Ants on the bus

This photo was taken in Norway, but it does contain ants...

On one of the many foreign trips I have done driving my coach, I went to Italy with an agrarian themed trip. Visiting a radish farm, a mozzarella farm and a pecorino farm were the farming ends of the journey, but there were also the more touristy things. And one day, my coach rolled in to Rome. 

I drove up to the hotel and as soon as everybody was off, a porter in a clapped out car (that's how I remember it), told me to follow him to where I could park the coach. I followed him left. I followed him right. I followed him for miles and miles and I was starting to get worried. And the worry didn't ease when he drove unto a court filled with really clapped out cars and a rickety gate. Please park and I will take you back to the hotel.

Not this car, although I do love it

So, I parked, got my stuff together and got in that clapped out car. We then drove back to the hotel (oh yes) and the next morning he drove me back to the parking court yard to collect my coach. This went on for several days. But all good things must come to an end however and on the last morning, he drove me to the parking court yard. The night before I had been told to park it in a slightly different place than the other days and that had been an error.

Apparently I had parked one of the wheels right on top of an ants nest. Ants being ants, they then decided to get up that wheel, just in case there was something edible at the top. Not finding anything edible there, they proceeded up the axel, further and further in to the coach...

By the time we arrived in Florence (several hours' drive), a fair few people had taken a look and reported on an abundance of ants in the toilet area. The passengers would have a few hours of sight-seeing in Florence, I would have a few hours of hunting down ant traps. Fortunately there were some smaller shops even in the center of the city that sold those things.

However, the large number of ants would soon deal with the two ant traps I had gotten. And as we hit the road again after lunch to do some sight-seeing in Siena, I contemplated my options. Of which there were precious few. So far, the ants had kept themselves to one area mainly, but there were already a few daredevils that had ventured further afield. 

After arriving in a large car and coach park in Siena, there was only one real option open: clean the toilet area from top to bottom. With what though? Yes, there was water and I did have some cleaning stuff, but this needed a bit more bite and force. And then I spotted it: the hose pipe used to wash coaches. I was going to have to flush them out! 

I started the coach and drove a couple of meters further forward, so the hose could come straight through the back door. I got the hose, I opened the door and let rip! The ants never stood a chance, as one by one they went down the plughole and onto the tarmac of that Siena car park. Once they were all gone, I gave the toilet another good going over, this time using some kind of cleaning agent as well. 

When we left Siena that day, there was an occasional 'I've got another one' from the back of the coach, but really? They were toast...

Developments

There have been some developments in my life recently. The first one and one that I had eagerly anticipated was the opening of the archive concerning that young gentleman that died in Burma (now Myanmar) on the infamous railway line. That led me to ask a question on a genealogy forum which led to a question back which led to severe searching. I still don't think I have it all sorted, but mostly. 

The things in the archive however, did not relate to the camps he was in (only very slightly anyway), but were mainly personal letters written and other assorted correspondence. It gave a small insight in life in the Dutch East Indies just before the war and how they looked at the threat of war in Europe. It also made me review the piece I had written about him originally and I have now rewritten most of it, going from two pages to almost 25. Including his letters and all the other information I have now. And I am not quite finished yet.

I wonder how many rooms this home has...

Another development concerns a home for me. I have been looking into buying, but unless I want to buy a barn without any facilities whatsoever... So, buying is out of the question. I have been registering for every rental home available, but even though the waiting list is moving forward, it is slower than molasses up a thin pipe. So, I had a plan and I thought it was a doozy.

The plan was basically: I would win the lottery! Easy, right? I bought a ticket and waited in antici... pation (sorry, Rocky Horror connection here), but when the time came, I had not won anything. The doozy had bombed. Ah well, I have a roof over my head so not all is lost.

In Rome in 2019

Yet a further development and this concerns the whole family. As you may be aware off (unless you have been living on a rock, on Titan!), a certain little round thingy with spiky ends is doing the rounds around the world. Very annoyingly I hasten to add, as it is interfering with just about everything. Like travel.

