Its quite comphrendable that I would miss life in the Netherlands. Most Americans ever-so-slightly left of the middle think its a fabulous place to visit; its repuation precedes it around the world, for better or worse. Drugs and hooker jokes aside, the Dutch lifestyle proved very compatible with my own ways; being highly independent and proactive, I careened through Amsterdam with joy. Everyday I had to learn and adapt, making up rules and languages as I went along. Sometimes the cultural difference would wear me out and I'd head back to the flat to listen to the canned sound of pure American English. I was alone and, I was alone. I met a lot of intriguing people abroad, from scores of different countries, all with something to offer, but my family (both blood and chosen) were in America. I can't deny the beauty of Boston that clear Friday afternoon. The bemused customs empolyee was kind enough not to laugh at my overt giddyness. I was home. The return to Siena eariler this month just completed me. I was back in my realm.
It is curious to long for something that was never really yours. Studying abroad is the chance to be a glorified guest; more tolerated than a tourist, but still not truly a part of that society. At first glance, your host is the best thing you've ever seen, much better than back home or anywhere else for that matter. As time carries on, you come to see it realness. Like everywhere else, there are pros and cons. Beautiful art and despairing poverty stand side by side. Young white supremists stalk past the Anne Frank House, leering in ignorant hatred. It rains, and in the Netherlands, that means it rains alot, at the most inconvienent times possible. America, despite it all, is not that bad - we actually have it so well and we never seem able to acknowledge it without leaving for years or enduring some national tragedy. I can not say I am proud to be an American, but I am grateful for the opportunities its citizenship have afforded.
And still, I just completed a half heartd search of jobs in the Amsterdam area. I surprised myself yesterday during French Toast preparation as I mulled over graduate school in the Netherlands. I recalled the horrible housing statistics I learned in Dutch social policy, blatantly ignored my lack of funding, and ultimately just resigned myself to looking over the many photos of my trip abroad. While my outsider status was often apparent, I felt a part of the city, which is a testament to the Dutch way of life. I was just one of a legion of foreigners living there, having my own life just as my neighbors were. Outsider or not, I miss it . I miss riding my bike along the canals, dodging soulless taxis and errant tourists. I miss the shimmer of the canals in the deep quiet of the night, as I walked out live's tribulations along the narrow streets of the Jordaan. The random joys and terrors of the Dam, the bawdy and obnoxious spirit of the Red Light District, the blatant honesty of the Dutch way. Self sufficiency within and without.
I dream of Dutch life at least once a week. I impart useless and unnecessary Dutch vocabulary on innocent bystanders. To gain entrance to my house, one has to undergo the vast collection of photographic evidence of my time in Europe. I'm happy to be back amongst my friends and family, but I miss Amsterdam. Proudly independent, both the city and I always maintained our separateness, but that's the way I work with best with others.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Thursday, August 2, 2007
New Amsterdam
...It's been awhile, but in all fairness whos gonna actually read this (Vicky). Hehe, but in all seriousness, I'm going to try to update more (read: some). Tomorrow I go to Albany; Saturday, NYC. I can't stop making myself broke. G'damnit.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Who Says You Can't Go Home?
I don't like that song. I don't really care for Bon Jovi. However, I still reference the idea of this song once in a while. Anyway, who did say you can't go home? Unless you've committed serious enough crimes and aren't allowed in your home state (I know of someone in that catagory), you can always go home. Sure, it might be awkward. Or boring. You may cross the city line and begin to digress to your younger years, but you can still always go home. Revert to being someone's child instead of the independent island of the world beyond; there's nothing like baking cookies with Mom, as she yells at you to stop eating all the dough.
Recently, I have developed the unfortunate habit of waxing poetic over, oh, everything. For the sake of all others who can't take the sappiness, let's just say, I'm glad to be home. And for all of my loyal readers (all four of you), I think I might keep writing. Who knows about what, but now you have something to look forward to in your lives ;)
I'm off on another adventure in just a few short hours; that just might be the inspiration needed.
Recently, I have developed the unfortunate habit of waxing poetic over, oh, everything. For the sake of all others who can't take the sappiness, let's just say, I'm glad to be home. And for all of my loyal readers (all four of you), I think I might keep writing. Who knows about what, but now you have something to look forward to in your lives ;)
I'm off on another adventure in just a few short hours; that just might be the inspiration needed.
Monday, June 11, 2007
I'm Home
I made it.
I slipped into the U.S. just in time to miss the computer melt down that delayed so many others.
I'm so happy!
...and I go to Albany on Thursday :)
I slipped into the U.S. just in time to miss the computer melt down that delayed so many others.
I'm so happy!
...and I go to Albany on Thursday :)
Friday, June 8, 2007
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
This Week is Brought to You by the Letter B, Part II: Belgium
Saturday, June 2: approx. 3 PM
Molly ims me: “Do you wanna go to Bruges for the day like Sully and Torie are doing?”
Me: “Sure, what does Kristen think?”
Molly: “She said yes, now we can plan.”
Me: “Ok, we can discsus before we go out tonight.”
10:36 PM Plans are set, we are meeting at the VVV at 6 AM; we’ll catch the 6:26 train, spend the day, and we just have to be on the last train to Amsterdam, which is shortly before 10 PM. Great, now off to coffeeshops and Durty Nelly’s to play pool.
Sunday, June 3
1 AM I go to bed.
4:30 AM My alarm frightens the life out of me.
4:44 AM I’m eating cheese ravolis, in hopes that having some protein will mean I won’t be hungry in ten minutes.
6:08 AM I’m Centraal, and my stomach is rumbling. I curse inwardly and get on the train.
8 something AM Molly wakes me up in Antwerp to transfer trains.
10:07 AM We are in Bruges, Beligum!
1030 AM – 4 PM We climb the Belfort tower, go to the Chocolate factory, have some waffles, see a bunch of other cool buildings.
4-5 PM Brewery tour with an incredibly sexist tour guide. My favorite:
“Now this would be used for bottling beer. The beer would be poured into this trough, while a bottle would be put on each of these tubes. Now, the worker would have to suck on the tubes to start the flow of beer.
*Pause*
Not a job for men, eh?”
He spent a vast amount of time cracking jokes about importing shitty beer to the UK, hitting on the ladies in the group, and being all about beer happy.
The free beer at the end was good stuff; unfiltered, fresh from the barrel stock. I was tipsy half way through my glass.
6:06 PM We’re sitting in Bruges oldest pub, 1515. I’m drinking raspberry beer now. Every brand of beer have a different cup in Beligum. These people do not dick around about their beer or chocolate. Now I've got a nice buzz on, and I’m informed we have one more bar to frequent.
7ish PM After being thrown off track by closed food establishments, we are in a bar which boasts 235 types of beer. Think of all those glasses. A tosti and a peach beer, and I’m ready for the train back to Amstedam!
7:54 PM The train locks the door and doesn’t sound the whistle, while we helplessly jab the door button and whine.
8:06 PM Kristen: “We don’t even have an hour to wait guys!”
Meanwhile, I accompanied by my beer buzz, am in all out emo mode.
8:50 PM Buzz is gone and I’ve stopped being emo. Sweet. But our train is supposed to leave in 5 minutes and its not here…
8:55 PM We are on the train, thank Christ. We have two transfers, but since I stayed awake to watch for stops this morning, I’m afforded sleep. Thank Christ again.
10:31 PM We transfer in Antwerp
11:42 PM We’re in Rotterdam. I have exactly zero cash on me – oh wait, I have 2 euro cents. I am frantic – I literally run outside to the ATM, withdraw money for the rest of my time in Europe, buy us water and run to the platform…to wait.
12:11 AM We depart Rotterdam.
12:56 AM We are startled by a loud banging sound in the entrance of the train. It keeps happening. Can’t see much from our seats, not that we are going to venture too far toward it. A moment of silence, then a woman sobbing. Kristen and I head to the end of the compartment and can’t see anything tramatic occurring. Oh well…?
1:04 AM I have decided its legally unsafe for me to be out, on public transportation, at this time of night. In retrospect, I don’t know how it would be “legally unsafe,” but shit, I was le tired!
1:18 AM Molly graces us with a passage from her book, The Undutchables, that states the public urinals (i.e. the grey ones near Centraal, Leidseplein, etc) are actually made for use by both genders. A lively debate over the logistics of this ensues. I didn’t want to talk about then, and I don’t want to talk about it now.
1:27 AM We talk about the Dutch failing the Jews in the Holocaust. Mmm, lively conversation, friends.
1:29 AM We analyze the organizational patterns – or lack there of – of Molly’s undergarments. It appears some migration has occured. We should really stop talking.
1:35 AM We arrive in Amsterdam!
Six minutes later: “I can’t see our bikes from here.”
1:50 AM Crisis averted, I arrive at Prinsengracht – on my bike. Now I have to collect, bag, and take all the trash out, boo.
1:54 AM Disrobe…and pass out about an hour later.
Total day expenses: 100 euro
Hours on train: 8
Transfers: 3
Pictures taken: 50
Molly ims me: “Do you wanna go to Bruges for the day like Sully and Torie are doing?”
