Tuesday, 6 October 2009
Today my dearest love for the worlds most delicious invention is now...now...slightly postponed. This morning while preparing my lunch, as I do every morning, I was horrified to see that not just hagelslag poured out of the hagelslag box and on to my slice of bread. Along with those tasty little chocolate sprinkles...came a disgusting, creepy and horrible little earwig. eww. It was almost camoflauged amongst the brown hagelslag, but I saw it. How do I know there isn't more in there? How do I know it isn't diseased and disgusting to continue eating the remaining half of the hagelslag? Maybe there are more in there...a family! With a nest and eggs. Maybe they have been brooding in there for the last week or so...and we've been eating them! YUCK. Just the thought is horrible. Although unfortunately it may not be just a though...but reality. Let's see what the internet says about these earwigs and whether it's safe to continue eating and enjoying my addiction.
Wednesday, 30 September 2009
The Trip
The old lady and I sat together at the front of the terminal. It was awkward, but then she spoke. "So how long are you going for?"she asked.
"5 months. To go to school, and live with another family."
"Oh yes. My sister's granddaughter did the same thing."
And the conversation went on like that.
"Where abouts are you going?"
"Noord Brabant, to a village called Someren."
"Oh!" I said. "I'm going to Asten."
"Asta?"
"No, Asten."
"No I don't know Aster. Ohh Asten! Right next door!"
I was second on the plane, quickly making myself comfortable in the seat that would be mine for the next eight hours. A window seat with a perfect middle view of the wing. I should've known. I am cursed. I can't remember the last time I've traveled on a plane and haven't see more wing then sky. However just when I had come to terms with my unlucky seating, a Malaysian girl walks up and says, "I think you're in my seat."
That girl spoke maybe once the entire trip, and it wasn't to me. She just slept. I on the other hand, didn't sleep a wink. Inflight entertainment was not half bad, and I watched a couple of interesting movies. The food wasn't as awful as people always warn, and I even scored a few unoccupied seats to lie down on in an attempt to sleep.
Eight hours later we landed in Malaysia. "Someone will meet you when you get off the plane." said the lady at the desk at Melbourne Airport. Well that never happened.
"Right. I'll have to find my own way." Looking up at the plane departure television, it read: Amsterdam, GATE 2. So that's where I went. Three heavy bags and one extremely heavy bag pulled me down as I trudged the long walk from one end of the airport to the other. And when I got to GATE 2, the atmosphere told me I was in the wrong spot. Funny how that happens? So I trudged back. To GATE 16. Totally deserted. So I trudged back. This time I thought I'd ask someone. The man with the bindi was my saviour. "You should be at GATE 16. The reason why it didn't say so on the television is because your too early. But it's up there now." Thank god. I thought I was going to hear my name on the "late idiots" loud speaker.
I found GATE 16 again, and then I waited. And waited. And waited. Then 2 hours later, sometime after 12 in the morning, it was time to board. I showed them my new and never before used European passport and walked right on through.
And as I waddled through the aisles, sqeezing past people and eventually popping out at my row, I was caught quite by suprise when I realised I was sitting next to that same old lady from the beginning of my trip, with her white fluffy hair, royal red coat and innocent grandma smile. Although this time I blessed with the window seat, we decided it would be better if I sat in the aisle seat, considering she would be sleeping, and I wouldn't.
Of what I calculated in my exhausted state, I slept for about 3 hours on a trip of 13. No doubt however that I slept even less than that. I finished watching a movie I'd started on the first trip, attempted sleep, listened to music and all around did nothing of any interest. Oh and how I was DYING to just arrive. And then finally I did.
Schipol, Amsterdam Airport, was humid, busy and confusing. Where do I go, what do I do, should I ask someone, should I figure it out myself? But I asked someone, and American pilot who knew about as much as I did about the airport. However he did know where baggage claim was. Thank-goodness. And then I used my only-used-once European Passport, and walked right on through without a problem. I really didn't know when I was supposed to be meeting my "dad", Bart. Was he just going pop out in front of me, or would I have to search for him. Oh the anxiety. Baggage claim to a record amount of time. So long that I feared I'd never see my suitcase and it's contents ever again. I swear it at least 45 minutes I waited. When it was finally out, I loaded it's enormous heavy self on to my trolley, with my four other bags, and wheeled myself on through the international doors. They opened on to a walkway, where hundreds of people stood behind a fence, holding signs, waving, and yelling out. Amazingly, amongst the chaos I heard my name called. "Elena!" The first thing I thought? Ah, now I'm really here.
