Despite the fact that Gus, our motor-caravan, had been standing idle on the campsite in the Algarve for some time, the engine sprang into life instantly and ran smoothly. Not once, in the twelve months we owned Gus, had he failed us.
  Under cloudless skies Francis and I turned north to find work in Holland for the coming summer months. I wanted to be back in time for my mother’s birthday, which allowed us four weeks to drive the distance Algarve-Holland. Ample time, one would think, but with our un-hurried way of life we would have to “step on it”.
  I had made an itinerary through Portugal, Spain and France and had calculated that we should at least drive an average of eighty miles a day in order to be back in Holland in time. For most people eighty miles a day means nothing, but for Francis and me time had gotten a relatively meaning and it was, for example, no longer the clock that indicated it was time for supper, but our stomachs that said when we were hungry. However, it also meant we rapidly became much slower.
  Every day I “hurried” to drive the necessary miles. I did the best I could, but somehow I never made it. As we didn’t use camping’s anymore, it was always a problem to find enough drinking-water to fill our tanks with. During the past months I had developed a “third” eye for spotting useful water in the form of outdoor-taps, fountains, cemeteries and municipal flower-beds. Sometimes it was difficult to find water, sometimes not. So, when driving on a small road Francis noticed a source, she cried: “Stop!” I instantly applied the brakes, because we needed water badly, for washing the dirty linen as well as cleaning the interior of our home. Washing and cleaning was no big job, but afterwards the linen had to dry in the sun and that took time.

After a beautiful trip through the interior of Portugal I arrived at a small border-crossing. The road was blocked with a heavy pole. Beside the road stood a red and white painted building with a stone gate next to it.
  A border-guard indicated I should leave the ‘van and pointed to the building. After my eyes had become used to the darkness inside, I saw two desks, one for people entering Portugal, one for leaving the country. I positioned myself in front of the correct window and waited.
  Several minutes later the border-guard came inside to look where I was. When he saw that nobody manned the desks, he went outside and, after entering again through a back-door, sat himself behind the window.
  He didn’t want to see my passport, instead he asked me to write Gus’ licence-number on a small, blank piece of paper. When I had done just that, he stamped the paper and pointed to a window at the other side of the office.
  This desk was manned. However, the official never looked at me, only grabbed the proffered piece of paper, stamped it again, gave it back and waved his hand in the general direction of the door.
  Outside the border-guard, who had given me the first stamp, stood already waiting for me. He asked me to hand over the piece of paper and then put it in his pocket!
  I had time enough to recuperate from these slightly bureaucratic formalities, whilst the border-guard took all the time in the world to unlock the barrier, before allowing me through.
  One mile further on we arrived at the Spanish border and there proceedings were a lot quicker: “From Holland? Move on!”

In northern-Spain we drove parts of the ‘Camino de Santiago’, the ancient pilgrim route to Santiago de Compostela. Instead of following the original ‘Way of St. James’ we travelled the pilgrim route backwards to the Spanish-French border. In fact there is no “real” pilgrim route, because every road or path leading to Santiago de Compostela was a route the pilgrims could follow, but along highways and footpaths many signposts had been erected, indicating the ways most used by the pilgrims.
  We followed the highway and, when crossing a footpath, we walked for several miles. It was a fascinating landscape and because of the many Roman-style buildings I had, in my mind, no problem to put the clock back a few centuries.

After we had crossed the border with France I realised that with an average of eighty miles a day we were never going to make it to Holland in time. To speed up I made a new itinerary of 160 miles a day. The next day those 160 miles took me almost eight hours and in the evening I wondered how on earth that could have been possible. Gus the Goose was no flyer, but neither that slow!
  Looking back, I found out that along the way we had stopped eight times: three stops for coffee, two for shopping, one for lunch and two stops for a cup of tea. On an average we had stopped every twenty miles!
  The longest stops had been for shopping. If we were to stay in Holland for four months, we could easily load Gus with all kinds of commodities that were cheaper in Spain or France than in Holland. Francis spent “hours” in the enormous supermarkets of ‘Mammouth’ en ‘Carrefour’, checking and rechecking prices. Next to coffee, camembert, detergent and motor-oil we stowed the storing-space below our rear dinette seating with litre-packs of wine. Coming summer, I was surely not going to suffer from thirst.

Upon our return in Holland I went, after we had greeted our family and friends, to the governmental labour exchange in search for work. After I had filled in a stack of forms and had waited for the best part of the morning, I was ushered into a small office-cubicle.
  “Please sit down,” said a balding man. He put on his reading-glasses and started to read aloud from the forms I had filled in previously: “Name, Roger Booy; age, forty; born...”
  After he had read the whole list, he looked at me inquiringly over his half-moon glasses: “Is that correct?”
  “It is,” I answered, beginning to feel tired, “But how or where do I get a job? I’ll try anything!”
  The man looked indifferently at me, started to drum his desk with his ball-point pen and told me it was very difficult to find a job, especially in these economic times.
  “I know that,” I said, helping him on, “But I heard you have trouble finding enough people wanting to pick flower-bulbs. Should I try that?”
  “I wouldn’t do that, if I was you,” he said, “It is not in accordance with your education, and of course you are not used to working in the fields.”
  “Then what should I do?” I asked, “Do you have a suggestion?”
  “Not at the moment,” he said, ending the interview, “You just have to wait until we find something that fits you. It might help to have a good look at the advertisements in the newspapers.”
  I could not think of anything else to say but: “Thank you, sir.”
  This conversation hadn’t done me any good. Two blocks further on was a private employment agency and there I was received with a lot more enthusiasm.
  “I think I’ve got something for you,” said the pretty girl behind the reception-desk, “We’ve just had a phone call from an internationally known art museum. They need an attendant. Do you know something about art?”
  As a matter of fact I did. I have always been interested in art and I knew the museum well. They had an extensive collection of paintings by Dutch masters and the museum was also well-known for its advanced acquisitions. It seemed a nice job to tell visitors something about the exhibitions and I said so.
  “Then we have a deal,” the girl said, “You have the job for at least one day and maybe longer. You can start tomorrow morning at eight. Report to mister Franken and, oh, don’t forget to wear a good suit.”
  That same evening I first drove to my mothers house to get my suit from the attic and then to the museum, where I parked Gus for the night on the parking-lot.

