Hagenaar (zand) of Hagenees (veen)

Langs de kust liggen hoge stroken zand. Aan zee heten die de duinen, en landinwaarts zandruggen. De stroken in de dalen tussen de zandruggen vulden zich met veen.

Wie in Den Haag geboren is op het zand, wordt wel Hagenaar genoemd. Wie geboren is op het veen, is een Hagenees.
Allemaal onzin natuurlijk, want je kunt Hagenaars en Hagenezen ook op andere manieren onderscheiden. Woont er niet meer vs. wil er nooit weg. Zegt 'veur' of zegt 'voâh'.

Al in een eerdere post (hier, uit 2007) concludeerde ik dat ik, binnen de gemeente Den Haag, eigenlijk een Scheveninger ben, vlak achter de haven geboren. Daar komt nu bij dat ik Hagenees ben, want mijn geboortehuis - Frankenslag 142 - stond net op een veenstrook. Heeel dicht bij het zand, hoor. ('Hoâh. Heur?')

In het blauwe cirkeltje:

Meeting Pete Myers

Pete Myers - without his trademark sunglasses
(Photo: Radio Netherlands)

Radio personality Pete Myers passed away on 15 December 1998. 

I briefly worked with him. Here are a few of my reminiscences.

Signing on

When Radio Netherlands hired me as a news and continuity presenter in 1996, I was shown around the building by Jonathan Groubert. Between his duties as a programme host he had apparently been assigned the task of welcoming new recruits - or maybe he just happened to be around after my confirmatory second interview with Personnel.

Jonathan walked me through the long corridors of the 1960s concrete office building, nipping into a little cubicle here and there, and showing me who lived there. "This is a place that you will come back to again and again: the secretary's office. This is Iris." The secretary looked up from her PC monitor, smiled and said, "So, you made it? Congratulations!" She had shown me in on my first interview, so we had already had some sort of introduction.

"Oh, and have you had your goodie bag yet? Every new staff member gets one," Iris said. Jonathan fished a white linen bag with the station logo out of a cupboard and peered into it. "Here you are, but there's something missing." He rummaged around in the same cupboard and came up with a little brown card box, lifting out what was inside and handing it to me. "This is the Radio Netherlands mug. Your voice will sound different when you drink from it!" I half believed him. Briefly.

The text on the shiny grey stoneware mug read "Radio Netherlands, all shades of opinion". I still have the mug, unchipped to this day, although the text has worn away completely. I drink from it regularly.

Pete's office

Next stop down the corridor was another long narrow cubicle, the door wide open. "Do go in," Jonathan said, following me.

At a desk by the open window, his back turned to us, a tall man sat hunched over a typewriter. "Pete, can I disturb you for a moment?"
"Sure Jonathan, anytime," Pete replied, turning towards us and straightening his back. Slightly balding, his hair still dark, Myers' handsome face examined me.
"Pete, this is Rob Kievit, our new continuity man and newsreader. Rob, this is Pete Myers."
Pete grabbed my hand and effusively said, "Very pleased to meet you, Rob, and welcome to this wonderful department. I'm so glad you're here - you must be the person who is finally going to relieve me of those dreadful night shifts," he said in that warm silver voice of his that I had only heard on short wave up to now.

"What," Jonathan said, "you, the Grand Old Man of Radio Netherlands, have been doing night shifts?" It turned out that there had been a gap in the roster - the only thing that could keep Iris awake at night. Pete happened to pass by the secretary's office and valiantly offered to fill in for a couple of weeks, "so you will finally get some sleep, dearest Iris".
Which is how Radio Netherlands' star presenter was suddenly scheduled for the least popular job on the roster: playing taped shows throughout the night, making brief announcements in between, and reading the news bulletins on the half hour. The graveyard shift.

"So, my friend, the powers that be found you suitable for the job? I have no doubt that you are. Do you have any qualities that might hinder you?"
"Well, I might be a bit too modest," I ventured, impressed by Pete's effervescent style.
"Nonsense my dear chap, modesty goes out the window here. We're all consummate professionals, and you will be one too. Whatever you do, preparation is everything. Look at me: after all those years, I'm still typing out every word I'm going to say on air. A man of habit. As you can see, I'm still using one of those contraptions" - pointing to the IBM golfball typewriter humming on his desk. "If you'll excuse me now, I've still got some work to do for the daytime job. I'll see you after my last night shift next week." With that he turned back to his typewriter.

