The Party Don't Start Till I Walk In

I have arrived and spent my first 24 hours in the Netherlands.

Day 1 - Leaving On A Jet Plane

The airport was hard. I went to a little local which was very friendly but, when it came to saying goodbye to my family, there were still tears in my eyes. I was a brave soldier and refused to cry but my vision was a little waterlogged for a few minutes.

And I lost my hat.

But then I got on the tiny little plane (it had propellers) and everything was fine. I love flying so I was instantly back in a good mood and ready for my new adventure.

The flight was a little over an hour but we had to wait around for larger planes to get out of our way both at home and abroad so I was actually on the plan for about an hour and three quarters. We hit some turbulence as we approached the Netherlands because we were flying through rain clouds but it kept making my stomach lurch and made me giggle.

I'm sure the poor man sitting next to me thought I was insane.

When I arrived in Amsterdam I wasn't expecting the airport to be quite so huge. We were let in through the gate that was farthest away from anything so I had a good walk to baggage claim. Through passport control (no questions asked tyvm) and onto baggage and I thought 'here we go, I'll have to wait hours for this' but, just as I turned the corner I saw my case go past on the belt.

Bloody marvellous.

So I grabbed that and headed for the exit. There was a bizarre deflation moment where I just went 'well...what now?' But I managed to find the trains and got my ticket.

Luckily (or maybe not) for me there was another student going to Groningen who was waiting on the platform. Maybe I have that student vibe about me but he came straight up to me to ask if I was studying in Groningen. Bear in mind that this train has many (many, many, many ) stops before it arrives at Groningen. So he helped me onboard and helped load my luggage into the overhead storage which was really kind because I couldn't lift it at all.

Then, for the next 2 (almost 3) hours he did not shut up.

And I'm not talking about conversation between the two of us being a constant flow.

No.

I said about 5 words. He just filled me in on his life and his ex-girlfriend and how he likes to play World of Warcraft and listen to heavy metal and his Uncle's concubine treated his Grandma badly so he threatened to break her legs.

You know, real first conversation type stuff.

I managed to say a hurried goodbye at the station though and then went to meet my friend who was picking me up. We got the taxi to my new house and walked in through the front door.

There is no one around.

I have no phone number, no room number, no instructions as to what to do next.

So we sit there and look like very lost, very awkward tourists.

Wonderful. Just the sort of first impression I want to be giving.

Some kind soul comes along eventually and asks if we need help. I think he might have been a bit scared at how we practically jumped at him. I met my student manager who is a lovely bloke who gave me a tour and set up my internet and gave me all new kitchen things. The kitchen is connected to a common room with sofas and a TV and a balcony where people can go and sit (most people smoke out there as then it won't smell). My student manager made me feel really welcome (he may have forgotten to give me a pillow but we'll forgive him that small oversight) and I got to see my room. It's very bare but it's quite large so it looks even paler and emptier because it's reasonably big. Much bigger than the room I had at my university at home.

Much bigger than my sister's at my parent's house.



Left to our own devices, my friend and I go to explore the city and buy essentials like food, bed covers and a hair drier. (I now realise that that list should be far more extensive: slippers, towel, dressing gown, socks, extension lead, mirror, tupperware, light bulb, dirty clothes bag etc etc.)

In my shopping trip I managed to buy bed covers and a hair drier.

It occurs to me (and my grumbling stomach) now that food probably should have been higher on my priority list. But we did get a good look around the town.





Anyway, I went back to my friend's for dinner and stayed until about 8.30. When I decided to go home we didn't know what would be the best route. I didn't want to walk because it would take me nearly an hour and I was fairly sure that I would get lost. (Confident, really.) So we thought a bus might be good but, in the dark and on my first day, I wouldn't know where to get off. So I got a train from Groningen Central to Groningen Noord which is much cheaper than a taxi and close to my house.

Or so I thought.

