

Campaigners argue that millions of animals die yearly in the Netherlands without having had the chance to develop themselves sexually. Some die as virgins. They suggest maybe people can start organising ‘speed dating’ for their pets, or even a ‘peepshow’ for couples, or perhaps start apologising to cows in the field.

“Animals work hard for us people.

They deliver, among other things, milk, eggs, meat, wool, and pleasant company. Therefore animals have the right to good working conditions and pleasure in life. It is up to us to provide for their primary needs of living, such as fun, good food, fun work throughout the week, and now and then healthy love making.

Sex for Animals strives for the animal rights mentioned below:

• The right to sex
• The right to reproduction
• The right to choose partner freely
• The right to family life

These primary animal rights are unfortunately under pressure, because artificial forms of reproduction are more profitable. In order to allow animals to taste love, special effort is necessary.”

Hmmm, I feel guilty now about my little Kitty… she never did have the (s)experiences I had (emphasis on had...).

Blog merger!

With the new Blogger Beta I've managed to merge all four of my blogs under one account! Including this one, that's

Formosa Online

Here and There

Formosa's Vipassana

The account under "Alternatme" has disappeared, and now it's just "Formosa" : )
That means I don't need to sign in to different accounts each time I need to publish on a different blog. I'm really liking this new version.

I'll customise my other blogs over the next few days to give them a 'newer and fresher' look.
Though I must say, even though the four blogs are under one account now, this 'alternative blog' will remain unlisted in my public profile, until I decide otherwise. At the moment I still feel I need an 'alternative' venting space to get rid of things on my mind that certain people around me wouldn't like to hear or know about.

Happy reading!

• Related news: according to MapStats, the number of visitors to this blog has almost surpassed that to my main blog! And this one's just been running for less than four months, compared to the other one, which is more than a year old : )
  Which may mean this blog is either really good, or the other is totally boring...or both.
  

The 'clinic'

All that the sign on the door said was 'clinic'. You wouldn't know what it was a clinic of until you walked through.

This afternoon my brother's girlfriend asked whether I could go to the 'clinic' with her. She said she didn't know the way, but I suspect that perhaps she was a little scared to go on her own. Either way it didn't matter to me, so I agreed straight away. And she was grateful.

Sometime ago she had an abortion, as their 'security' measures they took failed (it's only 99.9% safe!). She had to go pick up a statement from the clinic today to prove that she in fact did undergo the procedure (for personal reasons).

It somehow felt strange going through that door. I eyed the colonial style building up and down, and tried to imagine what kind of machinery they have stored inside this elegant three storey maison which looked like all the other residences along the street. Then my mind drifted to images of bloody phoetuses, to death, to life denied... I could not help it but feel sick.

Ironically the clinic was situated on a round-about....maybe those who change their minds can always turn back. Or maybe some people just keep on turning and turning on the roundabout and never make it through the door.

A lady not more than thirty walked out the door just as we were about to enter. Instinctively my eyes glanced at her stomach. My mind wondered what life may be in there...or perhaps what life may have been. Another lady, this one looking much younger, passed us. Uncontrollably I eyed her stomach again, but quickly looked up, to be greeted by two pairs of sad eyes. Could it be...?

We didn't have to wait when we walked in the office. The doctor was already waiting there, along with her assistant. They say your mind influences the way you see the world. The moments I saw the doctor, she looked so haggered and wrinkled. When she spoke to us, even with a smile, she sounded like she was croaking and barely able to get the words out. Her assistant was not much better. I couldn't suppress the thought, but for a very split second the word 'murder' flashed before me.

After a few moments of exchanging pleasantries, the assistance asked my brother's girlfriend to produce an ID to prove that she is indeed that person she claims to be. It's for privacy reasons, since abortion is a very....private matter. It was more a matter of formalities really, as the assistant quickly compared her name and date of birth. Then she looked up at me and said:

"Yeah, it's her alright. I remember the boyfriend was here last time."

My initial reaction was to deny, deny that I had anything to do with this:

"Uh, I'm not the boyfriend..."

But she seemed unconvinced:

"Sure, I remember you were there with her. I recognise the face."