Pete's past

It was only later that I learnt about Pete's long history in radioland - and elsewhere.

What I remember being told is that Pete Myers was among the first deejay crew that tried in the late 1960s to turn BBC's new pop station Radio One into a success. He had earlier brought enormous popularity to the African programme of the World Service. Pete, however, refused to become a standard diskjockey, all jokes and shouts, and soon decided he did not fit in with the station.

After leaving Radio One, Pete was not involved with broadcasting for a while and managed a nightclub in Beirut, Lebanon, then often described as the Paris of the Middle East.

He joined Radio Netherlands' English service and enthusiastically restyled their broadcasts to the African continent. Pete developed the hugely successful Afroscene show. When I began at RN, he was the host of the weekly listeners' letters show, Sincerely Yours. At one point Pete had trouble walking, and could not get to the studio. But rather than telephoning somebody to stand in for him, he organized an engineer and an editor to drive over to his home with some equipment and record the show right there in his bedroom.

But I did not know any of that history back in 1996. At the time I merely got to know Pete Myers as a courteous and professional colleague.

Morning shift

After a week of shadowing experienced announcers, learning the ins and outs of live continuity presentation from Dave Durham and Carol Vandenring, and receiving a thorough voice training from Robert Green, I was finally ready for the first morning shift on my own.

I arrived that Monday morning at a quarter to six, still sleepy-eyed but well in time for launching the 6:30 broadcast. Greeting the overnight engineer in passing, I entered the little studio, Cell 4, from where all the station's shows were broadcast. My predecessor on the roster, Pete Myers on his last night shift, had already gone home.

Pulling up the wheeled office chair - the hotseat - and pulling the microphone a little bit closer, I prepared for the show, cueing up the first two tapes I had to play. Then I nipped over to the newsroom, still empty at this early hour, but for a couple of nighttime editors dotted widely apart in the cavernous space. The English translator, who was nodding off at his desk, awoke with a shudder and handed me the nine A4 sheets which constituted the news bulletin.

Back in the studio, I sat down, put on my headphones and got ready for a pre-broadcast run-through of the bulletin, as I had been taught. My eye fell on a crumpled ball of paper, carelessly tossed away into a corner of the wide presenter desk with the mixing console. I smoothed out the A4-sized page. Somebody had written across the spreadsheet printout: "Done!"

The top line read: Roster; night shifts: Pete Myers.

Valedictory quadrangle

The Dutch Vignettes were written for an international audience. Some geographical names have been anglicized. See Footnotes for the originals.  

They look like lakes, but actually they are peat bogs. The wide lakes between Amsterdam and Utrecht are man-made, created by peat-cutters. The water-table in this part of the country being quite high, the ditches filled with water as soon as the peat was out, conveniently creating canals along which the dried soil could be removed. After years of peat extraction, the result was a plethora of useless lakes like those at Loosedrift.

House at Loosedrift
(Google Maps)

Heading west on my customary biking round, I follow a narrow road through a quite rural-looking village. To my right, in a park-like setting, I'm allowed a glimpse of the stately House at Loosedrift, painstakingly restored Dutch classicism at its best (so I thought - but actually it's a contemporary replica in 18th-century style, known locally as The Nine Limetrees). Well-hidden from the immodest public view by strategically grown shrubs and trees. No more than a glance to my right.

For years, this had been my bike training ride. A more or less square trajectory which I could complete in about an hour. The predictability made it easy to fit it into my day's schedule - not that I biked every day, but knowing how long it took certainly made it easier to decide to mount the purple Batavus Challenger and go. We were, however, about to leave Hilversum for another part of the country, so this ride would be my farewell to the square-shaped route. A valedictory quadrangle.

I am overtaken by a confidently spluttering green old-timer; caring for vintage cars is a popular pastime here of the well-to-do citizens that have taken up residence by the lakeside.

Further along the road, converted farmsteads, a village school, a few shops and a church. Decked out in orange vanes, fluttering in the breeze, a shop on the left of the road proclaims itself to be 'The New Baker', supplying 'bread and luxurious bonbons'. A determined-looking woman comes out holding a bag which she carefully stuffs into one of the panniers of her black bicycle and then she wheels off.

