I don't know what they are. Taxis maybe? The sign on the roof says Tuk Tuk.
If anyone knows, (Tanya, Meghan, etc.) please fill me in. I'd ask the drivers myself, but they're too busy whizzing around!
Thursday, September 13, 2007
For no reason in particular,
These three-wheeled wonders are everywhere, and in every colour.
I don't know what they are. Taxis maybe? The sign on the roof says Tuk Tuk.
If anyone knows, (Tanya, Meghan, etc.) please fill me in. I'd ask the drivers myself, but they're too busy whizzing around!
I don't know what they are. Taxis maybe? The sign on the roof says Tuk Tuk.
If anyone knows, (Tanya, Meghan, etc.) please fill me in. I'd ask the drivers myself, but they're too busy whizzing around!
So far, so good.
Well, I had a job interview this morning at this place. I saw they were looking for an intern, so I called. The woman said they were also looking for a designer, and I should come by. So I did.
It was in a part of town I've never been to before. It was off of my map, so I gave myself plenty of time to get there, and peddled away. As I got closer, the area became increasingly industrial, and I became increasingly skeptical. Could there be a design firm in the midst of smoke stacks?
When I pulled up to the address, I was facing an old factory and thought for sure I was lost. Not only was I lost, I would now be late. I went around the building to the courtyard, and was surprised to see a handful of designer-y looking people setting up a photo shoot. It wasn't until I walked in the front doors that I realized I was for sure in the right place. This old factory had been given a second life as the host of a design community. It was kind of like a mall, kind of like a school, and entirely filled with creative studios, ranging from design, film, and multi-media. It was so cool! There was even a swanky cafeteria were everyone eats lunch together.
The interview went well, and I should know by the end of next week. I also heard back from another firm, but they said they're too busy to interview until next month. So, if worse comes to worse, I should have another interview then. In the meantime, I'm going to send them one of these:
These are my little portfolio giveaways (now in three different shades!) that I spent so long making before I left. Originally they were paperback, but after crossing the Atlantic jam-packed with the rest of everything we own, they arrived warped. I was so disappointed. Luckily I discovered a shop that sells book binding supplies--including book cloth every colour of the rainbow-- and I hardbound them. This also conveniently covered up my foolish typo of "Nederlandse"; it was the only Dutch word I had in the whole damn thing, and I spelled it wrong.
Hopefully it won't be too long before I get a job.
It was in a part of town I've never been to before. It was off of my map, so I gave myself plenty of time to get there, and peddled away. As I got closer, the area became increasingly industrial, and I became increasingly skeptical. Could there be a design firm in the midst of smoke stacks?
When I pulled up to the address, I was facing an old factory and thought for sure I was lost. Not only was I lost, I would now be late. I went around the building to the courtyard, and was surprised to see a handful of designer-y looking people setting up a photo shoot. It wasn't until I walked in the front doors that I realized I was for sure in the right place. This old factory had been given a second life as the host of a design community. It was kind of like a mall, kind of like a school, and entirely filled with creative studios, ranging from design, film, and multi-media. It was so cool! There was even a swanky cafeteria were everyone eats lunch together.
The interview went well, and I should know by the end of next week. I also heard back from another firm, but they said they're too busy to interview until next month. So, if worse comes to worse, I should have another interview then. In the meantime, I'm going to send them one of these:
These are my little portfolio giveaways (now in three different shades!) that I spent so long making before I left. Originally they were paperback, but after crossing the Atlantic jam-packed with the rest of everything we own, they arrived warped. I was so disappointed. Luckily I discovered a shop that sells book binding supplies--including book cloth every colour of the rainbow-- and I hardbound them. This also conveniently covered up my foolish typo of "Nederlandse"; it was the only Dutch word I had in the whole damn thing, and I spelled it wrong.
Hopefully it won't be too long before I get a job.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
What's "herbal refreshment" in Spanish?
As discovered on a wrong turn in Madrid:
For those of you not familiar with the face above, it is Fat Freddy Freak, the biggest and the baddest of the Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers, an underground comic book from the late sixties/early seventies-ish. All of the the Fabulous Furry Freak Brother's adventures are centered around the quest for "herbal refreshments." Honestly though, it's not just some lame stoner comic; it's really well done, quite witty, and has stood the test of time. If you can find it, look it up. Maybe if you ask me nicely, I'll show you the copies I was given when I come home.
I was introduced to the Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers by my Uncle Gordon, and I've always thought if he was one of the Freak Bros., he'd be Fat Freddy (the biggest and the baddest, I said.)
So I post this today in memory of Gordon Partridge,
October 31, 1946 – September 12, 2006.
For those of you not familiar with the face above, it is Fat Freddy Freak, the biggest and the baddest of the Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers, an underground comic book from the late sixties/early seventies-ish. All of the the Fabulous Furry Freak Brother's adventures are centered around the quest for "herbal refreshments." Honestly though, it's not just some lame stoner comic; it's really well done, quite witty, and has stood the test of time. If you can find it, look it up. Maybe if you ask me nicely, I'll show you the copies I was given when I come home.
