Brumming in Birmingham.

(noun) Brum;
1. British informal – A nickname for the English city of Birmingham;
2. or the noise a car makes.

Known as the City of Thousand trades, Birmingham has struck me as an idiosyncratic mix of cultures, annoyed with its urban planning, sang to me in an elevator of the IKON gallery, and ultimately led to the library as an attempt to find my way around city I perceived as not only of the thousand trades but thousand of ideas.

A birthplace of Ozzy Osbourne and Black Sabbath, yet still holding a popular musical myth of being solely populated by heavy metal bands that yet have nowhere to play. Shame on you, Brum.

An award of aesthetic incongruity goes to The Symphony Hall in the International Convention Centre and the odd-looking modern library just next to it. Contrasting with picturesque Dutch-looking Brindley’s place, full of canals and red brick buildings, and the Baskerville House with its Ionic columns and classical architrave.

Next to it there’s Hall of Memory, another art-deco styled rotunda encircled with ecru white columns. Commemorating the dead during World War I and II, Birmingham is another city I got to visit with a burden of war. Birmingham Blitz from the 11th December 1940, just roughly half a year after the Rotterdam Blitz.

Got me interested in politics, ironically when some of the British Labour MPs seemed to have had enough of it, led me on the track of Moseley’s alleys and cul-de-sacs, home for a time and source of Tolkien’s inspiration with the early 20th-century steam trains, owing to James Watt, a local as well.

The Library of Birmingham holds tons of sources on city’s history, books on industrial revolution being most numerous ones. The three pioneers of this period- James Watt, Matthew Boulton and William Murdoch contributed most to the city development. On the other shelves there are books on the carat gold and silver standards, corresponding well with the Jewellery Quarter nearby, one of the city’s neighborhoods. Those on the roots of Middle Earth on Level 3 just near the windows can help track Moseley’s history, just as the other bookshelf bent with weight of books on any area of the city you’d wish to get to know more of.

 

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Rotterdam, or anywhere

As a foreigner, there are couple of facts that could not escape my notice when moving into the cheese-laden land of milk and honey, ornamented in white and blue- apart from the obvious stereotypes about the Netherlands. Besides gezellig stroopwafels, that, funnily enough, I’ve come across some time ago in Scotland, tall people, cheese (obviously), every third or fourth person named De Jong, and coffeeshops, here are some things I uncovered while in Rotterdam, Netherlands.

  1. Means of transportation contest on the streets.

    Don’t ask me why, every time I ride my beige-blue teenage-looking bike with a giant sticker saying in curly glittery font, “Girlpower”, I get to notice most random range of vehicles moving on the streets. Some would say, and would be not far from the truth nonetheless that it’s a city of bikes. But once you spend here couple of weeks you might think it’s a Red Bull Flugtag for driving. Motorbikes and scooters are quite likely to chase you on those neatly separated bicycle lanes, while jaywalking is taken to a whole new level with giant quads, three-wheelers, cycle rikshaws, double bikes. If you pedal, or drive, cruise, or jump to the outskirts, there’s a true outbreak of camping trailers. Hell, for your jumpwear there is even a Kangoo Jumps Rental ! “Nominated best outing 2015”. “Only in Rotterdam”! And then, there are the elderly driving electric wheelchairs, teenagers on skateboards attached to bikes swishing near you, 60’s-looking old-school cars, the car on Vredenoordlaan that looks like batmobil, and the old Daewoo Tico whose speakers rumbled old Elvis’ songs near Trefpunt last Sunday, I keep looking for wizards on the broomsticks.

2. “The Black Market”

Is how it sounds phonetically when most of the foreigners refer to a local market taking place every Tuesday and Saturday near station Blaak. Ironically, it is actually the market where you can find anything. Including gossip about the tourists, opportunity for sales skills internship if you’re lucky enough to get some salespeople invite you to help them selling, the suspiciously-looking giant bar of Marseille soap, bike parts, bikes, food, clothing, kitchen utensils, kitchen appliances, parts for your stupendous vehicle to conquer the streets, home tools, you name it, whatever it is you need.