At exactly eight o’clock the next morning I reported at the gate of the museum in my Sunday best. The guard hardly looked up from his newspaper and said:
  “Attendant, huh? Just go over there to the canteen for the personnel and wait for mister Franken. He’ll be with you in a minute.”
  Half an hour later I was still sitting in the canteen without having met mister Franken. One of the waitresses took pity on me and alerted another attendant, who had just had his morning coffee.
  “Report to Franken? The old man never comes in before ten o’clock, mate. You better come with me. I’ll tell you what to do.”
  He took me to the upper floor of the museum, pushed open a couple of large fire-resistant doors and in doing so revealed several rooms with modern art. The attendant thrust a broom into my hands and said:
“Your job is to guard these three rooms, mate. At ten the museum opens to the public. Be sure the floors are swept before that time!”

So, there I was, in my three-piece suit, golden cuff-links and a broom in my hand! Sweeping the floors took only a few minutes and therefore I thought it best to make myself familiar with the works of art.
  Looking around didn’t take long. The exhibitions on ‘my’ floor were dedicated to three different artists. One of them supposed ‘art’ meant arms and legs made of plaster, sticking out of the walls in weird places. The second room had pornographic wallpaper on all four walls and in the third room I looked at four different sinks, also made from plaster. Not exactly my idea of art, but if the museum wanted to dedicate three rooms to this stuff, who was I to criticise?

At a few minutes past ten a man entered my floor. I wondered if he would be mister Franken. The man walked straight over to me. He looked annoyed and said:
  "Who are you?"
  I told him I had been sent by the employment agency and his reaction was:
  “Another one? What am I going to do with you...?”
  I made a humble gesture that I didn’t know either, and the man went on:
  “Well, all right, you can remain in these rooms. You stay here till five o’clock and your lunch-break is from one till two o’clock.”
  He fished a small badge out of his pocket:
  “Here, this says you’re an attendant. Pin it on your lapel.”
  I asked if there was anything more I should know about, but he said:
  “Oh no, you’ll do fine.”

He was right. After I had pinned on the badge, nothing happened until some time later an elderly woman walked up to my floor. She reminded me of my mother and I thought that she would definitely feel out of place here. The woman looked disapprovingly at the pornographic wallpaper, then saw me and came over.
  This is it, I thought, but the slightly blushing woman asked only one question:
  “Please tell me where one can get a cup of coffee?”
  Here my knowledge of the museum from former visits came in handy:
  “Yes ma’m, down these stairs, and then to your right!”

I had not thought of bringing something to read, and found nothing better to do than staring out of the window with my hands behind my back. The window had a view of the tower-clock of a nearby church, so I had an indication of the time. At exactly eleven o’clock I decided to make another round of my rooms.
  One hour later I returned to the window and was astonished to see the hands of the tower-clock had not moved more than five minutes. How long was this day going to be?
  Just before it was time for my lunch-break another woman came into the room. I looked up gladly, a second chance!
  But no, she asked for the way out. It seemed unlikely someone was going to take my place during the lunch-hour, so I said to her:
  “Come with me. I’ll take you there.”

If possible the afternoon was even quieter. Whilst looking out of the window, I had all the time in the world to think about what I could do to improve our motor-caravan for the next trip.
  At just after three, another person came into the room. It was a heavily-built man carrying a painting under his arm. He nodded friendly, and I nodded in return. Only when he had left the room did I start to wonder. Was it normal to see people walking around in a museum with paintings under their arms?
  I ran after the man, stopped him, and asked if he could please tell me what he was doing with that painting. The man looked at my badge, shifted his weight from one foot to the other and said laughingly:
  “Of course I would like to tell you.”
  He held the painting high so I could have a good look at it:
  “My name is Jan Simons. I work in the restoration-department and am about to start on this painting. Here, have a closer look. It’s a real Kandinsky!”
  It should be all right, I thought, but the remainder of the afternoon I felt ill at ease. Do restorers always walk around with paintings under their arms?

At five o’clock I handed over my badge to the guard at the gate and walked back to the parking-lot where Gus was waiting for me. I had not seen mister Franken anymore and nobody had asked if I would come again tomorrow. I couldn’t care less. I had said I would consider any job, but being an attendant didn’t count anymore. The next morning, no mention was made in the newspapers about a stolen Kandinsky.