I was introduced to the Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers by my Uncle Gordon, and I've always thought if he was one of the Freak Bros., he'd be Fat Freddy (the biggest and the baddest, I said.)
So I post this today in memory of Gordon Partridge,
October 31, 1946 – September 12, 2006.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Monday, September 10, 2007
It was the carpenter, with a paintbrush, in our one-and-only room.
The whole "strangers walking into our apartment unannounced" was cute at first, but I'm officially over it.
Ross went to school this morning, and I went to the Canadian Embassy. When I came home, the street door to our building was propped open. Both the chimney-cleaners and the contractors who are renovating the apartment next door have been doing this, since they don't have keys. I don't really like it since they usually forget to close the door after them at the end of the day. We store our bicycles just inside the of door, and they could be stolen. They're not worth much, but I'd prefer not to have to go through the effort of getting them again.
When I came upstairs, the door to our apartment was also open – not just unlocked, but open – and no one was in sight. Instantly I had a flashback to Ross & I leaving the house together at the same time today, he locked the door, and double checked that I had my keys. . . there was no way we left the door open. The house smelled like paint, and I noticed the door was freshly painted, so I didn't think it was an intruder. But even still, I did a quick survey of our belongings. (We're fine.)
I went to the apartment next door, where one of the renovators was sanding. His English is on par with my Dutch, so our conversation didn't get very far. He called his boss, who I've spoken to a few times, and he assured me that no one from his company has keys to our apartment.
I then called the company we are renting through to find out who had been here, and why they left our apartment open to the general public. She assured me this is not the way they normally do business, and that before someone comes over, we must be notified (in my head I was thinking, yeah, right.) Immediately following this conversation, the mystery intruder walked in. . . it was the carpenter from our second day. He wiped some paint off the floor, and motioned that both sides of the door were wet, and left. He doesn't speak English, so I didn't bother saying anything to him. I just hope he stops inviting himself into our apartment.
In fact, I hope that all the random strangers stop walking in.
On a brighter note, I have some job prospects lined up.
On the down side, I learned that the woman at the Aliens Police did in fact fill out my paperwork incorrectly, and I'm not supposed to need a working permit; the Working Holiday Program is the permit. The actions to get this reversed may be very lengthy, and overly complicated, I am certain.
On the bright side, the woman at the Canadian Embassy gave me her card, and told me that if for some reason, it's going to take longer than 3 months, to contact her, and she'll be on my side. Cross your fingers I don't have to use her number.
Ross went to school this morning, and I went to the Canadian Embassy. When I came home, the street door to our building was propped open. Both the chimney-cleaners and the contractors who are renovating the apartment next door have been doing this, since they don't have keys. I don't really like it since they usually forget to close the door after them at the end of the day. We store our bicycles just inside the of door, and they could be stolen. They're not worth much, but I'd prefer not to have to go through the effort of getting them again.
When I came upstairs, the door to our apartment was also open – not just unlocked, but open – and no one was in sight. Instantly I had a flashback to Ross & I leaving the house together at the same time today, he locked the door, and double checked that I had my keys. . . there was no way we left the door open. The house smelled like paint, and I noticed the door was freshly painted, so I didn't think it was an intruder. But even still, I did a quick survey of our belongings. (We're fine.)
I went to the apartment next door, where one of the renovators was sanding. His English is on par with my Dutch, so our conversation didn't get very far. He called his boss, who I've spoken to a few times, and he assured me that no one from his company has keys to our apartment.
I then called the company we are renting through to find out who had been here, and why they left our apartment open to the general public. She assured me this is not the way they normally do business, and that before someone comes over, we must be notified (in my head I was thinking, yeah, right.) Immediately following this conversation, the mystery intruder walked in. . . it was the carpenter from our second day. He wiped some paint off the floor, and motioned that both sides of the door were wet, and left. He doesn't speak English, so I didn't bother saying anything to him. I just hope he stops inviting himself into our apartment.
In fact, I hope that all the random strangers stop walking in.
On a brighter note, I have some job prospects lined up.
On the down side, I learned that the woman at the Aliens Police did in fact fill out my paperwork incorrectly, and I'm not supposed to need a working permit; the Working Holiday Program is the permit. The actions to get this reversed may be very lengthy, and overly complicated, I am certain.
On the bright side, the woman at the Canadian Embassy gave me her card, and told me that if for some reason, it's going to take longer than 3 months, to contact her, and she'll be on my side. Cross your fingers I don't have to use her number.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Camera-ready.
This morning Ross & I went to the International Community Fair. It was held in the atrium of the City Hall (Stadhuis). It was a convention for Expats that introduces clubs, and services The Hague offers. It was kind of helpful, but was mostly aimed towards families that are relocating. There seemed to be a lot of Brits there.
