Poppies

I am sure some of you will have found me too harsh on the poppy appeal. Ik zit er zelf ook een beetje mee in de maag. When I think it over, I do still stand behind the arguments I have given. But I also appreciate the fact that other people may have other feelings about it, for example see a symbol of peace instead of a symbol of victory (of course the image of the flower does a lot to propagate the former view). Anyhow, I have thought of some kind of compromise. If it works out, you'll hear more about it later. In the meantime, I will keep discussing the issue with various natives and non-natives here.

Anna

Back on Greenwich

I've made a mistake. Remember adhorting you only to send mail labelled "priority"? It thought the same was not necessary from the UK, but yesterday I received three airmail stickers with my stamps. I am afraid certain postcards (O. will know what I'm referring to) will arrive much too late...

And, once again, it has been demonstrated how poor, still, my command of the English language is (c.q. tonight's post).

At the moment I am listening to Debussy's Petite Suite. And Oh! how I long for Paris! ("La Anna Mobile"...)

This makes me think of l 'Auberge Espagnole once again. I would like to offer you a small hermeneutic deliberation on the symbolic meaning of North and South (and West). In this movie, a French young man travels to Barcelona. His studies are boring, his mother is boring, his professional prospects are boring, and even his girlfriend is a bit, well... In Barcelona he discovers a different life, of warmth, passion, parties, colour&emotion, etc. blabla. In the end he has to retun to Paris and finds it as grey and dull as ever. His new job is a disaster and he flies back into his memories of Spain. The interesting thing about this clichéd plot is the fact that it doesn't set off a dull, protestant, Germanic country like the Netherlands or Denmark or Germany of perhaps Sweden, against a passionate Catholic country like France (this is the cliche as we are used to it in the Netherlands). As it is a French movie, from a French perspective, the cultural North-South divide interestingly has shifted south, this time to be positioned in the Pyrenees. The idea of a place where life is more interesting, more sparkling, is still there, only of course it cannot be envisioned in the country the protagonist lives in. So, it has to be moved elsewhere. Each instance this is done, though, it is moved South. This is an interesting phenomenon, and I still have to investigate where this mechanism stops and South becomes North (does it have to do with climate?) . At the Equator? Or already in the deserts at the latitude of 30 degrees? Perhaps this is a nice assignment for Y to look at during her stay in Ghana?

All this concerns the protagonist (Xavier/France) and the antagonist (Spain/various characters); but what about England? England is the outsider in the film. Neither the lover nor the desired, it is simply the most rotten place on earth - or so it it depicted. The only character in the film firmly identifying himself as British is a chauvinist pain-in-the-ass - until in the end he as well has captured the Spanish spirit and defends it against new British invaders. Remember: this is a French film. Interesting, isn't it?

However, this is the movie's stance. Personally I think most British guys over 20 are pretty nice, so please don't get me wrong. The movie has much more to offer than this, though, which is why I could so enjoy it and quite seriously identify with several characters.

Lunch of the day: unsmoked, fried bacon on lettuce on soured cream on bread, and (Hong Kong, not Javanese) soy sauce sprinkled on top of it all.

Oh, before I forget: anyone knows what are netkousen in English (I'm sure F does)?

This weekend we will make the annual leap back to Greenwich Mean Time (at the moment we are still on British Summer Time). Does Dutch summertime end as well this Sunday?

I just realise that I might have been writing some things about the Royal Albert Memorial Museum that seem contradictory. On the one hand, I have praised the rariteitenkabinet-like qualities of the galleries, on the other hand I have shown my dispproval of the ahistorical jumble of tales that was the ethnographic tour. I owe you (and the guide) an explanation.

In the first place I think that particularly on the topic of ethnography/cultural anthropology one should be extra careful with the way you present your collection. You should make sure that other cultures are not presented as primitive, unchanging, self-contained societies entirely relying on a unified set of customs, and not on the contribution of its individuals. In the second place I think that a museum's collection and even its set-up may confirm to nineteenth-century (and older) ideals (in which way we at once learn al lot about Western history, as well), as long as more recent insights are presented along with it, and as long as something as flexible and as much able to incorporate recent develpments as a tour, is used to present these newer insights.

About my studies: I have finally finished a fantastic book written by Southern, synthesising a multitude of insights (that were recent in the 1940ies by the way) into a very readable and enjoyable and clever etc. exposition of cultural change in Europe from ca. 1000 to 1200. Next on the list is a book by one of his pupils, Bartlett, writing about the same topic, only fifty years later. I'm very excited!

