I’m back at home, making art ! See you soon.

Truth,
despite its tendency to (like the sun)
conceal its full intensity behind
such vapourous polluted clouds
as those which I myself create,
does still exist as something absolute
but separate from and bigger than
this fragile frailty of me.

It beckons me to build
a radar screen
on which I might investigate
the nature of its radiance.

And yet the relative postmodern
continues to instill in me
a fresh expression of humility,
especially that sort
which only comes in knowing
that such clouds as these persistently exist:
they despite whose murkiness it will remain
that I  (creator lacking capital)
did not invent the Wor(l)d.

When those who seek their peace in (false) religion find
for a fleeting moment, a glimpse of peace in their false god,
the One True God remains (however indirect) the source of their delight.

And says “no, my child
that’s not exactly who I Am,
or even who I’ve meant for you to be.”

And when I speak of ‘those’ I speak of ‘I’,
who, also having fleeted through the moments, manifest
my ignorance concerning creature and Creator.

I know the arguments; the reasons why; the force
that pulls the most down-to-earth among us
towards existentialist depths of humanistic height

Not necessarily because we feel we want to,
but because we feel we necessarily must,
as those who bravely soldier on despite despair.

Despair, that humbling realisation
that the truth is just beyond
our reach.

And I have also asked that question of myself
which, (even in obtuse vernacular) dances on water like sunlight:
“but who am I to be so arrogant as to claim to know my God?”

But does that arrogance exist as well,
in the a-priori claim that the very Deity that I confess
is also the very God who claims to have known me first?

As active or as passive as you may prefer to be,
The arrogance and pride on each or other side
is just as red as anybody else’s in this sinful sea.

Do not dismiss
(Oh ’self-created’ thing)
the revelatory strength of God

And do not call it weak, without the recognition that
perhaps it is the weakness in my own the eyes
that has rendered it as such.

Twenty-first century weakness
is to forge relationships with far off souls you cannot see,
and yet ignore what’s living in your heart.

But with a little courage, I surmise,
we may decide to dare to realize
the Relationship.

Maybe you relate to the testimonial witness
of a thousand certain saints
or the thousand certain pages of a Book?

But if you do, it hasn’t been because your eyes
have shed their heavy skin,
or opened automatically.

Of all the victims of monstrosities
that earth and air and fire have baptised,
of all these humans, I should know.

It wasn’t I who opened them
but He, who heeding not my whimpering
exposed the retinas beneath the weakness of my flesh.

And now, today, the clattering of global scales is deafening
The Mystery-revealer commanding us:
Take up your (collective) mat and walk!

In His forgiveness all the people on this planet
- created works in union - face
the face of God.

Morality needs no help to be invented,
Justice no need of our assistance to exist.
And Jesus’ treaty asks you only to accept.

And that in my God-given faith I do.

Hallo!
Groeten vanuit een hoofd die nu minder kaal is dan toen op tweede kerst dag bij de Malda’s in Pernis… Kijk maar is door die muts op mijn fotos van Kayaken, Op zondag morgen heel vroeg ging ik met m’n colleega (Callie), en haar vriend (Jonathan) het meer van Geneve op. Wij verktrokken van een klijn dorp “Versoix” en hadden toen ontbijt on een strandje, terwijl de zon op kwam. T’was wel een beetje koud (de water druppels die opde kayak spetterde vormde tot mooie glazen ballen) maar ik heb er echt van genoten. Heel vervrissend om zo vroeg smorgens voor kerktijd de zon te kunne zien opkomen. God’s macht in z’n schepping is niet te verklaaren. Ik vindt me dit jaar een beetje meer actief: of ik ga voetballen met de woensdag-avond-bijbelstudie groep (die heb ik ook pas in geneve gevonden), of ik ga de bergen in, of ik ga schilderen, of op ries met de trein. Ik vind dat als je meer actief bent, dan heb je eijgelijk ook meer energie. Dus, weer de groeten aan jullie, ik ga nu actief bezig worden met de was machine.
Ciao!
H.

