Climbing the Mont Blanc

Have you ever done something you did not think you could? Truth be told, I have not. This probably sounds pretty cocky, but I just always feel that if other people can do it, why not me? This attitude has led me to partake in numerous fantastic expeditions, just as it led to hardship and pain more than once. All in all, however, I never regret saying yes to an opportunity. Though hardships there may be, in the end saying yes always leads to new experiences, which in turn lead to a new - or in any case different- me. Just as I like it.

Back to the Mont Blanc. As you may remember, some time ago I talked about my lack of vacation plans. It so happened that somewhere over the summer I got a call from my dad. He and some colleagues were going to climb the Mont Blanc, might I be interested? Of course I was, especially after he assured me it would be nothing too difficult. No climbing experience was needed, and one of his colleagues was even bringing his little son. One of the guys had climbed the mountain two times before, so we did not have to pay thousands of euros for a guide, meaning that the entire undertaking would cost us only a fraction of what most people pay. Obviously it was an offer I could not refuse.

So, five minutes after hanging up the phone, I decided to do some research. Of course I 'knew' the Mont Blanc, but I actually did not know a whole lot about it. Ten minutes later I was getting a bit frightened. I was finding all these reports of people saying it was very hard to complete, even after having started training a year in advance. Our little expedition was set to take off in three weeks. Fresh upon this realisation came the news of the already very high death rate on the mountain this year. I never realised people died on this mountain at all, let alone high numbers of them. 

I was doubting my decision at this time. During the following week or so, I kept reconsidering. Then came the meeting of all the team members, when I found out that the 'little son' my father had used to convince me to come was in truth a sixteen year old super athlete, and the actual instigator of our trip. While listening to everyone's name, a couple of plans to inflict pain on my dad sure came to mind.

In the end, however, of course I went. The chances of me dying on the mountain were very slim. We were going to take the safest route, and agreed that whenever someone was in trouble or just could not go on any further, we would all quit and go back. Sadly, this obviously meant that there was no way I was going to give up, no matter how much I might want to. Being the weakest link, ruining everyones vacation, and bringing shame upon my poor dad for bringing me, all at once? No thanks. I soldiered on and climbed the darn mountain, hard as it was at (most) times, ripping my pants and busting my knee in the process. 

I climbed the Mont Blanc. At half past two in the morning of the third day, I put on my ice shoes, strapped a pickaxe to my wrist and did it. One hour below the top, we had to give up due to bad weather and very strong winds. A three day expedition, and then you get stranded one tiny hour below your destination. To me, it did not make that much of a difference. The bad weather already made the climb take longer than planned, and going further to the top would have just been one more hour of doing the same. Not all the guys agreed with me on this one though. They are already planning a new trip for next summer, and of course I am invited. I could do it, actually reach that top. I am sure I could. I just do not know if I want to.

   

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.

Dinner and a National Record

 

Sometime last week my two younger brothers and I decided to meet up for dinner. With all of us being quite busy and very broke, we settled on something no-fuss. Then, through the grapevine, I heard about an attempt to set the record for the longest vegetarian table. Not only was it going to be in Amsterdam, where we had already agreed to meet, it was on the exact day of our meeting as well. Also, it was free. Even though we are all very much the meat eating kind of people, that settled it.

We decided that if the food would not be to our taste, we would just go somewhere else and have a steak. We needn’t have worried. At the Amsterdam Museumplein, right behind the famous Iamsterdam sign, an enormous amount of tables had been set up. Covering every tabletop were bowls and platters and more bowls filled with delicious looking food. And those were just the cold dishes.

The main courses were veggie shawarma and a vegetable dish that reminded me somewhat of ratatouille. Then there were three different salads to sample: a quinoa, a beet, and a carrot salad. All wonderful, though the quinoa one was definitely my favourite. Also on the table were a thick humus, and garlic sauce. I didn’t have the sauce though, none of the other dishes needed it in the slightest.

  

You can check out the recipes (in Dutch) here, just scroll down to the end of the page.

  

All in all it was a very good experience. I’m not saying I’m renouncing all meat from this day forward -not saying that at all- but I do think this dinner made me realize that eating vegetarian does not just mean eating the same stuff as always, while omitting the meat. Which is of course exactly what it, in my mind, did constitute. If you look for me closely, you might even find me in the supermarket sometime, checking out those weird looking meat replacements. Might.

As you can see, even my middle brother approved of the food. And he is the kind of guy that will very happily be living on large buckets of KFC for weeks at a time, maybe spicing things up with a small side of McDonald’s every now and then. A couple of beers later, an hour or so after our dinner, all he had was one little burger. The smallest one the fast food place offered. Trust me, that is really saying something.

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.

Hello, vacation




 

Yes, it is that time of year again. After a lot of hard work, now the time has come to play. I had a couple of vacation plans, but they all fell through. So here I am, trying to find a new one by going through some old pictures for inspiration.

The first one is of a building in Barcelona that struck me. It doesn't really look like the rest of Barcelona, and it makes me think of South America or Cuba in the 1940s. Not that I have ever been in South America or Cuba, or have a real clue of what the 1940s looked like in those places, but still. This picture makes me long for it. And for a glass of rum.

The ruin of what was once without doubt a magnificent castle I photographed in Normandy, France. I have a thing for castles. I like to believe in reincarnation, just so I can pretend to have lived in a castle in one of my previous lifes. Since I could barely read I have been working my way through a mountain of historic novels, and college proved to be a great source of information and inspiration as well. I took a class called 'Art of the Middle Ages', and another one on medievel military orders. I even took on that focused especially on castles and their layouts and building methods. When I say I love castles, I make no joke.

Contrary to what you might think, the third picture I took while in Georgia. Not the United States one, the country in the Caucasus. It's near Russia, and it's gorgeous. It's a place full of bear and wolf infested forrests, religion, living history and without doubt the best bread you will ever taste. But that's a story for another time.  

The last picture was taken in Palmyra, Syria. This country has a special place in my heart, with it's lovely people and fantastic food. I was there a few times before all the horrible things started happening, and am very anxious as to how I will find the country after all the fighting is over. Whenever that might be. My heart is with all the wonderful people I met. I hope they will still be there when it's safe enough for me to return. Which I'm sure I will, someday.

Not right now, however. So I guess I will have to do some more searching to find a new destination, just waiting to be discovered by me. Lucky for me the world is quite big, with loads of exactly such places. I'm sure I will manage.

Welcome, strangers

Weird at Heart is for those who like to be themselves, no matter what. It’s not about being different for the sake of it; it’s about not being afraid to be so when you want to. I have made choices in my life that some people would call strange or silly, but they brought me where I am today.  I happen to like where I am today, and even though I have no idea where I’m going, I sure enjoyed the journey so far.

However, travelling alone can be a lot of fun, but at the end of the day you still want to have someone to share all your stories and experiences with. So that is what this space will be. Here I share with you my stories. They will be about travelling, food, books I read, blogs I love, events I’d like to attend, places I want to go, and all the other things that catch my attention. In short, it will be a lifestyle blog, albeit perhaps a slightly weird one.