Last year, my sister was due to come in May for both my parents' 50th wedding anniversary and Eurovision. My parents didn't celebrate with a party as nobody was allowed to come anyway and Eurovision was cancelled. Unfortunately, so was my sister's flight. No worries though, she would come in July, at Christmas, for Easter, in May this year. Until the flight was cancelled yet again. Hopefully she will now be able to come in July. 

Concerning that big C that is bothersome to the gazillionth degree: my father should be the first one to be called up for his first vaccination. My mother after that and wait for it and wait a bit longer, then me. But, so far: nothing. Ah well, it will all happen. My sister will come to see us, we will get vaccinated, I will find a home and the story about my step cousin once removed will find more closure. 

You've got mail

To be returned eventually to the writer/family of...

As I live in a smallish apartment now, and several boxes of stuff are still lingering downstairs in the garage without being used, I felt some culling was needed. Like the box of letters.

I love letter writing and receiving and have done so since the early 1980's. At first it was just my cousin and I who were firm correspondents. Then a couple of school friends were added as I moved away to another town. And by the late 1980's, I had friends from Austria, Belgium, France, Morocco and South Africa. Some of them I had met in real life, others were through one of those pen pal agencies through school.

These will eventually be scrapped

When I started working abroad, I met new people and with some of those I also struck up a letter friendship, most notably Marion from Germany. She was a diligent writer, telling me about her family and her friends and her life in general, which was eventually mostly indoors as she was morbidly obese. Out of all the friends, she stuck around, others fell by the way side in dribs and drabs, never to be heard of again. 

Then came the emails and the smart phones and letter writing was changed forever. Why bother getting pen and paper when a quick email will do just as well. But where I kept the letters, I never kept any emails! 

I say I kept the letters, and I had. From 1983 every letter I ever received I kept. And took with me to whatever new home I would move into. Be it in Norway or Northern Ireland. But enough is enough. So, on Friday I grabbed the box containing the letters and took it upstairs. Determined to sort those letters out. Of course there were letters there I wanted to keep. The ones from Marion for example and the ones from my cousins and family (siblings, parents, grandmothers). But the rest? 

The top letter was from South Africa. He had a very distinct handwriting.

Old school friends, pen pals from South Africa and Austria, Japan and France: they all ended up in the laundry basket for recycling. I had to take out several letters, just to see who they were from, as I didn't always recognise the handwriting. 

There were some surprises though: Brazil and Egypt. I didn't know anybody there, so they probably sent me one letter, I sent one back and that was the end of that. An old school friend lived in Australia and New Zealand for a while. I had a pen pal in Japan. Old work friends from Italy and France who happened to be in Switzerland or Spain. And of course the Netherlands. So many from the Netherlands. 

I took off all the stamps, bound to make somebody happy with them and if not: can always be thrown out. But some of the stamps I kept. From every country I got letters from! I then stuck them on a piece of paper and the plan is to get it framed. Just have to find a frame now in one of my other 'to cull' boxes. 

Oh, and just for a game: can you spot the five royals? Have you found Hachi? Did you see the two different teddies (Brom wants to know)? And can anybody tell me who Olivia and Frederick are?

PS: the address shown on the last photo is an address I lived at over 20 years ago! No point in sending me mail there, but if you want my current address to send me a letter or a card...

The three month mark

Full of hope

I had a little look back at what I did within my first three months in Norway. A country where I hardly spoke the language, barely understood anybody and where everything was completely new to me.

Here goes: a union meeting, dentist, accident & emergency (not necessary wanted, but hey), union party, an interview for the paper, another union meeting, a staff meeting. I went on walks and met a lot of colleagues at work.

What did you do?

So, what have I been doing in my first three months in Northern Ireland? Where I speak the language and understood most people most of the time.

I have worked. Worked. Worked. Worked. Worked. Worked. Been to some caves. Worked. Worked. Worked. Worked. Worked. Moved. Worked. Worked. Worked. Worked. Butterfly garden. Worked. Worked. Worked. Got the car MOT'ed. Worked. Worked. Worked. Worked. Worked. Oh, and I worked.

My head is nowhere near the sand!