The kids had made a beautiful sign, ELENA , WELKOM IN NEDERLAND!, which in itself made me feel totally welcome. Bart and I chatted over drinks, me in desperate need of a cool shower and summer clothes. I was totally comforted by the fact that I could speak English, and he as well. We talked the whole almost three hour trip home. Yes, home. Not Australia home, Holland home.
"5 months. To go to school, and live with another family."
"Oh yes. My sister's granddaughter did the same thing."
And the conversation went on like that.
"Where abouts are you going?"
"Noord Brabant, to a village called Someren."
"Oh!" I said. "I'm going to Asten."
"Asta?"
"No, Asten."
"No I don't know Aster. Ohh Asten! Right next door!"
I was second on the plane, quickly making myself comfortable in the seat that would be mine for the next eight hours. A window seat with a perfect middle view of the wing. I should've known. I am cursed. I can't remember the last time I've traveled on a plane and haven't see more wing then sky. However just when I had come to terms with my unlucky seating, a Malaysian girl walks up and says, "I think you're in my seat."
That girl spoke maybe once the entire trip, and it wasn't to me. She just slept. I on the other hand, didn't sleep a wink. Inflight entertainment was not half bad, and I watched a couple of interesting movies. The food wasn't as awful as people always warn, and I even scored a few unoccupied seats to lie down on in an attempt to sleep.
Eight hours later we landed in Malaysia. "Someone will meet you when you get off the plane." said the lady at the desk at Melbourne Airport. Well that never happened.
"Right. I'll have to find my own way." Looking up at the plane departure television, it read: Amsterdam, GATE 2. So that's where I went. Three heavy bags and one extremely heavy bag pulled me down as I trudged the long walk from one end of the airport to the other. And when I got to GATE 2, the atmosphere told me I was in the wrong spot. Funny how that happens? So I trudged back. To GATE 16. Totally deserted. So I trudged back. This time I thought I'd ask someone. The man with the bindi was my saviour. "You should be at GATE 16. The reason why it didn't say so on the television is because your too early. But it's up there now." Thank god. I thought I was going to hear my name on the "late idiots" loud speaker.
I found GATE 16 again, and then I waited. And waited. And waited. Then 2 hours later, sometime after 12 in the morning, it was time to board. I showed them my new and never before used European passport and walked right on through.
And as I waddled through the aisles, sqeezing past people and eventually popping out at my row, I was caught quite by suprise when I realised I was sitting next to that same old lady from the beginning of my trip, with her white fluffy hair, royal red coat and innocent grandma smile. Although this time I blessed with the window seat, we decided it would be better if I sat in the aisle seat, considering she would be sleeping, and I wouldn't.
Of what I calculated in my exhausted state, I slept for about 3 hours on a trip of 13. No doubt however that I slept even less than that. I finished watching a movie I'd started on the first trip, attempted sleep, listened to music and all around did nothing of any interest. Oh and how I was DYING to just arrive. And then finally I did.
Schipol, Amsterdam Airport, was humid, busy and confusing. Where do I go, what do I do, should I ask someone, should I figure it out myself? But I asked someone, and American pilot who knew about as much as I did about the airport. However he did know where baggage claim was. Thank-goodness. And then I used my only-used-once European Passport, and walked right on through without a problem. I really didn't know when I was supposed to be meeting my "dad", Bart. Was he just going pop out in front of me, or would I have to search for him. Oh the anxiety. Baggage claim to a record amount of time. So long that I feared I'd never see my suitcase and it's contents ever again. I swear it at least 45 minutes I waited. When it was finally out, I loaded it's enormous heavy self on to my trolley, with my four other bags, and wheeled myself on through the international doors. They opened on to a walkway, where hundreds of people stood behind a fence, holding signs, waving, and yelling out. Amazingly, amongst the chaos I heard my name called. "Elena!" The first thing I thought? Ah, now I'm really here.
The kids had made a beautiful sign, ELENA , WELKOM IN NEDERLAND!, which in itself made me feel totally welcome. Bart and I chatted over drinks, me in desperate need of a cool shower and summer clothes. I was totally comforted by the fact that I could speak English, and he as well. We talked the whole almost three hour trip home. Yes, home. Not Australia home, Holland home.
