When you go to freaking Lapland

Friend N is in Sweden for a student exchange program. And we all know the drill when it comes to 'friends-studying-abroad'. You make plans. Plans to visit, plans to Skype, plans to write. Plans which most likely end up in 'liking-any-IKEA-related-picture-on-your-facebook-wall'. Which is fine, because you are busy and your friend is busy studying, partying and eating knackebrod. So when N told me about her plans of going on a very educational trip to Lapland with some other international students, and asked me if I wanted to join them, I immediately said yes.

Which made friend R laugh her socks off. "You start freaking Eskimo-mode as soon as the first leaves start falling. If you can't even survive one snowflake in Holland, how are you supposed to survive a whole week of freezing Lapland?" I have to admit, she has a point. But the thing is, I've thought this trough. Because imagine this: if I manage to survive a week in Lapland - how easy is my Dutch winter going to be?! If I slightly can get info the feeling of freezing my hands off, become BFF with some moose, and drink nothing but pure wodka to keep myself warm, I think I'll survive. Oh the relieve once I get back. Holland will feel like a resort on a Caribbean Island. Perfect plan. My 2013-2014 winter is going to be peanuts!

And seriously, who doesn't want to go to a country with this as their national (Wikipedia-told-me-so-therefore-it's-true) symbol? 

Things I didn't think through concerning this trip?

How to fit all of my goddamn winter gear including snow boots into one tiny suitcase. Because due to our student-poverty we can only carry one piece of hand luggage each. Also, on my way to the airport I start to realize that suitcases don't necessarily go well with snowy surfaces...

Other than that, I'm beyond excited for this adventure to start. I'm desperately hoping to witness the northern lights, as it seems so magical. I can't wait to get lost on a snow scooter and be dragged around the area on a husky ride. 

Besides, when a friend in need asks me: "oh, and if you're coming over Els, do you mind fixing my eyebrows again?", you can count me in. Because if you can't even survive without gloves, you sure as hell can't survive without some decent eyebrows.

Lapland, here I come! 

#selfies

In terms of awkwardness, most selfies score pretty high. Not to mention getting caught taking one. But the worst thing has to be the downright selfie-abuse due to a never ending daily selfie-overload on the Internet. Now, don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with a good old selfie every now and again. But the thing is, there are limits. Just don't overdo it. In this case, less is always more. Terms which unfortunately don't exist in every girl's or guy's dictionary. 

By the way, ever wondered who took the first selfie? 
Wikipedia never disappoints:

Russian Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna at the age of 13 was one of the first teenagers to take her own picture using a mirror to send to a friend in 1914. In the letter that accompanied the photograph, she wrote, "I took this picture of myself looking at the mirror. It was very hard as my hands were trembling."

Now this is something we can work with. Descriptive caption, lack of pouting and not even a single #selfie #swag or #yolo involved.

Whereas nowadays, it’s quite the task to take a proper selfie. Apart from the heavy burden of choosing relevant (…) hashtags, one silly snappy picture won’t deliver if you want to go hardcore. Real hardcore.

Arm up, high angle, chin out, slightly tilted face, smile, smize, sneeze - what? no sneeze, casual stroke through hair, little wink (?), mouth open, tongue out - please don't - and click. And click. And click. Who has ever achieved a perfect selfie in one go right? Hair up, eyes squeezed. Now work it girl. Click. Click. Click. 'Fudge, my nose looks big.’ Different angle, eyebrows raised, mouth closed – thank god - PLEASE NO DUCKFACE. PLEASE NO DUCKFACE. Click. Too late. Click. Click. Peace sign, pinky promise, thumbs up, middle finger, rock star, bite your pink, one-eyed pirate, fake finger moustache. Jesus woman, how many tricks have you got on hand? Click. Click. Besides, I hope that’s all your hands do on pictures. Click. “Why is my skin so shiny? Why does my hair looks weird? Who’s that dude in the corner? What happened to my shoulder? And why do I look so fat?!! Never mind, after I've finished deleting all my other 368 attempts, I'll just crop, mirror, zoom and insta-filter that away.”

Now, I do acknowledge the joy of filters, effects, texts and other extra's; but again, please know your limits. Over-filtering a picture has never brought anyone any good. So when in doubt, just keep this in mind: there are people who know what you look like in 'real life'.

Meanwhile, in my foolish attempt to reduce the online selfie-uploading-frequency, the time has come to bring up some hard data. After some strenuous research, this is what I've found.

Please allow me to quote the Oxford Dictionaries:

Definition of selfie in English:
New words: August 2013
Pronunciation: /ˈsɛlfi/

(also selfy)
noun (plural selfies)

informal _ a photograph that one has taken of oneself,
typically one taken with a smartphone or webcam and uploaded to a social media website: occasional selfies are acceptable, but posting a new picture of yourself every day isn’t necessary.