All this reading, by the way, of standardworks in Medieval History, has to take place in the Old Library, where they have these books that are not on loan. I have found the Old Library a particularly comfortable place to study. Normally, study desks in libraries are surrounded by even more, and even more interesting books than the one you are supposed to study, which results in a lot of distraction and little work being done. The Old Library however, houses Exeter's collection of Middle Eastern Studies. In other words: no distraction whatsoever, for I cannot read the backs of these books anyway. (Although I did figure out the Arabian alphabet.)

Time to face the dilemma: should I wear a poppy? I decided not to. To crudely summarise my reasons: they are presented as a sign of victory, at WWII, WWI and at wars today (even if under the disguise of compassion). And I don't believe in military victory. They are presented as a proud celebration of British Ex-Service Men (and women, they no doubt added recently). The sufferings of the losers are not mentioned - and personally I do not sympathise more with the bulk of British soldiers than with German soldiers, even during WWII. Moreover, donations are aimed at relieving the discomfort of, again, ex-service people, while I don't see how it makes a difference whether you cannot walk because you hit a mine, or because you happened to be present at an explosion in a coalpit, or because you were shammying the windows of your gov'nors manor, fell off the ladder and acquired a spinal lesion.

Enough of this serious matter now. A recipe:

Warm three tablespoons of milk with 150g marshmallows until they have melted. Remove from heat and add 100g of rice crispies (what the hell are those?). Place on a flat tray covered with greasproof paper. Cool, slice , serve. We'll try that as soon as I get back!

I am so happy to be here!

This is what I shouted to the streets of Exeter this afternoon. And now I shout it to thee.

So much is happening here - so much to write about. What made me feel so happy? I could think of nothing in particular. Nothing except that it is grand (this is not a continental cliché: they honestly use words like these all the time: lovely, blimey, dear and not to forget jolly good), that it is grand to live and work in this place, in this adventure. I'm afraid I am confusing you with my constantly shifting moods of alienation and homeliness, despair and contention, travel-fatigue and sense of adventure. It's confusing for me as well, but that's how it is. I'm sure you understand.

Anyway, most of the time I do definitely not regret having come here. It is part of my Eternal Holidays, or Grote Vakantie (watch Johan van der Keuken). This is a concept some people have already heard about: since I finished secondary school, my life has been one extended vacation (or Reading Week, as they call it in Exeter. But that is really much the same for intellectuals like us, ain'-it?). Apart from dentists, IB-groeps and Belastingdiensts, no one in the world has usurped my time or my life. Everything I have done since was my own choice. All the mistakes I made were my own fault. Every opportunity I seized my own decision (and merit?). There's no one left to blame, and that is something of a liberation. Now I probably sound like an extentialist. Or worse, an American (don't worry: I don't mean that). Still, not everything about the American (or extentialist) spirit is wrong ;-) (apologies for this horrible "smiley")

Enough of that, because, as I said, much has happened again. I'll make a selection for today.

Yesterday and today were - again - not devoted to study (although I have studied a lot as well, during the adjoining nights). Instead, I am following a program called "learn to love your new home". And I must say, the course is successful.

Yesterday a couple of friends and I joined a Red Coat Tour - a free tourist tour (dûh), like Gilde in the Netherlands - to some Medieval churches, monasteries, graveyards and, most importantly, the (not-Medieval) catacombs of Exeter. Heavily inspired I returned home. Great storyteller, that red-coated guy, really one of those BBC-educators you imagine all British pensioners to be. He did make some silly assumptions about the German and the French present in our group - not about the Dutch btw, but that's not because of our good reputation overseas but rather because the word "Netherlands" apparently din't ring a bell and was discarded as a possible source of merriment right away. But for the rest: nice chap (they use that one as well).

Way back: supermarket (and again: the super-food-entry is coming up soon!) and running into people. Because although, unlike at UC, you cannot count on routinely meeting all your friends in Dining Hall or on the quad every day, you can count on meeting at least three people you know on your way to the shops in town. And three on the way back.

Today I had my first real day at the job. But first I had to employ all my reserves of etiquette and good-will: due to some miscommunication I couldn't start right away and had to wait for an hour. My supervisor proposed I could join a museum tour that was being conducted for the first time that day - the tour guide was very nervous and could use any support from fellow museum-people she could get. It was a tour of the ethnographic galleries, which I hadn't seen yet, so I happily agreed.

Only, I was the only one. No one else showed up! This didn't come as a big surprise to me, as it was 12:30 in the afternoon on an ordinary working-day, and lunch-time bovendien. As I dutifully followed the guide around the galleries, I felt they were making a mistake by having the tour anyway. As said, the guide was very nervous, and not capable of addressing other chance people present in the rooms, and involving them in her story. It remained a private tour, which awkwardness was still increased by the presence of the poor woman's supervisors, which unfortunately she did not treat as an audience either, but as schoolmasters whose approving eye she furtively sought once every while.