Next to the baker's is a modest church building. Not exactly a tin chapel, but in the same unassuming league. For such a small, relatively rural community, Loosedrift is remarkably well-endowed with churches. According to a varnished wooden plaque on its door, this one is serving the Reformed Parish, with a single service at 10am on Sundays. There's no-one around, today being Thursday.

The narrow two-lane road curves gently to the right, passing a shipyard full of pleasure boats, some cradled in wooden docks along the road: The Hare, Star Heres, Morning Star. Not everybody here appears to be into driving vintage cars. After all, the lakes are the attraction, not the roads.

Another, somewhat taller, church moves into view; this one, looking like a proper church with a tower, belongs to the Dutch Reformed parish, which is presumably not only larger than the other one, but also seems to be hungrier for the word of the Lord, being open for services Sundays at 10am and 6pm, so the plaque on the porch is saying.

The trees surrounding the church and lining the road turn this into a pleasant, shadowy spot. A fairytale touch is added by the castle to the right. As we're in the middle of a former peat bog this is unlikely to be a medieval fortification, and indeed it isn't. Seepstone Castle, a romantic folly that appears to have got out of hand, was built in the 1920s by the last remaining member of a noble family who wanted a lasting memorial to his ancestors.

A proper castle he wanted, with stables and varied gardens and all. The current head gardener is a somewhat gruff lady who appears to be in total control of the grounds. The result is most convincing, seen from the outside. I must admit that I swished past this place on my tenspeed numerous times, but never visited it.

Like many such places in the Netherlands, this hamlet too does not appear to feel embarassed by presenting such a predictable picture postcard village image. Even the horses pretending to do nothing, grazing on the grass meadows seem to be part of the conspiracy. Look, we're just an ordinary village.

But the picture changes when the narrow road widens into a deserted bus turning loop. This is where the ordered world ends, at this overgrown bus terminus with its sagging bus stop sign, while the road continues.

Gone are the baker and the horses; all of a sudden we're on a narrow tree-lined strip of land with a huge lake on both sides. The dam is the only land left after the peat was cut and carried off. The shipyard marking this point is called Treehook; once barren, the dyke is leafy. Dotted alongside the road are dwellings, many of which are unmistakeably weekend cottages standing empty, waiting for Friday evening to arrive.

Others are luxury villas, each with their own little jetty at the bottom of a lakeside garden. At least, that's what I assume, because many mansions are surrounded by tall walls or impenetrable hedges. Anything for privacy.

II

I grip my handlebars for a sharp turn to the left, and I'm heading south. On this side of my quadrangle, guess what, another shipyard, with huge yachts this time.  The road is not a dyke anymore; on the right is the bank of Southern Loosedrift Lake, while on my left long and narrow plots of land behind large bungalows reach out a bit further to the lake beyond, which is named after this settlement, Brooklyn Fawn.

My southbound pedalling is briefly interrupted by a left-right zigzag, during which I'm tracing the Utrecht-North Holland provincial border for a while.

The next church - it's not only shipyards and villas - is at Tenfarms. I don't bother to pull the brakes and inspect the service timetable next to the wooden door. The symmetrical building features a tower with a clock which is showing the correct time. But I must not look, because a sharp turn to the left over a simple bridge has to be negotiated carefully; on an earlier occasion I had to make an emergency stop here to avoid swerving into the water-filled ditch along the first part of the road east.

On early summer mornings, this leg of my square-shaped cycling round presents the epitome of Dutch clichés: a reddish sunrise acting as a backdrop to a windmill. Being an essential element in the local drainage system, the mill helps to keep the surrounding land dry, pumping water up into a clever network of ditches.

In recognition of its services through the years, and possibly as a charm to ward off mishaps, an earlier owner named the mill The Faithful Watcher. It looks like a wooden shed perched on top of a little thatched pyramid, but with its four sails it is unmistakably a windmill.

Averting my gaze from the picture postcard scene, the horizon to my left is dotted with a couple of tiny church spires and the Hilversum telecom tower. A sticker slapped on a traffic sign, no parking here, is advertising Radio 509, probably a very local station and one that definitely won't be using the telecom tower for its broadcasts.