Saturday night I was quite exhausted from Annecy (Pretty, pretty town in France; I’ll have to return solo so I can paint), and went to bed ridiculously early. And so I got up at 4:30 today with the ambition to go out and watch the sunrise. After it dawned on me that the sun was not about to rise any time soon, I proceeded to befriend my aching head, whose quenched enthusiasm directed me back to a less than peaceful slumber. Ambition, it turns out was not to be the defining characteristic of this day.

I thought, upon waking again, that a shower would do me good, or at least rinse away the sweat from the fever which had begun leaking a rush of dizzyness into my skull. And so while my aching body was complaining about the severe length of the walk to the bathroom, I had to strain (towel was dragging along the floor, behind my weaving steps) to keep from dropping my shampoo bottle.

The fumes that met me in the bathroom were too much. I proceeded to gasp for breathe, drop my articles, and faint. Fortunately, I had just enough of my wits about me to catch myself as I collapsed in a heap on the floor. I wasn’t passed out for long: someone was [still] using the other shower when I came to. I can honestly say that its an interesting feeling to wake up staring into a shower drain pipe.

I opted not to take a shower, but to stumble back to the bed I knew existed in room 117. As I stumbled, my Russian neighbour added to the confusion when he said “bon soir” even though it was morning. I mumbled something unintelligible in return, and felt kind of embarrased, as if I did not want him to see me under the influence of dizziness. The social part of my brain was still working, as was the humour part: I laughed at myself when my numb and disobedient hands refused to cooperate with my brain’s idea about where the lock was, and in turn where the key needed to go.

Perhaps I ate something less than kosher this weekend. Perhaps I just encountered the incarnate format of a PHP bug. In any case, sleeping through the majority of the day was the antidote. Now have half a mind to say “bonjour” even though “bon soir” might be more appropriate at this time of the night! Mon cher medecin, Helene Bloy brought me some form of aspirin, as well as a bowl of soup. For these I was grateful: after having consumed them, I returned to a relatively stable state, in which I could actually balance on one (or two) feet. After listening to a Dutch sermon about sickness and healing, I realized that church wasn’t the only thing I missed today: I was also too walloped to bother with a morning coffee!

** Monday now and I’m back at work: If only sleeping was also the antidote for database bugs **

The Elements
dark mushrooms
pitted Black Olives
paprika
sage
salt
potatoes
hp sauce
worchestershire sauce
cream of asparagus soup mix

The Undertaking
Stirfry ’shrooms & sage with paprika in olive oil & worchestershire sauce in wok.
Chop potatoes into little chunks and boil with saltwater in pot until soft.
Drain water from potatoes and merge into wok.
Add 1 can of black olives to wok. Include the juice!
Add a 4 tablespoons of hp sauce
Stir in a bag of cream of asparagus soup mix.
Throw in other random stuff as needed.
Simmer and allow mixture to thicken.
Serve hot; enjoy sliced peaches and ice cream for dessert.

Inspired in 2007 by Nicholas Angelich’s November 25^th rendition of Serguei Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto No. 2 in D Minor, OP. 18, and the accompaniment of Graziella Contratto and Chamber Orchestra of Geneva, performing at Victoria Hall together with the Orchestre Des Pays de Savoie.

I was going to call this “I need a wallet chain” but in fact this is more about a shift in paradigm than anything else. I’m going to blog around themes, instead of around time. People have been wondering whether I am alive. And theme based blogging will reassure them that in fact, Harold is not only very much alive, but also prone to the very same mistakes as ever!

26 Rue de Mont-Blanc is the answer to many questions. Not only is it the expected reply when asking the clerk at the Café du Paris what is written on all those invitation label stickers… it’s also the result of a query to the local rat database, which reads “SELECT * FROM locations WHERE after_hours_food = plentiful;”. But for the kind soul who returned my wallet to the Geneva lost-&-found office it was the answer to the question: “where did you find it?” Funny: when these things happened in Canada, I rarely ever discovered post-mortem the time and place of the death of the infamous wallet/pocket relationship. But here in Geneva, I am given not only the exact address of the murder, but a letter in French, delivered to my Wendover door, explaining what it is that I must do to make restitution. It’s odd, though. Although I clearly recall enjoying an espresso on the upper level of McDonalds at 25 Rue de Mont-Blanc on a not-so-long-ago Saturday, I don’t think I’ve ever even walked into the aforementioned neighbouring coffee shop at 26. But while my memory often fails, I’m still maintaining my capacity to help you guys learn from my mistakes. Do not lose your wallet in CH.