“There’s a time and place for everything, and it’s called college Blaak market.
– Chef, South Park

Lastly, you are likely to get looks when casually dropping “Hey, I’m going to buy some fruit on the black market, you need anything?” on a serene Saturday morning.

3. Dutch directness…

In some instances, the Dutch language is ridiculously straightforward, which is one of the reasons I regret not having time to study it. Being able to understand what certain street names mean would surely make bike rides so much more entertaining. For what I luckily got to know, there is Oostzeedijk, a street just near the river, eastern part of the city. And the name literally means “east seawall”. It has a smaller counterpart, street adjoined to it, running just couple of meters below- Oostzeedijk beneden. What does it mean? East seawall- below. Hey, thanks.

Combined with other names such as “new shortcut”, “old dike”, “unwilling street”, even the very name “Rotterdam” itself is combined from the river Rotte, partitioned with a dam in 13th century. Clearly, the Dutch directness is a thing.

4.  Huddled sea-through houses.

Having the area of 41 thousand square kilometers, and about 16.8 million people to fit in there, it’s quite understandable that flats and houses huddle cozily next to each other in a maze of narrow streets. However it’s quite remarkable how you can see what your 5-meters away neighbours do inside their living rooms. In some cases, you can even see through their windows at the back of the house- peeping right into the next street behind them. Into the next house, possibly.

Combined with random instances in which the only question that begs to be asked is “why?“, or better, “how?“, when you see a single shoe hanging tied onto a power line in between the houses, roughly 15 meters above the ground – Rotterdam, not to be confused with retarded.

Spotting the trains

        Train station in Rotterdam, Netherlands. One after another, yellow aerodynamic-shaped tubes rush into the station accompanied by typical Dutch hoarse wheezing, drawing out of the shielded speakers. Breda, Dordrecht, Vlissingen, Venlo. Spoor 1, 2, 3, all the spots here are dots connected by yellow smudges in the rain. And each of of them carries hundreds of passengers connecting their points of the journey. It’s a matrix of connections that is virtually never put much thought to. Board the train, wait, get off the train. You’re just a short line from point A to point B.
        Train station in Rotterdam, Netherlands. One after another, tall and short, fat and skinny, white and black passengers rush into the station together with distinctive conversations they are in the middle of, their voices pitching in different tones, accents, intonation, languages. Dutch, Polish, German, French. Spoor 1, 2, 3, all the people here are dots connected by grey, ground-embedded station. And each of them carries hundreds of stories, hundreds of directions to go to. A matrix of connections they do not normally think of. Board the train, wait, get off the train. Your attention spans over a short line from point A to point B.
        Get off the train. Airport. This  is the visible culture melting pot, forcing you to notice other people; no longer the meaningless dots. Where, in this moment, is the plane that departures in three hours time? How many people are carried from that place to a point where you are, waiting to exchange seats with them? Who, among those waiting, will go where? Now you have the opportunity to see the couple drinking coffee next to you direct themselves to a gate annotated with a board sign Copenhagen; spot that eccentric-looking guy in a large hoodie sitting under the board informing you, Lisbon; skim through all the faces in a queue for Manchester. Different languages, looks, clothes, shoes, bags are boarding different airlines, airplanes, times, gates.
        While my graphical metaphor of a train station is a line, airports seem to be depicted by convoluted knob of twisted lines, interweaving together as each line asks one another, Where’s Gate 4?, Excuse me, which way should I go for the information desk?, Do you need some help, Would you like some coffee, would you please direct yourself to the baggage reclaim.
        Airports are the knobs of places and stories. You can meet anyone, you can go anywhere. Suddenly, London is not that far away from Berlin. And Warsaw is just 2 hours away from Eindhoven. And the lady who served coffee to the Danish couple is French, as indicated by a placard on her shirt. Presence of ‘the everywhere’ is embedded in everyone around.

Choose a life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television. Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers… Choose DSY and wondering who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit crushing game shows, stucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away in the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourself, choose your future. Choose life… But why would I want to do a thing like that?”
― Irvine WelshTrainspotting

The DNA languages of cultures.

