Bitterballen and the City
The closing of an era always comes with mixed feelings. Most people decide to cherish (or hide) these feeling by marking the moment with a proper celebration.
For some strange reasons I and three coworkers found ourselves in precisely one of those moments where a celebration is called for.
As official event manager of the group this one was on me. What would be appropriate though? Tricky, very tricky. Proposing a quick incursion to London for a West End show and shopping to a group of well integrated Brabanders might be just "a bridge too far". On the other hand I was also not going to integrate myself as much as to go for a BBQ on a camping in Eersel.
I knew that the win-win solution should be somewhere in between. And there it was, just at this side of the North Sea but still qualifying as a sizable international city: Rotterdam was the place to be!
The dinner location was known to us all, but the after dinner party was in a club of my own choice not known to the others. I volunteered for driving and apparently the lust for alcohol was far stronger that the self preservation instinct because nobody protested.
Once assembled in the restaurant we really looked like colleagues, just simply because friends or family groups tend to have much in common in appearance and/or style, we did not. It did not stop to have fun and make fun of it all.
When time came to leave the trusted environment of the restaurant and move to the club it started to become apparent that the good party years had long gone for all of us, and we were wondering around central Rotterdam like tourists, admiring the remarkable architecture of the new central station. Wrong, very wrong.
To make it more believable I was wearing eleven centimeters heels, but that didn't really help when we were circling around trying to find the entrance of the club.
"The Suicide Club rooftop bar"was located on top of a very large and anonymous building right in front of the train station.
When we finally got to the entrance elevator a lady checked the reservation list and yes, we were in, it really felt like high school over again.
The club was really cool and the view quite stunning! Once we realized that the view could be equally admired also from the inside tables we decided to relocate wanting to avoid the evening chill to act upon our pre-rheumatic bones.
As I said the view was stunning and we decided to concentrate on one specific detail, the luxury of the offices in the insurance company building just opposite to us. Did we choose a wrong career? The question was lingering on our heads. Too late anyway to worry about it so we moved our attention to the pole just a few meters away from our corner. Was a pole dancer going to appear at a certain point? I am sure I saw a glimpse of hope in the eyes of my three companions before reality kicked in. Even if such an act might take place that would probably happen way after our departure. This night was not a night for regrets, we were fully enjoying our cocktails with bitterballen.
As proper middle aged Cinderellas we promptly left the club when the clock started striking the midnight, and the pre-evening drinks menu moved to its more posh evening version. The attendance to the club was getting seriously cool and we could almost be spotted as impostors.
Proudly tired out of towners we stepped into the car and headed home discussing many topics of general interest like how cars can run on urine.
Almost immediately we headed right into a major traffic jam, in spite of all the spy technology on board which should have avoided that. Human error I guess.
I do not have to explain to my female readers what it means to drive on a eleven centimeters heel in a traffic jam. To my male reader I only need to give one word: painful.
It was getting really late and the dutch wives were claiming their husbands back through Whatsapp. I almost had the feeling that the car was going to turn into a pumpkin at any moment.
The dutch husband back home was clearly sleeping so I could concentrate on my aching feet and on the brillint view of other car drivers peeing on the side of the highway.
It was about two thirty when we finally reached the trusted cosy homestead of Eindhoven and everything went back to normality.
Celebration accomplished and a story to tell!
For some strange reasons I and three coworkers found ourselves in precisely one of those moments where a celebration is called for.
As official event manager of the group this one was on me. What would be appropriate though? Tricky, very tricky. Proposing a quick incursion to London for a West End show and shopping to a group of well integrated Brabanders might be just "a bridge too far". On the other hand I was also not going to integrate myself as much as to go for a BBQ on a camping in Eersel.
I knew that the win-win solution should be somewhere in between. And there it was, just at this side of the North Sea but still qualifying as a sizable international city: Rotterdam was the place to be!
The dinner location was known to us all, but the after dinner party was in a club of my own choice not known to the others. I volunteered for driving and apparently the lust for alcohol was far stronger that the self preservation instinct because nobody protested.
Once assembled in the restaurant we really looked like colleagues, just simply because friends or family groups tend to have much in common in appearance and/or style, we did not. It did not stop to have fun and make fun of it all.
When time came to leave the trusted environment of the restaurant and move to the club it started to become apparent that the good party years had long gone for all of us, and we were wondering around central Rotterdam like tourists, admiring the remarkable architecture of the new central station. Wrong, very wrong.
To make it more believable I was wearing eleven centimeters heels, but that didn't really help when we were circling around trying to find the entrance of the club.
"The Suicide Club rooftop bar"was located on top of a very large and anonymous building right in front of the train station.
When we finally got to the entrance elevator a lady checked the reservation list and yes, we were in, it really felt like high school over again.
The club was really cool and the view quite stunning! Once we realized that the view could be equally admired also from the inside tables we decided to relocate wanting to avoid the evening chill to act upon our pre-rheumatic bones.
As I said the view was stunning and we decided to concentrate on one specific detail, the luxury of the offices in the insurance company building just opposite to us. Did we choose a wrong career? The question was lingering on our heads. Too late anyway to worry about it so we moved our attention to the pole just a few meters away from our corner. Was a pole dancer going to appear at a certain point? I am sure I saw a glimpse of hope in the eyes of my three companions before reality kicked in. Even if such an act might take place that would probably happen way after our departure. This night was not a night for regrets, we were fully enjoying our cocktails with bitterballen.
As proper middle aged Cinderellas we promptly left the club when the clock started striking the midnight, and the pre-evening drinks menu moved to its more posh evening version. The attendance to the club was getting seriously cool and we could almost be spotted as impostors.
Proudly tired out of towners we stepped into the car and headed home discussing many topics of general interest like how cars can run on urine.
Almost immediately we headed right into a major traffic jam, in spite of all the spy technology on board which should have avoided that. Human error I guess.
I do not have to explain to my female readers what it means to drive on a eleven centimeters heel in a traffic jam. To my male reader I only need to give one word: painful.
It was getting really late and the dutch wives were claiming their husbands back through Whatsapp. I almost had the feeling that the car was going to turn into a pumpkin at any moment.
The dutch husband back home was clearly sleeping so I could concentrate on my aching feet and on the brillint view of other car drivers peeing on the side of the highway.
It was about two thirty when we finally reached the trusted cosy homestead of Eindhoven and everything went back to normality.
Celebration accomplished and a story to tell!
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