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Published: June 14th 2009
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Food for thought...
Oh, what could have been! It was the homeostatic equivalent of placing a loaded pistol to my temple and pulling the trigger. Consuming 1 bottle of cheap whisky, watching 3 football world cup qualifiers, joining a protracted and intense debate about various global woes and sleeping 3 hours must rank among the worst possible preparation routines for a long-haul, transcontinental flight.
What would you do? You have a nasty flight and an even more gruesome connection beginning the next day when your roommates invite you to join them in an evening of restrained revelry. The cute Angel on my right shoulder firmly reminded me that AirasiaX’s seats on the KL-London route weren’t going to be conducive to a good sleep, and London’s Stanstead airport certainly wasn’t going to provide comfortable locations to pass the 15-odd hours between my midnight arrival and the expected departure time of my connection to Schipol. The Devil on my right shoulder (who produced a reasonable impression of Ronnie John’s ‘Chopper Reid’) quietly reminded me that at 23 years of age I was far too young to be worrying about the short-term consequences of binge drinking. Furthermore, he insisted that I harden the fuck up. Fuckin’ spot on Bevan. (For reference,
see:
).
My fate was sealed. Whisky + 3 hours sleep + an extended experience of AirAsia’s ‘hospitality’ + London Stanstead for 15 hours + jetlag = ZOMBIE.
In my 15 hours on British soil I managed to lose and find my phone, my wallet and my sanity. My sanity however, was only found upon departure. I found what I thought to be a cosy and secluded campsite, away from human traffic and possible muggings. My cosy little campsite happened to be next to the entrance to the staff room and under an unnecessarily loud P.A. system. Honestly, you would think that at 3am they would have the decency to lessen the reminders about presenting your boarding pass upon arrival at your departure gate. Perhaps I take common sense for granted…
I exited Schipol Airport faster than a rock star facing allegations of bestiality. Bad comparison I know, but you have to understand that I was out of there FAST. After sampling the local tap beers at the pub with my beautiful host, Fam, I passed out for the next 5 hours until my not-to-be-fooled body clock kick started the pleasant experience of time adjustment. Ahhh jetlag, my
Indus
Boyfriend #2 old friend! Fam and her best friend Geert (pronounce the G as if your were clearing your throat) had devised a method intended to both wake me up and cleanse my body of the filth and horrors of England. I was chauffeured to the neighbouring town of Veenendal for a ‘traditional’ sauna treatment. My mind was instantly filled with rather pleasant images of naked Dutch nymphs floating spectrally through clouds of steam, low giggles luring me further and further into the sweaty heat. . . Sorry, lost the plot for a second. Well, I was and I wasn’t disappointed. The parts of the sauna that I really liked included:
A) The nudity;
B) the truly pan-European selection of sauna treatments, ranging from Turkish steam-fests to Finnish torture devices, a huge bubble pool to an ice-cold bucket of water to cool you down after near-spontaneous combustion;
C) being covered head to toe in honey and baking in a 90° room with 98% humidty;
D) being allowed to eat a bistro meal in a rather refined restaurant wearing nothing but a towel;
E) being able to feel my hands and feet again.
The parts that I didn’t like so much
included:
A) The fact that 90% of the Dutch ‘nymphs’ were members of the 60+ brigade;
B) the fact that of the 60+ brigade, the male:female ratio was approximately 70:30;
C) the rather brisk 50m walk of shame from the ice-pool to the change rooms with a hibernating worm.
In all it was a great time. I entered with the affects of my time spent in England clogging my pores and brain and left as clean as I have ever been in my life. I did require assistance to walk as my interior had begun to resemble walnut crossed with a sultana, but apart from that minor hiccup everything was A-ok.
So Holland now. I love it here! Fam’s house reminds me of hostels worldwide, thankfully minus any hint of arrogant Israeli occupation, freaky Asia-travel veterans with drinking problems, crazed Bowie fans and the various other minefields of bad conversations found worldwide in hostels. Her housemates are awesome and have welcomed me into their home. The hangover food is magnificent (frikadele special and frites thank you very much). Her 2nd boyfriend (a large equine fellow who goes by the name of Indus) doesn’t hate me (!). Everyone speaks
English with greater proficiency than many Australians, which helps me because I often mistake spoken Dutch for someone choking on their food. It is Summer, and daylight begins to fail at 10:30pm. A pot of amazingly awesome jaw-droppingly excellent beer costs the same as a stubbie of Carlton. And most importantly, I am able to finally get introduced to all of the many people and one horse that Fam has been talking about for over a year. It’s nice!
Oh, get this Australian readers; an average Dutch person will happily tell me that Vegemite tastes like mouldy goat sperm, while at the same time wolfing down a whole raw Herring with only chopped onion to add to the taste. Strange folk…
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Hanna
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Sweden?
hi mr T, how are u?what are your traveling plans? Sweden? if u are... give me a call +4676448622 och email me... /H