     After 266 days in Scotland, 5 days in Ireland, 1 in Denmark, 43 in Poland, 1 in Belgium, and finally 21 so far in the Netherlands, I could say the clouds in my mind have scattered, I am able to accommodate to the ‘DNA of the culture’ as I like to call it, which strikes me most when it comes to the language.

     There is some sort of specific ‘feel’ in each and every place. Once you start moving with your life and being open-minded, you can feel the place in much more profound way.

When I visited Dublin for 5 mentioned days, I immediately felt that different ‘feel’ rather than in Scotland, but still a familiar one. Even though Ireland has euros as their currency, Ireland is not part of the UK. Ireland is Europe, and bears a completely different feel than England. Slightly more similar to Scotland. Ireland has their own pride in Guinness and Jameson whisky, just like Scotland swims in their whisky. There are Irish pubs with irish fonts on their signboards and Gaelic language seen even on the street signs.


Still, Gaelic and Brittonic are languages of Celts, that first infiltrated Britain around 500 BC. In the Gaelic group we’ve got both Irish and Scottish, which might explain why Ireland felt just like good ol’ Scotland after all.

fig05_600

And if you look at the geographic spread of Celtic language, you can see how England remains untouched. England, and the English language came from Germanic tribe of Anglo-Saxons, who arrived on the British Isles at least 600 years after Celts had been already there.
English did not even originate from the British Isles, since those who brought it, Anglo-Saxons, came from continental Europe, pushing Celts outwards North and West.
And yet so many people name the whole of British Isles as “England” just because they all speak English, which gets me on my nerves.

It was inevitable for me to be affected by Dutch language in the Netherlands as well. Suddenly it struck me how my thinking and writing would be faster and better, if it was only in Dutch. And I do not mean sole communication with other people, rather the cognition of all around you. Knowing Dutch, especially etymologically, would allow me to apprehend so many more things. Here is a place for operations in Dutch, not English. Smoking in here in not that smooth like the english word itself is, the smoke from my cigarette did not swirled gracefully from it as usual. “Roken” is Dutch for “smoking”. Beginning with that characteristic Dutch hoarse rattle, cracking and wheezing the sound of letter “r”. Roken in here is harsh. And yes, after trying cigarettes in here I was coughing indeed. Hoarse, rough, hard roken. Smooth, soothing, comfortable smoking.

A nightingale is mysterious and unknown, like the night it bears in its name. They also sing in the evening, hence the name. Ending with ‘gale‘ which means strong wind, suggesting that the bird can withstand it. Even more, word ‘gale’ comes from the Old Norse word ‘galinn’, which means “mad”, “frantic” or “bewitched”. Whereas Old Norse is the language of the Vikings. Earliest inscriptions from Scandinavia were written in runes on stones, swords and artefacts. A nightingale seems mighty, strong, a secret rune of the night. Semantically belonging more to Celts than to Anglo-Saxons, now that we speak about it.

“(…) the peculiarities of mind and temper which can be still observed in the Irish or the Welsh on the one hand and the English on the other: the wild incalculable poetic Celt, full of vague and misty imaginations, and the Saxon, solid and practical when not under the influence of beer.”
– J.R.R. Tolkien’s “English and Welsh”, the inauguration speech for the O’Donnel lectures.
Whereas in Polish a nightingale is “słowik“, close to “słowo” which means a “word“. Quite a talkative bird then it is, suggesting its singing is words. Morever, suffix “ik” in Polish is used to create a pet name of a rather patronizing connotation. English nightingale is mighty and mysterious singer of the night, whereas Polish słowik is a small, annoying jabbering gibberish blabber.


“When the surroundings speaks only in an unknown language, one begins to listen to it alongside with the whole environment. And if we linger long enough, the time existing in this environment will master the language for us. That was in my case, the mind did not know at all how did it happen. I think people don’t appreciate the listening and hearing words. And the listening prepares itself to speak up. One day my mouth started speaking. Romanian was then just like my mother tongue. Its Romanian words could not believe when I was involuntary comparing them with my German words.”

