More of Margie and Paris

I promised I would publish some more pics of our wonderful day in Paris with Margie and her fabulous family, so here they are.



In the photos above and below are the rest of the fab four, with Madelaine, her super talented and gentle James and Sophie, the youngest, but looking to be the tallest of the three girls- another sweetie too.



Below, a rather nice pic of the very special Colin.



And an unusual take of 'me and ma friend Marge'.



On to the sights, this is a view of the Place de la Bastille, decorated with several bright young things making use of the open spaces for some skateboarding practice.



I'd never seen the game of Boules played before, but it seems that you can play it anywhere there's a piece of open ground and some sandy soil, as here is a thoroughly informal game being played in the middle of a Paris street.



And of course, being us, the inevitable canal. This one's name I can't recall off hand and Koos isn't here to tell me, but it looked beautiful at dusk with its still surface reflecting the evening light.



I thought Dale might like this one. It's the high speed train that both took us and brought us home from Paris. I'm publishing this, courtesy of Colin (and I hope you don't mind, Colin!), but the train has a name, the Thalys, and is a really futuristic looking beastie.



Then finally, it was time to say goodbye. Also one of Colin's pics, it captures our mood, which was definitely one of fun in the company we'd been keeping.

To Paris and to Margie!

I've been keeping this quiet for a wee while, but today was the day we'd been waiting for and it finally came.  This morning, we, being Koos and I, made a mad dash to Paris so that we could meet the marvellous, lovely and beloved MargieCM of blog fame, together with her absolutely gorgeous family. It was a truly special, once in a lifetime meeting. We could have known them all our lives, but in fact had a bare six hours together - six hours filled with warmth, laughter, serious discussion, camraderie and genuine friendship that will last six times six hundred of those hours at least.

The pictures below are just a few of those that were taken at the apartment Margie, her truly lovely Colin and the fab four offspring are sharing close to the Marais district in Paris. I'll publish a few more of the others in another post.

Colin, the adorable Emma and Margie laughing....

Colin, Margie and Koos laughing.....

Moi, Colin and Margie...seeing sights on a long and much needed post lunch walk

Koos, M and C doing the same in the Place de vosges.......while considering Colin's indispensible map book.

We spent most of the afternoon walking, taking in the canals and boats (well, this is us after all!) and enjoying the Parisian atmosphere. We finally ended our tour back at the Gare du Nord, where Koos and I jumped on the train and headed back to Rotterdam, replete with good food, good company and warm memories of a day we wouldn't have missed for the world. Thank you Margie and Colin. Have a wonderful week in Paris and a safe journey home. We miss you already! xx

From the Rocks to the Dunes

Last month on the 12th December, we were at this stunning beach on the eastern cape coast of South Africa. It seemed so far and so divorced from my life here in the Netherlands that coming back was somewhat confusing - from mid summer to mid winter is, in its way, as much of an adjustment as the east/ west time lag.



But, never say die is my motto, so on the 26th December, just two short weeks later when we were about as far north as we had been south earlier in the month, I persuaded Koos to take me to the beach near Breskens where he took these lovely winter photos (It's on the Zeeuws Vlaanderen coast of the Netherlands about 15 kms from the Belgian border)







Somehow, the connection with the sea and the sand made sense of the change.

Maryssa and Craig are wed

Aren't they a lovely couple?



Isn't this a lovely group....?



Aren't we lucky parents.......?
Check the head gear girls! Craig's mum and I wore these by special request. Genuine, once in a lifetime mother-in-law hats.

Until I've settled back in again, it's good to be home, good to be on blog, and lots of love to you all.

The flavour of a flat country

Just a taste of Holland to leave you with while I'm away. Endless horizons have their own beauty, don't they?

Confessions of a long suffering English Teacher

Being an English teacher is a fine occupation. I mean it involves me in something I already love, the intricacies of which I can find endlessly and quite boringly (for my students) fascinating. After all, who else do you know who could talk with almost unbecoming and outrageous enthusiasm for at least half an hour about the apostrophe?