Me: “Sure, what does Kristen think?”
Molly: “She said yes, now we can plan.”
Me: “Ok, we can discsus before we go out tonight.”
10:36 PM Plans are set, we are meeting at the VVV at 6 AM; we’ll catch the 6:26 train, spend the day, and we just have to be on the last train to Amsterdam, which is shortly before 10 PM. Great, now off to coffeeshops and Durty Nelly’s to play pool.
Sunday, June 3
1 AM I go to bed.
4:30 AM My alarm frightens the life out of me.
4:44 AM I’m eating cheese ravolis, in hopes that having some protein will mean I won’t be hungry in ten minutes.
6:08 AM I’m Centraal, and my stomach is rumbling. I curse inwardly and get on the train.
8 something AM Molly wakes me up in Antwerp to transfer trains.
10:07 AM We are in Bruges, Beligum!
1030 AM – 4 PM We climb the Belfort tower, go to the Chocolate factory, have some waffles, see a bunch of other cool buildings.
4-5 PM Brewery tour with an incredibly sexist tour guide. My favorite:
“Now this would be used for bottling beer. The beer would be poured into this trough, while a bottle would be put on each of these tubes. Now, the worker would have to suck on the tubes to start the flow of beer.
*Pause*
Not a job for men, eh?”
He spent a vast amount of time cracking jokes about importing shitty beer to the UK, hitting on the ladies in the group, and being all about beer happy.
The free beer at the end was good stuff; unfiltered, fresh from the barrel stock. I was tipsy half way through my glass.
6:06 PM We’re sitting in Bruges oldest pub, 1515. I’m drinking raspberry beer now. Every brand of beer have a different cup in Beligum. These people do not dick around about their beer or chocolate. Now I've got a nice buzz on, and I’m informed we have one more bar to frequent.
7ish PM After being thrown off track by closed food establishments, we are in a bar which boasts 235 types of beer. Think of all those glasses. A tosti and a peach beer, and I’m ready for the train back to Amstedam!
7:54 PM The train locks the door and doesn’t sound the whistle, while we helplessly jab the door button and whine.
8:06 PM Kristen: “We don’t even have an hour to wait guys!”
Meanwhile, I accompanied by my beer buzz, am in all out emo mode.
8:50 PM Buzz is gone and I’ve stopped being emo. Sweet. But our train is supposed to leave in 5 minutes and its not here…
8:55 PM We are on the train, thank Christ. We have two transfers, but since I stayed awake to watch for stops this morning, I’m afforded sleep. Thank Christ again.
10:31 PM We transfer in Antwerp
11:42 PM We’re in Rotterdam. I have exactly zero cash on me – oh wait, I have 2 euro cents. I am frantic – I literally run outside to the ATM, withdraw money for the rest of my time in Europe, buy us water and run to the platform…to wait.
12:11 AM We depart Rotterdam.
12:56 AM We are startled by a loud banging sound in the entrance of the train. It keeps happening. Can’t see much from our seats, not that we are going to venture too far toward it. A moment of silence, then a woman sobbing. Kristen and I head to the end of the compartment and can’t see anything tramatic occurring. Oh well…?
1:04 AM I have decided its legally unsafe for me to be out, on public transportation, at this time of night. In retrospect, I don’t know how it would be “legally unsafe,” but shit, I was le tired!
1:18 AM Molly graces us with a passage from her book, The Undutchables, that states the public urinals (i.e. the grey ones near Centraal, Leidseplein, etc) are actually made for use by both genders. A lively debate over the logistics of this ensues. I didn’t want to talk about then, and I don’t want to talk about it now.
1:27 AM We talk about the Dutch failing the Jews in the Holocaust. Mmm, lively conversation, friends.
1:29 AM We analyze the organizational patterns – or lack there of – of Molly’s undergarments. It appears some migration has occured. We should really stop talking.
1:35 AM We arrive in Amsterdam!
Six minutes later: “I can’t see our bikes from here.”
1:50 AM Crisis averted, I arrive at Prinsengracht – on my bike. Now I have to collect, bag, and take all the trash out, boo.
1:54 AM Disrobe…and pass out about an hour later.
Total day expenses: 100 euro
Hours on train: 8
Transfers: 3
Pictures taken: 50
Monday, June 4, 2007
This week is brought to you by the letter B: Barcelona
This week is brought to you by the letter B: Barcelona, Booze, Bruges, Belgium, Breweries, bread, beer, buses, bastard (waiters, that is), Belgian (waffles and chocolate), break dancers, beach, and bad decisions.
Barcelona: a three day trip planned on the basis that I wanted to see Gaudi works in person. The fact that its on the Mediterranean Sea just happens to be a bonus. Also; Spain = Sangria. ...Only the best I've ever had.
We landed around midnight, and managed to get to our hostel without too much trouble. We were located in one of the busiest plazas in the city, with constant partying, drinking, and general all around carousing were always in progress. The Kabul Hostel was arguably the nicest hostel we stayed in throughout our Eurotrip, but it was still a hostel. See, also: drunken guys puking in the doorway of the girls’ bathroom at 1 AM…and management not cleaning it up until 830 the next morning.
Despite the unpleasant environment and the lack of sleep, we arose bright and early on Wednesday to begin the “Maria needs to see all the Gaudi she can get to” adventure. Our main goal was to climb to Parc Guell – an undertaking that several other hostel stayers had warned us was going to be less than gentle. Armed with a map and two very good sports, I led up to the Parc, pausing along the way to see the Casa Batillo and Mila.
Parc Guell was beautiful; organic curves throughout adorned with sparkling mosaics, Gaudi’s style is uniquely breathtaking. The Parc and the view of Barcelona below were both truly worth the walk.
The Gaudi-Maria love fest continued the next day, with a tour of the Sagrada Familia, or the Holy Family Cathedral. Still in construction – now in its 125th year or so – the Cathedral is a monumental Modernist structure, which is supposed to have 18 steeples when complete. Completion date? 30 – 80 years.
Segueing right to the ridiculous adventure-filled part of the trip, we make new friends – again. I am totally honest when I say I don’t like making new friends, especially foreign male “friends.” Let’s just say, I’m pretty sure this Ecuadorian street performer (he was actually quite good at break dancing) was looking for a sugar mama. They always know how to pick me out; I have experience as one, you know.
Molly home sick in bed, Kristen and I sat to watch them perform like the total tourists we can be. By the time they were through, they waved us over. One, told me I was beautiful and proceeded to kiss me. This prompted a mental letter.
Dear American Men,
I forgive you; you aren’t really that bad.
Love,
Maria.
Furthermore:
Dear European/South American/ETC Men,
Please learn what “law suit” means, and act accordingly.
Kind Regards,
Maria – and her lawyer.
“Beautiful” and “I love you” appear to be all the English he knows. Supposedly, they are all brothers, the oldest has been in Barcelona five years; the other two have been here five days.
Since I obviously don’t learn, and I’m amused I can understand some Spanish, I agree to hanging out the next night. Of the three guys, the oldest speaks a little English, so he and Kristen are the main communicators for all of six of us, though I discover I can translate some, and end up doing so for Molly. Molly just responds in French; and I love her for it.
The evening progresses into the regular shit show that is our lives, during which Molly and I used “law suit” in conversation regularly before finally heading home. Not before, my new friend asks me if I’m single, then proclaims me taken (Kristen “Maria doesn’t like being told her relationship status by others.”), promises he’ll know English when I come back in a year or two (who said I was coming back), and asks my parents’ names, which worries and confuses me.
Foregin language overload hits its threshold around 1 AM or so, and Molly and I depart hand in hand, done with this adventure. We’re all in bed by 2 AM, only to be woken by a very loud trio of very drunken Frenchmen at 5. Then by the shattering of glass as the recycling bins are emptied at 7. We drag ourselves out of bed around 9 to go to the beach. Now remember, we are in a 8 man dorm. It’s the three of us, the French alky trio, and two other girls. Beach preparation is in session; Kristen is topless…and in comes the French! And out they go, doubly as fast. After clothing herself, she welcomes them in, and we all continue to get ready, while Molly eavesdrops on their French. The one lucky fellow is currently recounting to his friends the glimpse he caught. Packed and ready to go, Molly passes them in the hallway, wishing them a fun voyage – in French. A weak “merci” follows the stunned silence. Shazam, mofos! And if the adventures and mishaps aren’t numerous enough, the airport provides us with the crowning glory.
We always make jokes about “those assholes” whose names have to be announced throughout the airport because they are delaying the flight. The Schiphol lady is a ruthless voice from the sky, demanding “your immediate boarding, or they will begin to offload your luggage.” With a delayed flight – I know how to pick them – we head upstairs to get food, over 40 minutes before our flight. We walk back into an empty terminal, as I hear “passengers Hodavance, Segala…” Oh shit! We run to the bus (we had to be bussed out to the plane) and realize we have become “those assholes.” My accomplishments this semester are complete.
Barcelona: a three day trip planned on the basis that I wanted to see Gaudi works in person. The fact that its on the Mediterranean Sea just happens to be a bonus. Also; Spain = Sangria. ...Only the best I've ever had.
