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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...

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...

- 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...

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...

Woeps! Utter silence for ages, and yet another off-topic piece on Dutch politics.

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...

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.

(In Dutch because it's about a piece in Dutch anyway) Soms zijn mijn stukjes ergens anders te lezen. Bijvoorbeeld omdat ze ergens anders over gaan. Hier  bijvoorbeeld.

There are limits to how much I'm prepared to assimilate to fit in. These have everything to do with skirts. Not men's skirts, women's skirts. The limits correlate roughly with the limit on how short a skirt one is willing to wear. My half year observation period has led me to distil the following rules of Scottish dress code: 1. If a skirt is considered too short, it is probably a belt. 2. Below-zero temperatures do not invalidate rule 1. This photo was taken at -1 degrees. 3. R ule 1 applies to multiple items of clothing: there is no such thing as too little textile. 4. If heels are considered too high, they are probably stilts. 5. Being physically unable to locomote due to said heels does not invalidate rule 4. This also applies to temporary instability due to excessive alcohol intake. Someone will catch you: unstable women have always had a charm of their own. 6. There is always space on your face for more make-up. Tip: fake eyelashes can be found in the aisle...

Everyone knows what Scotland's favourite drink is. That's why Scotland's really truly favourite drink brands itself as 'Scotland's other national drink' . I guess there are things that go with genes. Such as a love for squealy music*, an insensitivity to temperature, a hatred for the English, and a taste for fluid bubblegum. This ad contains no artificial colours *There are exceptions. Video soon.

The Edinburgh Festival Fringe started out as the fringe of the Edinburgh Festival. Now, the best visualization is a petticoat wrapped around a needle. So in its last weekend I went to see it. Pink Floyd's bass player is trying a second career as a standup comedian. He has found a way of looking like it's his first time on stage all over again, but who cares when you've got inside touring-stories-gossip from so many major bands? Baby wants candy performed the first and last ever rendition of the musical 'The day I trod on dog poo', which included the earworm 'This is the worst day of my liiiiife!' And, unlike when I improvise a song on stage, it didn't sound out of key. Lock, Stock and Improv looked more like something I could do, which is exactly what I wanted most to be doing the whole hour long. Sean Lock made me reflect on cultural differences in comedy. Stand-up: guy on empty stage. Maximum allowed time-interval between laugh-salvo's: 1...

It's becoming a habit: if friends come to visit, I throw them in my car and we hit the road headed for the highlands. The plan: View Larger Map The change of plans: "Road closed, follow deviation". The deviation is a long one as there aren't many roads in Scotland. The second half of the deviation turns out to be 'gridlocked, if you do not absolutely need to go there, don't'. During the conversation with the police officer who is the author of these words, the car turns out to be squeaking like it shouldn't. A quick check reveals a fume-pipe which we later learn is called an exhaust that dangles like it shouldn't. A quick check with someone more knowledgeable (=male, unlike driver & passengers) reveals that this is probably nothing, but then again it might fall off. In Garelochhead there is no one to be found under the sign 'Exhausts' (which expands our vocabulary with a very useful item), but the supermarket owner, being a Scot,...

But there was more to the holiday. Due to my emigration it was an even bigger family reunion: not just with the Italian family living in Italy but now also with my Italian family living in the Netherlands. Relaxation step one consisted of a one week sailing cruise doubling as a one week feminization training of my father (captain of an all-female crew), whose pre-training baseline included starting the week by wearing a faded yellow shirt with holes in it to my mother's birthday dinner, and whose post-test consisted of him telling me that blow-drying every day was bad for my hair. Step two was the reunion with the rest of the family, starting with my grandmother's 84th birthday, attended by more or less the whole family, plus one new entry who must have gone deaf. My 14-year old cousin made the unfortunate mistake of asking our aunt what 'Did you do it on purpose?' meant in English, and paid for it by confessing to his 28 suddenly silent family members this was a ...

At the time of booking, having a stop-over of 5hrs in "Paris"-Beauvais (Ryanair's planners mustn't have done well on their geography exams) seemed a small price to pay to a) fly back home on the desired day and b) do so without spending a month's salary. I had already taken one car, one ferry, one bus, two trains and a plane to get there, but was nevertheless determined to take two more bus rides to waste my time in Beauvais - which I was sure would be better than sitting around an airport lounge. And that was before I saw the airport. Beauvais-Tillé airport (Ryanair's planners mustn't have done well on their reading exams either) is about the size of my living room. This is exemplified by the screen which lists 'arrivals terminal 1 (here)'. Too bad, then, that they try to cram about a hundred of my birthday parties into it. These planes full of people must then spend their time between the worlds' most depressing food court (and that is sa...