I borrowed 40 Swiss Francs from Dana for my train ticket to Lucerne (Pictures here). In Lucerne I borrowed another 20 Swiss Francs from Dana. Other people paid for my cheese tortilla dinner. These same people, whilst calculating the dinner bill, could not agree on the ownership of a stray ten… But I could: I claimed it as my means to get to church on Sunday. Slick. When you run out of ticket-buying time, though, you also discover that post-boarding prices are 50% higher: and then you have no choice but to rely on the kindness of the SBB train crew. It’s a fascinating challenge to try and make people feel good about lending you wads of cash! Equally challenging is the process to get a new Maestro card from a Swiss bank by phone: “We’ll mail you a new card. It’s 60 CHF to cancel the old card, and 20 CHF for a replacement card. Use your old PIN.” Hmmm… not very secure, eh? And why didn’t he ask me “are you okay with these fees?” or “can I offer you a complimentary hour with a therapist for every penny that I steal from you?” Blegh. Three days later, I was excitedly retrieving my new plastic from mailbox 117 at the Foyer (they must have got my address right). I even initiated a search for the ever elusive (working) pen, so that I might adorn this fresh new plate of round-edged polymer with my signature. But alas, even my sprawling scribbles weren’t enough to earn the trust of the bank machine. So much for using my old PIN… After a couple of tries, the beast got hungry and digested my shiny new bank card. Do not trust any more hungry monsters with touch screens.

At least Elisabeth (colleague @ ACT) trusts me. She’s my 100 CHF lifeline bank with an incredible 0% interest rate. She even throws in (or at least brews in) a complimentary espresso now and again. UBS has yet to demonstrate a form of service that comes remotely close to this!

Borrowed cash in tow, I decided on a whim to join Steph, Linjte, and Dana on a cheap-grocery hunt in France. “Yeah, they take Swiss Francs,” everyone assured me; “You don’t need Euros.” The main difference between LIDL and ALDI is the letter A. And the astonishing use of all the primary colours in the LIDL logo. In all other respects, including the number of letters in their names, they are similar. Stuff in boxes. Stuff made by obscure companies. Obscure stuff, like canned duck stew. And really good deals! I loaded up a box full of things I didn’t even know I needed. And now back to the money worries, eh? The cashier said “sorry we don’t accept CHF.” Murphy! Thanks for paying the bill, Dana. After LIDL, we walked to the Hyper Champion, where some of the labels are in some form of Flemish or Dutch. Upon discovering that said supermarket was open until 9pm (ridiculously late in these parts), we checked out bags, and roamed. I decided to get a bottle of vermouth for any upcoming risotto experiments. I even had enough change in my pocket to pay for it. Too bad I had left Elisabeth’s loan in the bag-check, because “sorry, you can’t pay with coins!” Totally unreal. And apparently I don’t look old enough to buy vermouth. Thanks, guys for your I.D. and money!

Speaking of identification, I did manage to keep my passport in possession through these ordeals. It was by means of this passport that I ordered both my second replacement bank card, as well as a new influx of UBS cash, withdrawn freshly from my own branch at the ILO. And it was this same passport which I handed to the man at the lost and found office this morning. “Ya, we have it…” he said. “It will cost you 24.50 CHF.” And so now I have to ask you: how one is supposed to pay for a wallet when one has no wallet at all? I guess if there was ever an official guidebook about these sorts of things, it might advise you to go beg on the streets for an hour. Given the almost negligible difference between my 22.00 CHF change-in-hand, and the requested amount, begging on the street just might have been easier than another trip to the banque cantonale, d’Elisabeth. What was really weird about the whole thing was that the guy had my wallet right in view on the counter, and yet he refused to spot me the remaining (absolutely required) pennies. As I left to go look for some generous passers-by, I realized that my wallet still contained one uncanceled bank card. ABN AMRO. Steps retraced, (my second) ticket taken, and lineup traversed, I succeeded in my request to be given this card, if only as a means to pay him for the rest of the cards. “There’s a bank upstairs,” he said. Actually, the bank was a half-kilometer down the street. But I got the man his money, and now my wallet-pocket relationship has been miraculously resurrected!