How everything falls into place, in a new place.

After being thrown into high-intensity pit of freshness and novelty, meaning a new country, I almost had to re-read my own blog in order to think clearly here. Blindly gathered one-year-old knowledge about clashing with a different culture re-emerged now in a completely new way.

Creativity requires the courage to let go of boundaries.

-Erich Fromm

  1. You need to adjust.
    2015-08-08 08.06.40
    Don’t expect to have the same habits as you’ve had in a different place. You go to Spain, you do things the Spanish way. Don’t look for your favorite cafe au lait in a first cafe that looks similar to the one from home. Take the Carajillo with best Spanish rum, learn how to make it. Maybe the culture shock people are experiencing when moving to other country, moving for good, is identity-oriented rather than pertaining to adjusting. Adjusting itself is easy, however wanting that – not so much.
  2. I’ve got a plant in my room.
    2015-08-07 11.36.45
    Sure, I’ll take care of you. I can hardly take care of myself now and I think when I was 8 years old I accidentally starved my hamster to death, but there you are, in a room I rented, moved into. Sure, no problem, you will be the priority now. Maybe a prelude to me having own mansion with a dog and white fence (still on hold though). Funnily enough, not only I started caring for the plant, but the house itself too. Hey, thanks, Plant.

  3. Race for the 4G
    2015-08-09 13.25.32
    How is it that I wanted the best (as I thought) for me, and instead got a 128kb/s internet speed only, forcing me to randomly stop on the street, waiting for Google Maps directions to home? Even worse, that is a prepaid. I wanted a contract for fast, reliable 4G mobile data speed.
    Nevertheless, I’ve seen that slow internet to push me into shoving the phone back to the bag, looking around, speaking up to people on the street. They told me how to correctly pronounce the name of my street, ‘hoarsing’ it in a typically Dutch way. I was finding my way back home by streets looking nicer than the alternatives, rather than satellite-dictated Google way. Found myself a zeer smakelijke koffie just because I was mindlessly meandering through streets and stumbled upon Simon Lévelt shop. Even better, I bought a French press, found an Irish Pub to dance in four days later with a random beardy stranger, realized the 7.50 euro deal for my prepaid SIM was literally the best.

Think I am starting to realize what Mick Jagger and Keith Richards meant by you get what you need.

I’m in a complicated relationship with Aberdeen.

Allegedly adored by Royal Family, called the ‘Granite City’, in spikes of exaggerated marketing ‘the silver city with the golden sands’, Aberdeen has been my home for the last year. Right now, two days before my flight back home and moving out for good out of Scotland, this place calls for my comment very much.


1. Strange things happen in Aberdeen.
     I have no idea whether it’s because the city thrives on students coming from all over the world, or is it because maybe it sits on some strange power concentration point on the globe. Or maybe both. Only in here I’ve seen that many people randomly singing in the buses, walking barefoot through the streets. Or dressing up as a bunch of chicken, storming into KFC screaming over the counter, “GIVE ME BACK MA CHILDRAAAN”. The city seems to be covered in a mist, which can make it look rather gloomy and foggy, however very often the ‘fog’ smells in a way that makes me think of how one my friends once told me that this place is called the Amsterdam of Scotland as well.

2. The Granite City / The Silver City.
     Despite all effort this city has made since approximately 18th century to incorporate locally quarried grey granite, I’m sorry Aberdeen, the granite still does not silver-sparkle under rays of sunshine (oh wait, what sunshine?) after the rain.
aberdeen golden sands

3. Forget about your sleeping schedules.
     During winter around 3pm it’s as if somebody would switch off the lights. No colorful and slow sunsets for you, it gets dark immediately. The pitch dark blackness lifts up around 8am, in worst cases 9:30am.
     On the other hand, during summer you experience almost 21-hour long daylight. In June after 11pm it’s still quite bright, and sun rises around 3:00 – 3:30 am.
     And yet the students party whole year round, all day, all night.
aeeaedesfesfes

4. Holburn, Union and King Street
     are basically the whole of the city centre. Or maybe I haven’t got to know the city much and I’m just being stupid. But throughout the year I’ve seen all life of the city concentrating there. The so called ‘life’ constitutes of random parades organized by students, not-so-rare underwear runs for money fund-raising or other unknown reasons, parties, people dressed up as various creatures/animals/objects, or one time, a kettle stolen from a party, sitting on a bus stop.