My brother and I are in no way alike. He's bigger, stronger and fatter. I'm thin, scrawny, and taller. He smokes, is loud and extroverted. I'm quiet, often alone, and can't stand the smell of cigarettes. He has a girlfriend. I never did.

"I'm really not the boyfriend,"I said, but feeling embarassed having to defend myself because frankly it didn't really matter much the moment we turned around and walked out that door again, "I'm the boyfriend's brother. His brother."

She didn't seem to hear what I just said, and then went on to talk about something else with the girlfriend and the doctor. I felt a little out of place, a little uncomfortable, but at the same time a bit of me was quietly laughing at the ridiculousness and surrealness of it all.

Soon enough, we turned around and walked out that door.

I know I shouldn't judge people for what they do, and I never thought I was against abortion, would never prevent anyone from doing it. I'm all for free choice, and believe that every woman should have the right to decide what is best for her life and health, regardless of the circumstances. But somehow realising that countless lives were denied in the very building that was surrounding me at that moment seemed a terrifying thought. As I exited the door, I turned around briefly and glanced at the stairs that led to the second floor. Narrow stairs, darkened stairs...stairs that in my overly imaginative mind could very well have been dripping with blood...

Mr Gay Europe 2006

A'dam, being the self-proclaimed "gay capital of the world" is proud to host the annual Mr Gay Europe competition.

What the judges are looking for?

* shows an interest in the world and people around him;

* displays patience, has a sympathetic and considerate nature;

* will not be frightened by change, or things and people different from his own frame of reference, experience or cultural background;

* can articulate his thoughts and conduct an intelligent conversation;

* has a basic innate charm and sparkle;

* is special, but real;

* has poise and seems secure with himself, without coming across as arrogant;

* could be the young man a company would like to be their representative;

* can be an ambassador of goodwill;

* is the quintessential young man....and a bit more.

Feast your eyes on these hotties~

Brand new face!

YEAH!

As you can see, I've migated to the new version of Blogger, and it's looking good! :)
It's much easier and friendlier to use, navigate around in, and read.

Hope you like the new look~

Ouch!

I fell off the bike today. Ouch!

I can't remember the last time I fell off the bike, but it must have been years and years ago. Usually I'm fast and steady on my bike, and I can even cycle without using my hands (it can get very windy and cold). But today I fell off, slid a few meters and hurt myself.

I guess I should've been more careful, and should've known better not to go down the road they're rebuilding. There was lots of sand at a corner, the ground was wet from the continuous rain from the past few days, and just as I made the turn, the wheels slid, and so did I. I came crashing down, tried to steady myself with my hands, but then realised later that was a bad idea. Got bruises and scratches on the inside of my palms now. And I fell with my weight on the right leg, right on the knee and I think also on the ankle. So now they're a bit sore, perhaps they were twisted a bit during impact, but the pain is going away, and I don't think it was that serious.

Though, the impact and slide must have been quite foreceful, since I've got a hole in my new jeans, right where my knee is.

I did what you'd do when you fall.

I got up again.

Sexual misconduct in the army...

...sometimes starts from the moment of recruitment.

The sexual misconduct almost always takes place in recruiting stations, recruiters apartments or government vehicles. The victims are typically between 16 and 18 years old, and they usually are thinking about enlisting. They usually meet the recruiters at their high schools, but sometimes at malls or recruiting offices.

Shocking thing is that most perpetrators are let off lightly, either with demotion or loss of pay, very unlikely in prosecution.

A weak defence for the prevelance of this kind of behaviour:

"Let's face it, these guys are handsome in their uniform, they're mature, they give a lot of attention to these girls, and as recruiters they do a lot of the same things that guys do when they want to appeal to girls. There's a very fine line there, and it can be very hard to maintain a professional approach."

But what about trust, imbalance of power relations, and the fact that these 'professional' recruiters hold the key to the future of these unsuspecting teens? If anything, the army/armed services should be the one sector of employment that preaches discipline and professionalism more than anywhere else.

See this for more on sexual misconduct in the US army.