Nevertheless, doing this can also get me into deep water, nay not only water, into the dark and dirty mire. Take, for example, my main weakness: spelling. I have to say, and this is a real confession, that I am a bit hopeless at vowels - I get them mixed up all the time. Imagine this scenario then: I'm busy giving my students a quiz on confusing words and we come up with the one about 'principal' and 'principle'. This is when I discover to my shame I need the answers. But I haven't got them with me. Then one honest student says, "but Valerie, what's the difference?" Gulp. Well, I know the difference, but at that moment, I can't remember which definition goes with which spelling...oh mortification..and I'm the English Teacher.

But there's nothing like a bit of panic to get the juices working, and without so much as a break of pace or a hint of remorse, I look brightly round the room and ask, "now who would like to explain?" nodding knowingly and encouragingly as another student gets me out of the doodoo.

There are several others like this one, all sent to catch me out, but as time goes on, I'm becoming increasingly agile at avoiding these verbal minefields...the other day it was the difference between 'stationery' and 'stationary'.."one means not moving, and the other means paper and writing material. Now you tell me which one's which?" say I, deftly ducking the obvious booby trap.

Then there's the problem with pronunciation pickles. Many of my international students come from countries where they learn English from books but never hear it. The result can be hilarious when they finally get round to having to actually speak it. The trouble is, I'm not supposed to laugh at them! That is an absolute no no. But it's really really hard sometimes. I mean what would you do if someone was giving a serious presentation on an academic subject, and came up with the sentence: "We feel that under these circumstances, we have been seriously mizzled". Everyone looks blank, including me. "Could you maybe just repeat that please?" I ask diplomatically, but the laughter lump is already forming in my throat, and is refusing to be swallowed. The hapless student repeats the sentence, and when the sea of faces remains vacant and clueless, she spells out the word: Misled.

Now I don't know why this should strike me as so funny, but it does, and try as I might, I can't staunch the flow. I've even had to leave the room on occasions just to get over a fit of incurable giggles caused by a mispronounced word. It's even worse when the whole class watches you with total incomprehension as you splutter and weep tears of laughter into your piece of crumpled loo paper, which happens to be the only thing you have to hand. Nothing so refined as a real tissue is ever there when you need it.

Then there's the third obstacle: making language mistakes yourself. This is of course the students' delight. They love it, and will happily remind you for the rest of the course (and beyond to eternity) when you make one teentsy, tiny, minute and insignificant little error, such as leaving out a 'the' or saying 'less things' instead of 'fewer things'. Well, part of it could be that I pounce on them from a dizzy height when they do the same, but even still....when you meet them later on, even a year after, they will delight in reminding you of a sin of your own making. Sometimes you can gloss over mistakes, and if I can, I do it shamelessly - just to avoid the permanence of being branded the teacher who fell into her own hole…or was it whole? Or a whole hole?

I've become quite adept at saying things like "oh yes, you're quite right, but I was going to say 'less baggage (for example)' but I changed my mind...so of course it came out wrong". Big smile.

I know that they know that I'm bluffing, but at least it's one way of crawling out of the mire..or the pit...or the minefield..or was that a pit too......?

Soft focus delight

I have been very shortsighted since an early age, although with time and cataract replacements, this is becoming less so. Nevertheless, I had my first pair of glasses at the tender age of six. This was not the age that I actually became myopic - no, it was merely the day and time when my parents discovered that I really couldn't see. There was this Golden Eagle (escaped from London Zoo). Goldie, it was called, somewhat predictably, and it was sitting in a tree not four metres above my head. I squinted skywards, and saw nothing but blurred blobs. Shocked at their inattention to their offspring's borderline blindness, my parents rushed me off to the nearest optician to order my glasses.

I remember them clearly. They were like toned down versions of the ones that famous drag queens wear. You know the type. Pink. With wings. And because I was so young, I had those springy extra wire pieces that hooked round my ears to prevent them falling off. I hated them with a passion. Not because they were ugly. In fact I thought they were the last thing in elegance when I first got them. No, it was because all of a sudden, I could see the ugly side of life.