I'm now on a long straight towards the east, below wide Dutch skies. Running right across the peaty area the road is aptly named Cross Dyke.

If this were Ireland...
(Google Maps)

Glancing to the right, trying to find the little stub that is Utrecht cathedral tower on the horizon, I'm looking across a former peat extraction zone which has been allowed to return to nature. A patchy mixture of water, soil, ducks, sheep - the landscape about which K. Schippers wrote: if this were Ireland, I would take a better look.

The road through 'Ireland' ends after an unmetalled strech of track which is not really suited for my light tenspeed bike with its high-pressure narrow tyres. Course gravel and pointy rocks are making an assault on them. But as it was the only way to complete my circuit, I always had to negotiate it. It is here, exactly half-way, that I suffered my one and only puncture in the decade or so that I regularly rode this circular, square, route. Serves me right, stingy Dutchman, for not renewing the worn-out tyres in time. So there I stood, a suddenly disabled rider. The weather being nice, I foolishly decided to retrace the circuit on foot, which would have taken two hours or so. Having reached the road again, I was passed by a young woman in a four-wheel drive. She stopped, took a worried look at me and said, 'Do you have to walk far?' - 'Hilversum,' I said. 'OK, I'll drop off my son at his judo classes and then I'll come back and drive you there, if you're still around,' she decided, leaving me little choice.

She drove off with her son and I plodded on, accompanied by floppy noises made by my flattened rear tyre. Some twenty minutes later I was again overtaken by a familiar-looking car. 'Hop on,' the businesslike young lady said. 'Your bike can go in the back.'

As we negotiated the narrow road, she told me that she had carried out such rescue operations before. 'You remind me of my father. He got stuck in the wilderness with a broken bike, and I had to go and fetch him.' She dropped me and the bike off on the corner of our street, barely waiting to hear my expressions of gratitude. And off she drove, back to the polder.

But this time around, my (new) tyres survive the cruelties inflicted on them by the rocky gravel path, and I continue east. Cross Dyke changes name at Eagleshook, a well-kept farming settlement, and becomes Count Floris V Road, named after a 13th-century ruler over Holland.

Here I lose the wide views. Both sides of the road are lined with trees and shrubs. A sandy path with lush green borders branches off at right angles to the left, into the green overgrowth, but with the memory of the rough gravelly stretch just behind me, I won't venture there.

I continue riding at a steady pace on the narrow lane, emulating Count Floris's determination. A car creeps up and remains politely behind me, possibly assuming that I'm a serious amateur cyclist systematically training for a major race. To live up to his expectations, I make an impatient wave forward with my left arm, signalling to the driver that it's safe to overtake me, so get on with it and stop pottering on behind me.  He carefully passes me on the left, blades of grass tickling my right calf. The driver raises one hand in recognition of my gesture.

Pedalling towards the end of Count Floris V Road, I see a couple of horse breeding farms and villas appear.  I'm approaching the last leg of my tour.

III

At the crossroads I change direction. Turning left again, to the north. This used to be the main connection between Utrecht and Hilversum: a two-lane road running in a straight line through some villages, until a parallel motorway was built, a couple of hundred metres to the east. I can hear it humming, invisible beyond the homes of Hollands Raiding village.

So, aiming for the north at the crossroads, I embark on the last leg of this ride which I've completed countless times over the years that we've lived in Hilversum. For the next two kilometres or so, we're on a separate cycling track beside the provincial road. For now, I'm using the paved cycling track on the left side. Occasionally, cars pass by, in both directions.

The first stretch is flat, and soon I pass underneath a huge viaduct that is being constructed here, crossing the road, bike lanes, and all. The concrete monstrosity is wide enough to carry six lanes, I notice when I'm passing underneath it. The cycle path has its own tunnel.

There is no six-lane motorway overhead, however. The viaduct will be a so-called ecoduct, and its surface will be covered in shrubs and other vegetation, forming a corridor between two adjacent nature reservation areas.