UPDATE 24Aug2006

Here's even more

A survey of the U.S. military academies released last year found that more than 50 percent of female respondents and 11 percent of male respondents experienced some type of sexual harassment since enrolling. That survey also found 64 incidents of sexual assault among the more than 1,900 females at the service academies.

Somewhat lonely...

Thinking back and looking at the pictures from the past couple of days, it was really a short trip, and overall a little more bitter than sweet. Seeing my friend get married, and seeing another who is about to do the same, it felt like I’m losing my friends to married life, which makes my life as a singleton seem more ridiculous and desperate. I mean, there are just things you can’t really say or do to a friend who is with someone else already, so at times I felt I had to ‘hold myself back’. One thing that popped into my mind while I was walking and traveling around, even just briefly, was: find new (single) friends!

Or at least find a boyfriend, soon…

(Plattesteen mural)

I went to Soho (the gay area) while I was in London and sat around in Starbucks there for a while. I’m not really a fan of modern and chain stores, but this particular Starbucks was one I used to go to almost every week to drink and read quietly alone, or meet friends and chat in. All I did was look out the window, sipping my hot chocolate. All sorts of people walked by, and that was all they did. It’s been a while since I went out at night, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think (or hope) ‘maybe something’s going to happen tonight…’A number of (gay) couples sat around, chatting softly, holding hands. I just sat there and passed the night away. There were many other pubs and bars around the streets in Soho, but I didn’t go. The crowd seemed so (much) old(er), and the mood was the kind in cruising places oozing with sexual tension that I felt more intimidated than welcomed, even just passing by the door.

Nothing happened. And I just went home late, walking down the river bank again. But to be honest that night I had the most intense erotic dream for a long time, and my ex was in it. It was really real, I felt myself even groaning in sleep, and woke up with a stiff…

...neck from the way I was lying all over the bed. I usually don’t move much and curl my legs up to sleep, but that night was somehow different.

Funny thing was, as I was walking around in Brussels, I accidentally stumbled into the gay district in Plattesteen (‘Flatstone’). There were so many bars and clubs there, and all these rainbow flags hanging on the buildings. But since it was daytime, it was very empty. Not that I’d have the courage to go into those bars alone had it been night time, but just the thought of, of being somewhere where so many other ‘like-minded people’ frequent made the place feel ‘homey’.
(Gay district in Brussels)

Hm, to be honest, the last couple of days I felt really lonely, more so than usual when I travel by myself. I mean I’ve made so many trips all over the place in the past year, but this one especially, perhaps seeing my friends as they are now, made the loneliness feel more intense. And walking around it felt like I was a wanderer, trying to fit in, trying to pretend I was part of the many who live and work in the city, or a simple tourist who came and went without second thoughts. But I was neither…I was something else in between, lost between someone who was seeing things for the first time, but at the same time seeing things that brought back memories. Worse still, by the lingering and nagging feeling that I’m in search of something, or someone, to hold onto, but still unsure what, or who, it is that I’m searching for. Hopes really, dreams mostly, imaginations more often than not accompany me wherever I went, and they seem to tease, provoke and mock the depths of my emotions, yearnings and desires. But soon enough those fantasies vanish as I turn another corner, as I continue to walk and wander, as if they never existed.

As if I and those people and places were never there.

In London

(London Eye and County Hall)

Came home, and my little cat greeted me with her tail up and head rubbing against my legs as soon as I got upstairs. I was drenched, from walking around in the pouring rain the entire day. Some drops from London, some from Brussels, some from just outside—all raindrops nonetheless. Kitty didn’t seem to mind the fact I was dripping wet, and was happy to see me. I realised then how much I missed her.

It’s been a long couple of days, and a good change from being home the whole day. Again, like the other times when I travel, I felt so free and relaxed, as if the world lay out there for me to explore, and explore I could as far as my feet and tireless mind could carry me. It was a nostalgic trip more than anything, so a bit more blue than I had expected. I guess when you visit people and places from the past you tend to remember things that have been or could have been. And then all these thoughts of regret, sweet memories, silent flashbacks, replayed dialogues return to make you realise how long ago all that was… and how much older you’ve become.