I'd had them for just a matter of days when we were driving through an area of south London just after a heavy snowfall. Without my glasses, everything had looked sparkling, clean and fairy like. I lived in a delightful fantasy world of soft focus vision. Then suddenly, I had these things that made me see that all that glittered was not snow. I could see the ugly mud and slush. I could see the litter on the streets being trodden into the same ugly mud and slush. My world was shattered, and I made a conscious decision at that moment that I was not going to wear my glasses unless absolutely necessary. Quite determined for a six year old, I was!

The result of that piece of willfulness has sometimes been quite hilarious. There was the day when we were driving past Hyde Park, and I asked my mum what all those sheep were doing on the grass. She gave me a very peculiar look. What sheep? I pointed to the creamy coloured shapes ahead of us. "Vally, put your glasses on", she scolded me in exasperation "they're deck chairs, not sheep!"

Then there are the times I have tried to greet 'someone' up ahead, only to find I've been talking to an electricity box.

There are other downsides too. I have this tendency to totally ignore friends and acquaintances on the street, even when I am walking right past them. When you can't see, you are less inclined to look. Or there have been occasions when I have literally walked into people I know well without having seen them at all. Try explaining that to your best friend.

More recently and with Sindy's aversion to being confronted by other canines, I have crossed four lane highways in a dash to escape dogs, only to be acutely embarrassed when I've realised the said 'dogs' haven't moved and are temporary traffic signs or bollards.

But the last and most puzzling truth for most of my friends is when I tell them I have to put my glasses on to hear them properly...well, excuse me?! It's true, but I'll leave you to figure that one out.

At the end of the day, though, I still prefer my fuzzy world to the real thing. Here in Holland, I tend to wear my glasses more because I'm a danger to myself without them. There are so many hazards afoot as soon as I step off the boat - cyclists, moped riders, cars, trams and buses too. And you have to watch out for all of them all the time.

However, as soon as I get home, the specs come off and my eyes breathe a sigh of relief. They are in their own form of denial, and really prefer a life of ease and softly blurred edges.

Cultural gaps

Rotterdam has thirty four museums - apparently. Whatever the precise number, there are a lot. I have been to just one of them, the Kunsthal, which is an art gallery. I've been to it three times, but it is the only one I've visited. I am ashamed.

I have never been to the Doelen, the city's fine concert hall, nor have I been to the famous Rotterdam Film Festival as a visitor. I have been part of a film crew that was making its own film about the film festival, but I have never watched any of the films being screened at the film festival itself(is that enough films for you?). I am still more ashamed.

Now tell me where I can find a piece of history and I will seek it out - the monumental windmills in Schiedam, the Pilgrim's church in Delfshaven, the old VOC warehouse in the achterhaven; show me books of the pre-war city, immerse me in the tales of devastating floods and the building of the great dykes and you've got me hooked. I will even drive over a hundred kilometres to see ancient ship wrecks exposed by the draining of the polder (pity they were no longer there when I got to the place!). Why then, can I not find the motivation to go to the fantastic collection of musea that are just around the corner?

It is quite expensive. That's one possibility, but if I really wanted to it wouldn't put me off. I paid handsomely to go to the Escher and Dali exhibitions - and I'm not Dutch - yet. Maybe they are also too close, as in they are always there; I can go any time which means I go at no time. But no. I think the real reason is that I find museums and art galleries are often oppressive places, where everything is out of context. The artifacts in museums were all once part of people's lives while the paintings of the old masters were intended to grace the walls of people's homes. To me, the only art that is at its best in a gallery is the more modern, abstract art which is often designed to be observed in isolation. Art for art's sake. As for history, it should be alive and around us, not locked in cases in pompous, featureless chambers.

When it comes to music, I love classical concerts as well as rock and this is something I really should address. There are recitals, dance performances and symphonic concerts going on throughout the year in Rotterdam, and I should and will be there. That then is my resolution. I know it's a bit late for new year, but I think it's not one to be shelved until the next year is in. if I start now, my cultural gaps may be closing nicely by the time 2008 comes around. What about the museums, though? Well, I guess I'll save them for when the family is here in the summer. Then I can ooh and aaah along with the best of them and still sound as if I mean it!