Automuseum Turijn/ Car museum Turin

Voor wie er geïnteresseerd is in de geschiedenis van de auto en Turijn bezoekt: zoek niet verder! Dit museum is echt geweldig!

Drie verdiepingen auto’s, van het allereerste begin – basically een plank met een motor erop, die alleen tot stilstand gebracht kon worden door ‘m tegen een muur te laten crashen; handig?! tot aan de snelste auto’s en futuristische modellen die ofwel uitgevoerd zijn, ofwel de natte droom van elke innovatieve autobedenker.
Veel ervan is hier te vinden. Ja, ik zeg opzettelijk veel, want verstand van auto’s heb ik verder niet. Ik ga er dus vanuit dat andere merken auto’s mogelijk nog tussentijdse modellen hebben ontworpen, met meer of minder succes, waar hier geen spoor van te vinden is.
Ik hou niet eens zo van auto’s, althans niet de ‘gewone, moderne’ auto’s. Oldtimers daarentegen….en laten ze nou net een vrachtlading van die soort hebben hier….mamma mia!
In ruimtes die tamelijk dramatisch zijn ingedeeld (donker glas, weinig licht) worden de auto’s in een prachtige klassieke setting aan je voorgesteld. Je wandelt door de geschiedenis, met overal duidelijk aangegeven (zowel in Italiaans als in Engels) waar je dat kwijlspoor onder je kin aan te danken hebt…
Je verwacht elk moment een acteur voorbij te zien komen, die snel in z’n auto stapt op de vlucht voor wat dan ook.

Dit museum laat -hoe kan het ook anders, het is wel Turijn- ook de ontwikkeling van Fiat duidelijk zien, maar heeft voor alle eerste wagens een plekje vrij gemaakt.
Voor kinderen -en volwassenen- die wat gek worden van wel naar auto’s mogen kijken, maar er niet aan komen, zijn er op verschillende plekken ‘open auto’s’ gerealiseerd, waar toch nog leuk wat aan sturen, versnellingen en gordels getrokken kan worden. In het hippiegedeelte is dit met Hair op de achtergrond en plaatjes uit die tijd achter de ramen geplakt, kortom; aan alles is gedacht 🙂

Voor kinderen is er ook een soort rolband, waar je -uiteraard- in een autootje langs verschillende onderdelen rolt. Het gaat niet snel, maar het kleine kinderspul vindt het geweldig.
Hoewel de uitstalling van auto’s permanent is, zit er nog een verdieping onder waar ook tijdelijke tentoonstellingen te zien zijn. Alleen al daarvoor is het de moeite waard dit museum meer dan eens te bezoeken. En omdat ze Kermit-de-kikkergroene wc’s hebben. Ja, echt!


For who’s looking for the history of cars while visiting Turin: don’t look further, this museum really is fantastic!

Three floors of cars, from the very beginning -basically a plank with a motor on top of it, which only break was to simply crash into a wall- so very handy?! to the fastest cars and futuristic models that are yet to be produced or are simply the wet dream of any car inventor, are on display here.

Lots of it is traceable here. Yes, I purposely say ‘lots’, as I don’t actually have any knowledge of cars and am aware there are far more brands and types etc, which probably have tried models that looked nice in the drawing, but weren’t actually succesful towards the big audience.
Funny thing is: I don’t even like cars that much. The ‘normal’ car, that is. Show me an oldtimer and I’m lost though. And what do they have on display here, on many floors? BINGO!
In rooms that have been dressed quite dramatically (dark glass, spots on cars) the cars are being presented to you in a very classic setting. You’re wandering through history, with everywhere neat plaques to tell you, both in Italian and English, where the dripping sensation from your chin is coming from…
You expect an actor at any time, jumping into one of the cars to chase some bad guy.

This museum shows you -how could it not? It IS Turin!- the history of Fiat, but also has other cars on display that played big parts in the evolution of cars.

For children -and adults- who become desperate from being able to look at cars but NOT TOUCHING them, they have made some open cars aswell, where you can sit behind the wheel, play with the stick and have some sensation of what it would be like to drive it. In the ‘hippy’ part, one can do this with ‘Hair’ like background sounds and pictures, put behind the windows. How very thoughtful 🙂
Just for children there’s also a track where they can sit in a small car (no, REALLY?) and get rolled by several parts that are interesting to look at. The cars don’t roll by fast, but the children do so love it.
Aside the permanent exhibition of the cars, below there’s a floor that also has temporarily exhibitions. For this alone it’s worth while to visit this museum more than just once. Also because they have toilets that match Kermit-the-frog. Yes, really!