Tuesday, 29 September 2009
Leaving
I thought leaving would be too hard, too heart breaking, too regretful. But it wasn't. It was suprisingly easy. Sure I was going to miss my family, my friends, school, and general comfortable life in Australia, but I was too excited about what was to come to be full of fear, regret and sadness. My departure from school was lame, most people clueless to the fact I was leaving for 5 months. However I had a great farewell party at home, with my best friends, family and family friends. Although I was leaving them all behind, I was leaving with the knowledge that I was loved and cared about. That made me feel all the more confident. The night before I left, I went with my three closest school friends to the city. Jumping into a Japanese photo booth, we arranged ourselves in crazy positions, grinning towards the camera. I think it's safe to say that that may have been my fondest moment with those friends. And I have it all frozen in fun adorable little photos. Later that night my best friend joined me and family out to dinner, at my favourite pizza restaurant. And then I had to say goodbye. What would it be like to not have her there when I'm on the other side of the world? I'd have so much to tell her each day, but won't be able to. Someone I use everyday for advice, to let out things I can't keep inside, to have for support. That would be one of the hardest things. But is it weird to say that I think the goodbye might have been the first time we'd hugged in the four years we'd been friends? Guess we're just not the hugging type.
My grandparents, my father's parents, joined me and my family to the airport to see me off. Having done the last of the packing that morning, my suitcase was over the weight limit. I had my fingers crossed as it was put through check-in. But it was let through, and I could breathe a sigh of relief. Not having to pull everything out, sort through it and choose what I want to leave behind in front of a long line of impatient travelers felt great. Due to my age and condition of flying alone, I was assigned an escort. My parents could relax. I purchased a new camera at duty free, a snazzy, orange, HD video, 12 megapixel, water and shock proof point and shoot. $400. But all those high tech qualities and high price didn't stop it from breaking a week later. Oh I do hope insurance can pay for the damage and I can get back my new lovely camera and start taking some photos.
Then it was time to leave. I met my escort, a man whose face I cannot remember and my fellow escortee, an old lady in a wheel chair. I hugged my brother, the first time we'd done so since we were both little kids. It even felt genuin. Then came my dad. The tightest and longest he'd ever hugged me all my life. Then my Grandad, almost tearing up. My Grannie, already in tears, like she had been since the morning. Then last of all mum, neither of us wanting to let go. I almost cried, I teared up, but staying strong so that #1, my family wouldn't get too upset and #2, I was going to be walking through international customs. I didn't want to be handing over my passport for inspection while trying to wipe away the flowing tears. Then it was really time to leave. All the time spent in preperation, all the decisions, information, questions, and agonising over the trip. And now it was down to one moment. I waved goodbye for the last time, then turned and walked through the doors.
My grandparents, my father's parents, joined me and my family to the airport to see me off. Having done the last of the packing that morning, my suitcase was over the weight limit. I had my fingers crossed as it was put through check-in. But it was let through, and I could breathe a sigh of relief. Not having to pull everything out, sort through it and choose what I want to leave behind in front of a long line of impatient travelers felt great. Due to my age and condition of flying alone, I was assigned an escort. My parents could relax. I purchased a new camera at duty free, a snazzy, orange, HD video, 12 megapixel, water and shock proof point and shoot. $400. But all those high tech qualities and high price didn't stop it from breaking a week later. Oh I do hope insurance can pay for the damage and I can get back my new lovely camera and start taking some photos.
Then it was time to leave. I met my escort, a man whose face I cannot remember and my fellow escortee, an old lady in a wheel chair. I hugged my brother, the first time we'd done so since we were both little kids. It even felt genuin. Then came my dad. The tightest and longest he'd ever hugged me all my life. Then my Grandad, almost tearing up. My Grannie, already in tears, like she had been since the morning. Then last of all mum, neither of us wanting to let go. I almost cried, I teared up, but staying strong so that #1, my family wouldn't get too upset and #2, I was going to be walking through international customs. I didn't want to be handing over my passport for inspection while trying to wipe away the flowing tears. Then it was really time to leave. All the time spent in preperation, all the decisions, information, questions, and agonising over the trip. And now it was down to one moment. I waved goodbye for the last time, then turned and walked through the doors.
Monday, 28 September 2009
The Beginning
About a year and half ago I decided on something drastic. To leave home, my family, my school and my country to live with complete strangers on the other side of the world. How old was I when I made this sudden decision? 14 of course.
