I was Evita and André’s guest in Vlaardingen. Saviours in the days when being hurt. They live some stone’s throw away from where thet were born. As do most Europeans, is André’s steely conviction. His art of posing makes me feel that i need corroberating evidence. He seems to be right though, there have been studies not so long ago that show that some 90% of people stay near to where they were raised.
The Turkish tailor who repairs the emblems on my rucksack invites me to come and stay in his house in Istanbul, when -and if- I get there. He also gives me a cold soda on this hot day.
The youth on the ferry whistles enthusiatic. “Cool journey, man”, he says. He grew up in South Africa where his dad worked. I ask him how it was? “Hot”, he answers.
She is pushing her bike up the dyke of Nieuwpoort with visible dislike. She is from the Philippines. Now she lives in this supersmall ‘town’ that doesn’t even have shops. And she has to ride a bike. That is not what she bargained for when they married, I bet. She thought they would prolong their life of luxury, servants and status. He wanted back to ‘normal’.
Do I only meet fellow travellers? People who are not from here? Or maybe the average Dutchman is not so curious. Act normal, as the saying goes.