I think that I might change my mind about the advice I give. Learn what you may will these events, but as the perpetual victim of my own absent-mindedness, I don’t actually have too many regrets! Each time, I’ve encountered interesting people, places (and philosophies?), that otherwise might never have made their way into my brain. Each time, I’m blessed with a greater confidence in the existence of God’s grace, as evidenced in the willingness of average people to return lost goods to their rightful owner. I suppose you would be right, given my irresponsibilty to question that rightful ownership. If anything, the person who found and returned my wallet is by virtue of their goodwill probably higher than I on an arbitrary scale of responsibility. But I still think all of us should lose our wallets now and again. The experience is always both humbling and refreshing. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go photograph all my cards in case I lose them again. And after that I need to call the SBB… I think I left my rollerblades on a Munich-bound train.

Greetings.

H.

The hour in which I write this is most pleasant. One O’clock AM. Savouring a clarity of mind that I have not enjoyed since many months. I am restful now, lingering over sips of Sri-Lankan cranberry tea and nibbles of honey on toast… so please do allow me, now that I’ve collected my thoughts, to tell you about a few Dutch cities wherein a selection of kind souls facilitated my learning journeying. All of this, of course, representing the as-of-yet undocumented chronology of a vacation. Hey: if it works out, I might even introduce you to another city: Geneva.

The train from Roodeschool to Groningen is like none other. There’s something really significant about the warm sun filtering through largely empty train carriages as they pass through relatively insignificant towns in the north end of this wondefully flat countryside. Almost as significant as the southern leg of my journey to Wageningen, in which a greater abundance of passengers provided verbal engagement. These included a few die-hards from the ranks of the recumbant bicycle world… a world which makes no qualms about touring the whole of Europe sans-motor. And then there’s that less-than-wealthy guy whose perspective on faith issues would have made for a great disucussion had he not felt the need to get off at the next stop. I’ll forgive him: we all have to get off the train at some point. When my turn came, I knew I would eventually grew tired of stuff-lugging. But I didn’t care, for the moment, and continued to lug my stuff.

Sytze was waiting at the appropriate bus stop, as arranged via SMS signals that traversed KPN communication networks. After more lugging and elevators, I realized that both sunsets and traffic rotundas are much more enjoyable from the 16^th floor, so much so that any amount of required lugging acutally becomes negligible. We watched part of the film Amelie, realized that the time was probably better spent shopping for dinner supplies, compared music collections, and bought dinner supplies. There’s a cool botanical garden in Wageningen, and an escarpment that almost rivals Niagara, despite it’s sandy composition. This ridge would become flat if it weren’t for centuries of root systems. Yaw. When Hetty came home (she lives at Asserpark too) we indicated our mutual familial appreciation of Capitalism, or at least the Monopoly table (find the picture in the relevant album if you didnt catch that). Hetty also earned a medal for walking 200 odd kilometers in Nijmegen. Vierdaagse. More blisters than buttons in the Asserpark elevator, I’m sure. Sytze and I were also amused with the logistics of not forgetting one’s keys at the wrong end of the elevator. Silly. Somewhere in the space of these days, we also had a beertje op en terrasje among other things. The other things included marveling at photographs, philosophizing, and biking around the city. Lekker hoor! Vooral met stroopwafels erbij.

Finding an efficient route from Wageningen to Zaltbommel by public transit is much more difficult than eating a stroopwafel. 3 connections and more than an hour later, I had traversed a couple of kilometers. Should have walked. But hey, Jeroen and company (tilley hat and ford focus) were there to make alles goed. One shower and one verlengsnoer later, and we were having breakfast outside in the sun, toast included. I ate lots of toast. We decided that stunt rollerblading was a priority, but immediately boating seemed like a cool option too. Jeroen has not altered his intense adventure-seeking ways. NOTE: The rusted out anchor in the Zaltbommel harbour is on my listen of missed photo opportunities. I blame this one on lack of time and dead batteries. And now, back to the boating trip… what an opportunity to soak up some much needed anti-whitie rays. Blinding rays of reflected sunshine, baby! Among the events on the river were several attempts to ride boat-bound on a flat-ish board with mediocre stabilization fins haphazardly bolted on. I failed. The others mostly passed, wet suits and all: professional amateur wakeboarding. I contented myself with some hardcore dutch sunshine, seagulls feathers and shells. Professional amateur beach art attack. Yeah. Love it.