Needless to say, something has to give. And as I don't want it to be me, I have decided it has to be the job. I am on an average of over 55 hours a week and I am tired and lonely, even with my sister so close. I have had no chance to meet anybody at all or join a club or something like that.

I will keep you posted, but let's just say, I hope the next three months will be better than the first three. 

The shorts

During a different trip. Not the most attractive of outfits!

I have been thinking about this story for a while now. It happened to me (and somebody else) quite a while ago and I still find it quite funny, so I thought I would share it with you.

As you know I used to be a coach driver. Or a tour bus driver if you rather. And one of my trips back in the day was to Italy. Not just Italy, but Rome and Naples and Sorrento and Capri. In the middle of summer. July. When it was hot. Very very very hot!

The coach was nearly full and I had plenty of nice people on board. One of them was a lovely man. Not my type I hasten to add, but he was nice enough I guess. His lady friend thought so too, until about day four when she got thoroughly fed up with him. This is not a story about them though. Only about him. 

On Capri. It was hot! Pretty, but hot!

The temperature south of Rome during July usually is above 40 degrees. Celsius. Close to fever temperature. And this nice, but as it turned out rather dim, man was hot. He was not enjoying the heat one little bit. Which had a lot to do with what he wore. Thick winter jeans! Basically he was boiling!! I asked him whether he had any shorts with him and he answered that he did. He just didn't like wearing them. I told him to wear them. 

He was a nice man. And a bit dim. But, he was quite obedient as well and the next day he trotted into the breakfast room in shorts. Feeling very uncomfortable, but not as hot. Over the course of that holiday in the South of Italy, he would ask me on a daily basis whether he could wear his jeans. And when we finally moved to the North again and I gave him permission to wear his jeans the next day, the sigh of relief could be heard in Amsterdam!

Mind you, there was nothing wrong with the shorts. Or with the legs. Or with the nice, dim and obedient man. He just didn't like them...

Words are not enough

A word for the entire year she asks. One word to hopefully describe the year ahead. The first word that sprung to mind was madness. Because how can you describe a year that is not even a week old? That is still in its infancy? I mean, you don't look at a week-old baby and go: brain surgeon! Well, there might be people who do, but they are usually mightily disappointed when said baby grows up and decides he rather wants to be a turkey farmer!

But of course, me being me, I got to thinking some more. Painfree flashed through my mind, but that would only be highlighting one part of my life. Fitness would be the same and knowing me, quite a grasp! So, what word would be good? What word could fit a whole year? 

I really had to get my thinking cap on. And then: happiness! Why not? It could fit. It could be good. Yet, there was a niggle in the back of my head saying it wasn't enough. It wasn't... IT. And then I remembered my love for the Doctor. No, not a real doctor, although I do love the two doctors that reside in my life, but the Doctor. And his advice to one of his companions a while ago (I think it was David Tennant's Doctor to Billie Piper's Rose) which was: live life!

Looking at the bucket list I made yesterday, that fit perfectly. Live life! But of course there was this little hitch: live life is two words and only one was needed. So, my word for 2015? 

LIVE  

This post is prompted by Spin Cycle. Thank you Ginny Marie at Lemon Drop Pie.

Twenty five IV

2009: mozzarella farm in Italy

Change career or not, that was the big question yesterday. And I decided that yes, if changing my career would get me to Canada, I would give it a go. Once I had been established in Canada and was allowed to stay, I could go back to the best job in the world. So, I saved and saved and then booked a holiday to Canada. Seeing it beforehand, would be nice as well.

2010: making a snowman in Germany

In 2011 I touched down in Canada. I spent a few days with my new Canadian friend Kay and her dog Lindy exploring the Rockies (ok) and the Badlands (love at first sight) during my first week. The second week would be spent trying to find myself a job. I drove to so many hotels, near and far, dropped off countless resumés, spoke to several managers and left Canada feeling quite hopefull. The hope didn't last long.

2011: Badlands, Canada

After returning home nothing was heard. At all. I sent out more applications and resumés, but all hotels could get cheaper younger people who were living in the country already, so why get a 40+ person who wasn't even allowed to work in Canada yet. I had tried and I had failed. On to plan B.

