Incidentally, how odd that “ebriety” and “inebriety” mean almost the same thing, if a five-minute googling is to be trusted.

One also has a sneaking suspicion that the gentlemen in question have probably never had a conversation with a real live Greek before.

He handed in a homework containing the immortal line “Je bent een aap, dat je dat weet” (“Just so you know, you’re a monkey”) instead of one of the answers.¹ He went on to accuse me of not being able to produce my own answers, which (after some puzzling) I decided probably meant that he found the exercise too hard.

It took me almost a week to work up a response. First I had to cool down; then I had to find out the official policy (I’m only a teaching assistant, am I allowed to kick students out of my classroom for rudeness?); then I hoped to talk to the guy at the lesson but he didn’t show up. At that point I decided this was probably a flamboyant way of announcing his decision to quit the class.² Finally I sent a rather acerbic mail pointing out that insulting the person who grades your work probably isn’t the smartest policy if you care about passing, and asking him if he indeed was quitting the course.³ I didn’t expect an answer.

But I got one: “I’m afraid it was a terrible mistake,” and “Rest assured it will not happen again.” The poor sod had sent me a file intended for one of his fellow students (for “reference” purposes, of course…).

The moral? For my students, I’d suggest: don’t send your work around “for reference purposes” (boring, I know). For the rest of the world… When someone calls you a monkey, don’t assume they mean it? The one I’m taking away from this is, always count your monkeys before you hit “Send”.

Notes:

1. Olga suggested that he was simply confused about my species, and that I could help him out by trimming my beard more often. Supporting evidence being that at the Babylon Circus gig I danced “like a monkey” (O. Grigoriadou, p.c.). Against this hypothesis two observations: (1) it fails to explain the comment about finding my own answers, see below, and (2) the homework was delivered before the gig in question. As far as I can recall I have never danced in the classroom, like a monkey or otherwise.
2. In the meantime there were other irritations to deal with: half the class didn’t read the instructions for the homework (“work in pairs”) and there were several folk to hassle about copying.
3. For the record, I also announced the policy that work containing insults would get no grade.

Here’s what I thought was going on. I’ve been here a little over six years, on short-term permits, and after five years one can apply for a permit for unlimited residency. But I didn’t do that, because they do income tests that I couldn’t meet. My current permit is tied to my appointment at the university, which ran out January 1st. But since I became Dr de Jager quite recently, I could apply under the rules for “Highly educated recent graduates”, granting a year to look for work. If I found a good enough job in that year, that would give me the income to use the five-year rule to get permanent residency (or near-as-dammit).

Almost every single statement in the above summary is wrong.

First up, the five-year rule doesn’t apply to my first two years here, which were officially under a study exchange programme with New Zealand. It also wouldn’t apply to a “work-seeking” year, which in any case I couldn’t apply for because while I did graduate here my permit at the time was for work, not study.¹

Secondly, in order to apply the five-year rule I would have to continue working, on the same kind of permit I have now, for five years. This probably would have been possible, if I had known about it in advance: another semester of teaching would have done it. But I didn’t, and now it’s too late. Because:

Thirdly, and most importantly, the five-year rule involves a most strict attention to continuous legal residency: the one and a half months between the end of my previous permit and the date of my application for a new one would reset my accumulated residency to zero.

Oops.

(The same rules apply to work: lacking a contract for the month of February would interfere just as much as lacking a residence permit for January.)

Perhaps you can imagine my distress at this news. It must have been quite a sight, because the nice lady at the IND, after explaining this to me twice, had to go off and fetch some backup.

The first thing the backup asked me was if I had a girlfriend. (You might think, given my beardy good looks and charming personality, that I would get this sort of thing rather often; if you thought that, you would be surprised to learn that in fact I don’t. Pretty much never, in fact, and especially not from government employees during working hours.) Somewhat bemused, I answered that yes, I did. Was she Dutch? No, Greek. Even better! Did she live here? Yes, we live together. Problem solved!

As a family member of an EU citizen registered as a Dutch resident, I am entitled to a five-year residence and work permit. (As an added bonus, at the end of those five years I can apply for permanent residency.) We have to prove that we’re an honest-truly couple, but we don’t have to be married. (There are plenty of good reasons to get married, but “because I need a residence permit” is not one of them.) It will cost €41, instead of €331 (!).