The Fokkemas, true dutchmen that they are, subscribe to Philips Senseo coffeemaker. I consumed my fair share of it, since you need 2 or 3 to make even a small timmies serving. It’s good stuff anyway; you get used to these petite-isms. But seriously, whether it’s watching Saturday night films on the Fokkema houseboat, or getting surprised by prompt laundry service, these jovial hosts get an A+ for hospitability.

While in the region, I made sure to visit Ede, where Els and Koos were busy converting their new habitation into a home. I only got a little bit of paint on my shoes. And shorts. But it was so worth it! What with Five Iron Frenzy on the stereo, and free reign of the colour mixing. I didn’t go too crazy with the mural (its in a dark hallway anyway), but if anyone asks, the painted H in the artificial window above the door stands for Hoefakker, not Harold. Purple is nice. I hope Els still thinks so in a year. The original source paint is VERY purple. We visited Anneleen, at her babysitting shift, and talked about landscaping sketches, little kids, and digital cameras. The day after, I was blown away by the ambition of the Kaspers (also Senseo subscribers) on the niewe Kazernelaan. I learned that a Kazerne is a stable for soldiers. Uhh… Barracks. Right. Jeroen stays at one too, eh buddy?! Anyway, the Kaspers’ street is called that because there are some of these barracks nearby. A few of them are getting phased out, as well. Anyway, you should ask Anneleen to show you the pictures of their place before they worked on it… what is there today is the result of an incredible building project. En ik weer onder de indruk. Really impressive. Right down to the details of how to put in stone steps properly. We got a whole story about that, along with the botanical variations in the garden. Lovely indeed. Thanks guys, you were amazing hosts too!

My second trip to Steenwijk was less intense, but a good rest from the craziness of daily lugging. On the agenda was the setting up of a tent, to test its weatherproofness. Without instructions its a bit of trial and error. But also more fun, because at the end you feel smart and accomplished. I guess its also a tribute to the tent designer, but hardly anyone credits the designer. T’jah it’s a way of life eh.

The hammock in the backyard was “echt super-relaxed” If something is even remotely cool here, its an expression to call it “echt super relaxed”. Some kind of explitive for nifty things or events or places or people. Anyway, my idea of “super-relaxed” is of course to go and paint a landscape. Shopping for brushes and acrylics and dollar-store mirrors that double palettes is also super relaxed. But I think the most super-relaxing thing of all is to not be afraid of curious cows that come and inspect the quality of your art work. With their drooling, slobbery noses but inches away from your face. Yeah! Rock on bessie!

The other relaxed Steenwijker idea was to go and see Shakespearean outdoor theatre, in Diever. We saw the Dutch translation of the play As You Like It. The irony-ridden plot follows the woes of people afflicted by love (the disease, not the fairytale). You have portraits of how different people deal with it. At the end we weren’t sure if As you like it referred to morality (experiencing love how we see fit), or if it referred to the freedom to choose our preferred love-related weakness (choosing the character to which we could most personally relate). I prefer the second approach, as the desperate, the infatuated, and the traditional (among others) were all fabulously represented in the play. Really cool. I reccommend it.

I also reccommend flying Vreugdenhil Airlines if you get a chance. (inside-grapje) A big thank you to the Vreugdenhils, I really enjoyed hanging out with you this summer.

After my second nap and third cup of tea, here in Geneva, it is twenty to twelve. But as it turns out, I not yet am finished with paintbrushes, digital, metaphorical, or actual. And I still have to write about Laag Zuthem and Hattem… Oi!