5. “What does the city look like? – Like a paradox.”
     There’s the majestic-gothic-looking Marischal College right next to low-laying, identical rows of blocks. And the tall, medieval-look-alike West Tower of the Town House randomly appearing out of nowhere, scraping the sky and located right next to modern offices, and the bay with oil tankers.
     Be prepared to walk down narrow, atmospheric alleys only to end up in an industrial-look-alike district and not a single living soul there. And then, you stumble upon the chunky yellow block of flats that looks like taken out straight out of communist 1970s’ Poland.
     Outer suburbs sit around the city with all their houses identical in color, size and layout, creating a labyrinth of copy-paste small buildings that charmingly looks like a giant graveyard from an airplane window.
     Or, drive away from the city down the river Dee into natural landscapes of woods and fields, and- BAM!, there’s a modern, futuristic looking campus of the university, with a sky-scraping glass tower, most often hiding high up in dense, grey clouds.
     The city itself seems to be an architectural/design contraction, but yet it creates the vibe like no other – which is exactly what I hated it for in the beginning, only to start to love it later on.

6.  Fab life, Aberdeen
     Maybe it’s the quite small population of barely 230 thousands, or the student concentration ratio, but it seems everyone knows everyone, everyone talks about everyone. Oh, your flatmate’s friend knows that guy from marketing whose girlfriend saw your best friend on the picture from a nightclub yesterday, hugged with the marketing guy’s brother!
     Maybe this hub of students is buzzing incessantly cause apart from partying and people, honestly, I would not say there is much in here to do. People create this place, however this turns out to be its biggest advantage as it is never boring. It is even easier with an app where you post posts, anonymously. So basically everyone knows what you have been up to and where. And when there was almost full solar eclipse on 20th of March, the whole city shat its pants. Facebook profile pictures, Instagram, Twitter, even the forgotten Google Plus accounts were all buzzing, because hey, something is finally happening!
Apart from that, it seems like there’s one main topic for a conversation and a perfect escape from an awkward silence on your (Tinder) dates, and it’s the subject of the seagulls. Not only there’s heaps of them in here, massive in size, craving your food, there’s a good chance you’ll gonna be attacked by them at some point of living in Aberdeen.
aberdeen_eclipse

All of it, altogether, I must say has accounted for so many memories and random events that I genuinely, sincerely love Aberdeen, although I think I want it to burn in hell nevertheless.

The process of becoming home

Any- and I repeat, any place, even this crammed room too tiny for you and your ego, this city too dark and small, this neighborhood too unfriendly can become your dearest home. Maybe it is because you get used to it, or maybe it is more because you grow to become an integral part of this place.

You contribute to this place from the very first day your foot steps in there. By finding your ways around, modifying and molding the environment around you, you start to create it as well. By putting your heart and soul into it, by every poster added to the room, by realizing at some point that this mess near bed, stretching to the desk and chair and closet too, is actually familiar. This is your own organized chaos that says “home”, it is in all the times your bathroom floor has felt you crying, in all the exact places for exact items.

It is also defined by the distance you have traveled to this place, together with the pillow from your home, together with furniture you dragged into this apartment, together with various rules and customs that emerged by themselves as you inhabited this place fully.

It is only you that knows when and how this curtain broke, and how to open the window now without a rattle, or why is it that one door of your closet is always open, whereas other one shut down. Which shelf lacks a nail to hold it properly, and where all your shoes are hidden, what is this lonely hanger by the door waiting for, and what is in the cartoon box inside your suitcase, inside the half-closed closet.

One person once told me a thing about settling for places that seem not enough to you, when you have to lean back in your own room so to move around it, and when you buy certain items that will travel with you to new homes, so to contribute to them as well- seems like it took me one year to finally understand it (and thank you for that.)