"Well it would be a great experience." said my parents. "Learning another language and culture. But wouldn't you miss us?" That didn't seem to phase me. I didn't see it as running away, but going out and searching for more. The idea was that I live with a family in another country, learn their language, experience their culture, go to their school. It seemed like the perfect thing for me.
The process to apply and prepare for it all took twice as long as the actual trip will. Lots of information to fill out, questions to be answered and decisions to be made. First question; Where will I go?
Intially I chose Spain without knowing anything about it. I started taking Spanish lessons and researching a bit about the country. I even had a Spanish pen pal. But then one day it dawned on me that I was really going to be by myself up there, in a country that speaks no English, a culture I have no connection with or really know about and a language I couldn't quite grasp. So then I changed my big decision. Holland. I think I'd rather go to Holland.
So we quit the Spanish classes, and I started taking up Dutch with my mother. Her parents, my Oma and Opa, came from Holland in the 1950's. Although my mother was born and grew up in Australia, she speaks Dutch well. There is no gene that connects a person to a certain language, and I was never spoken to in Dutch as a child, yet some how the language seemed to make sense, natural. In a short period of time I had learned a lot of Dutch, and that alone made me sure that I had made the right decision, and Holland was the place to go.
I recieved a scholarship worth $2,500, making me feel a little less guilty about the high cost of the trip. I wrote a letter to my future host family, and compiled photos with significance to my life. Sending them away, I couldn't keep the imagine of who my family might be out of my head. The trip was constantly on my mind. What it will be like, what might happen, who I might meet. What will be easy, hard, the same, different. Now, a month in, I'm so used to it here. I can't imagine being at home back in Australia, agonising over my future. Guessing what it will be like. I know now, and I can't imagine what it was like to not know.
After months of waiting the day finally came. Scrolling through my inbox i stumbled across an address I didn't recognise. When I clicked on it I had no idea what I was about to find out. The email read:
Dear Elena, I'm sure you don't know us, but that should change in a couple of months. We have read your application for the Student Exchange program and we felt that it would be very nice to have you around our house for half a year.
"Well it would be a great experience." said my parents. "Learning another language and culture. But wouldn't you miss us?" That didn't seem to phase me. I didn't see it as running away, but going out and searching for more. The idea was that I live with a family in another country, learn their language, experience their culture, go to their school. It seemed like the perfect thing for me.
The process to apply and prepare for it all took twice as long as the actual trip will. Lots of information to fill out, questions to be answered and decisions to be made. First question; Where will I go?
Intially I chose Spain without knowing anything about it. I started taking Spanish lessons and researching a bit about the country. I even had a Spanish pen pal. But then one day it dawned on me that I was really going to be by myself up there, in a country that speaks no English, a culture I have no connection with or really know about and a language I couldn't quite grasp. So then I changed my big decision. Holland. I think I'd rather go to Holland.
So we quit the Spanish classes, and I started taking up Dutch with my mother. Her parents, my Oma and Opa, came from Holland in the 1950's. Although my mother was born and grew up in Australia, she speaks Dutch well. There is no gene that connects a person to a certain language, and I was never spoken to in Dutch as a child, yet some how the language seemed to make sense, natural. In a short period of time I had learned a lot of Dutch, and that alone made me sure that I had made the right decision, and Holland was the place to go.
I recieved a scholarship worth $2,500, making me feel a little less guilty about the high cost of the trip. I wrote a letter to my future host family, and compiled photos with significance to my life. Sending them away, I couldn't keep the imagine of who my family might be out of my head. The trip was constantly on my mind. What it will be like, what might happen, who I might meet. What will be easy, hard, the same, different. Now, a month in, I'm so used to it here. I can't imagine being at home back in Australia, agonising over my future. Guessing what it will be like. I know now, and I can't imagine what it was like to not know.
After months of waiting the day finally came. Scrolling through my inbox i stumbled across an address I didn't recognise. When I clicked on it I had no idea what I was about to find out. The email read:
Dear Elena, I'm sure you don't know us, but that should change in a couple of months. We have read your application for the Student Exchange program and we felt that it would be very nice to have you around our house for half a year.
The first day of my second month of my Hagelslag Addiction. What I mean by that is the first day of my second month on the otherside of the world. In a Hagelslag land. Here I am. A month under my belt. A month worth of huge change, big discoveries and lots of learning. A month gone quicker than I could have imagined. Harder than I imagined. In some ways easier than I imagined. And despite the months I spent envisaging my recent future, I can't imagine anything other than what is now. Better, worse. Who can tell? It just is.
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