The Laag Zuthemers, Tante Renate, Marieke, en Eline, were also in the process of renovating their new house. Oom Maarten was there too, explaining reconstruction options for the kitchen and diningroom: in August there was still a wall there, but I doubt it still exists. Hehe. The upstairs bedrooms were in various shades of red, whose lack of second and thirds coats facilitated their allowing the base coat of white to show through: abundant patchiness thrived. I solved that problem, and then relieved the kozijnen (window frames) of their lack of paint. The neighbour also solved the problem of his missing pigeons, by coaxing them all back into their little coops. Bribery does wonders for the birds; so does whistling apparently. The guy had a weird mustache, and looked rather intimidating, so I decided against having a conversation about homing pigeons. But from a safe distance, he clearly knew what he was doing. Lunch was also clearly ready when I smelled the pannekoeken en stroop. Pannekoeken are great for creative hanging above siblings’ heads. Teehee

After lunch, I played soccer with my counsins and their friends. When they got tired of running after me, we played the cloud shapes game. Apparently there’s a lot more in the sky than just fluffy pirate ships and a walruses. These budding young minds are so full of imagination, that they themselves became the object of an object lesson: it’s all in the eye of the beholder, what you make of the universe. We enjoyed a bikeride back to the farm, where Renate and her kids were staying. (by now they’re all moved into the new house). Renate brought me back to Zwolle trainstation. A typical serpent’s nest of a train station, complete with underground pedestrian walkways and myriads of rails. Nothing compared to the Paris subway, but you get the idea.

I came to Hattem running low on sleep, but forced myself to engage for a couple of hours, fueled by koffie en koek. After crashing (inevitably) and then phoning some people in Canada (My vacation clock was running out, and I needed some reassurance from my mother), I enjoyed a couple of really refreshing days with Tante Joke and my cousins: Hester, Theo, Peter, Eric, en Jaap. (Oom Jan Ties & Annekke were away in Kenya). Hattem has more than a few points of interest. The Sikkema’s backyard has a wonderful grapevine, and is… well… super relaxed! The chocolate biscuits thought so too and melted. Against one wall in the kitchen is a church bench, salvaged from the pre-renovated Roodeschool Gereformeerde Kerk (Vrijgemaakt) reconstruction project. It {comfortably} seats most of the family. It’s really a cozy place: every inch of space in this house is clearly defined to be somebody’s kleine hokje. Be sure to visit the main floor bathroom, where a hundred little proverbs are printed, each on its own carefully positioned plaque: Saturday morning market treasures. While everyone else stayed home questioning our sanity, Tante Joke and I attended an evening organ concert. Absolutely lovely to sit in an old church on a creaky chair and just soak in the foot-pedal-powered melodies: like floating back a couple of centuries! The tour of the town included ice cream, and a stop at a pool of stone kikkers (frogs), and a visit to the local spice garden (help yourself, if you’re a resident). Whether it’s a chocolate shop where you can get custom made chocolate forms, or een huisje vol met klompen, Hattem certainly presents an atmosphere that I wouldn’t mind to relive. I think I’ll be back.

On the morning of the 14^th of August 2007, I took the first train from Zwolle, to the airport. That’s right. My next post will be about Geneva. I bet you can’t wait. :p

Hello friends,

I have installed a Gallery plugin on my WordPress, which means you can use the Pages menu on the right  to look through my pictures. Enjoy.

Harold

What happened between Paris and now was both relaxing and intense, a vacation, and a full course-overload. Right now I feel rather like I did after writing my first-year computer science exam: thrilled with a new perspective on life, and yet somehow tired and lost in the blur of information. Of course these weeks are worth more than a blog post or two, but as far as you are concerned, that’s all you’re going to have as a reference. Yesterday’s Nederlands Dagblad had an article about hyper-modernism, a phenomenon purportedly following post-modernism, in which the claim was made that the more unpredictable the future, the more mobile we must be. I am not a big fan of being in two places at once, but I won’t deny that it isn’t practically possible. The dutch train system is plenty a guarantee. Now where was I (when the world began)?

I think I’ll resume my blog with a tribute to tante Edith, Lennart and Dagmar. Edith for driving us to Paris, Lennart for playing the drums, Dagmar for her coin collection, and all three for being cool Goesers

If my memory serves me, I left Goes and arrived in some trainstation in some city near Kaatsheuvel. Kaatsheuvel: the home of both the Efteling (Canada’s Wonderland a la dutch) and the empty house of Elske Dorgelo’s friend Eveline’s vacationing parents. We played a fairly even round of bowling, enjoyed the hostas in the garden, and made like laundry (soaking up sunrays in the backyard).