I managed to get lost no fewer than 4 times on my way home, almost cried, wanted to phone a taxi, wanted to phone my mum. I eventually found a landmark that I recognised and hurried home (the sun has completely disappeared at this point) and, on my way, walked past a man relieving himself in a bush. To give the man some much needed privacy, I crossed the road to the other side. However, this seemed to alert him to my presence. So he said hello and asked me how I was.

You can't say the Dutch aren't friendly.

I almost ran the last part of the way home but managed to control myself and walk at a decent pace. When I got back to my room I almost collpased with relief and then remembered that I still hadn't unpacked, still hadn't met any of my flat mates and still hadn't skype-d my family like I promised I would.

After these three things were checked off my to-do list I brushed my teeth and went to get changed for bed. The afore-mentioned balcony is right next to my room and I can hear people talking out on the balcony. As I take my shirt off I look to the left and make eye contact with one of the blokes out there through my curtains.

My curtains are not very thick.

At all.

So after a day of mindlessly babbling, getting lost, being indecently exposed to and exposing myself I'd say it's been a successful first day.

Dank u wel and tot ziens!

Day 2 - Heroes and Thieves At My Door

Today I woke up at 7 and got to watch the sun rise from my balcony.

If there could ever be a little slice of perfection I think that's what it would be like.

I went to meet my friend quite early this morning because we were told there was going to be a massive bike market and I really wanted to buy one as soon as possible because I'm quite a way from town.

There were no bikes to be seen.

So we pottered about for a bit and then went to get a bike from a normal shop. I ended up paying about 95 euros for a second hand one but it had gears and hand brakes which quite a few of the others don't. (In order to brake you need to peddle backwards. It's a bit obscure but seems to work fine.) I was very excited and pleased with my bike because it was in reasonable condition and was good value in comparison to others we had looked at.

I wheeled it home (not quite brave enough to traverse the right handed traffic of the continent) and went into the bike shed in my building. My key didn't appear to unlock any of the cages where the bikes are kept and the dooor wouldn't open behind me which was irritating and odd. But, I figured, if I left the bike in the shed (which has locked doors) I could run upstairs and get my bike lock t secure it more satisfactorily.

I was gone 10 minutes and, when I returned, my bike was no where to be seen.

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

But, I thought, neither of those options actually helps me in any way. So, instead, I pulled my shoes back on and walked back into town where, from a different, more helpful bike shop, I bought the cheapest bike they had to offer and a very hefty, very expensive bike chain.

I now have no gears, backwards pedalling brakes and a rusty piece of junk. But I do have a huge chain that I can barely pick up so nyeah bike thieves.

That's about it really for the first 24 hours. I've been lost, returned an extension lead that I didn't want, learnt some words in Dutch, bought no less than 2 bikes in the space of an hour and have allowed one (or several, I'm too embarrassed to check) of my housemates a good look at my naked bosoms.

Huzzah.

I Made Plans To Make Plans

Apparently there are certain things you are meant to do before you move abroad.

1) Get insurance.
2) Change money to euros.
3) Pack.

I am slightly concerned that none of these have been done and, even more worrying, I'm not panicking.

My suitcase is in my room and is currently empty. I have no plans to change this in the near future and I find myself wondering when I'm actually going to get ready to leave the country.

Well, I suppose it will have to be soon because my flight is in 7 days.

The Room of Death

The Room of Death
The first thing I notice at my new job is that no one calls the place where I'll be working 'the archive room', it's not even referenced as 'upstairs'. It is, universally and without exception, 'The 4th Floor'.

I'm taken up in the lift and, almost instantly, I notice that buttons 1,2,3 and 5 are all worn down to the point that it is hard to make out the numbers. But button 4 is clean. It looks almost new, as clear as the day it was first installed. This, for unknown and irrational reasons, freaks me out. The second thing is that, upon arriving on The 4th Floor, it is completely deserted. And looks like it may have been for a good few years.

Already my imagination is throwing up images of murders and accidents at work. I’m trying to remember the episode of the Mentalist that this reminds me of and recall, with startling clarity, the face of the young temp that was killed on an abandoned floor in an old office.