Every time we tell someone what street we live on, they are very impressed. We think we must be in a really nice neighborhood (the Shaunessy of Den Haag, if you will), or something. This is really funny to us, because this apartment was less expensive than other ones we looked at. Who knew?
We were approached by some young me who wanted to interview us for a TV show for Expats called "What's Up!?" So Ross & I each took a turn in front of the camera answering questions like, "What's the worst Dutch food you've had since you've been here?" My answer for that was this package of cookies Ross & I bought at a grocery store that we thought was shortbread. When we opened it, it was crusty cinnamon toast.
We might even be able to see the show, since the random person who stopped by today was our Canadian neighbor from downstairs. She brought us some treats from the French bakery, and an old TV that they don't use anymore.
Last but not least, this is a sculpture outside of the Stadhuis. Isn't it weird? Every time I see it, I'm captivated by it's absurdity. You would never see this as public art in Vancouver.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Buying a Bicycle Part II
After the troubles we had yesterday trying to find bikes, we decided to reassess our strategy on how to seek one out. At the grocery store I noticed a small posting on a community bulletin board that said "Herens fiets/Dames fiets €95." (men's bike/women's bike €95. It was still expensive, but way better than anything we saw yesterday so I called.
The man who answered was English and gave me directions to his house. When we finally got there, (we had problems figuring out the bus) someone inside was bombastically playing the piano. At first we didn't want to interrupt--it was so beautiful--but after a couple minutes, we realized we were creepily standing on the stairs outside of a stranger's house. So, we knocked. Obviously, he couldn't hear. So, we knocked louder. . . no answer. We knocked louder . . . still no answer. Ross pounded on the door. . . still no answer. Ross pounded on the door, rattled the mail slot, and pulled this random knob. . . and the playing stopped.
The man that answered the door, Terry, was a 5'3", 90-pound playboy in his late fifties. He was wearing white pants, a white shirt, and a white sport coat with black pinstripes. Picture Steve Buscemi playing Willy Wonka. He invited us in for tea, and seeing how we had nothing else to do, we accepted. His house looked like an antique store. There were Dutch antiques stacked to the the ceiling. I couldn't believe how much great stuff, from old typewriters, to irons, to shoes, to furniture, to kitchen supplies, to china, was in this house. You could barely move without bumping into something.
His wife, who looked like Donatella Versace, passed away 7 years ago. Her (really good) paintings covered the walls, and Terry showed us clothes she made by hand. It was obvious that he missed her very much. It was kind of sad, but didn't take away from how bizarre the mannequins wearing her clothes were.
In the middle of tea, he abruptly excused himself. He was suddenly inspired to add to the piece of music he is in the midst of composing, and went to the piano. The song he is composing is incredible; very passionate, emotional, and quite moving. It's dedicated to the children of Peru who were affected by the earthquake.
After about 15 minutes, he suddenly stopped, and said, "Well, you get the idea."
After this we went to look at the bikes. After nearly an hour of adjusting seats, gears, and taking test drives, Ross & I are the proud owners of bicycles! His is an old Dutch roadbike, and mine is an Austrian antique. I think I'll call her Leisl.
The man who answered was English and gave me directions to his house. When we finally got there, (we had problems figuring out the bus) someone inside was bombastically playing the piano. At first we didn't want to interrupt--it was so beautiful--but after a couple minutes, we realized we were creepily standing on the stairs outside of a stranger's house. So, we knocked. Obviously, he couldn't hear. So, we knocked louder. . . no answer. We knocked louder . . . still no answer. Ross pounded on the door. . . still no answer. Ross pounded on the door, rattled the mail slot, and pulled this random knob. . . and the playing stopped.
The man that answered the door, Terry, was a 5'3", 90-pound playboy in his late fifties. He was wearing white pants, a white shirt, and a white sport coat with black pinstripes. Picture Steve Buscemi playing Willy Wonka. He invited us in for tea, and seeing how we had nothing else to do, we accepted. His house looked like an antique store. There were Dutch antiques stacked to the the ceiling. I couldn't believe how much great stuff, from old typewriters, to irons, to shoes, to furniture, to kitchen supplies, to china, was in this house. You could barely move without bumping into something.
His wife, who looked like Donatella Versace, passed away 7 years ago. Her (really good) paintings covered the walls, and Terry showed us clothes she made by hand. It was obvious that he missed her very much. It was kind of sad, but didn't take away from how bizarre the mannequins wearing her clothes were.
In the middle of tea, he abruptly excused himself. He was suddenly inspired to add to the piece of music he is in the midst of composing, and went to the piano. The song he is composing is incredible; very passionate, emotional, and quite moving. It's dedicated to the children of Peru who were affected by the earthquake.
After about 15 minutes, he suddenly stopped, and said, "Well, you get the idea."
After this we went to look at the bikes. After nearly an hour of adjusting seats, gears, and taking test drives, Ross & I are the proud owners of bicycles! His is an old Dutch roadbike, and mine is an Austrian antique. I think I'll call her Leisl.
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