I actually got to the railway station on Friday just in time to see the train arrive. Had I been a minute later I would’ve never made it. I got on the train, sat down and panted. Relieved, thankful and a little bit of anxiety still lingering had I been just a few moments late. As the train pulled away and gained speed towards Brussels, I laid back into my seat and watched the flat Dutch landscape roll by.

Checking in at the Eurostar terminal was a breeze. There were no long ques and no more stringent measures because of the heightened security alert. I was worried my bottle of water and orange juice, and supply of lotions and fragrance would be mistaken for potentially deadly devices. But nobody said a thing. Checking my ID took less than 10 seconds. The customs guy glanced at the card and at me, smiling, and then went on to wish me a good day. Some two hours later, at times traveling at 300km/hr, and across the English Channel, I was in London. To my surprise there was no passport control, and passengers just poured out of the terminal at Waterloo with ease while heavily armed police stood and watched. Maybe terrorists don’t like trains.


Met up with the friend I stayed with the next couple of days in London. We met in the last year of uni, and got pretty close soon enough. He and I share a lot experiences, and I admire him for being such a strong person despite the things he went through growing up. He was put in foster care, and terribly abused by numerous people for many years. Even as recently as a couple of years ago he was molestered by his landlord. He’s taking legal action against the abusers, and has so far only managed to get a meager compensation from the landlord. The court decided my friend was a teen and homosexual, so didn’t really think it could’ve amounted to rape and anything traumatic. Shocking really…if it was a teenage girl and a grown adult, they’d immediately put the perpetrator in jail for years and have him under surveillance for the rest of his life.




He’s from Ireland, and I just love the way he speaks, both in the accent and the way he uses words. Maybe it wasn’t just the way he speaks I loved, and seeing him again at times brought back other feelings. For many months I helped him with his Chinese studies, since he’s a little disabled and dyslexic. Tutoring mostly, and also going along to his lectures to take notes for him. It was a test of patience sometimes, as he could be very bossy and sometimes didn’t really bother with the studies. But I got paid by the uni for being an assistant, well, so I didn’t mind too much. That meant on top of my own ‘heavy’ hours in the final year, I had to attend his classes too. A total of around 20hrs of lectures a week… Now, compared to the 10 or less hours of lectures I had in previous years that’s stressful!

(Whitehall)

I met him and his fiancé at the station. She’s a skinny, short Japanese girl, but nothing like the other Japanese girls I’ve met. This one actually talks, has a mind of her and is really playful too; unlike traditional Japanese girls who just sit in the corner quietly and humbly waiting to serve the husband. They both met at a meeting of SGI, a branch of Japanese Buddhism which does a lot of chanting and praying. Their upcoming wedding in November will be a Buddhist one, and I was actually asked to be the best man. For the moment I didn’t say for sure if I could attend. I felt I didn’t really have what it takes to be best man, but then again I really have no idea what it takes. He said there’s no one else better for role, but I still feel a little uncomfortable.



(Camden Town)

Anyways, dropped off my stuff at their little apartment just off of Waterloo station. Had some traditional English ‘afternoon tea’, and met their fat cat. She’s really huge, unlike my own. And the times I was there she never seemed to budge from the place she occupied on my friend’s bed. The only time she walks up is to get food, or to terrorise you by walking on your pillow just as you’re trying to sleep. And when she walks her belly is big and flabby it hangs to the ground. Her purr is really loud and wheezy like an out-of-tune machine. For the nights I spent at their place I sometimes fell asleep and woke up with her tail brushing against my face, and her loud, incessant purring.

Within an hour of arriving we were out and about, armed with three digital cameras and my memories of places I’d like to visit and see again. Walked down the Thames towards London Eye (giant merry-go-around also known as the Millennium Wheel), Houses of Parliament, Whitehall (where many government offices and ministries are located), Trafalgar Square, Piccadilly Circus, Oxford Street (main shopping in central London), then onto King’s Cross station to pick up my tickets for the trip down south to the wedding the next day.