This is not a good start.

Pushing all thoughts of homicide to the back of my mind, my first challenge comes in the form of a door. If this door were a cartoon character it would be the hulk; it’s huge. (And it does look slightly angry with me.) It’s one of the original doors of the building so the wood is about a foot thick and I think it might be sound proof. I actually have to completely throw my weight behind me to pull this door open and, when I can feel that my shoulder hasn’t popped out of the socket, I stare into the dingy corridor beyond. The door is so heavy that it starts closing so, not wishing to repeat the experience of dislocating my shoulder; I scurry through the rapidly closing gap.

I’m greeted by a darkened hallway. I can vaguely make out some shapes of machinery and pipes but the rest is shrouded in shadow. A few steps in and the motion sensors pick up on my movement and the lights flicker on.

I almost wish they’d remained off.

Two of the lights don’t work so I suppose that’s a small blessing. There are spills and leakages and loose hoses, even an abandoned ladder. The floor is sticky and there is nowhere that I can put my feet to avoid the black, crispy residue coating the ground. There are no windows on this floor. At all. I’ve got the feeling that I’m in an oversized coffin.

I carry on down the hallway, taking a sharp turn to the right into a cage like structure before continuing on down the corridor. I’m very aware that each step I take is a step further from people, help, safety.

A nasty little voice whispers in the back of my head that there’s no one around to hear me scream.

I push the thought from my mind and try to focus on something else but there is only the heat. It’s vicious; the kind of heat that’s sweltering and then laughs at you when it can see you sweating. It’s oppressive and stifling and it clogs my airways.

I understand, rather suddenly, that this must be what Hell feels like.

I carry on down the hallway past spills and hoses and rust and I notice that there are open man holes dotted along either side of the hall. They lead further into the darkness and I try not to look directly at any in case I see someone (something?) staring back. There are signs indicating that these are confined work spaces so I assume that’s where the long-forgotten chimney sweeps live.

I suddenly long for my little office back down on the 2nd floor.

As I’m walking, I notice that someone has painted tiny, yellow footprints on the floor. They lead from an open man hole and slowly fade down the corridor. Far from this being a whimsical joke, I begin to panic about what happened to the Smurf-sized Simpson. This is further exasperated when I come across what looks like a tiny shrivelled body. Turns out it’s a pair of discarded surgical gloves. But still, why are there surgical gloves down here? The nasty, little voice starts whispering again.

Finally, ignoring the suggestions of vile villains and creepy chimney sweeps lurking in holes, I reach my destination – the only door on the whole corridor.

It’s a very ordinary, red door. I think that, maybe, this might not be so bad after all. The door is the most modern thing I have seen in the past quarter of an hour. I unlock it and turn on the light.

I realise, instantly, that this isn’t an archive room at all; it’s a burial ground. This is where important files and folders come to die.

They are everywhere. Literally. They line the walls and floor in piles of neat boxes and in mountains of discarded bundles of paper. This isn’t a job for a clerical assistant; it’s a job for the bin men. There are filing cabinets and drawers and lockers and cardboard boxes stuffed full of all sorts of different documents. On my left there are huge books that I can barely lift dating all the way back to 1962. My brain seems to shut down at the very idea of organising this room.

Nevertheless, it’s what they are paying me to do, so organise I shall. Let it never be said that I don’t enjoy a challenge. Especially when it comes to organising files and folders.

**

5 hours later and I’ve had to have several breaks from The Room of Death because the heat makes me dizzy. Despite this, slowly but surely, I can see that I’m making some progress with a ‘keep’ pile and a ‘chuck’ pile. No one has been up on the floor all day and the silence is deafening. Every little noise makes me jump out of my skin and I’m sure my heart has never suffered such an extended cardio workout.

Suddenly, there’s a sound like the trampling of many feet and, instead of cowering behind a filing cabinet like my instincts are demanding, I go to investigate.

With hindsight I realise this may have been a massive error in judgement. Isn’t it always the nosy girl that gets bumped off first?