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Posted by on February 7, 2017 in Opinion


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Egyptisch museum Turijn/ The Egyptian museum in Turin

De eerste keer dat we Turijn bezochten, kwamen we, na vele omzwervingen in de stad, hier terecht. Turijn is groot. Wisten wij veel (nog nooit een stap in Italië gezet, dan krijg je dat).

Hoe dan ook; dit museum was en is nog altijd een topper. Het heeft als inleiding hoe men gemummificeerd werd -let op, voor de gevoelige maag kán dit wat reacties oproepen. Kán, want zo erg is het nou ook weer niet- en welke zaken je daarbij allemaal meekreeg. Met vertalingen, en kaartjes van wat dat allemaal te betekenen had.
Daarnaast de vele facetten van hoe de uiteindelijk mummy geplaatst werd. Er is aandacht besteed aan het ‘meebelevingsgevoel’, wat neerkomt op hier en daar kleinere ruimtes die verschillende facetten nog wat beter uitbeeld. Ook de katten die toendertijd meteen ten dode opgeschreven waren, zijn in hun gemummificeerde pakje te aanschouwen.

Beneden is nog een fantastische beeldencollectie. Sfinxen, Toetanchamon, Nefertiti etc zijn hier te vinden.

Al met al beslist de moeite waard!

The first time we visited Turin, we found, after many miles of walking in the city, this place. Turin is big. We had no idea (we hadn’t ever set foot in all of Italy, go figure)/

Anyway: this museum was and still is fantastic. It introduces you with how mummies were created -be careful those with a very sensitive stomach, although it’s not that bad, your stomach might respond- and what kind of trinkets were given to a diseased one. WIth translations and explanations of what every one of those trinkets meant.
Aside the many phases of how the mummy would be placed inside their final resting spot. There has been paid attention to how to ‘feel’ this, which means there are some seperate spaces, rooms, which depict certain settings even better. Also cats, who were back then declared dead already, given that they too were made into a mummy.

Downstairs is an amazing hall of statues which you should defenitely check out. Sfinxes, Tutanchamon, Nefertiti etc, they’re all findable here.

Seriously, go check it out!

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Posted by on February 6, 2017 in Opinion, Uncategorized


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The Queen

For a film based on truly happened events, they’ve managed to only cast the queen right. Helen Mirren is actually made to look like Elizabeth, while none of the other castmembers seem to really look like their opponents. This shouldn’t matter so much, since it’s only a film. So, too bad they’ve mixed in some actual footage of the time of happening around Diana’s death. They should’ve either remake the footage, or not use it at all.
The story is about the death of Diana and how this effected the children, Charles and the queen. Charles wants a royal funeral, a chopper to be flown in, the queen firmly keeps control.
‘No, this is why the people keep urging to end the monarchy, they don’t want things settled that way’. While Charles wants to honor the mother of his kids. Which is understandable on itself.

Helen Mirren plays, unsurprisingly fantastic. The rest of the film is quite blurry. Although it does explain quite well the circumstances that happened around the same time, since the chosen actors don’t resemble the persons in the footage, it took me a bit to realise what politician was involved in what decisions.

If you like the royal family of England or wanna see Helen Mirren being cast outstandingly, it’s not a bad film to watch. If you don’t, just skip it.

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Posted by on January 2, 2017 in Films, Opinion


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Your face is on a plaque.
Never were you in a place so long
as on that silent hill
while thunderstorms are gathering
above my troubled head
no one can stop my thoughts from gandering
about you, my pretty lad
my heart beats for you and tries to find
another rhythm to make a duet
it has to find a melody, unsang
to mend the broken heart

Two pots of ash behind that plaque
which hold the remains of you
the you that was body, mind and soul
now only has dust of body.
You were never alone and even now in death
you have been split up into two
for someone who got married
and someone living by a shore

By hearing nature speak its roar
I realise all the more
you were never mine
it will all be fine
and I should have been less of a bore

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Posted by on January 2, 2017 in Poems




This series on Netflix came highly recommended by my nephew, who was very impressed by Billy Bob Thornton. Well, I had to check that, no?
Amongst the other actors there’s Martin Freeman (Love Actually, The Hitchhikers Guide To The Galaxy etc) and Allison Tolman (Prison Break).