In some ways it’s almost a disappointment. I had the vague idea that after working at a university for four years, and doing an MSc and a PhD at Dutch institutions, the qualifications I had accumulated might help argue the case for letting me live in the country. Instead it’s who I’m sleeping with that makes the difference.

So much for the knowledge economy.

Notes:

1. Slightly more complicated, for those really keeping track: under a related rule I could indeed apply for a zoekjaar, but it would force me to get a separate work permit, which is a terrible pain. One of the major attractions of the permanent residency option is to be able to work wherever, rather than constantly having to have my contracts approved by the immigration folk.

Difficult to imagine, isn’t it?

The invigilation was relatively gentle (my committee were kind), and my mother startled all the straight-laced Dutch folks by bursting out in Maori as the diploma was handed over, something ringing and powerful that left tears in my eyes. (The main emotional tone of the Dutch ceremony is nervousness, counterbalanced with a bit of pomposity.¹ Some heartfelt emotion to cut through it was very welcome indeed.) My supervisor gave a laudatio both honest and kind (impressive feat, actually), which also warmed my heart.

We arranged a joint defence with my dear friend, colleague, and yoga teacher Michael Franke (who delivered a stunning performance in the inquisition, and who is now of course Dr Franke). After the defences we took our respective committees and families out to lunch; with twenty people the restaurant had to separate us into two tables and by some curious alchemy we ended up with a “committee table” and a “family table”. There was some complaint that the committee were insufficiently drunken when we left, but they will have to take responsibility for that themselves.

During the meal I felt a tickling on the back of my neck… scratched and scrabbled… and turned up the price tag of the swanky shirt bought for the occasion. Rather glad it wasn’t dangling out the back of my jacket throughout the proceedings!

Many thanks to everyone who came out on the day, and also to all those who have sent congratulations. (I am constitutionally opposed to all things Facebookish, but a solid wall of friendly wishes does warm the cockles of one’s heart.) Several people took photos, I’ll try to get them online in the coming week.

And most importantly: there is still the party! Friday this week, starting at 20.00, in Cafe ‘t Geveltje on the Bloemgracht. There will be some live Greek music and some recorded something-else (danceable, we hope), and the plan is to rock it out until they kick us out.

Notes:

1. I’m fond of the rolling Dutch phrases and glad I chose them rather then the slightly insipid English equivalents. But nobody could call them personal.

In the meantime, then, a bizarre piece of lexicography:² the second citation for “tarantula” in Dr Johnson’s Dictionary. It’s Locke:

He that uses the word tarantula, without having any idea of what it stands for, means nothing at all by it.

Fair enough as philosophy perhaps, but how odd as a lexicographic citation! The word might as well be “lollygag,” or “parsnip”. It seems the citations file for enormous hairy spiders was rather sparse in 1755.

Incidentally, Wikipedia tells us of a 16th and 17th century belief in tarantism: a venom reaction that brings death if not counteracted by violent dancing, from which (of course) derives the tarantella. I find this all rather hard to believe, but then there is Johnson’s definition: “An insect whose bite is only cured by musick.”

Notes:

1. Turns out 200 is … a lot of copies. Anyone needs kindling for the Dutch winter, let me know.
2. After all, this blog is called “logophile”. Dot org, note, as opposed to dot net, which is hosting “fantasy- and horror-based erotic fiction”. I don’t know if it’s any good, but the title “A study in blood” doesn’t raise any hopes.

In Lovecraft’s cycle of horror sonnets, Fungi from Yuggoth, …

And then his fans wonder why nobody takes them seriously…

(A few years ago I picked up Mr Wilson’s Cabinet of Wonders, about the MJT and its proprietor, in a fit of whimsy and a second-hand bookstore. Highly recommended.)

— It can be hot, if you accidentally put in too much chilli at Amanda’s wedding.

It’s wonderful because, completely unlike English, if you see a word written down you know exactly how to pronounce it. It’s awful because knowing how to pronounce a word still leaves you lots of options for how to spell it.

Today’s discovery is the verb “to use”: χρησιμοποιώ. Third person singular (present) that’s χρησιμοποιεί, which has the distinction of containing almost all the ways to spell /i/ (the vowel of English “street”): η, ι, οι, and ει. It’s only missing υ, and yes folks, that means there are five ways to spell that one sound.