2012: Stortinget, Oslo, Norway

Plan B had always been Norway. The downside of Canada had been work. There was plenty of that to be had in Norway. The upside of Canada had been the language, I speak both English and French. In Norway they spoke Norwegian. Which I didn't! A language course was in order. I learnt the language, went on holiday, got a job offer (which I declined), kept learning the language, went on holiday again, had an interview and a few months later I moved. 

2013: on top of Preachers Pulpit, Norway

It has been a year and a half since I moved to Norway. Another in a long line of jobs and countries since my graduation 25 years ago. Do I remember what I learned in school? Well, if it has to do with difficult math or chemistry: no, not so much. But, the languages I learnt in school (English and German) did come in handy. Over the years however, I have learnt a lot: the mundane things like learning a new language (French and Norwegian), cooking for myself and dealing with strange paperwork. But the most important thing that I learnt: stand up for myself and don't be afraid to try new things. 

2014

Twenty five years ago I was 17 turning on 18. I was shy and quiet around people I didn't know. I am 42 going on 3 now. And even though some of that shyness still persists, to say I am quiet would be lie! I like who I was twenty five years ago. I love who I am now. 

Twenty five III

1999: my first party as a busdriver, complete with duck

A clever idea from my dad and in January 1998, I took my first lesson in driving a bus. I payed for my lessons, which were expensive, with my commission from my work on the train and after a year and on my second try, I finally made it! I had my license and could now drive a bus. My mum (I have got good parents don't I?) then told me to go and find a job as a busdriver. I phoned around and there were a few companies that I wouldn't mind trying, but in the end I ended up with the company that offered me an interview only a few days later. A test drive a few days after that and I had a job. Albeit a part time one.

2003: a hands-on work course

Those first three months were not good. Lamp post, mirror, cars, sign posts. You name it, I hit it! Until my boss warned me that if there was going to be more damages done, my contract would not be renewed at the end of the six months! I certainly cleaned up my act after that. Only hitting and totalling a car a few days later. But that wasn't my fault. He had run a red light! My contract was renewed and I kept driving. And driving and driving. 

2004: in the Channel Tunnel

I met so many other busdrivers, all with their own (tall) tales to tell. The passengers were usually good fun too. After all, I drove a coach which meant most people who came on board were going to somewhere good. I started off with the school runs. Then the school trips. Adult day trips. After a course on how and what and where I was allowed to do minor trips abroad. And on and on I went. A London trip? Mara will do it. Ireland? Mara! Italy? Ask Mara. I met so many people and saw so many things and enjoyed almost every single thing about it. 

2007: me and Charlie Chaplin in Waterville, Ireland

Sometime in 2004 or 2005 the itch returned. The whisper in my head: something else, something else, something else. I wanted to move again. Canada this time. A whole new experience, a whole new country. Alas, Canada didn't want me. Not enough money (ie, none at all, I was actually waaaay below the line) and not enough education meant that Canada would be very hard to move to. But, I took it one problem at a time. Money first. I stopped spending it. No more holidays. Got rid of the car. Just get rid of that debt. Once I had, it was savings time. So, again no holidays, still no car and still no spending. 

2008: can't remember where this was

I finally got the money bit sorted and had in the mean time found out that Canada would allow me in. But in a different job than I wanted. I wasn't going to be a busdriver in Canada, I had to be a receptionist. A job I had had aeons ago and from which I had been fired because my English was too good. Did I really want to do that job again? Was I willing to change 'careers' again? 

To be continued tomorrow...

Twenty five II

1992: Yep, that's me in front!

I left off yesterday at the point of working in Tignes in the French Alpes. Another Club Med experience. Or bubble is probably the better word, since not much penetrates from the outside world. So, instead of another season for Club Med, I decided to go elsewhere and do something else as well. I was moving to England.

