Eat - Kick - Cry

Apathy is the keyword of week two. Utter stagnation.
I spend most days trying to hold back tears and trying to let them go. I take long walks in the forest where I don't have to talk to anyone but myself. I kick leaves, thousands of them. Their autumn colours blend effortlessly with the mood I am in. Melancholy turns out to be shades of brown, orange, yellow and red. It smells like wet earth. It gives you muddy gumboots and a runny nose.

I can't find my favourite socks. I cry.
I drop a spoon. I cry.
I see a bird in the tree. I cry.
I get a sweet text message. I cry.
I watch tv. I cry.
I go to bed. I cry.
I wake up. I cry.

The only thing that still brings me a sprinkle of joy, is eating.
I am aware that this might bring up the nightmareish image of a morbidly obese girl in trackpants and ugg boots, covered in tears, cookie crumbs and melted chocolate, stuffing her pimply face with doughnuts, letting out hysterical "booooohoooohoooooooo uuuuuhuuuuhuuuuuu's", whilst staring at the 11AM Bold & the Beautiful show on chanel 10.

I swear it isn't like that. Apart from the trackies and Ugg boots.

See, every country has their own specialties. I happen to like cheese. Australia is not exactly a cheese walhalla. Yes, it has an extended barbeque food range, but, being a vegetarian, this does not make my heart beat faster. Holland, on the other hand... How do I explain... Perhaps you can imagine a huge wheel of Old Amsterdam crowned by a cloud of sunshine and fairy dust, a choir of children going "aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah", and me with a really big knife. That's a little bit what it is like to be back for me. Cheese-wise, mind you.
Other things I eat include, but are by no means limited to:
- Licorice. And I mean KILO's of the stuff. Chronically-black-teeth-high-blood-pressure-style.
- Peanutbutter. And YES, I know they have peanutbutter in Australia. But it tastes like plastic. Peanutbutter in Holland tastes like. Well, what peanutbutter would taste like in a world without war and poverty.
- Pepernoten. Little round chunks of speculaas, sometimes covered in chocolate (children's choir again: "aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah").
- Stroopwafels. Warm, big, thin, round wafers, filled with a sweet, thick, beautiful syrupy syrup. What the hearts of angels would taste like.
- Krentebollen. Raisin rolls, basically. Preferably with some cheese and shitloads of butter on 'em.
-Hagelslag. Chocolate sprinkles, to put on top of a thick layer of butter on your morning toast.

Rediscovering this lovely food made me smile. It was almost worth the panic attack I had in the supermarket ("too many people, too many colours, get me outta here, now, now, NOW!!").

And will you ever, after a week of thinking I might have to be put into a mental institution, I wake up, feel my face, and my cheeks are dry. I try thinking about finding a job, and a house, and I still don't cry. I think about my long distance lover, and I don't cry.
I get up, rub the remainders of melancholy out of my eyes, pack my bag, skull a coffee, and take a train back to civilization.