Black lingerie / those summer days

What a season it is, summer. Just saying the word makes you picture clear blue skies, golden beaches and loads of sunshine. Unless, of course, you are Dutch. Don't quit reading yet.

I know the weather is a boring topic, and I am fully aware that complaining about it is even more of a cliché. I cannot be helped though. I'm Dutch, and we enjoy complaining. Humour me. If you still think of skipping the rest of this post, remember I put black lingerie in the titel. It is there for a reason.

We have actually had some good days. Not overtly sunny, but quite okay nonetheless. There were parachutes in the sky, frappuccinos and cold beers in the sun, and Italian ice cream tastings whilst dipping my toes in the canal. Most of all though, there were strawberries on my balcony. I buy them at the local market, and eat my way through tons of them.

These somewhat sunny days have however been the exception for the past few weeks. Most days were cloudy and grey, and filled with rain. And even the sunny exceptions only seem able to exist by grace of the very summer 2012-specific rule that every day should end like this:

It is for this reason that I have been taking many late night walks in raging thunderstorms lately. I love rain and am possibly an even bigger fan of thunder and lightning. There is nothing as good as braving a storm after a long and hot, clammy day.

Apparently, I am not the only one who feels like this. As I was slowly making my way back home on one of these walks, I was nearing a whorehouse a few streets from my apartment. With about twenty meters to go, its doors flung open and out stepped one of the whores, wearing nothing but black lingerie. With her was a guy I assumed to be her client, and together they laughed and danced in the rain.

Ignoring the fact of their very probable earlier activity, they almost seemed little children. Naïve and happy, without a care in the world. The fact that the man was wearing something that closely resembled black lingerie as well, did somewhat mess with the idyll.

Both the strange sweetness and the absurdity of the situation made me smile. I wiped it of my face and looked the other way as I passed them. I am known to have trouble predicting the reaction of men that just step out of whorehouses. Especially if they are wearing lingerie.

Being beaten to death by a man who took your encouraging 'it is a lovely evening, isn't it?' kind of smile for a mocking one because he happened to be wearing women's undies? That might just be the saddest death imaginable.

I did not dare taking pictures, but I made it home just fine.

Into the woods

Just as you have cat people versus dog people, I believe you can also make the distinction between sea people and forest people. I myself am a dog kind of girl as well as a forest person. Truth be told, cats frighten me somewhat, and though I like to go to the sea every now and then, the forest feels like home.

A few days ago I went back to my hometown to attend the birthday of one of my cousins. I took the opportunity to take a long hike through the forests of my youth. The forest is relatively small and you'll never fully lose sight of civilization, but it's beautiful nonetheless.



The place is actually still owned by a true count, who has quite a strong say in whatever happens in the adjacent city.  As a lover of history and tradition this is something that really speaks to my more romantic side. Not too many a place can boast things like this.

Summer in Holland never counts a lot of sun hours, and the day of my little hiking trip saw strong winds and moody grey clouds. The perfect wheather for a walk. I might be prejudiced though, fall has always been my favourite season. I guess the storm winds are in my heart as well.

Just looking, listening, smelling and walking, on and on. I could never see myself sitting in the lotus position, chanting weird words in order to reach some higher mental place (not only is sitting in the lotus position just physically impossible for me, I'm also very much unable to let go when feeling like an idiot), but when I come back from one of these kind of trips, however short they might be, I feel rested and relaxed, free, and as if anything is possible. I guess everyone has his own kind of meditation, and walking is mine.

I read somewhere that apparently loads of writers like to take long hikes, the rythm of walking being perfect for creating new stories or poems. I don't know if walking really is a thing amongst writers, but I can certainly imagine it to be so. Every step you take clears your head a bit more, making space for new thoughts to arrive.
The only thing needed for true perfection now, is a way to get rid of the mosquitos that only needed a few hours to turn my body into a lumpy, itching mess. You know, a way that does not involve destabilizing the entire ecosystem and the eventual but very certain death of all life on earth.