We landed around midnight, and managed to get to our hostel without too much trouble. We were located in one of the busiest plazas in the city, with constant partying, drinking, and general all around carousing were always in progress. The Kabul Hostel was arguably the nicest hostel we stayed in throughout our Eurotrip, but it was still a hostel. See, also: drunken guys puking in the doorway of the girls’ bathroom at 1 AM…and management not cleaning it up until 830 the next morning.
Despite the unpleasant environment and the lack of sleep, we arose bright and early on Wednesday to begin the “Maria needs to see all the Gaudi she can get to” adventure. Our main goal was to climb to Parc Guell – an undertaking that several other hostel stayers had warned us was going to be less than gentle. Armed with a map and two very good sports, I led up to the Parc, pausing along the way to see the Casa Batillo and Mila.
Parc Guell was beautiful; organic curves throughout adorned with sparkling mosaics, Gaudi’s style is uniquely breathtaking. The Parc and the view of Barcelona below were both truly worth the walk.
The Gaudi-Maria love fest continued the next day, with a tour of the Sagrada Familia, or the Holy Family Cathedral. Still in construction – now in its 125th year or so – the Cathedral is a monumental Modernist structure, which is supposed to have 18 steeples when complete. Completion date? 30 – 80 years.
Segueing right to the ridiculous adventure-filled part of the trip, we make new friends – again. I am totally honest when I say I don’t like making new friends, especially foreign male “friends.” Let’s just say, I’m pretty sure this Ecuadorian street performer (he was actually quite good at break dancing) was looking for a sugar mama. They always know how to pick me out; I have experience as one, you know.
Molly home sick in bed, Kristen and I sat to watch them perform like the total tourists we can be. By the time they were through, they waved us over. One, told me I was beautiful and proceeded to kiss me. This prompted a mental letter.
Dear American Men,
I forgive you; you aren’t really that bad.
Love,
Maria.
Furthermore:
Dear European/South American/ETC Men,
Please learn what “law suit” means, and act accordingly.
Kind Regards,
Maria – and her lawyer.
“Beautiful” and “I love you” appear to be all the English he knows. Supposedly, they are all brothers, the oldest has been in Barcelona five years; the other two have been here five days.
Since I obviously don’t learn, and I’m amused I can understand some Spanish, I agree to hanging out the next night. Of the three guys, the oldest speaks a little English, so he and Kristen are the main communicators for all of six of us, though I discover I can translate some, and end up doing so for Molly. Molly just responds in French; and I love her for it.
The evening progresses into the regular shit show that is our lives, during which Molly and I used “law suit” in conversation regularly before finally heading home. Not before, my new friend asks me if I’m single, then proclaims me taken (Kristen “Maria doesn’t like being told her relationship status by others.”), promises he’ll know English when I come back in a year or two (who said I was coming back), and asks my parents’ names, which worries and confuses me.
Foregin language overload hits its threshold around 1 AM or so, and Molly and I depart hand in hand, done with this adventure. We’re all in bed by 2 AM, only to be woken by a very loud trio of very drunken Frenchmen at 5. Then by the shattering of glass as the recycling bins are emptied at 7. We drag ourselves out of bed around 9 to go to the beach. Now remember, we are in a 8 man dorm. It’s the three of us, the French alky trio, and two other girls. Beach preparation is in session; Kristen is topless…and in comes the French! And out they go, doubly as fast. After clothing herself, she welcomes them in, and we all continue to get ready, while Molly eavesdrops on their French. The one lucky fellow is currently recounting to his friends the glimpse he caught. Packed and ready to go, Molly passes them in the hallway, wishing them a fun voyage – in French. A weak “merci” follows the stunned silence. Shazam, mofos! And if the adventures and mishaps aren’t numerous enough, the airport provides us with the crowning glory.
We always make jokes about “those assholes” whose names have to be announced throughout the airport because they are delaying the flight. The Schiphol lady is a ruthless voice from the sky, demanding “your immediate boarding, or they will begin to offload your luggage.” With a delayed flight – I know how to pick them – we head upstairs to get food, over 40 minutes before our flight. We walk back into an empty terminal, as I hear “passengers Hodavance, Segala…” Oh shit! We run to the bus (we had to be bussed out to the plane) and realize we have become “those assholes.” My accomplishments this semester are complete.
Saturday, June 2, 2007
And, you know its time to go home when…
James Taylor’s reference to the Mass Turnpike unexpectedly brings tears to your eyes.
You use the phrase “law suit” around foreign guys as a tip off to your friends to interfere – with force.
You recognize the homeless/junkies/street performers in the Dam. You know their schedule. That means they probably know the same about you. Above tip may or may not be useful in this case.
There are moments in which you don’t hate all house music with an undying passion. Then you sober up, and want to gouge your own eyes out in punishment.
It physically hurts - totally, undeniably, truly hurts to look at your bank account balance. To even approach it, it requires at least 5 drinks and several friends to console you.
You use the phrase “law suit” around foreign guys as a tip off to your friends to interfere – with force.
You recognize the homeless/junkies/street performers in the Dam. You know their schedule. That means they probably know the same about you. Above tip may or may not be useful in this case.
There are moments in which you don’t hate all house music with an undying passion. Then you sober up, and want to gouge your own eyes out in punishment.
It physically hurts - totally, undeniably, truly hurts to look at your bank account balance. To even approach it, it requires at least 5 drinks and several friends to console you.
You may have been in Europe too long when...
Man purses are not only acceptable, but an integral part of an individual’s outfit.
You haven't been in an auto, much less driven one, in 5 months...and all you're concerned about is securely locking your bike to a friend's when you go out at night.
You go to thank someone and hesitate: Dutch, French, or Spanish? What language is this person expecting? Interestingly enough, your own English tongue never even comes to mind.
Continuing in that strain, you now can't respond to simple exchanges in anything but your host country's language.
You long ago stopped considering the exchange rate. The Euro is King, but shit it sucks the Netherlands doesn’t use the 1 and 2 cent pieces. (On the upside, you will feel rich when you return to the American dollar.)
Low carb diets are but a faint nightmare from a past life; bread at breakfast, lunch, and dinner? Well, duh. It should probably have cheese and/or chocolate with it, too. And it seems totally normal.
You haven't been in an auto, much less driven one, in 5 months...and all you're concerned about is securely locking your bike to a friend's when you go out at night.
You go to thank someone and hesitate: Dutch, French, or Spanish? What language is this person expecting? Interestingly enough, your own English tongue never even comes to mind.
Continuing in that strain, you now can't respond to simple exchanges in anything but your host country's language.
You long ago stopped considering the exchange rate. The Euro is King, but shit it sucks the Netherlands doesn’t use the 1 and 2 cent pieces. (On the upside, you will feel rich when you return to the American dollar.)
Low carb diets are but a faint nightmare from a past life; bread at breakfast, lunch, and dinner? Well, duh. It should probably have cheese and/or chocolate with it, too. And it seems totally normal.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Stalking Hotels Can Prove Fruitful
Cannes Film Festival
More crepes, more rude, line cutting French.
More loud, snide remarks from me about lack of manners.
...But, we saw her 
step out of a cab and enter the Hotel Martinez.
That made the miserably hot two hour bus ride worth it.
Pretty Sweet, eh?
Monday, May 28, 2007
"He just sat down in front of the bus"
“I tried to be like Grace Kelly…” the Mika song provided company as I readied for the day. For only a 1.30 euro, you can take the bus from Nice, France, to Monte Carlo, Monaco. That is, for around two American dollars, you can take a day trip to another country. I guess the inhabitants of Montpelier, Vermont can do the same too, all 17 of them.
The traffic from Nice to Monaco is ever present and steady; it’s a great way to get to know your fellow tourists, as you stand within a few sparse centimeters from them. It is unfortunate that some Europeans believe daily deodorant application to be optional.
Thankfully, the promise of the day’s adventure lay at our feet; a true comfort to look forward to while stuck on the bus.
Arriving in Monaco, we practically stepped off the bus and into casino grounds. Famous – or infamous – for its James Bond-esque lifestyle and residents, Monaco is a tax haven and thus attracts the wealthy from all over. Note the constant growl of Ferraris in downtown Monte Carlo; the air smells like money.
We immediately made the climb to the Royal Palace, which is still the ruling family’s residence. The changing of the guard, with all the pomp and circumstance necessary was the soundtrack to our lunch, before we embarked inside.
The palace is stunning, with a wealth of Louis XIII and XIV fabrics, furniture, and design. After the grand tour, the requisite family portraits, and a guided audio history, we emerged, experts on the Monaco Monarchy. This really means, I had a listen of things to google / wikipedia when I returned to A’dam. Continuing with the theme at hand, we visited the Royal Cathedral, where Grace Kelly and Prince Rainier III were wed, and now both lie in tombs behind the altar. I’ve seen around a dozen churches, chapels, cathedrals in my time in Europe, and about a half dozen famous peoples’ tombs. I’m not sure what this says about my level of morbid curiosity, but I’m surely not alone in this interest.