I tried to maintain an interested posture, although what she told was not very new and, although they had clearly made an effort to incorporate post-colonial insights and ideas about cultural exchange, it was still something of a nineteenth century collection of unconnected and ahistorical tales. I hope it will convey something of curiosity to future cisitors, but it left me mainly trying to repress the inclination to ask critical questions ("'before the English': so what time exactly are we talking about?"). The worst thing, however, was that the tour's supervisor afterwards kept on saying to me: "You really liked the tour, didn't you? Wasn't it very interesting? Don't you think she was wonderful?" et cetera. And as both the guide and the supervisor were very sympathetic, I had no choice but to mumble yes...

Anyway: working in this place is really exciting. I would even go so far as to say that I would range the RAMM in the excellent company of the Orsay, the Pianolamuseum, the Theatermuseum, the new wing of the Van Gogh, the Kröller-Müller, the Haags Gemeente, the Jacquemart-André, the Musée de la Vie Romantique, and the museums of modern art in Nice and Stuttgart, in other words: it is one of the most wonderful museums in the world(=Europe).

Now please don't get disappointed when you visit me: it is a provincial museum. Their collection is provincial, as are their aims and their visitors. But if you bear that in mind you can only be amazed. This is the kind of place that would make me want to be part of the world of museologists. So please write down: "possible professions: curator - status: under consideration again".

So what did I do at the museum? Very simple really. I cleaned some shells and I labelled and filed some fossiles. Anyone knows what a solution of paraloid in acetone consists of exactly? (I don't like wearing gloves, and I suspect they are superfluous, but just to make sure.) I may do something different every week, or not, just depending on what comes along. But in the meantime I am learning a lot about the (a)symmetry of shells and the length of (inter)glacials. And I work in an exciting secret depot below one of those nineteenth century spiral stairs, like in the Rijksmuseum, where all the Baroque Devon-maps and Chinese umbrellas and Medieval oak beams are stored.

Bought some stamps, got the money handed back in the proper order, found a glückspfennig (only it was a penny, but that wouldn't make a difference, would it?). By the way, my supervisor is from the neighbourhood of Leipzig! (There goes another opportunity to improve my British...)

Perhaps this is the place to cite F, an experienced cashier, on the current policy of handing back money in the Netherlands (that's right: they have policies for that. Or in the Netherlands they do.)

"[...] nieuw beleid van Albert Heijn is dat we eerst het grote geld gaan teruggeven en dan het kleine. Ik kreeg deze opdracht en heb ongeveer een halfuur geprobeerd om hem uit te voeren, wat tot ontzettend teleurgestelde, boze, en lichtelijk aggressieve klanten leidde, waarvan sommige zelfs het grote geld weer teruggaven totdat ze het kleine hadden weggestopt, dus ik heb het opgegeven. Maar ja, er zijn 600 AH filialen, waarvan alle cassièr(e)s de opdracht hebben gekregen om geld voortaan op een stompzinnige manier terug te geven, dus er zijn er vast een paar die het ook echt zo doen."

Are you then degenerating to a level of British barbarity?

And to answer F's question: I will stay here until the last week of January. Much too short...

To satisfy another request that has been made a few times (sometimes in sneaky, indirect ways): how to make kroepoek in the UK. It's really very simple (everthing is simple today): Men neme as many slices of Tesco Wholemeal White (that's right) Medium sliced I am healthy Your children like me I want honey on top of me (the loafs here have character, remember) as the number of kroepoeks required. Toast (evidently). Cook a soup of olive oil, onion, tomato, chicken stock, olives, chick peas and sausages. Dip toast in soup. Et voilà! Er komt geen garnaal meer aan te pas.

An unrelated remark: they listen Anouk over here. Heard her play next-door the other day.

An other unrelated remakr: they have a fire here every night. Or at least, the firepersons like to sound their sirens. And I am not (NOT) exaggerating: I do hear sirens near my flat every night. It does make sense though, as we are about sevenhundred students stuffed into the Lafrowda Flats. Also saw a burning candle in the window opposite mine, behind a closed curtain. Starting to get a bit worried about my own room...

Yet another one: I bought my diary for 2006. Or, to put it differently, I bought Y a new challenge: try to find this one in the Netherlands! It is a quite extravagant diary by the way. Found its price fairly reasonable when I was in the shop. Didn't realise it was pounds though until I was home... Anyway: wat niet weet, dat niet deert. So: I won't mention the embarrasing amount of money I spent on it...

Anyway: off to bed.

Conclusion for the day: not only room and uni start to feel like home, but city/town as well. And a grand home it is (will tell you about the historical & nightlife bits later).

O, and this is the view from my room on the exceptional not-so-bright day: