the Boys are back in Town

I saw the poster announcing their joint concert a while ago. Should I or shouldn't I? I just forgot. I saw the odd combination of mature male thirty-somethings on the sofa on BBC breakfast talking about their tour and again felt a tingle of excitement. Should I? And I forgot. Again. But when Bridget Maasland was talking about the NKOTBSB tour yesterday on RTL Boulevard, hitting Ahoy that same night, I could no longer contain myself, grabbed some money and set way to the South of Rotterdam, where 20 (yes, that's twenty) years ago I attended my first ever concert: New Kids On The Block. Long before festivals and concerts sold out online in 4 minutes and I declared myself 'alternative' at the tender age of 15, I queued for hours to get the tickets with a primary school friend at the local VVV tourist information point. So now it was smooth sailing, just paying 35 euro's for an e-ticket some poor sick girl had given to her friends.

I can honestly say I skipped into Ahoy, mainly affected by all the female hormones flying around. And it was lovely. The conversations no longer were about going to secondary school or how you feel about your 12-year old classmate, but I heard women talk about their children, make-up, face peelings, work and the new men in their lives, who obviously replaced Joey, Donny, Nick, AJ, etc. a long time ago. "What did your husband say when you told him you wanted to go to this concert?" "He just cringed and begged me if he could stay home to watch the kids. I told him, you're not even allowed to come!" Laughs all around before the screaming starts. Oh, the screams. The scream-O-meter indicated that Brian McFadden was the most popular dude present, by the way. I am not much of a screamer, but I do sing along. LOUD. Imagine my surprise that I actually remembered the lyrics to the Backstreet Boys songs better than the New Kids ones, because, well, they were the enemy of everything I stood for (Nirvana, Bjork, Greenday, Ben Folds). At one point I actually heard myself shout: play another song. Which they did, for 2,5 hours (!!!) nine once boys, now married men, sang their hearts, souls and shirts off to the delight of a large audience of appreciative females. And males, I might add. I saw grown men sing along with tears in their eyes. A beer in one hand, a recording mobile phone in the other.

Highlights of the evening for me were 'Tonight, Tonight',  'Everybody', realizing that Joey can actually sing (instead of being just so damn cute), giggling at dance-moves gone wrong, Donnie Wahlberg's shirtless body, the mashups with Coldplay and Robbie Williams music, watching the smiles on all the guys' faces who were clearly enjoying themselves and the nostalgia of all these beaming women in retro t shirts. The boys are all grown up now. Last time I saw AJ, he was on Oprah talking about fighting his addiction. Tuesday-night he looked healthy in his 'Just Married' and 'Daddy to Be' sparkly tanktop and for some reason I felt proud that he had overcome his childhood demons. What do you call these aged boys? 'The Backstreet Men' just sounds like a dodgy crime novel... Ah well, who cares, NKOTBSB was great, so to a rather large group of thirty something women they will always be referred to as New Kids On The Block and the Backstreet Boys.

But please boys, what's with the Michael Jackson style crotch moves? Have your mama's never taught you not to touch your genitalia in public? Or maybe I'm just getting old...

the Longest Weekend

In Rotterdam seasons can go by without anything happening, and then your diary hits a weekend with not enough hours in a day to complete your full schedule. On Thursday I was a very hard working volunteer for the coproduced opening of IABR, Luchtsingel and Motel Mozaique. My job was to drag folding-tables across a parking-lot, to make it look cozy for the official opening ceremony which included ribbon-cutting, balloons and a flashmob of Robins and Batmen. Yes, I just used the words 'parking-lot' and 'cozy' in one sentence. After all the heavy lifting, dragging, coffee arranging, spell checking, explaining the purpose of the Luchtsingel to the security and first aid people,  and kitchen cleaning (the work of a volunteer is never done), came my favorite part of the day; the balloon cutting. Releasing a net filled with dozens of colorful helium-balloons should be on anyone's bucketlist. It was just as impressive for the large group of serious-looking mature architects, as it was for their four-year old daughters. I couldn't resist slicing open a leftover balloon and inhaling the helium, making me sound like a Donald Duck character. I don't do drugs, but I'm a sucker for a good dose of helium.

view Pschorry

Friday was one of those days that I could fall in love with Rotterdam all over again. The weather cleared after the unpredictable showers of Thursday and even the sun decided to take a look at what was going on on Motel Mozaique territory. The 2-day festival of music, culture and performance comes with a surprise-guarantee, some more pleasant than others. I went to see Blaudzun. Twice.

