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Glasgow. De tiener die je wilt versieren.

Sauchiehall street op zaterdagnacht om 3:00 is een 21 ste eeuwse versie van een schilderij van Breughel. Een krioelende massa laat tieners en vroeg twintigers die hoe langer je kijkt hoe meer spektakel biedt. De clubs waar de straat van barst zijn net gesloten en hebben hun inhoud over straat uitgespuugd. Links volgt iemand het voorbeeld, maar dan met de inhoud van zijn maag. Rechts staat een stelletje uitgebreid een voorspel te bedrijven. Waar je ook kijkt zijn meisjes in strakke, glitterende, glimmende, kleurrijke, en vooral korte, jurkjes. Schotse meisjes, dus de jurkjes zijn rijkelijk voorzien van randjes vet waar het jurkje niet op bedacht was. Hun nepwimpers zijn te zwaar geworden voor hun oogleden en hangen dus halfstok. In hun handen hebben de meisjes hun schoenen – het gebruikelijke voortstrompelen op metershoge hakken is op dit late alcoholgehalte teveel gevraagd. Blootsvoets zwalken de meisjes verder, hangend aan de schouders, of de tong, van al niet stabieler ogende jongen...
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Pregnant. Single. Pringle.

I put the stick down and prepare for a very long three minutes.  But it's already there. ´Pregnant 3+' I had bought the test while simultaneously laughing at myself for my paranoia. Not so paranoid after all, but ... still laughing. I smile all through the shower. I smile all the way to work. I smile when I drop the bomb on a friend. It's a shocked smile, a not-yet-quite-believing smile,  but a smile. I'm having a baby. Used to Scotland, the doctor tactfully asks: 'Is that good news or bad news?' 'Unexpected news.' My parents don't even bother with initial shock and go straight to happy. They'll make great grandparents and they can't wait. My friends and family are great friends and family. Touching messages with congratulations and compliments. So many compliments in fact, I get to blush a lot. But there are questions too, of course. And assumptions. That I didn´t pay enough attention in sex-ed.That it was a hard decision. That I...
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Ultrasound

- You need to pull your trousers down. Further down. And take that belt off. Big belts are very incovenient. And jeans... you'd think no one would want to wear these things! I unbuckle the belt and pull the offending jeans down a bit. The squirt of cold jelly duly follows as does the ultrasound probe. The baby doesn't feel like humouring us with a photogenic position, so the obstetrician focuses on its head for some measurements. The brain! I can see the corpus callosum, ventricles... and wish I could have a better look. - Can I have a picture? - No, that's illegal. - But I'm a brain scientist, I would really like to have one of the brain as well! - You'll learn to separate your professional interest from your motherly feelings. You should consider yourself lucky that you're even getting three pictures. I'm only allowed to give one. That's one picture plus two fuzzy attempts at getting a good position. - What are we looking at now? How big...
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One year in Glasgow

One year in Glasgow ... and things become normal and you stop writing about them. Like, say, how the trendiest as well as warmest piece of clothing in Glasgow by a long shot is the beer jacket. And how next in this ranking come the beer tights. This, however, might indicate that some Scots have an alcohol problem. Which they do. Which is why men sometimes provide such entertaining , if in a wholly unintentional way, company. (A good way to travel back to the naive mind of a year ago, however, turns out to be simply to enhance the experience. And the best way to enhance the experience of seeing scantily clad Scotswomen wobbling about (often barefeet due to excessive heel-caused pain) next to equally wobbly Scotsmen, is a nice walk along Sauchiehall street after clubs' closing time. Sauchiehall street is where the aptly named Garage and many other similar venues spew out hordes of teenage girls in glittery/flowery/tight/tiny/all of the above dresses on stilts clinging to the sho...
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De macht en het volk

This essay came in third in NRC next's essay contest 'The state of Dutch democracy' and was therefore published on NRC next's opinion page on Oct 19th 2010. This is the original, unedited version. -----                 “Alle buitenlanders het land uit!” “Ambtenaren zijn zakkenvullers!” “Blijf met je poten van mijn pensioen af!” “Ga toch boeven vangen!” De boze blanke babyboomer die het journaal kijkt?  Nee. De overkoepelende visie van het regeerakkoord. Tja, die ‘kloof tussen burger en politiek’. Geert Wilders heeft hem overwonnen: hij sprong eroverheen, draaide zich om, en schold samen met het volk op de macht aan de andere kant. Zijn stormachtige groei bewijst dat hij in een behoefte voorziet, al heeft hij die misschien zelf gecreëerd. Mensen willen Wilders omdat hij hun taal spreekt. Om met de Amerikaanse senaatskandidate Christine O’Donnell te spreken, omdat hij zegt “I’m you”. Premie...
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Night out

No matter she'd already been in Scotland for two days. No matter I'd already explained the rules of Scottish dress code . No matter she'd already seen Glaswegian evening life. The Saturday night queue still had friend A.'s eyes attempting to leave her head. But even though in the church-turned-pub we seemed remnants of the past by relatively looking like nuns, we were still two women in a pub featuring drunk men. Such as an American whose goodbye to Scotland consisted of donning a kilt and talking to women. Or the guy kindly asking our permission to spend time with us because the party he was with unexpectedly included his ex. Or the man too busy being funny to remember what drink he was supposed to get his girlfriend. Or the ever grinning guy who used the fact that shoulders are close to ears to lean on the one while shouting in the other. Or the guy who explained that our bodies produce vinegar when drunk. Which explains a lot.
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