It took some time to get used to the crowd and noise that describes and consumes London. I guess when I left the city two years ago, I also left behind what it was like—all that traffic, chaos, constant buzzing and din, the hordes of tourists and people rushing around, so many things and events taking place at a fast pace that can leave you out of breath just watching it all go by. And waling on the ‘wrong’ (right) side of the road didn’t help if you had to push your way through, against the flow of the crowd. I felt so disorientated and a little dizzy and unwell, plus perhaps the fact that I had just made a long trip to get to London. Everything was happening so fast, and I was walking around like a little boy from the countryside seeing everything for the first time. Though it wasn’t the first time. And that made it feel all the more disorienting.

I guess all the landmarks are still there, still standing, still glorious and beautiful in their special ways. Though undoubtedly countless eyes and cameras have captured them in the past two years since I was last in London. And many more events and changes have taken place in the country, in the city that it’s impossible to recount them all, let alone imagine. It’s a funny feeling, really. Like every corner I turn, there seem to be so many memories that return, saddled with voices and faces of those I shared with, all waiting for me around every corner, all waiting for the next step I take on this journey down memory lane.

(London at night, overlooking St Paul's Cathedral)

That evening I went for a stroll down the river, as I would do again a day or two later by myself. It’s so quietly romantic, with all those dazzling lights and rippling water. This is the one thing I really miss about London. I used to walk down the river along the south bank and thoroughly enjoy the quiet yet buzzing calm along the way, which is dotted with traditional pubs and the occasional street artist, not to mention homeless people with placards trying to show in so many words how hungry and whatever ills have befallen them in a lonesome attempt to squeeze pity and few pennies from passerbys. My ex and I spent a lot of time on this river bank too. Bitter… and sweet.

From this side of the river, you can capture the old, the modern, the chic and the derelict London all mingled together before you. The bright lights of The City (banking and financial district) glows in the darkness, almost brimming and humming with the sounds of money and stock transactions even at night. St. Paul’s Cathedral and its gigantic dome towers over the city, trying to compete for space with the mushrooming skyscrapers, only managing to distinguish itself by its pure whiteness and medieval architectural style, or otherwise would have all too easily been swallowed whole into the backdrop of the urban sprawl of concrete, steel and glass.

Now and then barges and sightseeing boats sail along beside you, flashes of light appearing from inside their darkened cabins, as yet another tourist captures memories and scenes to treasure one day when he is far, far away. And then there are the bridges, some rumbling like a low cloud of thunder as trains roll on it and pull into the many stations along the river. Others flash with red and white lights as cars and double-decker buses speed across them, from one side of the river to the other.

Shakespeare’s Globe, Tate Modern, London City Hall, Southwark Cathedral, the Tower Bridge, and in the distance three glistening towers in the Docklands…they all stand there, some after centuries, some just for a decade, others for even less of a period, but all proud to be part of the scene, part of the vibrance and life that embodies this great city. From the quiet of the river bank, you can see London, in all its shapes and sizes, in all its history and glory. You can feel and see it pulsate and wane before your eyes, and get closer to understanding why this is one of the greatest cities in the world.

"When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life”
Samuel Johnson

There's also:

• More on my visit to SOAS, my old uni.
• Something on my visit to Brussels
  

Please visit the following links to my travellog for more exciting pictures!

• London from the air
  
• Sightseeing in London: nightscape IV
• Sightseeing in London: nightscape III
• Sightseeing in London: nightscape II
• Sightseeing in London: nightscape
  
  
• Sightseeing in London: Docklands III
• Sightseeing in London: Docklands II
• Sightseeing in London: Docklands I
  
• Sightseeing in London: University of London
• Sightseeing in London: British Museum
  
  
• Sightseeing in London: Camden Town III
• Sightseeing in London: Camden Town II
• Sightseeing in London: Camden Town
• Sightseeing in London: Royal Parks

• Sightseeing in London: Buckingham Palace
• Sightseeing in London: Covent Garden
  
  
• Sightseeing in London IV
• Sightseeing in London III
• Sightseeing in London II
• Sightseeing in London I
  
  
• London Eye
• Train travel