Things you can do with a soup can

Eleven days. That's how long a traffic jam in China recently lasted. Eleven days. I guess that puts Thanksgiving traffic into perspective. But you won't hear me make empty promises like "I'll never complain about traffic again." Because I will. I hate traffic. Sometimes I hate computers and TV and even my iphone. I catch myself dreaming of a secluded house on a lake. And then I remember my September of solitude.

"There hasn't been a murder or rape on this island for 120 years, but you come here at your own risk." I imagine the stranger on the phone thinks he's real funny.

"Ok, where do I rent a bicycle?" I ask. "And which way is East?"

He lets out a mean little chuckled: "You're the journalist. Figure it out."

I can't resist a challenge. So I'm on a train headed north. After a three hour trip, I take a bus to the coast and then the second to last ferry out to the Dutch island Ameland.

All the while, I mentally run through his instructions: "Come to the island on Sunday. Rent a bicycle and take it to the East end of the island. At the end of the bicycle path, climb the dune on the left. From there you can see a black trailer out on the dunes. The key is under the stairs. If you're there when I start work at 7.30 Monday morning, you can do the story. If not, you're out of luck."

Luck seems to be on my side. You never know what the weather will be like in September. But today the clear blue sky is promising to serve as a perfect backdrop for a photo documentary of a nature preserve ranger. It's the last one I'll make before I graduate from a Dutch college with a Bachelors in journalism.

On my rented bicycle I follow a map to a village called Nos, pass a campground, a few farms, a patch of trees and I've reached the end of civilization. There's another 2 miles of dunes between me my destination.

By now my heavy backpack full of camera equipment and cans of soup is cutting into my shoulders. I meet very few people on the path, but the ones I do see are heading back into town and warning me that I should do the same.

I smile, half to disarm them, half because I'm enjoying the irony of knowing something they don't know. Finally I reach the end of the path and just like the voice on the phone said, I find the trailer and the key.

There's not much more than a few dusty nature books, some rabbit skulls and a gas burner. A huge window allows me to gaze out over the remaining dunes and the oil rigs that speckle the horizon.

Out here, my phone has no reception. There’s nothing to do but warm up some soup and lean back in my chair to witness the Grand Artist paint the sky with strokes of florescent orange, sorbet pink and gold. As the sky turns cornflower blue and the first stars and the light of the rigs appear, I light a candle and make my bed.

Then everything turns black and I can see more stars than I have ever seen before. I'm lost in space.

I snuggle into my sleeping bag, but seclusion is a lot noisier than I had anticipated. The wind is pounding against the trailer but it’s not enough to drown out thousands of thoughts that scream in my head. No distracting television or radio. No internet to check tomorrows weather. No one to share my victory with.

Also the insanity of this plan is starting to dawn on me. How loud my worries, fears, and complaints suddenly are. And I'm developing a new complaint. The temperature is dropping fast. Between the roar of the wind and the chill leaking through the flimsy walls, I can't sleep. I put on all of my clothes, layer upon layer and crawl deep into my sleeping bag.

Foot steps

What's that? I sit straight up and strain to filter the sounds. Despite the wind, I'm sure I hear something moving around the trailer. All doubt is removed when I see a stream of light flash across the window. Now the light is shining right in my face. It's too late to hide.

I'm paralyzed. The only thing moving is my heart which flutters violently like a moth against a floodlight. But I'm alone and it's dark. I was dreaming. So I’ve been asleep, but for how long? Fifteen minutes. Will this night never end?

I'm so cold, tired and now I’m scared too. I can't stand it anymore. Spiders or no spiders, I climb into a storage cabinet and close the door. Comfortable at last.

And then I have to pee. I hold it up until my nose starts to sweat. I look at my watch. Just another hour and the sun will come up. I can’t wait that long. I climb back out of the cabinet. Cramped with fear and chill I stand at the door, my numb fingers clutching the key. But as miserable as I am, I can't get myself to turn it. There is only one thing to do...

I pee in my empty soup can.

Fear factor

Dora the Explorer and I have never been good friends. Oh, I admire her for raising awareness for minority groups and for her willingness to educate our young'ns on being courteous, assertive, and bilingual.

But Dora's voice! I can't stand it. I don't know, maybe she'll grow out of it. Maybe all she needs is a good speech therapist and a singing coach. But in the mean time she has to be quiet in our home. In fact, at our house Dora spends most of her time standing with her nose in the corner. Not because I'm prejudice when it comes to her voice. (I would never send a child to the corner for that. That’s what they make earplugs for.)

It’s because she has a really bad staring problem. She stands on the edge of the bath with her pink flippers on and just bores wholes into your naked body. I must give her credit for our decreasing water bill, though. Our showers have become short and to the point under those huge all seeing eyes. Because even with her nose in the corner, I swear I've seen her looking over her shoulder.

Just like I know that when I was little I saw one of my dolls jump back into bed one morning while I was waking. I quickly closed my eyes again so not to embarrass her and gave her plenty of time to settle back under the covers before opening them again. Ok, so I was probably unconscious of the fact that I was dreaming (we‘ll never know for sure), but at the time, it was a comfort to know that my dolls came alive at night and were watching out for me. This comfort; however, would transform into a nightmare.

For some reason, a friend's mother saw it fit to install fear in us and told us that not all dolls were good. In fact she knew a child whose dolls had to be thrown away because of their repeated attempts to murder the family. From then on, I would pile ALL of my dolls into bed, so not to offend them, and apologize out loud to the ones I could not find. I no longer played with my plush and plastic companions because I wanted to, but rather out of fear of angering them and provoking them to harmful actions.