The story is quite idiotic to begin with. Man (Lester Nygaard, played by Martin Freeman) who has met former bully in the streets and gets himself hurt in an improbable way, tells himself at the hospital that he should have done something to this bully. Right next to him at that moment, is hitman Lorne Malvo (played by Billy Bob Thornton). Ofcourse, Lester doesn’t know he’s a hitman. They talk about hypothetical murder. Lorne says: ‘yes or no?’ and at that moment the nurse comes by, asking ‘Lester Nygaard?’ and so Lester says ‘yes’. More or less by accident.
Very Arthur Dent, actually.

The storyline never has a dull moment. Despite the fact you never really get to know Lorne Malvo, you do get to see a lot of Lester Nygaard and his trouble with the police department, especially Molly Solverson. Who is convinced Lester is involved in several cases and can’t let go. Though she has a point there, her part is to both annoy and keep the storyline going, apparently. In a way you want to push her aside just as much as her chief does, but then again: she does have a point.

Lester Nygaard is a weird persona. Never has done anything wrong in his life, but when one thing happens, other things start moving too. I never got used to his weird accent. Having seen him in different films, I’m far too aware that he doesn’t naturally sound like that. Despite that, he is very constant with it. But it does give him a very slow, very unnatural way of speaking.

If it wouldn’t have been for my nephew I probably wouldn’t have watched it. I did enjoy it 🙂

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Posted by on January 2, 2017 in Opinion, series


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Minors and sex

I read this Observer column of Victoria Coren-Mitchell and couldn’t agree more. I do not know Adam Johnson, nor am I familiar with this particular case, I am, however, with a different one. Steven van de V., a Dutch Volleyballplayer. Who is about to get a sentence of four years for rape. The man is now 21, was 19 when he attended the UK and had contact over Facebook and other social media channels with a girl of 12 years.
12 years. I don’t know how exactly the contacts unfolded, I only know that they have had sex at least three times. Three times, when you’re 12. If you agree to that or not at that age, that’s just wrong. For this Steven van de V. to think this is totally OK. I also do wonder how mature a girls’ body even is at that age?! I think this case reaks of paedophilia. It is not normal to be lured into sexual activity being a 19-year-old when the ‘offered’ other party is 12.
And yes, he knew her age.

As Victoria Coren-Mitchell states: why does this upset me so much?

I think it’s simply because society doesn’t seem to care. Rape is not to be taken seriously. Rape isn’t an issue for many men. For them it’s a question to whetether the contact was voluntarily or not. That factor seems to be far more of a discussion than anything else.
To me, this isn’t important. For lots of people, it seems to be. Because then it’s less bad.

Surprise, surprise, people: we have laws for that. Fact is: having sex with a minor is illegal.
Adam Johnson seems to claim he was pretty much lured into it. A weak excuse. Especially because lured or not, it seems to me he knew exactly what he was doing. He could have said: ‘no, I don’t want this to happen, I get in trouble’. To himself, if anything. He should have stepped out the situation, as that is what adults are supposed to do.

If I think back on how I acted when I had that tender age of 12 years, I feel a lot of shame. Thankfully, the only places where this shame hits me, is when I read my own diaries.
These men should know better. Especially in this age and era. Pushing the law aside for your ego and orgasm is a lot more damaging nowadays than it ever was before. These stories will never be hidden. Every new partner of these girls will be able to read their stories. And they themselves are never considered harm free. Ever.

And I do think sporters have a larger responsibility when it comes to these offerings. Being that much in the public eye, they must be aware of all the temptations around. Are they not aware that girls like this may believe they are out and about with their dreamprince? I don’t think so. These sports men are fully aware of their status and they use it.