I repeat: occasional selfies are acceptable, but posting a new picture of yourself every day isn't necessary. For which just in case:

Definition of necessary in English:
1. needed to be done, achieved, or present; essential: they granted the necessary planning permission it's not necessary for you to be here.

Got it?
Great.

Oh and FYI, best selfie ever?

Japan Aerospace Exploration Agency astronaut Aki Hoshide, Expedition 32 flight engineer, uses a digital still camera to expose a photo of his helmet visor during the mission's third session of extravehicular activity (EVA). source

No filter needed indeed.

Tower Bridge bride

Don't you ever wonder how often touristic highlights have already been photographed throughout their existence? I do, every time I walk past the Tower bridge. This 119-year old building attracts thousands of people every single day. And which such a big audience, it's often much more fun to look at the people taking pictures, than at the pictured object itself. 

My high score is 3! Add some fancy filters and you're good to go.

Groups of noisy schoolkids with stressed teachers trying to remember why they agreed to guide this years' school trip again; happy families making sure their not so happy crying children won't ruin their 'look-how-happy-we-are-on-our-happy-family-trip' pictures; runners, runners, and more runners; people maneuvering in the most awkward positions to take proper selfies without losing sight of the bridge; employees on their ways home after a long day at work; adorable elderly people, protecting their belongings as if they're about to face robbery at any moment. 

It also turns out your average stereotype American tourist still exists. Think T-shirt, shorts, sports socks, sneakers and obviously, the big black 'of-course-anyone-can-be-a-photographer' Canon device around their sweaty necks. "Oh ma lord, ROB, look! Ain't that some famous English bridge?!" "MARGE, d'ya have ANY idea how this goddamn camera works?!" "Just push the button sugar!" "But which one?!"

Yeah.

And then of course; lots of couples, on a romantic trip together. Either desperately in love or desperately showing off their love, to whom I have got nothing to say but this:

Speaking of lovers, what was going on down there? A wedding?

For some reason, I was a bit surprised to see a bride and groom - both Asian - posing for a camera with the Tower Bridge on the background. Their foreheads and noses gently touching under her veil, fragile smiles on their faces. But what surprised me most was that they were 'alone'. Not a single sign of any relatives to celebrate this special moment with.

I felt bad for the couple. In my wild - yet strongly biased - imagination they must have been saving for ages, to collect the money that would take them to London, and to have the wedding of their dreams. However, because it was so far away from home, none of their friends or family could afford to join them. The mother of the bride must have felt devastated, unable to witness her precious only daughter saying 'I do' to the man whom she loved so deeply. Luckily, they had given them a present. A proper photo series of their journey, to capture every single moment of their special day. It was all they could bring back home to their families, to share the moment with them and make them part of their memories. So with nothing but their everlasting love for each other, they decided to go. Their familes left behind in tears. Mostly tears of joy, to see their young ones chasing their hapiness.

Just when my thoughts already went scuba diving with them on their honeymoon in Fiji, I saw them heading for a new venue. Joined by the photographer. And his assistant. And the stylist. And hís assistant. And all the other outfits waiting to be photographed. Turns out I was witnessing a photoshoot for a bridal magazine. 

Oops. 

Waterloo travelers

Thoughtlessly transported by a network of escalators, as dummies on a conveyor-belt ready to be sold, the Waterloo travelers are rising from the dark emptiness of the London Underground maze, to complete their journeys home.

"Platform 1 for the ..." 

The click-clack of high heels resonates through the station. Dozens of women, hurrying to their trains, desperate to go home and get rid of their uncomfortable tight skirts and white blouses, stained by their late lunch skinny latte's. The tall gangly blonde lady over there is cursing her stiletto's, wishing she'd brought some flats. Envying all women who delightfully changed into their sneakers, their heels crammed away in their purses. Oh the sigh of relief once she finally gets home.

"Platform 1 for the 19:27 Southwest ..."

The extremely muscular construction worker on the phone, his pace controlled. Heading for his platform, hasn't taken off his gloves yet, carrying all his tools with him. Wearing kaki trousers and a sleeveless shirt, showing arms still fully covered in a grizzled grey dust from today's work. Dark chocolate brown skin peeking through, yearning for a long hot shower. He doesn't look as tired as all the men in suits do.

"Platform 1 for the 19:27 Southwest train service to Strawberry Hill ..."