Monaco is a beautiful country, with houses scattered across the rolling hillsides, overlooking the crisp azure Mediterranean. Its one of those locales that every building, regardless of its use, is exquisitely designed and adorned. The Aquarium was no exception. The interior did not disappoint either; sights included a multilevel coral reef exhibition, diagrams of the water system (it pumps water directly in from the nearby sea), and a swirling column of fish. With several dozen carefully steadied, no flash pictures on the memory card (they don’t like flash, I can tell, really!) we reentered the sunshine to make our way leisurely back to the bus stop. After a slight hassle, we found the bus stop that headed back to Nice. We discovered that about 50 other people had also found this bus stop. Seven minutes late (European buses tend to be right on time), the bus had no sooner opened its doors before scores of tired, overheated, and grumpy people began to flood the door. The four of us almost backed out, in exchange for the next bus, but it seemed risky to wait, and we waded into to the mass of humanity This wasn’t the first time I experienced European rudeness and it wouldn’t unfortunately be the last. At this point, my only goal was to get on that bus. We made it, and I ended up uncomfortably close to this guy sitting on one of the wheel wells for a while. When the small children across the way got off, I crawled between the chairs and a pole to sit on the opposite wheel well.
As the proposed 45 minute trip slowly dragged into an hour and beyond, we are still the only chipper group – and the only English speakers, or so we think. At each bus stop, hordes of people rush into the street; at one point, a group of teenagers block the bus’ path, visibly pleading with the driver and even sitting down in the road. All I can see in our future is riots, ala Le Heine. We continue to chat and speculate our own future when a nicely dressed man asks us where were from in the states. Andrew’s a mechanical engineer from Illinois, traveling alone in Nice, before heading off to meet up with some friends in Greece. While he speaks French fluently, he admits to being a little starved for conversation. That, my friend, we can fix –and you may wish you had never asked. We exchange the regular travel stories, getting to know you info, and bets on when we’ll arrive in Nice (that is, if we arrive in Nice).
Miraculously, we do make it back – not too much worse for the wear, with a story to tell, and a new friend tagging along for dinner. Nourishment achieved, we arrange a meeting time and place for later that evening. The night starts at Thor, a Viking themed bar with pints on Andrew, who reassures us that “he has a salary, we’re in college” he remembers how it is, money wise. When the night gets chillier, we head inside to bitch about the 40 minute tracks of House and sing Disney songs. The band finally begins its second set, with none other than “Take on Me.” We rush to the upper floor to celebrate the improvement in music selection. From there out, we dance, we sing, we laugh…until 2:30, when a bar tender hands Molly a plastic cup for her remaining beer and tells us to get out. “Closing Time” is played; it’s just like Lebanon Valley! (Anyone?)
Friday night was Andrew’s last night in Nice before he flew to London for a week. His flight was around 6:30 AM and had no plans of going to bed before that. We went to Wayne’s at 7 to catch the tail end of Happy Hour (noon til nine!) before grabbing some gelato, getting thrown out of the personally dubbed “V.I.P. Room” in another bar so some French kids could take over and then moving to the beach. One thing led to another, and a round of “Truth or Dare” commenced. By the time we left the shore’s edge, I had been in the ocean, clothed, Megan had done her best to find French kids to play “Rock, paper, scissors” with her, and Andrew had done a cartwheel on the extraordinarily unforgiving rocks. Saying good bye to our new friend, Megan, Molly and I headed back to the hostel at 4 AM to catch a few hours of sleep before the next day’s adventure.
The traffic from Nice to Monaco is ever present and steady; it’s a great way to get to know your fellow tourists, as you stand within a few sparse centimeters from them. It is unfortunate that some Europeans believe daily deodorant application to be optional.
Thankfully, the promise of the day’s adventure lay at our feet; a true comfort to look forward to while stuck on the bus.
Arriving in Monaco, we practically stepped off the bus and into casino grounds. Famous – or infamous – for its James Bond-esque lifestyle and residents, Monaco is a tax haven and thus attracts the wealthy from all over. Note the constant growl of Ferraris in downtown Monte Carlo; the air smells like money.
We immediately made the climb to the Royal Palace, which is still the ruling family’s residence. The changing of the guard, with all the pomp and circumstance necessary was the soundtrack to our lunch, before we embarked inside.
The palace is stunning, with a wealth of Louis XIII and XIV fabrics, furniture, and design. After the grand tour, the requisite family portraits, and a guided audio history, we emerged, experts on the Monaco Monarchy. This really means, I had a listen of things to google / wikipedia when I returned to A’dam. Continuing with the theme at hand, we visited the Royal Cathedral, where Grace Kelly and Prince Rainier III were wed, and now both lie in tombs behind the altar. I’ve seen around a dozen churches, chapels, cathedrals in my time in Europe, and about a half dozen famous peoples’ tombs. I’m not sure what this says about my level of morbid curiosity, but I’m surely not alone in this interest.
Monaco is a beautiful country, with houses scattered across the rolling hillsides, overlooking the crisp azure Mediterranean. Its one of those locales that every building, regardless of its use, is exquisitely designed and adorned. The Aquarium was no exception. The interior did not disappoint either; sights included a multilevel coral reef exhibition, diagrams of the water system (it pumps water directly in from the nearby sea), and a swirling column of fish. With several dozen carefully steadied, no flash pictures on the memory card (they don’t like flash, I can tell, really!) we reentered the sunshine to make our way leisurely back to the bus stop. After a slight hassle, we found the bus stop that headed back to Nice. We discovered that about 50 other people had also found this bus stop. Seven minutes late (European buses tend to be right on time), the bus had no sooner opened its doors before scores of tired, overheated, and grumpy people began to flood the door. The four of us almost backed out, in exchange for the next bus, but it seemed risky to wait, and we waded into to the mass of humanity This wasn’t the first time I experienced European rudeness and it wouldn’t unfortunately be the last. At this point, my only goal was to get on that bus. We made it, and I ended up uncomfortably close to this guy sitting on one of the wheel wells for a while. When the small children across the way got off, I crawled between the chairs and a pole to sit on the opposite wheel well.
As the proposed 45 minute trip slowly dragged into an hour and beyond, we are still the only chipper group – and the only English speakers, or so we think. At each bus stop, hordes of people rush into the street; at one point, a group of teenagers block the bus’ path, visibly pleading with the driver and even sitting down in the road. All I can see in our future is riots, ala Le Heine. We continue to chat and speculate our own future when a nicely dressed man asks us where were from in the states. Andrew’s a mechanical engineer from Illinois, traveling alone in Nice, before heading off to meet up with some friends in Greece. While he speaks French fluently, he admits to being a little starved for conversation. That, my friend, we can fix –and you may wish you had never asked. We exchange the regular travel stories, getting to know you info, and bets on when we’ll arrive in Nice (that is, if we arrive in Nice).
Miraculously, we do make it back – not too much worse for the wear, with a story to tell, and a new friend tagging along for dinner. Nourishment achieved, we arrange a meeting time and place for later that evening. The night starts at Thor, a Viking themed bar with pints on Andrew, who reassures us that “he has a salary, we’re in college” he remembers how it is, money wise. When the night gets chillier, we head inside to bitch about the 40 minute tracks of House and sing Disney songs. The band finally begins its second set, with none other than “Take on Me.” We rush to the upper floor to celebrate the improvement in music selection. From there out, we dance, we sing, we laugh…until 2:30, when a bar tender hands Molly a plastic cup for her remaining beer and tells us to get out. “Closing Time” is played; it’s just like Lebanon Valley! (Anyone?)
Friday night was Andrew’s last night in Nice before he flew to London for a week. His flight was around 6:30 AM and had no plans of going to bed before that. We went to Wayne’s at 7 to catch the tail end of Happy Hour (noon til nine!) before grabbing some gelato, getting thrown out of the personally dubbed “V.I.P. Room” in another bar so some French kids could take over and then moving to the beach. One thing led to another, and a round of “Truth or Dare” commenced. By the time we left the shore’s edge, I had been in the ocean, clothed, Megan had done her best to find French kids to play “Rock, paper, scissors” with her, and Andrew had done a cartwheel on the extraordinarily unforgiving rocks. Saying good bye to our new friend, Megan, Molly and I headed back to the hostel at 4 AM to catch a few hours of sleep before the next day’s adventure.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Friday, May 25, 2007
The Hazards of Riviera Life
Friday morning we set out ready to wholly dedicate ourselves to a day at the beach. Megan and I arrived around noon, after the necessary pastry stop and did our best to rearrange the stones into comfortable bedding. Unfortunately, there really is no way to do that, but nevertheless, our spirits never lagged. Armed with books, slathered in sun block, the Mediterranean at our feet, we established our temporary empire. Perfection.
Now the beach is a prime location for people watching and there is, of course the French – or rather, is it European? - tradition of topless sunbathing, which is never as glamorous as American men would like to believe. It is not only the young supple things baring their breasts. Either way, not many sights tend to incite alarm in me, but sitting on the pebbly beach – i.e. perched atop small boulders which were attempting to reroute my spine – I was quite concerned by a vast trend.
