Coffee at 14.30

My fight against bureaucracy prevailed (see Lunch at 13.30).

After weeks of annoying my Embassy in Madrid I made the exam (which basically was an IQ-test) on Monday the 14th of May at 9.00 o’clock. My triumph was complete. The woman, my enemy, was there to greet me. “I am so glad that we could sort things out,” was her welcome. I grinned. She proceeded with the niceties “Would you like coffee?”. “No not really,” I thought. “Yes, milk and sugar,” I answered. She delivered the goods 90 seconds later, she had added a stroopwafel (Dutch type of biscuit). “Good luck, I hope you pass,” she beamed as she put me behind the reception desk computer. “You can’t pass an IQ test, you cow,” was my final reflection as I slipped into concentration.

The reception desk. They put me behind the reception desk. A final stroke of genius by my old foe. Whilst I was turning kubuses on their heads people were asking by phone how to apply for a new passport. The Consulate is open from Monday to Friday from 9.00 to 17.00 (except on Wednesdays and beware, they close for lunch!!), I could tell them but I was making the test. The examination itself took two hours and ten minutes. Although disappointed with the lack of concentration I knew that I had given all I could. A couple of days later I received the swift answer from Woerden. Against all odds I had made the cut and was invited for an interview in The Hague: Tuesday the 29th of May at the Ministry of Interior Affairs.

The Hague, a city which I had sworn never to live in again. There are so many differences between Madrid and The Hague that I don’t even know where to begin. In Madrid you can walk into a restaurant at 02.00 and order a dish. In The Hague, well, you can’t. Either way, I had been drawn back by fate to the diplomatic centre of the Netherlands.

My meeting was at 15.00 on the Lange Voorhout – a stone’s throw away from the Dutch parliament. I flew into Amsterdam in the morning after a short sleep in England (I had been there for my sisters wedding, report and photos coming up!). It had been 8 months without setting foot in Holland and I felt like an alien although passport control greeted me as one of their own.

Upon arriving at an empty parental house I went straight to bed setting three alarm clocks for 13.30. I woke up just as a middle-aged woman was just tucking into her lunch 1200 kilometers south. I honestly wasn’t nervous. Nothing to lose really. Within 15 minutes I had my suit on (the same I wore to the wedding only days earlier, this time with a white and blue striped shirt, topped by a yellow and blue striped tie. I certainly looked the part as I took bus 18 into the centre of town.

I was early. 20 minutes early. I noticed that I was checking myself out in car windows. My stride confident, my walk arrogant, my step posh. This was bothering me, three hours in The Hague and I was back to being posh although I was still reassuringly feeling alien. It was the combination of suit and city. I had 20 minutes to kill so I turned into the Pulchri Studio – which is next to the (magnificent) building I had to be at 15.00. The Pulchri Studio did not help my increasing poshness…actually it worsened. Even my movements were different; I noticed that whilst I was picking up the newspaper a young waiter boy was approaching. I ignored him for while until I found the time right to turn my head and communicate my order: a cappuccino. My voice was different. Aristocratic. Superior. Upper-lip. Sad.

With a whip I had the last sip of my cappuccino and hoisted my left arm up in the air with a certain level of style so that my watch became visible. Time to go. I had already seen that a Cappuccino cost exactly 2 Euros. I left the coin on the bar. The waiter boy looked at me. I made an attempt to wink at him but I have never been good at that.

It took me exactly 12 steps to get from the Pulchrie Studio to the Interior Office. I didn’t have to ring the bell because a man in a nicer suit than mine entered. I followed him. I don’t think he noticed me. Even if he did he wouldn’t have said anything. Maybe hello. I looked as if I was already part of the set-up.

As I entered the big reception hall there were two women waiting on my right hand side, both holding a folder on which I am sure nothing was written. They were waiting for me although I remained cool. I didn’t walk to them but instead headed to the reception desk. Another woman. “Hi, I am Thomas Reeve and I have come for the Traineeship Interview.” No words, she just nodded to the women in the corner. They smiled. So did I.

Both introduced themselves but I forgot both their names within one second, as I normally do. The one on the left led me to a room on the same floor. There were three other candidates waiting in silence, accompanied by somebody of the project team organizing the selection process. The blond girl asked me – as soon as I entered – if I had made any expenses coming to The Hague. I put on a smirk smile. “Well,” I began, “I have come from Madrid.” This made an immediate impact on the room. I knew this would happen, that is why I did it. Pathetic.

One guy, who was sipping at his third coffee in 15 minutes, suddenly awoke. “Madrid?,” he asked without introducing himself. I confirmed as soon as he said it. Only then did I really notice his face. He was the typical koorbal (posh Dutch student member of an elite fraternity). “Does your father work for the embassy or what?,” he barked. Fifteen thoughts raced through my mind. I will name three. 1) That’s the worst question somebody has ever asked me as their first. 2) Ha, the embassy, the boy doesn’t have a clue. 3) Why did I pay 2 Euros for a cappuccino if I could have got free coffee here?

After contemplating these thoughts I snatched back: “No, actually my girlfriend is Spanish.” The boy was disappointed, I wasn’t.

The following fourteen minutes I spent in the waiting room. I was topic of discussion and although I tried my best not to be pretentious, I was. But that’s OK. Being pretentious in their world is a pro. Meanwhile I filled in my expenses form: a return ticket Schiphol Airport- The Hague Centraal (14 Euro). Then, all of a sudden: “Mr.Reeve, please would you like to follow me?” Still not nervous I did what was asked by one of the ladies with folders. I commented: “Nice building” (this was a sincere comment) and she agreed. She didn’t go into my small talk though. At all.

I cannot tell you anything about the interview itself. I signed something prohibiting me from it. I can only say it went rather well. With that I leave you all in suspense, like I am now. On Wednesday June the 6th I will be called with the result. Either I am in or I am not. In the meantime I am back in Madrid, far away from diplomatic Den Haag. Today in English class one of my students confessed that she had always thought that poodle dogs had hoofs, like horses and lambs. This puts things right back into perspective, doesn’t it?