In Nijmegen I philosophized with Elske about poetry and language, and marvelled at her gift for writing. Going to be famous, I’m telling you. It rained a lot, even during the bike-ride to church. Perhaps symbolic of a larger, more penetrating spiritual depression hanging over the Netherlands… but more likely just typical Dutch meteorological randomness. The sun came out for post-church coffee, where a surprising crowd of 20 students still gathered in the middle of the summer. Before leaving Nijmegen, Elske and I enjoyed a bikeride through the countryside, where Nijmegen’s own zevenheuvelenweg winds over seven atypical hills, and past the Groesbeek Canadian War Cemetery, where 2338 Canadians are buried. There were cool slugs on the sidewalk.

Post Nijmegen, I hit the Zwolle/Dalfsen area. I met up with Joanne Vreugdenhil (met her in Beamsville at the Post’s thanks to the Orange Maple exchange a couple of years back). She lives (on the 11^th floor?) in a rather derelict part of Zwolle. Kind of like the Wendover phenomenon: low income housing implies either students or society’s dregs. Joanne falls under both categories (Just kidding, Jo!). We borrowed a spare bike from Rienk, and headed via a spontaneous route to the Koepelallee, where we surprised Opa, Oma, and Tante Jenneke with a frothy visit. After groceries on the way home, I made Risotto for the flet to repay them for their hospitality. Among the other attractions in Zwolle is the Boekbinderstraat, where I stayed at tante Eefke’s. She’s got a really cool blue Toyota. Opa also has a Toyota… super-low and accessible for Oma. Friday I biked to Ommen, and stayed the night at Oom Klaas & Tante Annette’s. Tante Renate was there too with Robert, Eliene and Marieke. They were fresh off a vacation, having borrowed Oom Klass’s caravan (camper). I promised them that if time allowed I would stop by their place yet. On the saturday we worked in the backyard turning freshly trimmed branches into mulch. Then biking back tegen-wind. Zwolle to Ommen to Zwolle is a lovely 60 km.

Joanne suggested I come up to Steenwijk for the weekend. No regrets. The Vreugdenhil hotel gets a 5 star rating for gezellighied Mr. Vreugdenhil is “glas-in-lood atelier”, meaning that he makes windows from coloured glass in lead settings. Beautiful! Mrs. Vreugdenhil is a counsellor at a school. Ruud is a high-dive master, Hugo skateboards, Marloes and Suzanne are everything that little sisters should be. Joanne and I supervised the young-uns on a trip to Amsterdam on Monday. For them, the main attraction was the train ride, and not the giant Rembrandt in the Rijksmuseum. But I’ll admit that I rather enjoyed the static electricity on my cola bottle wrapper as well.

I decided that the rest of the week was going to be spent in the North. For 2 Euros I travelled by bus from Steenwijk to Ureterp. Cheap! Ureterp is the home of the Hovius Family. (Natasja Hovius spend some time in Smithville at Covenant School, completing an internship). Between playstation singstar (Karaoke), discussing the geography of Ontario (Mr. H had done some travelling), and shopping in Drachten, it was an enjoyable bit of Friesland! Next I bussed to Groningen, enjoyed the morning sun on the Peerd van Oome Lux, and then took the first train to Roodeschool. The order of the stops I had heard before - Dad had them memorized: Groningen-Groningen Noord-Winsum-Baflo-Warffum-Usquert-Uithuizen-Uithuizermeeden-Roodeschool. Gijnig. Not so gijnig was the fact that the wheels on my suitcase wore off. Klaas is lending me his suitcase until Christmas as a temporary solution.

Roodeschool was a wonderful time of good conversation and quiet reflections. I felt like I was reconnecting with family history, putting together the pieces of my own past. Eemshoeve, Oma’s grave, speaking Gronings with my cousins. “Goa van mien laand jong!” Everything down to Tante Jannie’s perfectionist laundry ironing technique made it feel like home. Oom Maarten took almost 2 hours out of his time to give me the full tour of the fully restored Gereformeerde Kerk (vrijgemaakt) te Roodeschool. Of course, his enthusiasm is proportional to the effort which he personally invested in many aspects of the building project. The church is a masterpiece. You should go see it.

Stay tuned for August and some pictures (i have been taking them).