1993: Quite boring this receptionist lark

I arrived in England and made my way to the other side of the country. Or so it felt at least. My first month in my new job was downright horrid. I didn't know anybody, not many people lived in (basically, only the foreigners) and the job as a receptionist was difficult. Let me rephrase that. The job was fine enough, the things surrounding it were difficult. Ten different ways of saying to change. Talk of Christmas crackers and wellingtons. Rooms that didn't have numbers, but names and were all totally different. When I celebrated my 21st birthday, I didn't have a penny to my name, my parents hadn't called in the morning and I felt very very alone. 

1994: being a waitress

After about 8 months in the job, I was fired. The reason (which I think is still one of the best reasons ever)? My English was too good! But, I could work anywhere else in the hotel if I wanted to. I moved to the restaurant and became a waitress. The fights I used to have with the head chef. The left over food we ate (it was better than what we got by a mile). The late nighters, who came when we were about to close. 

1995: me and my goddaughter, born a few months after I left

But, eventually, despite or perhaps due to the promotion, I had had enough. I wanted something else. I wanted to go home. I had been away for about five years. So, I asked an advance on my wages so I could buy a ferry ticket, loaded up the car and made my merry way back to the Netherlands. I was going Dutch again!

1997: on holiday

Even in the Netherlands however I had to work. I lived at my parents, but they were expecting some money for my keep. I worked as a temp in restaurants, kitchens and canteens, a milk powder factory, the sorting station at the post office. Even as a cleaner, although that was a one off! A year and a half in, due to a stroke of good luck, I found a place to live. By that time I worked in a biscuit factory packing biscuits and cookies. However, when they didn't want to take me on as a proper employee instead of being a temp, I got another job. Again. 

1998: no comment

The new job led me to the trains. No, I wasn't driving them. No, I wasn't even checking tickets. I was selling coffee and tea and such. Tiring, but fun. I thought so anyway. Already during my stint at the biscuit factory I had been harbouring this wish to join the army. I was already quite old compared to most who applied, but I wanted this and I was going to get it. I was going to be a driver. Well, I tried twice. Failed twice on the physical test. And then my dad gave me the best piece of advice (jobwise anyway) he has ever given me: why not become a busdriver?

To be continued tomorrow...

Twenty five I

1988/1989: Ehm, yeah...

After having written my post about graduation the other day, I realised it is 25 years ago that I did so. Graduate that is. Twenty five years in which I changed from a fairly shy Marja (pronounce the j as a y in yellow) to an outspoken Mara. That didn't just happen overnight. It took some time you know. I mean, the basis was always there, because at home I could chat until the cows we didn't have would come home. But that was at home, where I knew the people and they knew me. With strangers however, it was a completely different matter altogether. 

1990: Oh, that figure...

My first job was as a children's entertainer in sunny Yugoslavia. Well, apart from Tuesdays, when it rained. I changed my name upon arrival (easier for all you abroady types you know) and set about to make a fantastic version of myself. Ahem. I had some run-ins with some of the other employees (mainly the Yugoslav ones), but in general I think I was well-liked. However, as soon as it was October, my contract was fullfilled and I headed home. 

1991: Camille, me and Jean

Three months later I moved to Brussels. A nice (read wealthy) neighbourhood, where I would be the au-pair to a little boy called Jean. And the first time I actively set out to meet people by joining a badminton club. But, since it only lasted three months, the people I met were soon forgotten and replaced by new colleagues from my new job. Children's entertainer for Club Med on Sicily, Italy. 

1991

I grew up here. I finally came out of my shell and all because of my boss. He was a nice man, very French and after only two months had given me deputy status to himself for the youngest age group (4-5 year olds). This was much to the dislike of some of the French who although getting a similar job for other age groups, didn't think it a good idea that a Dutch woman with not much French knowledge at all should get that job. But I did and I think I did a good job. Right up to the moment where I had to think of a dance that would fit to a number out of 'Les Misérables'. A musical I had never seen or heard of, with songs in French that I didn't understand. Add to that the fact that my age group that week was sorely underpopulated and I was facing a major problem. 