Poking my head out of the door I don’t see anything to cause alarm but the wave of heat that hits my face takes my breath away. Glancing further down the corridor I can see that, actually, alarm might be the best emotion to employ.

The corridor is flooding with water.

Clearly, the heat has addled my senses because, despite the fact that the water is steaming, I bend down and dip two fingers in.

My burnt fingers and I can now definitely confirm that the corridor is flooding with boiling hot water.

Worry mounts and then transforms into true panic when my brain makes the connection that this water is blocking my only known escape route. This prompts further exploration to find another exit because I refuse to die drowning in 3 inches of hot water. This entails me wandering around more of the deserted 4th Floor and, eventually, finding a way out into the fresh, cold air.

I venture back up to The 4th Floor after a cup of tea to find that most of the water has drained away. Therefore, I reason, this kind of occurrence is fairly regular and routine. Weeks later, I mention it to my supervisor who informs me that, in no uncertain terms, is the corridor meant to flood and I should have reported it.

Perhaps that’s what happened to Smurf-sized Simpson; he drowned?

A short while after this debacle I go up to The 4th Floor first thing in the morning, unlock the door and stop almost instantly upon entering the room.

Something has changed.

Someone has been into the room (which I, apparently, have the only key to) and moved something.

At first I’m concerned that I can tell within seconds of entering the room that something has happened. (Has it really become that much of a second home to me?) But, more than this, I need to know what’s missing. After a few minutes of digging around the mystery is solved.

It’s personnel files.

When I report this to my supervisor he really doesn’t seem too concerned. So I get back to work.

**

It’s a few days later and I’m getting into the swing of things when I pick up a folder that drips. This isn’t overly strange since quite a lot of the paper work on The 4th Floor has been water damaged at some point between now and the 1960s. But I still don’t want to get the water on me so I move to shift the folder onto my hip, the movement of which upends the folder and empties onto the floor what must be nearly 4 pints of something yellow, smelly and what I’m really hoping is just old beer.

Of course, my arms are now coated in this mysterious substance.

Delightful.

**

A few weeks later and I find I’m being moved to a new room. Turns out that there’s an archive room on the first floor that’s more organised but, when I first arrived, the lights weren’t working.

They’re telling me this after I’ve survived The Room of Death for weeks?

Cheers.

Still, I’m thinking this move is good; it means progress. And The 4th Floor is starting to look fairly crowded now after I’ve organised most of the files into boxes. I’m told the new room is somewhat more organised than The 4th Floor and, praise Mary, it’s got air conditioning. I’m not naive though, surely there must be something wrong with this place otherwise someone else would have sorted it out.

However, hope rears its ugly head and, upon first impressions, it doesn’t look too bad. Okay, one of the lights doesn’t work but the boxes are all stacked neatly on shelves and they are all labelled (mostly correctly) and the oldest file is 2004. This, I think, may not be too bad.

3 hours in and my eyes are drawn to a sign on the wall. I hadn’t noticed it before because I’d been so focused on the joy of a semi-organised room. Closer inspection reveals it to be an asbestos notice. Recoiling with horror I notice that these stickers are plastered all over the walls at metre intervals. Taking quick, shallow breaths I now understand that they’ve moved me from one Room of Death only to put me in another.

Room of Death: The Sequel, Part Deux whatever you want to call it.

That’s when my ears suddenly pick up on all these sounds that had previously gone unnoticed. There are bumps and creaks and groans and voices and dripping sounds and general activity from the adjacent corridor. It’s ghostly and unearthly and sets my teeth on edge whenever I hear a particularly loud bang. The knowledge that this room doesn’t lock kicks the nasty, little voice awake and it hisses that anyone could come in whilst I’m away and hide behind the many stacks of boxes.

And then jump out at me for a laugh.

I quickly come to the conclusion that The 4th Floor has nothing on this place and I long for it almost as much as I used to long for my office downstairs.

I suppose it’s true what they say; better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.

&&Fin.