I do happen to live in a country where one (chanceless) political party tried, not too long ago, to lower the age where kids are technically adults. Here that is set to 18. They wanted it lowered, as they are paedophiles and deeply wish for their love to be legal.
But no, sorry. The best interests of the child should always be first.
So ‘only a few months until I am of legal age’, is a weak excuse too, but it’s always worse to take advantage of the girl in question. It’s as if she’s on a bike, the man is in the car and she tells him: you can drive as fast as you can, I’ll just be here on my bike and nothing will happen. You know that’s not true. You know she will crash. Wait until she’s with a car. Then you drive safely.


Posted by on January 2, 2017 in Opinion


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Vakantieflirt/ Summer flirt

Ik was op vakantie bij (een) Vriendin. Dat wil zeggen: zij werkte in Frankrijk op een camping (ze deed het entertainment en sporten voor de kinderen) en had een caravan waar ik ook nog wel bij in paste.

Na een klotsende busrit van ruim tien uur, spoedde ik me naar het toilet waar ik mijn record ‘plassen-na-een-lange-rit’ verbrak: vijf minuten aan een stuk torpedeerde ik het witte porselein. Een orgastische fontein, mag ik wel zeggen.
De camping lag aan een schattig meertje dat na mijn actie uit z’n oevers dreigde te treden (ja, overdrijven is ook een vak..)

Maar: ik was er!

In de stralende zon.
Vriendin was ‘s ochtends aan het douchen voordat ze aan het werk moest, en ik ging eens lekker languit op m’n gat zitten. Had ik nog niet gedaan in die bus. Ik had vrijwel rechtop moeten zitten, omdat m’n benen nogal lang zijn. Opgevouwen als een harmonica, dat werk.
In bikini, Gewapend met een boek, pak koekjes en een glas water (ik kon altijd nog doen of het wodka was, had ik besloten), nam ik plaats op een van de stoeltjes voor de caravan. Alwaar ik al gauw werd begroet door een stoppelige en vriendelijk glimlachende jongeman die zich introduceerde als Olivier. Hij kuste mijn beide wangen en nam plaats op de andere stoel. Begon een heel verhaal.
Ik verstond geen ruk van Olivier. Mijn Frans is nooit zo goed geweest. Ik glimlachte dus maar gewoon vriendelijk. Dat had hij door. Zodoende wachtte hij tot Vriendin was teruggekeerd.
Vriendin stelde ons aan elkaar voor, vertelde dat Olivier een van haar collega’s van de camping was. Olivier bleek de lifeguard bij het meertje te zijn.
Ik zag Olivier elke ochtend terug, nam aan dat dit zijn werkroutine was. Mij op de wangen kussen, Vriendin ophalen en dan samen naar het zwembad lopen.
Nadat enkele dagen, lag ik op een middag ook aan dat meertje. Prima toeven. Olivier kwam af en toe langs, ik leerde nog wat andere mensen kennen, ik vermaakte me wel. Op een goed moment meldde Vriendin me weliswaar dat ze het vermoeden had dat Olivier me leuk vond, maar ik hoorde het niet. Ik luisterde net naar m’n walkman. Dan krijg je dat.