Now, in comparison to anyone, I’m pretty white. I walk from the back door to my car, and I have 28 or so new freckles. I leisurely stop to chat with a neighbor for 9 and half minutes, and I’m approaching a lovely shade of rose. As a result, I am a sunscreen Nazi. I wear sunscreen on my face everyday, but when beach time approaches, I only leave shelter after at least three different applications of sunscreen to my face, and then an all over app of at least SPF 30. This is the major leagues.
While we may share some heritage, most French do not share my passion for sun protection. They sail across those rocks, jug of tanning oil in hand, and begin the dousing. After fully shined, they proceed to plant themselves in the correct sunlight and … bake. There is no other way to better describe it, because that’s what is literally occurring. As I gaped in horror at several women the color of Oompa Lumpas prep’ing themselves for the roast, the desire to issue a loud public service announcement arose within me. Despite my best intentions, I managed to restrain myself. So I just kept my mouth shut and applied more lotion.
Now the beach is a prime location for people watching and there is, of course the French – or rather, is it European? - tradition of topless sunbathing, which is never as glamorous as American men would like to believe. It is not only the young supple things baring their breasts. Either way, not many sights tend to incite alarm in me, but sitting on the pebbly beach – i.e. perched atop small boulders which were attempting to reroute my spine – I was quite concerned by a vast trend.
Now, in comparison to anyone, I’m pretty white. I walk from the back door to my car, and I have 28 or so new freckles. I leisurely stop to chat with a neighbor for 9 and half minutes, and I’m approaching a lovely shade of rose. As a result, I am a sunscreen Nazi. I wear sunscreen on my face everyday, but when beach time approaches, I only leave shelter after at least three different applications of sunscreen to my face, and then an all over app of at least SPF 30. This is the major leagues.
While we may share some heritage, most French do not share my passion for sun protection. They sail across those rocks, jug of tanning oil in hand, and begin the dousing. After fully shined, they proceed to plant themselves in the correct sunlight and … bake. There is no other way to better describe it, because that’s what is literally occurring. As I gaped in horror at several women the color of Oompa Lumpas prep’ing themselves for the roast, the desire to issue a loud public service announcement arose within me. Despite my best intentions, I managed to restrain myself. So I just kept my mouth shut and applied more lotion.
The French Riviera: # 1 in the Series
I’ve always wanted to go to France. After a weekend in Paris, I discovered I loved the country just as much as I had always expected. Thus, when we were all huddled inside during those cold, rainy, miserable winter months, plans for the realization of another dream were born. We were going to the French Riviera for six days. Joining the elite and famous, the South of France would be our domain. And so, the adventure began.
Overcoming train strikes, plane delays, and the French language, we four lovely ladies arrived in Nice Tuesday evening, and were not 20 yards off the aircraft before I was warned not to “Americanize” the pronunciation of “Nice.” I guess my overuse of the word “nice” (to get the accent, look for the capital; that’ll be the French locale) has been recognized. But of course I wouldn’t do such an insensitive thing, I love the French, they are my people – really though, the Canadians are my blood, they are so much chiller and less rude.
Nice is a picturesque seaside city – open air markets, an ocean-side promenade, and sunbathers galore. The Mediterranean Sea is a close second to the Caribbean for clarity and color, and its not overly cold – and coming from me, that’s pretty amazing. 9 AM on the first day there, I was already knee deep – and yes, fully clothed - in the Mediterranean – and it only got better from there.
After a sustaining crepe to hold us over, we set off to climb the numerous stairs of Le Chateau. The view from the first summit was a breathtaking panorama of the city, ocean, and the residences on the hills. We couldn’t go all the way up, as the park closed at twilight. While the view was spectacular, we were lucky enough to witness an even more astounding sight. I had joked on one of our rest stops to the top, that if I lived in Nice, I’d run these stairs once a day and call it my total body workout. Shortly there after, a man carrying a mountain bike on his shoulder passed us. Now, that’s a workout. At first it seems a bit odd, but then we realize there must be trails down the other side of the hill. Kudos, sir, you put my sorry ass to shame. Little did I know, he was going to capitalize on that fact in a matter of moments.Descending Le Chateau, I hear the common place sound of a bike in a not very common place. We turn to discover this man is biking down the stairs. We stop dead and gape in horror as this brave individual thunders down several long flights of stairs, turn a corner, barely miss some pedestrians, pull a wheelie before hopping onto the last flight of stairs. Dumbstruck, we can’t stop discussing the likelihood that emergency medical attention is imminent. An old man passing through laughs at our exclamations and offers, “he crazy, yes?” When we reached the bottom – at a much slower rate – we were pleasantly surprised to not stumble upon a battered human being intertwined with cycle. Sir, you win, hands down. None of us could even fathom a way to beat that move.
And it just keeps on going; be ready!
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Craving America: It's Always the Little Things
With 16 days left on the great continent, I can't deny that I am really looking forward to returning to the land of my birth. Being apart from America for almost five months has revealed the many great aspects of the crazy States that I had previously not noticed. While the most obvious being my friends, family, dog, free water, and less sexual harassment, there are those little life details that stand out, that for me, are the best - or only available - in America.
1. Riding in my Dad's truck, blasting Petty
2. Chic tens from the Wrap Shop @ school
3. Saturday breakfast at Mems
4. Christmas music (I don't care if its May, I'd love me some Bing Crosby right now)
5. Wide open spaces
6. One stop shopping, ala' Walmart/Target (yeah, I said it; that's confidence right there)
7. Convection ovens
8. Jacuzzi Tub (at this point, any bathtub would be appreciated)
9. Trees over eight years old - and thus, taller than 15 feet.
10. Real cookies
...The list could go on and on, ranging from the inconsquential to the profound (ok, no, I won't be professing love for the Constitution anytime soon), but I'm supposed to be writing a paper presently, so back to that. Stories of the French Riviera soon though!
1. Riding in my Dad's truck, blasting Petty
2. Chic tens from the Wrap Shop @ school
3. Saturday breakfast at Mems
4. Christmas music (I don't care if its May, I'd love me some Bing Crosby right now)
5. Wide open spaces
6. One stop shopping, ala' Walmart/Target (yeah, I said it; that's confidence right there)
7. Convection ovens
8. Jacuzzi Tub (at this point, any bathtub would be appreciated)
9. Trees over eight years old - and thus, taller than 15 feet.
10. Real cookies
...The list could go on and on, ranging from the inconsquential to the profound (ok, no, I won't be professing love for the Constitution anytime soon), but I'm supposed to be writing a paper presently, so back to that. Stories of the French Riviera soon though!
Sunday, May 20, 2007
6 Days in 60 Words: The French Riviera
“These are not pebbles,” Our friend Jacque / Frederick, Monegasques, “I’m wasted!” Biking Le Chateau, Elephant Graveyard, Construction Street, Meeting at the Monoprix, Cannes Film Festival, “Take on Me,” Palm trees, Gran Prix, Rich boyfriend search, Crepes “Florida!” Happy Hour: noon to 9 PM, Monte Carlo, Rock, paper, scissors, menage a quatre, “They are sitting in front of the bus”
Lots more to come, of course...and about 200 photos or so. Be excited, be very excited.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Shiermonnikoog
Shiermonnikoog: with a name like that, you bet your ass its going to be…a nearly deserted island in the Noord Zee. 1000 permanent inhabitants, livestock, little English, and CIEE thinks it’s a great idea to take 30 American college students up there for the weekend.
We arrived in a downpour; immediately an executive decision was made.
Overheard: “If we’re just gonna be sitting around, no reason to do it sober.”
However, while the Netherlands has a strange similarity to New England, the deluge stopped, and the sun began to shine. We embarked on rented bikes with questionable breaks, into a natural world of trees and sheep and savanna like fields. We then promptly got viciously lost. Riding into a gale-force wind along a dijk, calling for directions wasn’t even possible; you couldn’t talk over the gust, nor were there any identifying landmarks. “Well, we’re near a dike. There’s some waterfowl. I see a barn in the distance.”
In a feat of pure perseverance, we arrive back too late to catch the guided bike tour (though at this point, we only need a nap) but just in time to crack open a beer.
Dinner comes and goes. The rain commences, wanes, recommences; I’ve stopped noticing. We head to the beach for a bonfire and quickly head back in hopes of warmth and dryness. On the ride home, I am yelling – of course – about being able to ride this bike, as it is unfamiliar and has foot breaks, and out of the darkness comes a perfectly calm and unaccented English: “Are you sure?” Moving on, though the locals appear to enjoy our presence; at least we’re something different to look at.
Back at the hostel, the alcohol consumption is in full swing. The CIEE stocked Amstel is gone in less than an hour. All the beer our room bought is gone. And the best part of drunken college students trapped in small spaces together has begun: drama. I can sense it; its in the air – with this group, tension spurred by self righteous liberals (more often than not from California) constantly hangs in wait, but the bier has only lubricated a quicker descent into CIEE Shitshow: 2007. I think it’s a good time for bed, but I’m cool, chillaxing, but then someone does it.
“Maria, you can’t go to bed!”