In much the same way, the joy of the things I have come to love in Europe has been stolen. Special things like going to a European championship soccer match, going to Sail Amsterdam or visiting the Eiffel tower. But also simple things like taking the train to work. Subconsciously, I breathe a sigh of relief every time I return home safely. Nine years ago a fear was installed that is kept alive by a seemingly unbeatable force. The paper says that the security status in the major European cities has been red for months and that another attack is just a matter of time.

Another attack. The draw back to having such a vivid imagination is that I spend way too much time inventing worst case scenarios. To filter the fear, I’m a selective reader and watcher. I can tell you more about the 98 year old woman in our town that still goes bowling every week than anything that appears on the front page of a paper. Does it make me a bad journalist because I will never win prizes, especially not a news quiz?

I guess it’s a survival strategy. It’s too bad I need one. Wouldn't it be great to go back to those few years that you believe that bad guys always ware black or stand crooked and the good guys always win? That no one ever dies, they just pass out. That dolls party in the middle of the night and that Dora is oblivious of your nakedness and just wants to have a swim in the tub?

From four wheels to two

I once saw on Discovery that the nose of Saabs are designed so that they can hit a straying reindeer without endangering the life of the driver. I don't know about the reindeer, but this winter was a stressful time for Saab-lovers, like me, across the globe.

We waited with our fingers crossed as General Motors sought a buyer for the Swedish car brand. Deliverance came from a small Dutch car maker, Spyker. To the many fans of the peculiar little car, CEO of Spyker, Victor Muller, was a hero (girls don't loose me here, it gets better).

I've always been fascinated by machines with wheels. I was one of those kids that stood by the road waiting for a coal truck to pass by. My mini heart filled the cavity of my chest so that I could hardly breathe while waiting for the massive grill of a MAC or Peterbuilt to appear around the corner. In the 80's the trucks had the most amazing colors. Easter egg purple, grass green and Pacific blue glowed as sunbeams collided with the glitter in the paint.

“Bruuuur,-putter-putter,-putter,-put,-put,” the exhaust exhaled as the truck down shifted. I lifted a trembling arm into the air to pull an imaginary cord to let the truck know I wanted to say hello. I would pull again and again; half hoping he would answer, half terrified of the tremendous sound the horn of such a mighty machine made.

As with any vehicle of this size, whether it be a fire truck, semi truck, or locomotive, I was oblivious of the man steering inside. To me he was nothing more than a passenger upon the back of a living, breathing dragon of steal and chrome.

My own set of wheels

As I grew, I became one of those passengers. I was a reckless go-cart driver and my fearless approach to life resulted in many a scooter crash and gravel-filled wounds. I couldn't wait to get my licence and dreamt of the day my palms would clutch the steering wheel of my very own car.

It finally came in the summer of ‘96. I was 17 and visiting my dad in the US. He had already said he had a surprise for me and I just knew it would be a car. I wanted a pink Suzuki Sidekick or a blue Volkswagen California or even a purple '84 Pontiac Firebird. What I got was a sage green ‘86 Saab 900S.

When my dad showed it to me, I simply cried. There were no words to describe how ugly and uncool this monstrosity was. Even though it had a sunroof, a stereo system that "was worth more than the car", a flawless paint job and chic brown tinted windows, I thought I'd rather die than be seen in that granny car!

However, it had an interesting catch. Apart from being a stick shift (I had no idea how to drive a stick shift) it was missing the 2nd and 3rd gears! If there is anything I love, it's a challenge. To make a long story short, even though she nearly cost me my life on a few occasions and a gas station its side wall, I fell in love with Sage the Saab.

Shortly thereafter I moved to Holland where I didn't have a driver’s permit, as they are very expensive. So when I got to collage I spent a huge chunk of my student loan on my licence and another huge chunk on a gas guzzling tuned 2.6 liter Audi A6 Avant. I also had love affairs with a rusted Toyata Tazz in Cape Town, South Africa with a steering wheel and stick on the 'wrong' side of the car and a blinking red Austin Martin Vantage Roadster in Amsterdam (but that’s another story). I eventually moved on to a quick little economy car and then graduated to a family car, the Volvo V70.

The mama bike

Then the bank crisis happened. Rick and I found ourselves both out of work and for the first time in our marriage, we had to share a car (I know, boo-hoo). This meant that when we both found work again, I had to go to work on a bicycle or take the bus (now there's a vehicle I have little appreciation for). I finally got the long-dreamt-of job at the local paper and here I was rushing to interviews on my ‘mama’ bike; complete with basket on the front and child seat on the back!

Life is back to normal now; I have a car again and we're both working hard to fix the damage done in 2009. But I still take the bike when I can. It keeps me fit, it's good for the environment and I have to admit, in the city, two wheels are better than four. But sometimes I can't get over the crazy contrast of a 17 year old in a Saab and a 30 something year old on a bicycle for mothers. So how did I get from there to here?!

It’s a really long story but I can’t wait to share adventures like looking for a key in island dunes, photographing Nelson Mandela, and climbing on rooftops in the heart of Amsterdam. The bizarre existence of an expat, behind the scene moments in journalism and the odd privilege of being a mother will unfold as I keep you up to date on a monthly basis via this blog.

I look forward to sharing my estranged life with you and hope we can all have a good laugh. Happy reading!