Ik had mijn handen bovendien vol aan een andere fransoos, die mij en Vriendin op een middag zó hebberig had bekeken dat ik in lachen was uitgebarsten. Ik had weleens gelezen -in een of ander stoffig boekje over lichaamstaal dat ik ooit op een tweedehandsboekafdeling had ingekeken- dat mannen, als hanen, hun veren gladstrijken. Meestal met gel. In dit exemplaar zag ik meteen zo’n haan. Vandaar die snotterlach. Oeps.
Enfin. Terwijl Vriendin en Olivier enorm aan het werk waren overdag, vond ik deze flirt weer terug. Het flirten ging lekker, dus waarom stoppen?
Vriendin organiseerde een rugby spelletje, waarbij heel wat geïmproviseerd diende te worden, want nauwelijks materiaal aanwezig.
‘Kom je ook kijken?’ vroeg ze.
Eigenlijk had ik geen zin. Het was echter schuin tegenover de caravan waarin we verbleven. Geen ontkomen aan.
Ook Olivier schoof aan. Het spel was nog niet zo lang bezig, toen Vriendin over me heen kwam hangen van achteren. Prettig visueel vermaak, kennelijk. Vriendin grinnikte toen ze erop werd gewezen door een ander, vertaalde het voor me.
‘He wat?’ vroeg ik onder haar borsten door. Leuk, oorwarmers in juli.
‘We komen spelers tekort, doe je ook mee?’ vroeg ze, haar kin op mijn hoofd rustend.
‘He, nee! Ik ken helemaal geen rugby! Laat staan dat ik het kan!’ riep ik verschrikt uit.
‘Kom op, ik doe ook mee’, spoorde ze aan. Olivier keek ons vragend aan. Vriendin vroeg hem ook maar meteen. Olivier was ogenblikkelijk te porren. Ik zuchtte, stond op. Ik wist wanneer protesteren geen zin meer had
Het zal zo’n tien minuten in het spel zijn geweest, toen Vriendin zei:
‘Jemig, ik zweet me te pletter!’
“Ik ook’, gaf ik toe.
‘Ik wil eigenlijk m’n shirt uittrekken, maar er staan hier bijna alleen maar mannen, dat wordt dan, denk ik, toch verkeerd uitgelegd’, zei ze toen.
‘Niet als we het tegelijkertijd doen’, stelde ik voor. Ik had het ook snikheet.
Dus hop, allebei shirt uit. Bikini’s die tevoorschijn kwamen. Gefluit van de zijkanten. Vriendin en ik die hen daarop keihard uitlachten.
Toen vervolgens Olivier de ene na de andere wilde manoeuvre maakte, waardoor eerst een stapel kleine jochies (tussen de 8 en 10 jaar) als een rij dominosteentjes omvielen en even later ik en Olivier zelf, werd het helemaal een dolle bende.
Toen ik opkeek, zag ik m’n flirt ineens tussen de struiken staan. Ik was meteen afgeleid, maar ook gedrevener. Ging meer in het spel op. Toen er een bal uitgenomen moest worden, keek hij me zo doordringend aan, dat ik hem het liefst terplekke een tent/ caravan /zwembad /douchehok in had gesleurd.
Helaas. Het spel was nog niet teneinde. Het werd steeds gezelliger -waarschijnlijk had het feit dat Vriendin en ik gedeeltelijk in onze zwembikini’s stonden te spelen, de ronde gedaan door de camping, zo zwart stond het ineens van de mensen aan de zijlijn. Ik voelde me, in tegenstelling tot wat ik vooraf had gedacht, in m’n element. Olivier kneep een waterfles leeg in m’n gezicht, wat met luid geloei en geschater werd ontvangen door de rest van de menigte. Olivier was wel zo vriendelijk me weer op de been te helpen, m’n hoofd over zijn schouder. Ik keek daarop recht in de ogen van m’n flirt. Grijnzend en wel. Ik beantwoordde de blik.

Mijn flirt en ik belandden, in een fors beschonken bui, (na een spelletje pétanque) in het zwembad. Hint: nooit klotsen met dat water als je al misselijk bent. Het was prima voor een vakantieliefde.

En toen was daar nog de rel met Olivier.
Twee dagen voordat ik vertrok had hij geregeld dat we naar Castellane konden, met zijn motor. Ik moest een lange broek aan (de enige die ik bij me had) en goede schoenen. Ik denk niet dat Olivier had gerekend op een chick met legerlaarzen, maar tadaa… Dus wij op de motor, terwijl Vriendin nog moest werken. Ze wist wel dat we er even uit gingen, maar wist niet waarheen, of hoe laat we weer terug zouden zijn. Ik ook niet.