The Netherlands' "nature" is a patchwork of small protected areas of outstanding beauty, crisscrossed - or hacked to pieces - by roads, like the one that I'm riding along. Roads are an insurmountable, deadly barrier to animals who are innocently wandering from one protected zone to another. But once they will be able to cross over to the other side using the six-lane wide viaduct, hares, foxes, mice, badgers, toads and what have you, will have safe passage here. If they follow the centre line, shy animals like deer won't even see the road below.

No time for more thoughts about nature, because I'm approaching an odd-shaped little roundabout which I have to negotiate in order to continue straight ahead, but on the other side of the road.

This is where the hilly bit finally begins, conveniently positioned towards the end of my hitherto flat ride. I have often rounded the loop in the opposite direction; less pleasant because then I had to start climbing right away, before my leg muscles had had a chance to warm up.

Now though, I swiftly make the first ascent, up Swallow Hill, to the country house that is serving as the Headquarters of the Inspector-General of the Netherlands' Armed Forces. The job had been created for Prince Bernhard, Prince Consort since 1948, who was getting restless and bored after World War II, when he had been a dubious hero on behalf of the Dutch Royal Family. That's the story in a nutshell, anyway.

The gates on the lane to Bernhard's office were closed, I noticed as I glanced to my right, pushing the pedals hard to get to the top. I'm not an athlete, but I can reach the summit of this bump with little effort. The next and final one will be worse.

The descent into Hilversum, along the straight local road through the densely wooded areas of  what remains of Lepers' Forest, is long, so I get a minute to regain my breath, freewheeling downhill until I get a little frightened by the increasing speed at which I'm going. No braking though, I will need the momentum very soon.

Looking back over my shoulder while I'm thundering downhill through the tunnel of trees, and then casting a look ahead, I'm certain that the road is free, and I swerve full speed across the two-lane tarmac, turning sharply left into a leafy residential area. And it's not named The Height for nothing.

Profiting from the remaining bit of descending speed, I shift down a couple of gears, and begin pushing hard to get to the top of this vicious hill. Hardly having started the painful ascent, I need to make a sharp turn to the right, into Oak Lane. Ouch. Going straight ahead would have been easier. In the gardens of the villas here, retired businessmen are mowing their lawns, busy mothers are loading children and hockey gear into their Volvo station cars, and a boy in shorts is delivering newspapers. Slackers, I think, egging myself on, the only one who's really making a physical effort here is me. Not fair, I know, but it helps me to make those final pedal turns.

IV

At the top, I leave the villas behind, not deeming them worthy of another look - pah - and embark on the very last part: the oddly wide, but almost traffic-less, Kolhorn Road. Gently downhill all the way, westwards again.

I pass the cemetery, to my left, with its restrained entrance building designed in 1957 by Willem Dudok, the city's long-serving modernist architect. To my right, a garden village that, as I roll by, gradually turns into an ordinary estate  with homes for ordinary people. Like me. I whizz irresponsibly fast past a school, the gradual downslope making it easy to continue at this speed.

On the ultimate stretch the road forms the border between our neighborhood and the untouched heathland which surrounds most of the town. Goodbye, Hornbow Heath.

One more right turn, and I pull the brakes, exactly where that brisk lady from Loosedrift set me down years ago with a punctured tyre after giving me a lift. I get off the bike - first steps always shaky - and roll the trusted two-wheeler into the shed.

A quick shower, and then it's time to continue packing. We're moving next week. I hope that near our new place I'll find as rewarding a training round as I had here.

_______

Tramplan blijft twistappel in raad Maastricht

De Maastrichtse gemeenteraad blijft verdeeld over de aanleg van een tramlijn naar de Belgische grens. Op dinsdagavond 6 februari 2018 werd het bestemmingsplan voor de lijn besproken, en er bleek weinig overeenstemming. 

Vijf insprekers gaven hun visie, onder wie een financieel deskundig Belgisch ambtenaar die benadrukte dat de financiering van het Belgische deel, naar Hasselt, volstrekt niet zeker was. "Aan Vlaamse zijde is het kaduuk." En daar gaat het om honderden miljoenen, tegenover de circa 70 miljoen die Maastricht in de aanleg van het Nederlandse stukje moet steken. De Belgen hebben de financiering opgezet als een privaat-publiek project, maar tot nu toe is er geen private onderneming gevonden die het risico durft te dragen.