Like him. His perfect black shoes so impeccably polished that they show your reflection. Too bad he doesn't have quite a face worth reflecting. Increasing speed, make his shoes slip on the smooth surface of the station, resulting in an odd combination of a corpulent tap-dancing Bambi on ice. The yellow bags under his eyes tell it's been a long day. Tie loosened up, stuffing his face with a steaming hot chicken burrito, his coat dangling on his arm. He foolishly burns his mouth, but he can't be bothered anymore. All he cares for now is an endlessy long deep sleep.

"Platform 1 for the 19:27 Southwest train service to Strawberry Hill, via Kingston, calling at ..."

The small young girl in the corner with an unmatched sweet smile as her eyes glide over the screen of her phone. The text message she just received makes her beam with joy. She floats away in her little pink dress and vanishes in the crowd, feeling on top of the world.

"Platform 1 for the 19:27 Southwest train service to Strawberry Hill, via Kingston, calling at Vauxhall, Clapham Junction..."

I slip my card in the slot, and wait for it to beep and pop out again. The doors smack open, I quickly grab my card and rush through the gate. I hop on my train, the sounds of a sharp whistle fill my ears, and we leave. Leaving Waterloo station behind, watching it disappear as we ride, until there's nothing left but a distant memory of buzzing public transport travelers on this particular Wednesday night.

Handbrags.

Housemate L and I went to Selfridges the other day, to solve a MAJOR shoe issue. On our way up, we (she) noticed (got completely distracted by) some nice (AMAZING) handbags. They say a woman's bag reflects her personality. Well, I don't think of myself as cheap, but despite my terribly 'rich' character (...), a £1530,- Prada bag is way out of my league I'm afraid. Imagining women spending these amounts of money on 'just a bag', reminded me of my personal handbag history. 

For a long time I didn't own, let alone, use a proper handbag. My backpack could easily carry my laptop, school books and lunch, and my keys and wallet felt at home in my coat's pockets. Shopping bags where tied onto the back of my bike, and my phone tucked away in my jeans. Simple, yet effective. 

I remember former housemate R looking at me in despair, when she found out about my handbag poverty. "You are no woman without wearing a handbag and perfume!", being her grim response. She'd been a faithful handbag-user for as long as she remembered. Moreover, she'd even worked in a bags shop, which had provided her with more knowledge and authority on this sensitive subject than I would ever experience. So I knew this was serious. I mean, we're talking matriarchy here. 

As I reconsidered her judgement, I also realized my 'daily' perfume had lasted me for over 3 years now, with no signs of running out any time soon. The bottle obviously didn't hold 2 liters of fragrance and as far as I was concerned, I wasn't following any Maja calendars lately. Clearly, I was doing something wrong. 

She was determined to find me a suitable bag ever since. So I started to pay attention, trying to investigate the wonders of the world of women's handbags. What was I missing? And more important, why? With R as my exquisite example, everything slowly started to fall into place. Basically, there was only one simple rule: 

Never, ever, go anywhere without your bag. 

When we went grocery shopping for example, it was of high command she brought her bag with her. Because let's face it, who on earth could possibly leave the house for 5 minutes without carrying a phone, wallet and keys, accompanied by a few 'just-in-case' extra's. Cigarettes, spare cigarettes, a lighter, a spare lighter ('always carry two, you never know who's asking'), lip balm, chewing gum, chewing gum wrappers, deodorant, perfume ('no this isn't my daily perfume'; it's my 'bag perfume' for on the go), 'female stuff', a diary, a notebook, a pencil case, a pair of glasses, a case for glasses, sunglasses ('I don't care it's raining), a hand mirror, tweezers ('what?'), a hair brush, hair ties, red lipgloss, hand cream, a bottle of water, headphones, some wipes, an extra pen, a nut bar, written post-its, blank post-its, and of course, an extra bag for groceries. I know, the thought alone is unbearable. 

So eventually, I got myself a handbag. And I carry it around like a baby. Not sure if it makes me feel more feminine, but at least it's a nice shoulder exercise and I don't lose my keys anymore. But spending £1530,- on a Prada bag (already sold-out online), must be an exclusive privilege for advanced users only. A privilege my bank account thanks me for not having. 

Yet. 

London Tube Terror: Eyebrows

The thing about a bus-train-tube-walk travel to work everyday, is that you see a lot of people on a daily base. Most of them looking tired and grumpy, for which I can't blame them - I'm not a morning person either. But I do like to watch what everybody is up to, on their early mornings. Because often, there's lots to see and even more to learn. 

As most females know, when you're lazy (like me), you rather spend a couple more minutes snoozing in your comfy bed, than making an effort on your appearance. Therefore, some girls prefer to do their hair and/or make-up on their way to school or work. I usually like to watch them, to see what kind of products they use and how they use them. 

