25 January 2011—Rotterdam
After forcing me to eat
breakfast, Artur took me to the train station. With my EuRail Global Pass now in hand, I was departing for
Rotterdam. While on board the
train to Frankfurt, I realized I had forgotten to activate my pass. Shit. I anxiously waited and hoped a conductor would not pass by
to collect tickets (as seems to be a trend on many German trains). No one did. At the Frankfurt station I rushed to the ticket counter to activate
the pass. After the amount of
money I had spent on the pass, I didn’t want to risk spending more because of
my stupidity (a frequent cause of my unnecessary splurging). I made my connection by seconds.
When I arrived in
Rotterdam it was dark. I had
forgotten to make arrangements for myself this evening. A hotel room was appealing for some
much-needed privacy—a chance to walk around naked, sing in the shower,
etc. I went out hunting for a
hotel, carrying my things with me.
When I initially walked out of the station, I unknowingly walked out the
back entrance. The streets were small,
dark, and there wasn’t much around.
I wandered for about an hour, thoroughly unimpressed with the size of
Rotterdam and aching from the pack weighing on my back. After failing to find a hotel I
returned to the station to shove my pack into a locker and continue my
search. I discovered the other end
of the station, and this time when I exited I was surrounded by people, lights,
and skyscrapers. This seemed a bit
more accurate to my expectations.
I turned down a street
with lighted trees lining its sidewalks.
With bike lanes, roads, and trolley lines swirling amongst each other, I
was sure a vehicle of some sort would collide with me. I crossed a main street at a light, a
little green man gave me permission.
When I got to the other side, a cop began to yell at me in Dutch. She was tall, broad, and had bleached
spiked hair. She was
terrifying. I stared at her blankly. Apparently the little man had turned
red as I reached the end of my crossing, and this had been all that she had
seen. I have truly learned the art
of sweet, oblivious, apologetic little girl. This has been quite useful.
Eventually I found a
little hotel nestled into a side street.
I entered and asked if any rooms were available. She proceeded to lead me through a maze
to my door. I set my things down
and decided to head back out for food.
It was now about 8 pm and the last thing I had eaten was the breakfast
prepared by Artur. It took me
about 10 minutes to find my way back out.
I walked through several corridors, down multiple staircases, doubled
back, tried again, and tried again before I finally found the exit to the
street. I walked back toward the
station, grabbed a pizza, and picked up my pack from the locker.
26 January 2011—Rotterdam
Map in hand, belongings
again shoved into a train station locker, I decided to introduce myself to the
city—wandering, exploring, convincing her to reveal her secrets and her beauty.
After over seven hours of
walking, my feet were blistered and searing with pain. I have learned to ignore
the cries of my toes, the sighs of my heels, and the tingling numbing of my
arms and fingers. I returned to
the train station to meet my hosts for the next few days—Tessa and Tijmen.
27 January 2011—Rotterdam
International Film Festival Rotterdam
I opted to see two films
at the International Film Festival, the reason I had chosen Rotterdam as my
destination for these days. The
first film I saw was called Gravity was Everywhere Back Then. It
was a charming film, and I enjoyed it thoroughly. Brent Green, a self-taught animator from Pennsylvania,
recreated the story of a man named Leonard alongside the physical structure
that was the haphazard quilt of a house he had hoped would save his wife. Brent Green’s voice narrates in a whine
that is initially irritating, but becomes essential to the feel as he croons
about the musings in his mind.
There is something to which each person can connect—whether it is
unfaltering love for another, dedication to an art or passion, or a search for
meaning and value. Brent’s wit
(“It only takes two things to make a man fall in love: sex and laughter, not at
the same time”) intertwines with his existential reflections to offer a film
that simultaneously uplifts and weighs heavily upon its viewer.
The second film I attended
was Film Socialisme by
Jean-Luc Godard, for which I had high expectations. Ever since I was introduced to Godard’s Weekend during my freshman year in the university, I was
intrigued by his unusual style and insightful commentary. However, I don’t really know what to
say about Film Socialisme. Perhaps, I would be better off if I
spoke a montage of languages.
While the film claims to be subtitled, Godard is very creative with this
interpretation. What is otherwise
a dense commentary on the social and political (in primarily French, but a
medley of languages is spoken throughout) is condensed into truncated,
scattered, and elusive two or three word phrases. As a result, I spent most of my time simply trying to grasp
an understanding of what was going on as the film jumped between collages of
seemingly disconnected images. The
film produced polarized reactions at Cannes, and I’m sure it performed
similarly in Rotterdam. While many
remained in their seats for the films lengthy entirety, others (once quite
literally) were climbing over the backs of their seats toward the exit.
28 January 2011—Rotterdam
In the morning (well, my
morning, therefore mid-day), a second surfer arrived—Matt from Newcastle. Matt was volunteering at the Rotterdam
film festival and had to head back into the city for his shift. We decided to walk together (which,
after observing his navigation skills, was probably a necessity). Now, I will say this about Matt. Before Matt, I had always insisted that the British accent was overrated, even annoying. Matt changed my mind. His manner of speech was absolutely
adorable and, as we bickered over pronunciation and word choice (from which
Tessa and Tijmen seemed to garner much enjoyment), I think I fell in love with the
British accent—must add England to the itinerary.
When Matt and I parted
ways in the city center, I grabbed a quick lunch. Matt had suggested the Fotomuseum, which was currently
hosting an exhibit on radicalization.