Oh bitch please, watch me. I don’t need permission in life to do anything; trying to withhold it from me only causes extreme rebellion. At this point, Christ himself could be scheduled to arrive shortly, but the challenge has been made; I will prove you wrong, I will go to bed, I will be a stubborn bastard. Conclusion: Maria’s happily in bed.
And happily asleep until:
“Mar-ree-ah!”
“Mhmdhm, huh?”
“I just got slapped in the face by Emily; drama is going down!”
“What the fuck?!”
“Yeah, I’ll regale you with stories in the morning.”
“Uhhh, dank u wel!”
“Astu!”
Not long after that exchange with Sully, Molly comes in, overwhelmed by the tension in the common room. She brings me water as she tears around the room, recounting what is going on…but no one really knows for sure what’s going on. By what I’ve gleaned, a debate on gender roles has arisen.
Not long past this, Sully wakes me up again.
“I made Madeline cry.”
“Huh? How?”
“Well, I chose to disagree, and she chose to cry.”
“Well, what did you say to her?”
“I told her she was a lost cause.”
In hysterics, I advise everyone to go to bed and pass back out. When all was said and done the morning after, I was nominated as the smartest individual present, as my decision spared me so many opportunities for problems. I win. Not that that is new.
Sans alcohol (and plus a lot of hangovers) we head out on the mud flats with the epitome of the Dutch fisherman as our guide. There are several causalities to the mud, but it’s quite awesome – the ecosystem here is pretty similar to what I’ve experienced in the North Atlantic around New England. Check out my pictures.
The trip back is long and semi-painful, but we arrive home in A’dam an hour ahead of schedule; just in time for everyone to start laundry. Twas a good time, but I have to say, I’m glad there will be no more traveling with CIEE.
As we speak, I am 10 hours away from being in Nice, France. I’ll be back on Sunday; be ready for stories and joyness!
http://siena.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2019149&l=6b64e&id=35200150
http://siena.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2019309&l=b846f&id=35200150
We arrived in a downpour; immediately an executive decision was made.
Overheard: “If we’re just gonna be sitting around, no reason to do it sober.”
However, while the Netherlands has a strange similarity to New England, the deluge stopped, and the sun began to shine. We embarked on rented bikes with questionable breaks, into a natural world of trees and sheep and savanna like fields. We then promptly got viciously lost. Riding into a gale-force wind along a dijk, calling for directions wasn’t even possible; you couldn’t talk over the gust, nor were there any identifying landmarks. “Well, we’re near a dike. There’s some waterfowl. I see a barn in the distance.”
In a feat of pure perseverance, we arrive back too late to catch the guided bike tour (though at this point, we only need a nap) but just in time to crack open a beer.
Dinner comes and goes. The rain commences, wanes, recommences; I’ve stopped noticing. We head to the beach for a bonfire and quickly head back in hopes of warmth and dryness. On the ride home, I am yelling – of course – about being able to ride this bike, as it is unfamiliar and has foot breaks, and out of the darkness comes a perfectly calm and unaccented English: “Are you sure?” Moving on, though the locals appear to enjoy our presence; at least we’re something different to look at.
Back at the hostel, the alcohol consumption is in full swing. The CIEE stocked Amstel is gone in less than an hour. All the beer our room bought is gone. And the best part of drunken college students trapped in small spaces together has begun: drama. I can sense it; its in the air – with this group, tension spurred by self righteous liberals (more often than not from California) constantly hangs in wait, but the bier has only lubricated a quicker descent into CIEE Shitshow: 2007. I think it’s a good time for bed, but I’m cool, chillaxing, but then someone does it.
“Maria, you can’t go to bed!”
Oh bitch please, watch me. I don’t need permission in life to do anything; trying to withhold it from me only causes extreme rebellion. At this point, Christ himself could be scheduled to arrive shortly, but the challenge has been made; I will prove you wrong, I will go to bed, I will be a stubborn bastard. Conclusion: Maria’s happily in bed.
And happily asleep until:
“Mar-ree-ah!”
“Mhmdhm, huh?”
“I just got slapped in the face by Emily; drama is going down!”
“What the fuck?!”
“Yeah, I’ll regale you with stories in the morning.”
“Uhhh, dank u wel!”
“Astu!”
Not long after that exchange with Sully, Molly comes in, overwhelmed by the tension in the common room. She brings me water as she tears around the room, recounting what is going on…but no one really knows for sure what’s going on. By what I’ve gleaned, a debate on gender roles has arisen.
Not long past this, Sully wakes me up again.
“I made Madeline cry.”
“Huh? How?”
“Well, I chose to disagree, and she chose to cry.”
“Well, what did you say to her?”
“I told her she was a lost cause.”
In hysterics, I advise everyone to go to bed and pass back out. When all was said and done the morning after, I was nominated as the smartest individual present, as my decision spared me so many opportunities for problems. I win. Not that that is new.
Sans alcohol (and plus a lot of hangovers) we head out on the mud flats with the epitome of the Dutch fisherman as our guide. There are several causalities to the mud, but it’s quite awesome – the ecosystem here is pretty similar to what I’ve experienced in the North Atlantic around New England. Check out my pictures.
The trip back is long and semi-painful, but we arrive home in A’dam an hour ahead of schedule; just in time for everyone to start laundry. Twas a good time, but I have to say, I’m glad there will be no more traveling with CIEE.
As we speak, I am 10 hours away from being in Nice, France. I’ll be back on Sunday; be ready for stories and joyness!
http://siena.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2019149&l=6b64e&id=35200150
http://siena.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2019309&l=b846f&id=35200150
Saturday, May 12, 2007
To Hold You Over While I'm out of Civilization
Just something I want to leave you with:
Now that you’re done giggling, let me share the thought of my Father that has been making me chuckle to myself all week. If you know our backyard, you’ve noticed the large field present. I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve experienced this (Neil likes to recycle stories and jokes) in my young life, but still it makes me laugh. Dad would stroll into the field, strike above pose and ask, grinning,
“Do you know what I am?”
“No, Daddy, what?”
“I’m outstanding in my field!” (Insert ridiculous Segala laugh here)
Scene.
Now that you’re done giggling, let me share the thought of my Father that has been making me chuckle to myself all week. If you know our backyard, you’ve noticed the large field present. I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve experienced this (Neil likes to recycle stories and jokes) in my young life, but still it makes me laugh. Dad would stroll into the field, strike above pose and ask, grinning,
“Do you know what I am?”
“No, Daddy, what?”
“I’m outstanding in my field!” (Insert ridiculous Segala laugh here)
Scene.
Friday, May 11, 2007
My Advice of the Day:
If you harbor a strong dislike toward foreigners, do not become a tour guide.
This past Wednesday, Dutch Social Policy class and several other CIEE'ers braved the way too early morning hours and a two hour bus ride to witness the Dutch ingenuity that keeps the North Sea out of the Netherlands: Deltaworks. A system of dams and emergency water gates, our excursion to Deltaworks in Zeeland corresponded with our weekly topic, water management. With 1/3 to 1/2 the country below sea level (depending on who you're talking to, the level of the tides, and the location within the NLS), its pretty important to have some protection. With the inevitable threat of global warming on the horizon, the Dutch are arguably the best prepared, and are going to have to lend some advice to our sorry asses across the Atlantic.
But, I had a point, so let's return to that. We set off on our tour, and within 10 minutes of being in Zeeland, the Dutch hostility begins. Now, I have encountered several occurrences of this Dutch hostility before (see also, man in bread line on Koninginnedag). Walking between the tour guide (who never introduced himself) and Bonny, Lenore and I are discussing that fact that CIEE never told us where the hospitals are in Amsterdam. Segueing, I recount the ElectronicA Museum story, where I was happy to discover the word "pacemaker" does not change in Dutch, but it would probably serve me better if I knew more Dutch. We continue to converse about how it is hard to learn Dutch when the Amsterdammers are such accommodating neighbors - even when you speak Dutch to them, they often resort to English, because it’s easier.
WELL - Mr. Tour Guide decides to crashingly enter a conversation he was neither part of nor invited to join, and begins to rail on about how shouldn't we be learning the language of the country we're in (um, trying!) and then have the nerve to say:
"Well, only England speaks English."
Um. WHAT? Who are you? What is your issue? If you have begun drinking already today, please be kind enough to share, so this will make sense to the rest of us.
He concedes on that but begrudgingly insists, "Well, England and only North America."
ONLY North America. Let's take a moment and review some stats.
Population of North America (US, Mexico, Canada): 442,363,940
Population of the Netherlands: 16,491,461
And I'm being forgiving; I didn't bother bringing the population of the UK into this. Anyways, he persists in arguing with Lenore; I f'ing clear out, I am not fighting with a Dutchman this early in the day. Ironically enough, Lenore is Antillean, her father speaks Dutch, and she is arguably putting more effort into learning the language than any of us. Nice job, angry Dutchman.
After he gave us a tour (his English wasn't that good, I'm that played a part in his hatred toward it and us) he cleared out ridiculously fast, leaving us in the doorway of a dam. It's great to be hated because you come from the only remaining superpower in the world and happen to speak what has been recently declared the most widespread language the world has ever seen. (I read an article in the Int'l Times that suggests no other language will ever dominate the way English currently does; it has surpassed the linga francas of the past: French, Sanskrit, and Latin).