Belgisch Limburg lijkt momenteel eerder in te zetten op spoor- dan tramverbindingen over de landsgrenzen, zoals Neerpelt-Eindhoven en Hamont-Weert. Maar wethouder Gert-Jan Krabbendam heeft de garantie van de Belgische mobiliteitsminister Ben Weyts dat het geld voor Hasselt-Maastricht er hoe dan ook zal komen. Afspraak is afspraak, ofwel "pacta sunt servanda", zo citeerde Krabbendam de minister.

Hoewel het gebruik van de nog bestaande spoorbrug over de Maas al niet meer in het bestemmingsplan staat, kwam één inspreker toch met een plan om de tramverbinding via die brug te gaan exploiteren als tram-trein, met soortgelijk materieel als op de Heuvellandlijn van Arriva. De technische bezwaren tegen het samenrijden van trams en spoorwegmaterieel (goederentreinen) op dezelfde lijn vervallen dan. Ook zou de lijn zo kunnen eindigen op een perron van Station Maastricht. Inspreker Nollen: "Geef het bedrijfsleven de ruimte om zoiets te ontwikkelen. We hebben bij de A2-tunnel gezien dat dat tot een prima resultaat kan leiden."

De keuze voor een eindpunt op de westelijke Maasoever, in plaats van op de oostelijke waar het spoorstation ligt, blijft de gemoederen ook bezighouden. Voor een verlenging naar het station, inclusief vervanging van de nog niet afgeschreven Wilhelminabrug, is zo'n honderd miljoen nodig, en dat geld is er nu niet. Een deel van de raad wil zo'n verlenging niet uitsluiten, ook al is dat nog verre toekomstmuziek.

Tegenstanders onder de raadsfracties beschouwen het tramproject als kapitaalvernietiging door de overheid: als Belgisch Limburg afziet van de bouw, ligt er wel 70 miljoen Maastrichts geld in de grond. Alsof de Limburgse hoofdstad geen andere problemen heeft waar het geld aan besteed kan worden, zo stelden verscheidene fracties.

Dat niet duidelijk is hoeveel exploitatie en onderhoud van het Nederlandse deel van de tramlijn gaan kosten, is geen probleem, volgens wethouder Krabbendam: dat kost de gemeente Maastricht helemaal niets, bezwoer hij bij herhaling. "Alles komt voor rekening van De Lijn", zei hij.

Wordt vervolgd - in de voltallige raadsvergadering op 27 februari 2018. Een voorstel om de kwestie over de gemeenteraadsverkiezingen heen te tillen leek in een eerste peiling weinig kans te maken. Voor de voorstanders is het bestemmingsplan van de tramlijn een hamerstuk; de fracties die tegen zijn, geven zich niet zomaar gewonnen en zeggen in de raadsvergadering opnieuw hun argumenten tegen het tramproject naar voren te zullen brengen.

(Verslag vanaf de publieke tribune: Rob Kievit, Maastricht)

Nep-president geïrriteerd door top-journaliste

Mika Brzezinski

Trump ligt in de clinch met Mika Brzezinski. Brzezinski? Was dat niet die fantastische nieuws-anchor die tien jaar geleden...

Ja, inderdaad! Mika weigerde in 2007 om haar nieuwsuitzending te openen met een flutbericht over Paris Hilton, een onbetekenend society-persoon. De Irak-oorlog was net uitgebarsten, dat was toch belangrijker? En Mika is anno 2017 geen spat milder geworden, gelukkig. Zulke karaktervrouwen hebben we nodig in de media.

Zo ging het:


Zie ook: Nieuwsbitch 2007

Geen cafeetje, toch een Parijse straathoek

De Boulevard Diderot in Parijs komt schuin uit op de Quai de la Rapée. De T-kruising die daardoor ontstaat heeft dus een stompe en een scherpe hoek.

Een gebouw op een stompe hoek heeft vaak een gewone platte gevel met een knik erin, alsof het een rechte wand was die een beetje is gevouwen om langs de hoek te passen. Anders is het met een scherpe hoek. Daar kom je niet weg met een vouw in een vlakke wand.

Alle reden om weer eens te kijken naar de hoek van een gebouw, in het kader van onze langlopende serie. Hoe is de scherpe hoek hier opgelost, en door wie eigenlijk?