I was intrigued, so I followed his suggestion. The exhibit focused on young radical activists. While often perceived with negative
connotations, has radicalization not been central to the social progress that
has established today’s norms and standards? And yet, this driving idealism of the youth is so often
pushed aside and condemned as naïve and impractical. The exhibit was a mix of mediums—photography, graphics, art,
film, confessionals—that questions and considers both the origin and the
consequence of the radical today, and his or her role in a time of political
polarization. More can be read and
many parts of the exhibit viewed at http://www.a-n-g-r-y.nl,
but if you don’t speak Dutch, I can’t necessarily promise you much success.
When I left the Fotomuseum,
the sun was setting. In the
distance was the Euromast, an observation point hovering over the city. I had previously told myself that I
wasn’t going to venture up it, mostly because I was too cheap. When the length of your travel is
dependent upon the extension of your money, you begin to prioritize and be
quite stingy (most of the time). At ten euros, the mast seemed like a waste, but I figured I
may get some nice photos and I had quite a bit of spare time.
The observation deck was
outside. And FUCK, was it
cold. As the wind threatened to
throw me from tower, I huddled over the railing trying to steady my camera. My fingers became numb and barely
functional. With my camera in one
hand, I would tuck the other into my sleeve, trying to regain feeling. As soon as it did, I would alternate,
teasing each hand with a moment of comfort before thrusting it back out into
the bitter cold evening. However,
I was determined to get my money’s worth.
I wanted sunset and night shots, so I hunkered down and stood my ground
in the blistery winds for nearly an hour.
When I returned to Tessa
and Tijmen’s, I wrapped myself in a blanket and slowly regained warmth. Shortly after, Tessa arrived home. She had invited me to join her, Tijmen,
and some others for a show. Some
friends were performing at a local venue called Exit. Fond of new places, new people, and new music, I accepted
ecstatically. The band was called
the Flying Goat Fuckers (alongside two others); however, for some reason I
seemed to consistently refer to them as the Exploding Goat Fuckers. Now, I would love to offer a sample of
their music, but they don’t even have a Myspace. Yes, they are just that cool.
The music was catchy, and
in combination with beer, it didn’t take long for us to start dancing. Casper repeatedly poured beer on
himself (some sort of mating ritual perhaps?), while the rest of us hopped around like imbeciles, bounding into one another as others watched
in intrigue and amusement.
Matt got off of work late
and joined us, clearly far behind on the alcohol consumption. I bought him a shot of Jäger to try to
help bring him up to speed, but it was going to take a lot more than that. When we left Exit, Tijmen brought the
group to what he affectionately refers to as the “butt-plug gnome” for some
entertaining pictures. As we
climbed on the statue, we were even joined by some complete strangers who
wanted in on the action.
29 January 2011—Rotterdam
We met a number of
Tessa’s friends for a ride on the pancake boat. Despite their close proximity, no one except Tessa had
ridden it, and for her it had only been as a child. On the boat, one was able to eat unlimited pancakes as long
as it continued moving. This was
accompanied by a buffet stocked with sugary sweets, jams, fruit, and other
toppings. It was sunset, and as we
stuffed ourselves, we found it difficult to get our money’s worth. After two pancakes, I was bursting at
the seams, but determined to continue.
My first was a traditional sugary pancake, the second with pineapple and
cheese (as inspired by Matt). For
my third, I decided to attempt a PB&J pancake, as suggested by Lennert,
Tijmen’s older brother. As I
smeared the peanut butter and jelly over the pancake, the others commented on
its unappetizing appearance. I
rolled it and tasted. No
good. Others tried it out of
curiosity and we came to a consensus that that which works on bread does not
always work on pancakes.
We headed up to the deck,
which was empty (probably because it was fucking freezing). Shenanigans ensued. We discussed the prospects of raiding
the ball pit downstairs, but concluded that it was packed with too many
obnoxious children.
After a little over an hour, the
boat docked. Laura, an Italian
girl and friend of Tessa, consumed the most pancakes—six. An impressive feat, and she didn’t
skimp on the toppings. Matt came
in second with four or five.
I was supposed to head to Amsterdam
that evening, but the company was so enjoyable that I was persuaded to stay in
Rotterdam until Monday. Amsterdam
could wait. We went
to a grocery store, perused the shelves, and returned to Tessa’s apartment
stocked with wine, bread, crackers, and other tasty things. It was a fairly calm evening in. We sat in the living room, drinking and
having lively discussions.
Lennert, who studies Wing Chun, decided to give the females lessons in
self-defense. As a result, a large
portion of our evening consisted of Lennert lunging at us, exclaiming “I’m
grabbing your boobs, what do you do?!?!”
30 January 2011—Rotterdam
Tessa and Tijmen took
Matt and I on a tour of the city.
There was a particular destination in mind—Stroopwafles.
Stroopwafles are a traditional Dutch desert consisting of two thin
waffle crisps with sugary syrup slathered between them. The man preparing them told me “Be
careful, those are dangerous,” and further alluded to tormenting nightmares
when one has been introduced to the treat, and later deprived. I chuckled, and proceeded to enjoy this
(apparently) delectably dangerous desert.
In the evening I attended
another show with Tessa, Tijmen, and a few of their friends. Two members in the opening act were
work colleagues of Tessa. The
second act, an American band called Glasser, wore elaborate costumes. I was unquestionably in love with her
dress.
I ended the evening with
a little cultural experience. Back
at Ruut, Robin, and Casper’s apartment, we all gathered around the television
to watch the Nationaal Songfestival for the selection of the song that would
represent the Netherlands at the 2011 Eurovision Song Contest (to take place in
Düsseldorf).
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