In all fairness, over lunch Bonny reveals the man "hated him first!" It appears that the man had a bit of an inferiority complex - Bonny suspected he had never been to university and A'dammers are viewed as having attitude problems - and had been rude to Bonny right off the start. Apparently, he just hates everyone. Whew, I can sleep better knowing that.
This past Wednesday, Dutch Social Policy class and several other CIEE'ers braved the way too early morning hours and a two hour bus ride to witness the Dutch ingenuity that keeps the North Sea out of the Netherlands: Deltaworks. A system of dams and emergency water gates, our excursion to Deltaworks in Zeeland corresponded with our weekly topic, water management. With 1/3 to 1/2 the country below sea level (depending on who you're talking to, the level of the tides, and the location within the NLS), its pretty important to have some protection. With the inevitable threat of global warming on the horizon, the Dutch are arguably the best prepared, and are going to have to lend some advice to our sorry asses across the Atlantic.
But, I had a point, so let's return to that. We set off on our tour, and within 10 minutes of being in Zeeland, the Dutch hostility begins. Now, I have encountered several occurrences of this Dutch hostility before (see also, man in bread line on Koninginnedag). Walking between the tour guide (who never introduced himself) and Bonny, Lenore and I are discussing that fact that CIEE never told us where the hospitals are in Amsterdam. Segueing, I recount the ElectronicA Museum story, where I was happy to discover the word "pacemaker" does not change in Dutch, but it would probably serve me better if I knew more Dutch. We continue to converse about how it is hard to learn Dutch when the Amsterdammers are such accommodating neighbors - even when you speak Dutch to them, they often resort to English, because it’s easier.
WELL - Mr. Tour Guide decides to crashingly enter a conversation he was neither part of nor invited to join, and begins to rail on about how shouldn't we be learning the language of the country we're in (um, trying!) and then have the nerve to say:
"Well, only England speaks English."
Um. WHAT? Who are you? What is your issue? If you have begun drinking already today, please be kind enough to share, so this will make sense to the rest of us.
He concedes on that but begrudgingly insists, "Well, England and only North America."
ONLY North America. Let's take a moment and review some stats.
Population of North America (US, Mexico, Canada): 442,363,940
Population of the Netherlands: 16,491,461
And I'm being forgiving; I didn't bother bringing the population of the UK into this. Anyways, he persists in arguing with Lenore; I f'ing clear out, I am not fighting with a Dutchman this early in the day. Ironically enough, Lenore is Antillean, her father speaks Dutch, and she is arguably putting more effort into learning the language than any of us. Nice job, angry Dutchman.
After he gave us a tour (his English wasn't that good, I'm that played a part in his hatred toward it and us) he cleared out ridiculously fast, leaving us in the doorway of a dam. It's great to be hated because you come from the only remaining superpower in the world and happen to speak what has been recently declared the most widespread language the world has ever seen. (I read an article in the Int'l Times that suggests no other language will ever dominate the way English currently does; it has surpassed the linga francas of the past: French, Sanskrit, and Latin).
In all fairness, over lunch Bonny reveals the man "hated him first!" It appears that the man had a bit of an inferiority complex - Bonny suspected he had never been to university and A'dammers are viewed as having attitude problems - and had been rude to Bonny right off the start. Apparently, he just hates everyone. Whew, I can sleep better knowing that.
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Government Recommended Binge Drinking
When it comes to drinking, there is purely only one difference between the Europeans and the Americans: the Europeans see no problem. Café Brandon, a quant traditional café (read: bar) on the corner of Herengracht is overflowing by 6 pm on Friday. Expatica.com likes to call this the “European Friday Night Binge;” Lenore’s term conveys it even better: “the 5 O’Clock Free Crack Giveaway.” It’s so packed, they must be serving up something pretty special.
But alas, the Dutch just love their beer. A lot. Throughout the day. While biking, even ( - at 9 AM). Thus, in honor of their love of their Queen Beatrix and beer, April 30th is designated Konninginnedag – or Queen’s Day.
With street wide tag sales, party boats, and a free-for-all attitude (more than usual), Queen’s Day is an experience. As the weekend neared – starting say, on the Wednesday lunch hour – the parties, decorations, and sound stages ramped up around the Prinsengracht. As we were decidedly in the best location, everyone moved in – to my room – for the weekend. Our adventure that included Koninginnedag began at Scheveningen, the sister city of Den Haag, peacefully nestled on the ocean shore. Peaceful is a lie though – it was packed, with a lovely crosswind that quickly coated us and our belongings in sand. After only a few hours in the sun, we all were exhibiting tan lines and decided to make the trek home to get ready for that night.
Splitting into two groups, we departed Centraal with our goals: Lenore and I were buying food. Molly and Kristen were in charge of booze. Off to Albert Heijn! Apparently, 5 PM on Queen’s Night is not a good time to go to the supermarket. The check out lines are backed up half way down the length of the store, while people in the bread line are hostile. Yes, bread line. It was like the Great Depression (or so we imagined), waiting in line for bread – and we just barely got any. The floor of the booze area was several inches deep from overzealous Dutch grabbing after that last Heineken (yeah, that was low). We make it back to our home over an hour after we got back to Amsterdam. Preparations continue: mattresses are moved, fridges are stocked, drinks are poured. We planned in a way that the four of us could have safely remained living in my room for at least a week with the provisions we amassed. We finally head out sometime around 10 or 11, to find that the Dutch are already in full-on party mode.
The music started blasting Thursday night and there was no sign of it stopping now. The Homo monument is awash in a wave of beer and an incredibly vast number of drag queens. Overwhelming is an understatement – but we did not realize it could get worse – or better, depending on how many drinks you’ve had.
The next day, we cautiously venture out and are confronted with a sea of tall, mostly blond, drunk people. The side walks are covered with tag sales, people selling the use of their WC, and even food vendors for a day stands (don’t you people have health codes?!) We are lucky enough to witness a girl get pulled out of the Prinsengracht, though we unfortunately missed her tumble into it. I was nominated to flash a boat in hopes of getting us on to one, but I politely denied my friends’ request (why am I the one always nominated for such tasks?) We end up returning to our haven after a few hours out – Lenore and Kristen immediately set to napping, Molly sits on my window sill, peer pressuring me, while I finish off the two wit biers in my fridge. After two beers, I too, think napping is a wonderful idea (Dear Europe, Please give me back my tolerance, Love Maria), and proceed to do so for a while.
By around 5 PM, we head out to find food and stumble upon the mass exodus that is streaming down the Damrak toward Centraal Station. We make it back to my abode literally 3 hours later and spend the rest of Koninginnedag in a very chill manner.
It was one of those things that it’s cool to be able to say you experienced it, but it was mildly ridiculous – but of course, I wasn’t drinking heavily, that might have altered my perception. It took the city 3 days to clean up the streets – that was horrible, especially riding your bike amongst the glass shards in the street. Over a week later, there are still jager logos spray painted on the cobblestones.
And so you have the tale of our Queen’s Day – arguably not as wild as we could have made it, but I’m just saving the best for you in the States, obviously.
But alas, the Dutch just love their beer. A lot. Throughout the day. While biking, even ( - at 9 AM). Thus, in honor of their love of their Queen Beatrix and beer, April 30th is designated Konninginnedag – or Queen’s Day.
With street wide tag sales, party boats, and a free-for-all attitude (more than usual), Queen’s Day is an experience. As the weekend neared – starting say, on the Wednesday lunch hour – the parties, decorations, and sound stages ramped up around the Prinsengracht. As we were decidedly in the best location, everyone moved in – to my room – for the weekend. Our adventure that included Koninginnedag began at Scheveningen, the sister city of Den Haag, peacefully nestled on the ocean shore. Peaceful is a lie though – it was packed, with a lovely crosswind that quickly coated us and our belongings in sand. After only a few hours in the sun, we all were exhibiting tan lines and decided to make the trek home to get ready for that night.
Splitting into two groups, we departed Centraal with our goals: Lenore and I were buying food. Molly and Kristen were in charge of booze. Off to Albert Heijn! Apparently, 5 PM on Queen’s Night is not a good time to go to the supermarket. The check out lines are backed up half way down the length of the store, while people in the bread line are hostile. Yes, bread line. It was like the Great Depression (or so we imagined), waiting in line for bread – and we just barely got any. The floor of the booze area was several inches deep from overzealous Dutch grabbing after that last Heineken (yeah, that was low). We make it back to our home over an hour after we got back to Amsterdam. Preparations continue: mattresses are moved, fridges are stocked, drinks are poured. We planned in a way that the four of us could have safely remained living in my room for at least a week with the provisions we amassed. We finally head out sometime around 10 or 11, to find that the Dutch are already in full-on party mode.
The music started blasting Thursday night and there was no sign of it stopping now. The Homo monument is awash in a wave of beer and an incredibly vast number of drag queens. Overwhelming is an understatement – but we did not realize it could get worse – or better, depending on how many drinks you’ve had.