Enjoyed the marvelous view from the 18th floor of the Hofpoort, at cafe Pschorry. Even a phonecall telling me I was rejected for an internship, didn't damage my mood, because I had my eyes on a bearded Wunderbaum Eskimo. He was singing about mountains in the snow, on a temporary stage built on top of an abandoned trainstation, surrounded by an approving audience who had to wear shades against the bright sunlight. Rejection, schmection, just let me get back to my MoMo-bubble. Biggest surprise must have been 120 Days, where I danced my socks of amidst a small crowd in good-old Rotown. After this electronic trip, the lost Hanson brother with the smokey wiskey voice of Jamie in the Gouvernestraat was a bit, well, common.

Torre en zijn Staat

The saturday was a bit of an option overdose with MoMo day 2, a street musician festival and RecordStore Day. So I let other people decide for me and just tagged along, giving myself the chance for unscheduled encounters. And it was good, solid fun. From the Hema, to the Velvet and back to square 1, the Schouwburgplein. It's still the heart and soul of the festival, where one can type an old fashioned letter, climb into a big white plastic ball whilst simultaneously listen to 'De Staat'. That evening the rain threw a curveball into my volunteering duties, arriving completely soaked at my post. Luckily I can improvise as good as the next girl, and did what everyone would do: pulled down my tanktop and wear it as a skirt. Obviously I can dedicate a few lines to the praise of Patrick Watson, but I'll only say this: if Patrick Watson was a religion, I would be a believer. More credits go to the 'Dennis' character in my Artez-encounter; a one-on-one theater thingie which left me thinking about myself, my analytical view on life and the purpose of sharing. I got some good chocolate out of it as well.
It's a good thing I wrote this blog in the train yesterday, as I came back from Brussels where I just spent a day with Anastasia, my Belarusian friend, because this Monday is a bit dark. It's not just the famous black hole you fall into after a good holiday, or in this case an amazing weekend. It's also the blankness of my ever empty diary, due to an almost uninterrupted streak of unemployment, which after one year finally seems to get the better of me. For now, I'll hope for more weekends like this last one.

post-Hamburg

It's been a month since my last blog on 'meanwhile back home'. I've been neglecting it. Again. In my defense, I did write a lot for my criminology blog. Reluctantly I open up my journal, has really nothing interesting happened in my life, that is worth writing about?
I wrote a couple of application-letters, well, 6 to be exact, had a few coffee-dates and a dentist appointment, went to Hamburg. What the...? Did I not write about Hamburg? I guess I didn't. That's unfair, because my weekend in Hamburg deserves it's own blog.

