not goodbye, just see you later

In the frenzy of exams it was easy to get swept up into having a week just like any other. With no classes to teach, I marked essays and caught up on my PWS and reflection letters. Halfway through the week one of the English teachers wanted a break from HAVO oral exams which meant that I got to tag in, helping proctor the exam for the students. In a fitting full circle, I did my first day of exams with Ester just like I had at the beginning of the semester. Sorry HAVO for being the most distracting test proctors of all time. Day two, I partnered up with Bert which meant that I proctored tests for some of the students that I had taught. One poor boy came in trembling like a leaf in hurricane.

Surely as a means to channel some of the excess nervous energy, he interspersed his apologies for his bad English with wild gesticulation and somewhere in the frenzy managed to scratch the skin off one of his fingers. As he spoke, his hands danced wildly, leaving a bright red trail of blood everywhere. On the desk, on the test, on him. Everywhere. But, so focused on the task at hand, the boy never once stopped and noticed the bodily fluids he was leaving behind. By the time the exam was over, it looked like a massacre had occurred in our classroom. Just setting the atmosphere for the next student to walk into, right? (just kidding, we cleaned it up after the student left)

My last day at Marnix passed like any other, save for the occasional “this isn’t goodbye, just see you laters” interspersed throughout the day. I had saved a bunch of grading so that I could keep busy and not obsess about it being “the final day” which was probably for the best. At the end of the day I was presented with the best of Dutch tradition: a pair of wooden shoes signed by everyone I worked with and the finest of Dutch cuisine, raw herring. In the spirit of cultural immersion I agreed weeks ago to try this traditional snack, thinking that we would talk about it and talk about it but that it would never actually happen. But there it was, Friday afternoon sitting on the staff room table: skinny slabs of raw fish, tail still attached. I watched in fascination as people grabbed them by the tail, held it above their head and lowered the slimy piece of raw fish into their mouth.

I had made Ester promise to try it with me since she hadn’t tried herring in years so when she was done giving her last oral exam we took the plunge together. Tentatively pinching the tail, we gave a fishy “cheers” and took a bite. For the first half second, as the fish sat on my tongue, it was merely a rice and seaweed-less sushi taste. And then it hit. Grease oozed out of the uncooked flesh as the taste of fish and salt overwhelmed my taste buds. It felt like I would never get the remnants of the sea and slick oils out of my mouth.

 “Nope, nope, nope, I’m done.”

Poor Ester looked like we were going to see her chunk of fish again. We quickly tried to flush out the tastes as our colleagues laughed at our green faces. [to see the video, click here: https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=850506884975941&set=vb.100000499131104&type=2&theater ] 

I left the building that afternoon without fuss. Said “see you later” to the last of my friends and headed to the train station for the last time with Ester. After bragging for weeks about the Indonesian food that the Netherlands did so well, we had run out of time to go to a restaurant and decided that we would just cook some instead. Well, I say “we” would cook but what I really mean is that Ester would cook and I would try not to butcher chopping vegetables. That evening Ester, Saskia (who joined us later) and I stuffed ourselves silly on some delicious, make-your-mouth-burn-and-your-head-sweat Indonesian food – which was the perfect way to kill off that lingering herring taste.