Not today.

As I got on my train and sat down, I saw the girl in front of me finishing off her 'look' by applying some lipstick. But before I could even see what color it was, I got distracted by something else. I literally couldn't get my eyes off her eyebrows. Now I do admit I have a unhealthy obsession with (perfect) brows, but nevertheless, this crossed the line. Big time. 

I know that your eyebrows make your face, but please let me clarify, that does not mean you need to make (read: fake) your eyebrows. Defining your eyebrows is not the same as stamping them on in sharpie/permanent marker-style. In a dark room. Without a mirror. 

'Eyebrows are meant to be sisters, not twins'. I don't care what they are, all that I care for is that I sincerely hope that they are far from related to you darling. Now get yourself a make-up wipe, take that shit off your face and let's start fresh. Alright, now look at yourself. I know the only thing you want to do is to make yourself look pretty, but trust me, drawing two thick black Ukrainian moustaches on your forehead won't do the job.

First, the color. As your hair is beautifully ash(tray) blonde, with a classy auburn 'soon-to-be-ombre' at the roots, I dont think black is your color. Not sure about your skintone though. According to your neck it's a lovely soft porcelain pale, but the cracking orange on your face tells me something else. Why don't you just take a natural brown pencil, and start with that? Now slightly fill in your brows, make sure they fade from a lighter shade at the beginning into a slightly darker tone towards the end. Now brush them through and set them with some eyebrowgel. Yes, that does exist. Yes, it indeed ís gel for your eyebrows. And yes it's awesome. Better? Better.

She put away her lipstick and grabbed her iPhone. I could hear her long baby blue nails ticking on the screen like raindrops on a window. I felt bad for her.

I honestly have no idea why these girls think they look prettier with such terrible brows on their lovely faces. And don't even get me started about the so-called 'sperm-brows' or other black pages in eyebrow history. We all know where that got us, don't we.
Indeed, nowhere.

Saving the world, one eyebrow at a time.

How writers drink their coffee.

Some observations in life are simply doomed to remain unsolved forever. For example, why do people in movies never eat or go to the bathroom? Why are touristic landscapes always idyllic, picturesque and breathtaking? And how come that book characters never just 'drink' their coffee but; 'let the warmth of their beverage comfort their bodies as they let it slide through their moist lips, down their narrow throats, into the deathly sorrow of their empty stomachs'? 

I can imagine it must be hard, being a writer. Wherever you are or whatever you do, you have to be on your toes. Always focused, searching for new phrases, metaphors and idioms you could possibly ever use. You never have a day off, since your thoughts are your work, and your thoughts are always with you. Coping with emaciated inspiration, writers blocks and the loneliness of your laptop isn't very encouraging either. 

Luckily there also are some advantages. Claiming to be 'at work' whilst hanging out at a cafe and soaking up the atmosphere doesn't sound too bad. Consuming certain amounts of alcoholic- or any inspiration-loaded beverages, to keep the engine rolling. Fair enough - I completely understand that masterpieces do not often result from orange juice. But seriously, I think it is rather admirable and unique to be able to come up with a decent well-written story.

So I decided to give it a try. No, I did not get completely wasted and attempted to write a novel. I simply tried to drink my coffee as if I were a writer. I challenged myself to expand the simplicity of it.

How I drank my coffee?

In desperate moderation, that's for sure. I tend to go quite crazy when it comes to caffeine. After two daily servings of coffee I start to shake like an electric toothbrush on rush hour. Not so fun. 

So I cheated a bit, and decided to go for a Chai Tea Latte. Quick tip: forget about Starbucks, the best Chai Latte's are to be found at Nero's. Yes I've checked, and yes you're welcome.

After I ordered my drink, I took a chair and sat down. I looked at - no, examined my Latte in great detail. I observed the thick, white, rich foam on top, covered in cinnamon. I saw the tiniest little bubbles leaning against the side of the glass. One by one they shattered. As I stirred, I noticed the layer of cinnamon breaking into small pieces. Little islands of golden brown powder, resting on the fluffy cloud underneath. It reminded me of the soil of a parched desert, cracked into a giraffe skin pattern. I carefully took a scoop of the whipped milk, leaving a trace of a spotlessly white slope. I could already smell the chai and cinnamon. I closed my eyes, and took a sip. The sweetness of the milky herbal tea tickled my taste buds. I gave my senses a break from my investigation and thought for a while. I smiled, and poured what was left in my glass, straight into my mouth.
 

I decided being a writer must be exhausting, and felt quite relieved to be able to enjoy my drink without thinking of it as another potential chapter in my next book.  

Cheers.

Now this would be one hell of a story!