When I saw my old Canterbury friends come up with a plan to meet in Germany on Facebook, I realised with a pang of jealousy that I wanted to be part of it. And my current situation allows for instant plan-making, so I booked a cheap flight.
Obviously it was really nice to see my Canterbury group, Evi, Jenny, Verena, Sandra, Nicolas and Yarin, again. They are a good bunch and I am proud to call them my friends. My weekend was calm and mellow. Just like life in a warm country slows down, the same goes for the freezing cold. With my limbs unable to heat up and my head suffering from a contstant brainfreeze, I was punished for packing wrong. Layering up might seem like a good idea to avoid check-in luggage, but when it's -5, you need proper snowboots and two pairs of jeans. Lesson learned.
But, we managed to deal with he cold and with an extra pair of Verena's legwarmers, I was even persuaded to do some ice-skating on a frozen lake. Along with the rest of Hamburgs inhibitants. My brave moves were rewarded with a nice plastic cup of mulled wine. Hot cocao might have worked when I was 5, but I now I need better bribery.
Other than that, it was the perfect weekend getaway that involved the right mixture of friends and food (lots of kaffee, kuchen and gewurst). Picking up roommates and boyfriends scattered throughout the city allowed for some interesting sightseeing. Watching a half-Turkish Yarin and a half-Greek Evi cook together in a tiny kitchen whilst listening to their ideas on politics and criminology, makes me believe in Europe. My meeting with Hamburgs nightlife was a one off. My cold limbs and tired body only allowed me to go dancing once, in a dark reggea basement. Dark because of the weedy smoke, not necessarily the lack of proper lights. Highlight must have been spending an afternoon on a boat, muddling through slushpuppy-like icewater, watching both the coast of Hamburg and the containerships pass by at a very slow pace. I felt truly blessed that I have been able to meet these guys and spent some extra time with them after my 6 weeks in Canterbury. I can't wait to see them again, and I hope they know that they are welcome in Rotterdam.

the IFFR bubble

I wrote about this before, a couple of times actually, the IFFR bubble. It's very hard to explain to non-IFFR people. And Volkskrantdag visitors don't count, simply because they don't have to suffer for their tickets. There, I said it.
I made an attempt to explain the feeling to a friend: "I have no sense of time anymore," I showed him my hand which had various notes and the present weekday and date written on it. "Cycling back and forth to town, rain or snow, has no impact. My Christmascards are still on top of my cupboard, unopened mail piles up. I'm walking on my last legs and my mind is in real-life-oblivion." My friend responded that it must be like being high. Honestly, I wouldn't know, but I'll take his word for it.
I stopped doing laundy, washing up, writing application letters or returning my mothers phonecalls. My choice of clothes is reduced tot a standard uniform that involves the yellow keycord, a skirt, sneakers and legwarmers. My phone tells me I still have 4 'new' voicemail-messages, which have to wait another week. Instead I go from my subco-shift (coordinating the box-office which involves a lot of problemsolving and super-last minute ticket selling for sold out screenings) to an obscure film in one of Rotterdam's cinemas and back. Some films are worth watching, others worth getting some eye-shut in and a few worth remembering. And in this process, that I share with another 800 volunteers and 274.000 visitors, it's every man for him or herself. In order to survive you have to maintain a certain amount of selfishness. Until it's well past midnight and everybody gets together in the cozy, smoky livingroom of Hotel Central. Even though it's been a few hours since I got my coat and told everyone I was really going home... This has nothing to do with a lack of spine, but more the combination of red port with ice and enjoying time spent with lovely people whom I won't be seeing for a while. These type of festivals are like children's camps, but for grown-ups. Responsibility doesn't matter as much: that's how you end up behind a button on IFFR's own version of 'Take me out'. And get chosen.
That's IFFR: all consuming, simultaneously energetic and tiring, exciting and exhausting; a life reduced to a flowchart. Maybe it's more a black hole than a bubble.
The black bubble ended a couple of days ago and I'm still showing signs from post-IFFR exhaustion. You know this when you try to stick your keys into an ATM-machine, still live of leftover lunch-package sandwiches you put in your freezer (I'm unemployed people!) and the mere thought of watching another film (Cinerama or not) gives you the shivers.
Can't wait till next year!

Meanwhile in Minsk

Here, it's the odd shower with some diluted sunshine. A little splash of rain that like a lingering sneeze doesn't really follow through. It could be different. This morning I received this picture from Ana, my friend from Minsk, Belarus.

That puts things in perspective doesn't it. And before you go 'aaaaaah' or 'oooooeeeeh', or show any other expressions of admiration, keep in mind that this does not end till spring. And she hates it. Detests every pesky, little snowflake slowing her down in order to get to work and get on with her life. On the bright side; growing up in a wintery country like Belarus, she can knit better than anyone else I know. Her woolly works keep me and my family all warm in Belarussian knitwear (is there any other??). Which I am very grateful for. Can't wait to see her again in 2 months time in Dublin.