Castellane was prachtig. Een schattig bergdorpje, zo leek het, met overal kaarslichtjes en gezang, sprookjesachtig mooi gewoon. Kerst in de zomer. Brandende lampionnetjes in spelonken en de liefste en zoetste trappetjes die naar prachtige kasteelachtige torentjes leidden. Ik kocht hier en daar wat kleine dingetjes (portemonneetjes, pennen, sleutelhangers, alles voor de thuisblijvers) en genoot van het prachtige zicht.
Het zal een uur of tien, elf, zijn geweest toen we op de camping arriveerden. Ik ging terug naar de caravan die ik met Vriendin had, na een braaf kusje op m’n wang van Olivier. Ik bedankte hem vriendelijk, zoals je dat gewoonlijk doet als iemand sympathiek voor je is geweest.
Bij de caravan aangekomen trof ik een boze Vriendin.
Die was bezorgd geweest in mijn afwezigheid, maar ook boos. Overtuigd dat ik met Olivier in bed lag. Ziet u, hij gold als de plaatselijke schoonheid. Dat zag ik dan weer niet. Slank, vrolijk, een dagenbaardje, vrijwel altijd een glimlach op z’n gezicht, en altijd even vriendelijk. Zo zag ik hem. Mijn reactie was dusdanig dat Vriendin wel meteen overtuigd was dat er toch niks gebeurd was. Bovendien wist ze dat de route naar Castellane inderdaad lang genoeg was om er lang over te doen. Zelfs per motor.
‘Weet je dat hij, voordat jij kwam, me alleen af en toe kwam halen om naar het werk te gaan? Het is pas sinds jij hier bent, dat hij dat elke dag doet’, zei ze.
‘Oh. Nee, dat wist ik niet’. Ik voelde me lullig dat Vriendin zich genaaid voelde. Ik was echt zo naïef dat ik dacht dat Olivier me mee had genomen om aardig te zijn.

De volgende ochtend bleek pas dat er nogal wat tumult was ontstaan na ons vertrek. Olivier had niemand op voorhand willen vertellen waar hij heen ging. Er waren in onze afwezigheid weddenschappen afgesloten dat we met elkaar in bed lagen.Hij was zelfs door de baas op het matje geroepen: wat hij met me uitgevogeld had?!

Ik moet eerlijk zeggen: ik heb me kapot gelachen toen ik dat hoorde. Een hele camping in oproer, en ik had geen flauw benul!


I was on a holiday with (a) Girlfriend of mine. She was actually working at a camping in France (entertainment and sports for the children), but had a caravan to her own in which I could fit aswell without a problem.

After a challenging busride of ten hours I ran to the toilet at the said camping and broke my own record of urinating-after-keeping-it-up-during-trip and torpedoed the white porcelain for a full five minutes. A quite orgastic fountain, it has to be said. The camping was situated next to a cute lake, to which I have undoubtedly contributed. Yes, exaggerting is a profession at times….

But: I was there!

In the radiating sun.
While Girlfriend was taking a shower before work, I was gonna sit down on my arse and do nothing much special for a while, thank you. I hadn’t done so in that bus, as my legs are quite tall and I had been forced to sit folded like a harmonica due to this.
In my bikini. I had found my way to a book, a package of cookies specially reserved for this moment and a glass of water, which I could easily pretend to be vodka, I’d figured. I sat down on one of the plastic lawn chairs in front of the caravan, and was soon greated by a bristly and friendly looking young man, who introduced himself as Oliver. He kissed me on the cheeks as a greet, sat down on the other chair, started a whole story. I didn’t understand a word. My French has never been too good. Oliver noticed. He waited. I had noticed he mentioned Girlfriend, so I figured she would know what to do with him.

Girlfriend introduced us to one another, told me Oliver was one of her colleagues; the lifeguard at the small lake and swimmingpool.

Oliver came to the caravan every morning, which made me assume this was his work routine. Kiss me on the cheeks, wait for Girlfriend, walk to work. 