Admittedly, I seem to have forgotten how to write a blog. But sometimes, a picture says more than a thousand words.  Many thanks to the photographers: Aukje, Anna, and Bilbo. http://picasaweb.google.com/110394447122217171751/LauraSPromotie2Juli2010#slideshow/5490073804716399394 http://picasaweb.google.com/laura.menenti/Anna#slideshow/5500969958191350466 http://picasaweb.google.com/laura.menenti/I#slideshow/5500969026763885618 http://picasaweb.google.com/laura.menenti/II#slideshow/5500969514036868418

For now, just some pictures to tell the story of an eventful weekend: http://picasaweb.google.com/laura.menenti/100530ArranKatrien#

Glasgow's weather has been kind to me. And never (yet) more so than last weekend, when the Powers that Be decided to plan the first day of spring. So, I did what living in a foreign country is good for: finding the holiday feeling just a 30-min ride from home (well, unless you're me, and turn out to be not so good at being your own navigation system). I drove to the bonny bonny banks of Loch Lomond , Van 100523 Ben Lomond left my car in the one empty space in the sea of metal (when the weather decides to be kind, it doesn't do it just for my sake), and - at the timely hour of 3pm - took the high road . At that time, most other people were taking the low road back, so so much for the feeling of empty wilderness that Scotland has to offer. On the bright side, Scottish walkers are very friendly, so my vocal cords got a true workout.There were also some other joyful encounters: Van 100523 Ben Lomond Van 100523 Ben Lomond At the top, my hope for solitary aw...

My timing for moving was lousy, hobby-wise. I had spent the last few years sometimes making myself a little bit useful to the PvdA (Dutch labour party) but I was in between foreign countries (Ecuador and Scotland) when the government fell, and didn't have much spare time to devote to political musings, what with the moving and everything. I left thinking we were in for the dirty PvdA-CDA (Christian Democrats) war, part III - and didn't mind not being around for it. But then. A text message with a lot of exclamation marks alerted me to a game-changing change: a new labour leader. Everyone excited, the party sky-rocketed in the polls, politics seemed fun again - and I wasn't there. The British government must have felt sorry:  Gordon Brown called the inevitable election just a few weeks after my arrival, just so I could enjoy TWO campaigns! To make me feel more at ease, the British decided their campaign should look familiar, though with some delay: only 50 years af...

A mere month ago (whoops, sorry) I completed a crucial step of settling in: I moved into my new home-to-be-for-the-next-two-years. I couldn't wait, this seemed the real start of it all. My parents had decided to come over, bring me a car, and celebrate my housewarming with me. Or maybe they had decided to have a nice Scottish Easter weekend. Unfortunately for them, 'Scottish' turned out to be best interpreted as 'Cleaning a Scottish house which has previously been cleaned in some hitherto unknown Scottish way which we would define 'optical' ". Luckily for me, my parents are less familiar with optical cleaning than I am, so by the time they left, my house had seen more disinfectant than they had seen of Scotland. It had also seen more carloads of Sainsbury goods added to its inventory. But that wasn't all. I lived a two-week return to the 50's: one channel, no internet, and no flights (many thanks to Eyafjakowhatshisname). Fortunately, getting in...

Living in the UK reminds me in some ways of a game we used to play as kids ´De omgekeerde wereld´ (The reversed world). We all know the British drive on the wrong, sorry, left, side of the road. We could imagine that this will lead them to put rising escalators on the left as well. As I noticed is the case when upon arrival I tried getting myself and my 45kg in 4 bags up using the descending escalator. But not for the following: - Switching anything on requires putting the switch down, not up. Luckily there are plenty of learning opportunities for this as the Scots switch on not just lights but also showers, cooking plates, ovens, power outlets. Unfortunately the switches to the power outlets are the only ones placed in a somewhat logical relation to their target (in this case, on the outlet itself). Light switches tend to be located outside the room they're intended to light. Which is a minor inconvenience compared to the shower switch being located outside the room you'r...