Monday, 22 February 2010

Temporary Leave

Dear 1.3 readers,
I've just packed my things, and unpacked my things, and strews them all across a should-be-shiny parquet floor at my new house right across the Erasmus bridge.
Pictures to come, the view is amazing.
I've got no internet, dear .3 of a reader, I've got none, dear 1. Well I do, since I'm writing now, but it's so bad, so awful it took me 20 minutes of refreshing to get here. Thus, I'm pausing.
Weird thing is, this is Holland. A new age European country and yet it takes 3 weeks longer to get a good internet connection here than in South Africa, where I can call the service and while I'm speaking I'm being connected. Sure, the connection here will be much better than there but, really?
But it's got its good points too. I have no excuse to not go out and find things.
I'm going to go find things.
See you shortly.

Saturday, 13 February 2010


A good day to move to a new country, especially one like Holland, is any day except January 2nd.
January 2nd is empty. It is firework wrappers scattered across the streets, drunks staggering around yelling something that vaguely resembles the national anthem and broken glass, ciggarette butts and wet joints.

Driving by taxi from Amsterdam to Rotterdam was great. The sun shone and it was nice and warm. Even the driver fell asleep. That was the last time I saw the sun.
Rotterdam isn't just suffering from post-New Year's disorder. It's also snowy.

However it's a nest of beautiful modern architecture. I want to swallow it all.

And not just modern. It's full of rococo and other such things.
Now it's been over a month I'm here and I'm finally moving in.

I think I'll be just fine here.

Monday, 8 February 2010

I know it was Friday, but I'm just wishing Mr Robert Nesta Marley a belated birthday.
I was meant to go to a tribute to him nearby Rotterdam on Friday and have a jolly good ol' time but to my dismay I was grounded (again) and had to unpack some boxes.

Sunday, 7 February 2010

Jane Austen and I don't get along

Jane Austen, Austen of Jane, the Sacred Mighty Jane Austen! Thrice hail the Jane Austenness of Jane Austen!
Fuck Jane Austen.
The sheer drought contained within her books make my tongue rough and I feel parched. The pages of complete uselessness slip through my mind and parts that contribute nothing to the story whatsoever run across my eyes.
What bothers me the most though is how much I love her stories. I grew up watching Pride and Prejudice, Emma, Sense and Sensibility and the likes on BBC. I dreamt of Mr Darcy and of being able to match up people like Emma. Then I was old enough to understand her language (because like all 90's kids I grew up not speaking properly) and I cannot emphasize how bored I am with them. Whenever Jane begins to describe something, I read the first sentence and then skip past it. Which is why I adore the conversation. I adore the exploration of emotion but I don't give a shit about how frilly Mrs Bennet's bonnet is or how shiny Mr Bingley's shoe is, and I especially don't want to read 3 pages about it.
I realise now I am more in love with each individual character and the general story than I am with Jane herself. Still I find nothing extraordinary in any of the characters or in any of the stories. I think it's just that Jane Austen was the one to take something simple and romantic and bring it into 'modern' literature. She brought the happy endings to romances, which rarely existed in Roman or Greek stories, or Shakespearean plays, and that made people happy. Still makes people happy.
However, Ms Austen wrote for entertainment, and when on TV I cannot commend her enough. And I can still daydream of my Mr Darcy, who I know will never come because Mr Darcy is one in a million.
Jane Austen, I love you.
Jane Austen, you poor lonely woman, let go and give in.

Saturday, 6 February 2010


Among the bright headlights of cars and the neon signs of various coffee shops, bars, and restaurants, my brother dearest said something to me.
I'm Kristiina. I'm 16 for now, and I live in Rotterdam.
I smell hot caramel, marijuana, greasy turkish food and booze, and I talk and talk, relating to my relative my recent experiences with each. I mm and ahh at the mention of stroopwafels, oliebolls and chocomel.
"Kristiina, you talk more about food than boys."
I say for now, because my birthday is soon. Hopefully some Amsterdam to look forward to. It's about 20minutes from here.
Now here I realise it's true, and I have to turn my ocular lenses inside out, and untangle the mess inside myself to uncover the ultimate truth.
He's right.
I'm more comfortable talking about food than guys. AND I KNOW YOU DO THE SAME. I'm going to stop you right there before you close the window and dismiss me for another 16 year old emo girl. I'm perfectly fine. I'm normal sized and normal looking, and I have no self-denial issues- or at least I didn't think so. So ladies listen up, and guys too.

This might seem something a 42 year old extremely obese virgin might say, but I'm more comfortable talking about food because food doesn't hurt me. You can't make fun of me for liking a food, the food can't ridicule me by telling me it doesn't like me.
And now I've realised, I miss all of it. I miss the risk, the flirting, the texts, the calls, the smiles, the times, the the the everything. I miss holding on in the morning, and I miss the teeth I see when I whisper the magic words that bring him over the edge.

So I laugh out loud, and my brother dearest asks me if I'm all right. I am.
My nails are painted white, and my hair's in a messy bundle on my head, except for the pieces that don't reach, and fall on my face or my shoulders. I've got a bag of bilars but I'm thinking of someone, and I can tell you this now because I'm not uncomfortable with it anymore.