After a few days I found myself at this lake aswell. Proper spot. I met some nice people and every now and then, Oliver came to check in. I was having quite a good time. At some point Girlfriend mentioned to me she suspected Oliver was developing feelings for me, but I didn’t hear it. I was listening to my walkman. It happens.
Besides, I had my hands full with another Frenchman who I had discovered in the days before even attending the beach. This man had been looking at both me and my Girlfriend in such a way that it had made me snort with laughter. I’d read -in a second hand book of bodylanguage I once happened to gaze into in a second hand shop- that men who intend to lure or seduce a girl/woman, literally make the gesture of ‘preening feathers’. He had done just that. I think even snot came out of my nose. Very charming…oops.
Anyway, when Friend and Oliver were at work during the day, I found back my flirt. Woohoo. We still seemed to enjoy that little game, so why stop now?
Friend organised a rugby game, which demanded quite a bit of improvisation, because there was hardly any material to begin with.
‘You’re gonna come and watch?’ she asked me.
I actually didn’t want to, but the playfield was diagonally opposite our caravan. No real way to escape.
Oliver also joined the sideline. The game hadn’t been played for that long when Friend hung over my shoulders from my back. A pleasant visual image, apparently. Friend giggled when she was informed about this, translated it for me.
‘Eh, what now?’ I asked from underneath her breasts. Nice, earmuffs in July.
‘We’re in short stock of players, are you joining?’ she asked.
‘What?? No! I don’t even know the game!’ I protested in shock.
‘Come on, I’m joining in myself’, she said. Oliver looked at us curiously, so Friend asked him to join aswell. He was in for it immediately. I sighed and caved. I knew when protesting no longer had any point.
After a little while, Friend mentioned:
‘Blimey, I’m sweating like a bastard! I actually wanna take off my shirt, but it’s only men along the sidelines. I’m afraid it will give the wrong message if I do so….’ and I told her:
‘Not if we both do it, I’m sweating like a bastard myself, come on!’ and at ‘three!’ we both removed our shirts. Whistles and clapping from the sidelines. We just laughed right into their faces.
Then Oliver proceeded to make wild manoevre after wild manoevre, leading to a lineup of boys (aged about 7 to 9) fell down like a domino play and short after, Oliver and myself, it became quite a wicked mess.
When I looked up, I suddenly saw my flirt. I was immediately distracted, but somehow also more focused into the game, wanted to show off. A ball had to be thrown in somehow, and during this happening, he looked so straight into my eyes that I really had a hard time not to yank him into the nearest tent/toilet/caravan/ shower cabin.
Unfortunately, the game hadn’t ended yet. The game was becoming more sociable -most likely due to the fact that word got round that Friend and me were playing in our bikinis- it got so very crowded at the sidelines. I got to feel more and more in my element, far more than I expected on first hand. Oliver then proceeded to squeeze a whole bottle of water into my face, which led to the crowd around us cheering and clapping. Oliver was friendly enough to pull me up again. My head over his shoulder, I looked right into the eyes of my flirt. Who was all smiles at me. I answered the smile with my smile.

My flirt and me eventually ended up in the swimmingpool, after some stiff drinks. Note to self: don’t do sloshing if you’re already feeling a bit sick….for a summerlove, it was absolutely fine, however. 

And then there was this small riot around Oliver.
Two days before I was going to leave, Oliver wanted to show me how much he liked me, by taking me on a special trip to Castellane. He had told me to wear long trousers (the only one I actually had with me) and some proper boots. I don’t think he was considering a chick with army boots, but there you had it anyway. Tadaa!
While Friend had to work, Oliver and I went away on his motorcycle. Friend didn’t know where we were going, but I didn’t know either. He hadn’t told me before we went.

The part of Castellane he showed me was incredibly beautiful. A very cute village on a hill, with small stairways and cute little chapels everywhere, lights being shone from every direction by lanterns, small tokens for stupid foreigners like me to buy (my wallet got emptied there from all the gifts I bought for people at home), it was truly amazing. We walked a bit, watched the stars, I enjoyed the beauty of this place so very much.
It must have been about eleven or twelve, when we arrived back at the camping. Oliver gave me a sympathetic peck on the cheek and I thanked him for all of his trouble and showing me a beautiful place. I returned to the caravan.
To find a heavily upset Friend. She had been worried sick and was angry  with me. She had had no idea where we went and had been convinced, by 10 PM ‘you were sleeping with him’. You see, Oliver was locally known as a ‘pretty boy’, the kind of guy that’s so pretty, everyone wants him. To me he was just a friendly, bristly guy. Sure, he was tall and slender, had a good figure and was always friendly, but the thought of looking at him like that hadn’t even crossed my mind! My response to her anger was in such a way that Friend was immediately convinced absolutely nothing had happened. When she heard we went to Castellane, she understood why I had been away for so long.
‘You know, before you arrived, he only came by every now and then to pick me up to go to work’, she told me. I was sorry Friend had been so worried, but I simply was that naive to think Oliver had just taken me on a trip to be nice. I’d seen no other signs.

The next morning it appeared there had been quite a stir after we had left. Oliver had denied anyone information as to where he was taking me. So when we left, people had been betting we were sleeping together. Even the big boss of the camping had called Oliver into his office upon our return, to ask what the hell he had done with me?!

I laughed so hard when I heard that, to be fair. A whole campingside alerted, and I had absolutely no idea! 

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Posted by on December 31, 2016 in Daily life, Humour