By Maarten Baanders (photo by Herman Sorgeloos) Calmly we stand at the door of the venue. A bit like the Holland Festival is a drag. No one suspects that in a few minutes, existence will be reduced to almost nothing. It starts with darkness. Silence. For minutes. Softly, footsteps sound. The ears are tuned to it in detail. There is singing. Mahler's...
Valhalla. Someone called it, and indeed: Valhalla. I don't mean the Teutonic version of the Eternal Hunting Fields then, but Miss Asterix and Obelix. Egyptian style. You may colour in the picture yourself with dark curls, unimaginably flawless skin made of very creamy milk chocolate, and that then set on a pair of hidden heels and strapped into a corset that accentuates everything of value. So Amal Maher is one of those women for whom a man will gladly put his chimes at the disposal of science, if it gives him the privilege of being around her for a few moments.
The Telegraph stresses the importance of being Dutch, while the Holland Festival lets the Dutch sing along with the Arabs
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