1991

In front of nearly 200 children and about 30 of my co-workers, my boss started yelling at me. And something snapped. I yelled back that there was no need to yell, it wasn't ready and yelling wouldn't make it ready either. I didn't understand, I didn't have the children and on and on I went. I think my boss (and my colleagues) were quite shocked, since I had never answered back in my life. Then again, I was shocked. What had I done? WHAT HAD I DONE? But, fortunately it didn't turn into a dismissal. I got help, I got more children and after that my boss never yelled at me in front of everybody. Which was a plus in itself!

1992: My partner in giggling crime (and yes, that is me on the right)

After nearly seven months on a sunny Sicily, I moved to a snowy Tignes in the French Alpes. New people again, new friends to make. My boss was intent on giving me a stupid nick-name which I cured him of pretty fast (I called him (albeit silently) something not so nice in front of a guest, he was furious, I stood my ground). I learned to ski, was told I would be great in a wet t-shirt contest, saw some of the Olympics and was told off by the big boss for chatting with my colleague too much during a staff meeting. Which led to the both of us having a fit of the giggles and being told off even sterner that if we didn't stop now, we would both be asked to leave. 

To be continued tomorrow...

Class

Our school trip to London. And yes, I do wear shocking colours!

When I was in my fourth year of high school, I didn't do much. Which is probably quite an understatement, since my grades started dropping faster than a parachutist who has forgotten his parachute! By the time I got negative grades (ie below 6/10) for German, I knew I was in trouble. Not that I minded that much. I just continued doing nothing, since I had to take the year again anyway!

The second time in my fourth year went a bit better. I applied myself a bit more, got better grades (even for German, which was my best subject) and by the end of the year I was allowed to go on to the fifth and final year of my high school experience. 

That final year does not stand out for me. I studied, I got good enough grades, I took oral exams, written pre-exam exams and was getting along nicely. 

On holiday after graduation

Then, after having taken my final exams (in Dutch, English, German, Biology, Science and Math), I relaxed. Waited for the summer to come. Waited for that piece of paper which would tell me that I had passed. Because even though I might not be top of the list, I knew I had passed. No worries there. 

The evening of graduation arrived. All the children in my year had shown up in their Sunday finery and with their parents in tow. Every student was addressed personally by the principal (I had been a shy girl on arrival, but had grown up to be a quietly confident young woman. Or something to that effect). I was top of my class in German, but had to share with another girl (only 0,01 points off a higher mark, I am still furious with that teacher). 

I just wished (certainly at the time) that my parents hadn't thanked the principal for all his good care of me! How embarrassing!

This memory was prompted by Spin Cycle. Thank you Ginny Marie at Lemon Drop Pie and Gretchen at Second Blooming.

PS: I just realised, I graduated 25 years ago this year! Well done Spin Cycle for this timely prompt!

Eggs

It is early on a Sunday morning. Around seven o'clock I think. My mother has gotten up already and is downstairs in the kitchen making coffee. She takes out the forty or so eggs she has bought the day before and starts putting them into two big pans. To be boiled. My father is also downstairs. Setting the table for breakfast. Highly unusual since we never eat breakfast at the table on a normal Sunday. 

The eggs are ready. Most of them hard-boiled, some a little less (for my mother). The table is set. The grands and us children are dressed and downstairs. My father starts with a prayer and breakfast starts. A piece of bread with some jam. One egg, no two eggs. Then another two. And another two. I can probably manage about five eggs as do my siblings. My father and grandfather however eat eggs like they are going out of fashion. And before we know it, there is only about four eggs left. But it's time to leave. For church.

Because despite this little pagan influence into our daily lives, church was important. And being late for church was out of the question. So, we walked and cycled or drove to church (depending on the weather and the amount of people), where we would join all the others in hearing about Christ being nailed to the cross as a penance for all of our sins. We would hear about Thomas and Mary Magdalene, about the stone and the linen cloth left behind. 

After church we would go back home. And depending on the weather, the rest of the day would be spent in quietness. Perhaps a walk if the weather was nice, some television if there was anything good on, a game, a book. And that is how I spent Easter in my youth.

This memory was prompted by Spin Cycle. Thank you Ginny Marie at Lemon Drop Pie and Gretchen at Second Blooming.