That Girl

Since battling my unemployment, i get to spent a lot of time doing whatever I want, whenever I want. Some people might find this absolute heaven, and for a while it was. But even heaven gets boring if you run out of things to do.
I've never travelled to more countries (eight), volunteered at more festivals (six) and read more books than I did in 2011. Unfortunately I've also never found it this hard to finding a new job and never been more rejected than that same year. Having worked since I was 13 (cloakroom Hofplein theater), I find it difficult not to. I'm not asking for the world, just a proper, paid job that doesn't waste my education and knowledge.
Books and websites are filled with 'toptips' on 'how to land my dreamjob'; they obviously did not bank on the recession. But I have plenty of time to read them anyway.
I've learned how to manage my online profile, do a lot of selfreflection, how to write custom-made application letters and that when a company says that they don't have any vacancies, they usually don't.
I've also learned that 'I have to create my own fun and challenges', that 'a career is nothing more than a six-pack of jobs' and '13 naughty things to do with Post-Its'. On second thought, 'the Bad Girl's Guide to getting what you want', might not be the most useful book out of the self-help section. The Handbook for the modern woman gives insight on how to behave when indulging in an office romance; think it through and keep it quiet initially. Unfortunately no job means no work-love either...
Watching a lot of the Office only proves helpful on how not to behave when working in a paper-company. I now would do extremely well in a discussion on who would do better in real-life management: Ricky Gervais or Steve Carrell. But mostly, I've learned how to deal with rejection. Nobody showed me how, it just sort of happened. It's not a big secret, but it works for me. Every day I come across 'That Girl'. She could be anyone from the media, she comes up in conversation and it's a different woman or girl every day. She has one particular characteristic: she is worse of than me.
Yep, that's right; it's my petty coping skill: I find some sort of consolation in reading on females in bad, bad situations. It can be the girls who died at home due to carbonmonoxide poisoning. The wife who got bludgeoned to death by her Gelredome-director husband, a female cyclist who was molested by a busdriver. It can be the whole range of celebrity divorces brightning my day.
Because it means that I'm alive, and the grass is not always greener. It's horrible, but this knowledge keeps me grounded. I can moan a bit on this job-seeking adventure, but I'm doing it with my sanity and my bodily functions intact. And every day I am gratefull for the simple fact that I am Not That Girl.

Domesticated

I've been back in Rotterdam for a week and a half now and I've already been rejected twice. Three times if you count my exes changed Facebookstatus. He went from 'single' to 'in a relationship' on what could have been our 1-year anniversary. Ah well, I guess it's not technically a rejection, just a good example of bad timing. The first two were more upsetting though, although I am told that I should not take them personally: these are hard times for the jobseekers amongst us. And who wants to work for a company that leaves the rejection-message on your voicemail anyway.
My parents are burning candles by the dozen in order to support me for my third and final vacancy-option. It's down to the last two... that's 50/50. I'm not sure what that means nowadays, it's better than marriage I guess.
I'm also unsure how to behave. Certain spiritual guidelines would advise me to behave like I already got the job, pretend to start January 1st and celebrate what could be my last long Christmas-holiday in a loooong time. Practical realism taught me not to keep my hopes up high. But marriage and unemployment are compromise, that's why I'm working two days a week as a waitress and in the meantime thoroughly enjoying my time off. I set the alarm at 8, only for the pleasure of switching it off again to get another two hours of sleep. I am reading two books simultaneously (Killing Bono and One Blood), working through a stack of dusty magazines, finishing a computergame I started in 2009 (Syberia 2) and drinking a lot of solidarity coffees with friends. Going through series as if they're running out of fashion. Watching Dr. Phil, and the next day's rerun. I'm even taking the time to clean my house, although I'm not sure if putting up Christmas-decorations counts as cleaning, it is considered domestic bliss.
Oh god, I need this job, and I need it badly, before I turn into bloody Martha Stewart, making my own aprons out of unused shoppingbags and mucking about with the camera's automatic relief.
Well, it's too late for that now...