Een afgeronde hoek als deze zou je eerder in Brussel verwachten. Er zijn wat Art Déco-kenmerken, maar het zijn er zo weinig dat je eerder van post-Déco, c.q. pre-Modernisme zou kunnen spreken.

De ronde vensters, hier voorzien van koddige gebogen vensterbankjes, komen vaak voor in zulke ontwerpen, en ook de sterke horizontale accentuering past er goed bij. De verticale kozijnpartijen vertonen fraaie cannelures, en dan hebben we alle decoratieve elementen wel genoemd.

De over het hele gebouw doorlopende horizontale stroken op de borstweringen verbinden de raampartijen tot schijnbare strookvensters. Op de hoek zijn alle horizontale lijnen doorgetrokken van de ene gevel naar de andere. De grote vensters op de hoek zijn meegebogen, behalve op de begane grond, waar zich een onmiskenbare entree bevindt op twee treden boven trottoirniveau.



Vanuit de lucht - maar niet vlak voor het gebouw - te zien is dat de dakopbouw enkele meters terugwijkt, maar congruent is met de hoek in de gevel. De architect heeft er duidelijk rekening mee gehouden dat de dakopbouw van een afstand wel te zien is.

Foto: Google Maps

Het interieur is enigszins verminkt door een inrichting in Franse overheidskantorenstijl, circa jaren '80. De bewoner van het pand is dan ook de Direction générale de l'administration et de la fonction publique. Bij ons korte bezoekje tijdens een bus-overstap hebben we niet kunnen vaststellen wat deze schimmige organisatie precies doet.

Het strakke, maar enigszins gedateerde gebouw blijkt in 1933 te zijn ontworpen door André Leconte (1894-1966). Vele overheidsgebouwen en stedebouwkundige projecten van zijn hand zijn nog te vinden in Frankrijk, Libanon, Mauritanië, Syrië, Venezuela, en vele andere landen.

Bronnen:

• Architectuurblog Le Renard Parisien  
• Cité de l'architecture & du patrimoine
• Google Maps

Season's meetings

After a ten kilometre walk through misty valleys and sunny woodsides, crossing a frosty landscape covered in rime, we sat down in a (or the) village pub in St. Geertruid for a bit of lunch.

On the pavement across the narrow two-lane road through the village a stylized huntsman in bronze was leaning his gun over a kind of shoulder-height gallows, pointing up towards some imaginary clay pigeon. About two yards to his right stood a display under a little roof, showing a map with the natural beauty spots of the region.

Wedged between the hunter and the display was a huge Christmas tree, undecorated but unmistakeably there for the season, spanning the full width of the tiled sidewalk. All the time that we were sat at the café window, not a single pedestrian attempted to use the pavement on that side of the road; they preferred to stay on our side, even hikers who popped up beside the church and had to cross the road.

When we asked the cook, who came to our table for the usual authentic chat, where she was from, it turned out that her grandfather was from E.'s home town. The cook grabbed a chair and lowered her sturdy frame, sensing the opportunity for a real conversation, rather than is everything okay for you. E. found out what the cook's surname was, and how it was spelled. With double s, and the grandfather used to be a hairdresser.

Common memories of Valkenburg, the home town, were exchanged, and experiences across the generations of leaving the province to go and live far away in the urban West were shared. The cook, Georgine, was born up there when her father had settled in the West and never spoke the Limburg dialect, while E. was raised in the South and learned the standard Dutch as a second language, not leaving the southern province until she was eighteen.

As the bus we had hoped to catch whizzed past the pub window, Georgine told us that when she was younger she had lived in The Hague, which happens to be my home town. Again memories were shared; in keeping with the winter season, it turned out that Georgine also remembered the huge fires that were lit at every road crossing on New Year's Eve in The Hague.

The morning walk on the first of January usually revealed huge craters in the road, caused by the tireless revellers, who used to tip everything they could find into the flames. Even invalid's wheelchairs would be carried to the fire. At some intersections the heat was enough to melt the copper tram overhead lines. We recalled how we used to flee the city to avoid the rowdy celebrations, only to return home on the day after to find someone's burnt-out Volkswagen parked outside our front door. Season's Greetings, The Hague style.

(Footnotes)