The next day, we cautiously venture out and are confronted with a sea of tall, mostly blond, drunk people. The side walks are covered with tag sales, people selling the use of their WC, and even food vendors for a day stands (don’t you people have health codes?!) We are lucky enough to witness a girl get pulled out of the Prinsengracht, though we unfortunately missed her tumble into it. I was nominated to flash a boat in hopes of getting us on to one, but I politely denied my friends’ request (why am I the one always nominated for such tasks?) We end up returning to our haven after a few hours out – Lenore and Kristen immediately set to napping, Molly sits on my window sill, peer pressuring me, while I finish off the two wit biers in my fridge. After two beers, I too, think napping is a wonderful idea (Dear Europe, Please give me back my tolerance, Love Maria), and proceed to do so for a while.
By around 5 PM, we head out to find food and stumble upon the mass exodus that is streaming down the Damrak toward Centraal Station. We make it back to my abode literally 3 hours later and spend the rest of Koninginnedag in a very chill manner.
It was one of those things that it’s cool to be able to say you experienced it, but it was mildly ridiculous – but of course, I wasn’t drinking heavily, that might have altered my perception. It took the city 3 days to clean up the streets – that was horrible, especially riding your bike amongst the glass shards in the street. Over a week later, there are still jager logos spray painted on the cobblestones.
And so you have the tale of our Queen’s Day – arguably not as wild as we could have made it, but I’m just saving the best for you in the States, obviously.
Sunday, May 6, 2007
Love conquers all; Or, how Susan and Neil finally made it to Europe (Al would have made it here eventually)
*NOTE* I suck at updating; I know this. There's a lot of things that require my attention here, I'm sorry! I'll do better next time.
The Segalas were happily reunited for an unseasonably warm week in this here delightful city of Amsterdam. This in and of itself was practically miraculous, for several reasons.
Dad never had a desire to leave his own country, and if he was going to, he was going somewhere 1) like America and 2) Where they spoke English.
Mom doesn’t really care to fly; its 7-8 hours to the Netherlands from the East Coast.
BUT, obviously, if I’m in Europe, they’re coming to visit. To make a very long story of suffering short, their original flight was canceled, they were put on and taken off another flight, drove to JFK only to have to battle the airline that they had been switched too, and then finally getting on a later flight and were then separated for the duration of the trip.
I was here, only kind of hearing the story, explaining to my roommate (several times) that “My Mom really doesn’t like to fly, this can’t be good!” On my end, I had conveniently discovered the limit on my debit card, and had my account effectively frozen without warning – I guess I have a 500 dollar a day limit, which really sucks when you need to withdraw a thousand Euro.
This is truly “the ends justifies the means” type situation, but we get from the airport to their – breathtaking – flat without a hitch.
With only six days to experience all that Amsterdam has to offer, we set out immediately, making the 2 mile sojourn up to my flat, throughout the Jordaan, the Dam and the other surrounding neighborhoods. Since we did so much, I’ll highlight.
We went to the Artis Zoo. I was overjoyed, as usual. My immediate family (and one exboyfriend) are the only people who really truly understand my love for Zoos, aquariums, and the like. My parents paid 200 dollars for us to go to SeaWorld in Florida back when I was …16. So, I’m not outgrowing this anytime soon.
The zoo was very nice and had quite the selection; I wanted to steal several birds and make them my minions. They also had a baby elephant, monkeys that seemed dangerously in reach of human contact, and orange tulips. Mmmhmm.
The weather was summer-time hot for the first 4 days my family was here – which was amazing and I wish it would come back to me – but still did not stop me from making them walk several miles a day. We headed down to the van Gogh museum one of those 80 degree days and I finally got the chance to climb the “I Amsterdam” sign. Alex and I – and several dozen small Dutch kinders – scaled the height, posed for pictures, and discussed how this was a lawsuit waiting to hap…oh wait, this is the Netherlands. They don’t know what “sue” means. Hence the large amount of sexual harassment.
Speaking of, after cruising the Red Light District – and checking out chicks together – Alex began to calculate how much money he could make by trafficking me into the industry. His first asking price was insultingly low (um, 75 Euro? No) while his later estimate of 200 Euro was better – but that was the night he was going to sell me to a carful of greasy Italians. Thanks, bro.
While we didn’t actually fight when we were younger, we now enjoy waging small-scale wars against each other at inopportune times. Unfortunately for me, I tend to be at a disadvantage (despite my “man shoulders;” yeah, Alex’s creativeness, again). I stayed over in their flat several nights and ended up sleeping in Alex’s room. Dead tired, I would come back from the bathroom to find my pillows gone. When I regained them, an arm would reach over and drag all my blankets off (f’ing narrow canal houses!) Or it was the damn emo music, blasting ever-so-lovingly out of the glowing mp3 player that was being shined in my eyes.
Since Alex was here – and Daddy was $upporting the adventure, as he put it so well – we went to see “Hot Fuzz” at the Pathe down on Muntplein. The theatre was beautiful and the movie was absolutely hilarious. It will be on regular rotation in Cushing 104 next semester.
Having lent them all my guidebooks to peruse while I was in class, I was met with a request to go to the ElectronicA museum. While Mom and I weren’t overly interested, I had read it up and knew it was the kind of place made for Alex. We headed over on my break from classes on Wednesday. As we walked in the door, I spied a sign in Dutch and stopped to play that game I like to call “Let’s pretend that I can read Dutch well while all I’m really doing is staring at the words in hopes they reveal the secrets of the Dutch Universe to me.” However, in this sign, one word stood out: “pacemaker.” And a few more: “niet ingang” (no entrance). I literally jumped lithely back out the first entrance and proceeded to step behind the door as a shield, which a really interesting self preservation tactic I’ve taken up more recently. While I knew enough Dutch to cement that I was not allowed in the building, the front desk translated for sure. Vast magnetic fields, duh – I’ve had a pacemaker all my life, my Dad and brother know all about that type of thing, and still we just stroll right in like it’s all good. Needless to say, Mom and I cleared out while the boys continued onward.
With some time to kill, I took Mom for a cappuccino down the way. I then proceeded to astound her with my ability to use Dutch throughout the transaction of ordering, getting the check, and paying. While it doesn’t take that much, it still pretty good, considering my total lack of formal education in the language.
On their last night here, we went on a boat tour with Paap. The temperatures had dropped drastically by now, but the tour was spectacular. Paap knows a lot of interesting things about the city, and while it sounds cliché, there is nothing like seeing Amsterdam from the canals. With everything lit up and the waterways bustling, it was perfect.
I stayed over the last night, so I could see them off to the airport, before biking home. I was a great week, but it arguably made me miss home even more.
With that said though, I have a little over a month left in the gorgeous Netherlands, and oh so many plans. A few day trips here and there amongst the Dutch, a CIEE overnight trip to a remote island (God preserve my soul, ugh), Nice, France for several days in the sun, and finally Barcelona to conclude May. Expect stories and pictures, as I’m sure you were.
The Segalas were happily reunited for an unseasonably warm week in this here delightful city of Amsterdam. This in and of itself was practically miraculous, for several reasons.
Dad never had a desire to leave his own country, and if he was going to, he was going somewhere 1) like America and 2) Where they spoke English.
Mom doesn’t really care to fly; its 7-8 hours to the Netherlands from the East Coast.
BUT, obviously, if I’m in Europe, they’re coming to visit. To make a very long story of suffering short, their original flight was canceled, they were put on and taken off another flight, drove to JFK only to have to battle the airline that they had been switched too, and then finally getting on a later flight and were then separated for the duration of the trip.
I was here, only kind of hearing the story, explaining to my roommate (several times) that “My Mom really doesn’t like to fly, this can’t be good!” On my end, I had conveniently discovered the limit on my debit card, and had my account effectively frozen without warning – I guess I have a 500 dollar a day limit, which really sucks when you need to withdraw a thousand Euro.
This is truly “the ends justifies the means” type situation, but we get from the airport to their – breathtaking – flat without a hitch.
With only six days to experience all that Amsterdam has to offer, we set out immediately, making the 2 mile sojourn up to my flat, throughout the Jordaan, the Dam and the other surrounding neighborhoods. Since we did so much, I’ll highlight.
We went to the Artis Zoo. I was overjoyed, as usual. My immediate family (and one exboyfriend) are the only people who really truly understand my love for Zoos, aquariums, and the like. My parents paid 200 dollars for us to go to SeaWorld in Florida back when I was …16. So, I’m not outgrowing this anytime soon.
The zoo was very nice and had quite the selection; I wanted to steal several birds and make them my minions. They also had a baby elephant, monkeys that seemed dangerously in reach of human contact, and orange tulips. Mmmhmm.
The weather was summer-time hot for the first 4 days my family was here – which was amazing and I wish it would come back to me – but still did not stop me from making them walk several miles a day. We headed down to the van Gogh museum one of those 80 degree days and I finally got the chance to climb the “I Amsterdam” sign. Alex and I – and several dozen small Dutch kinders – scaled the height, posed for pictures, and discussed how this was a lawsuit waiting to hap…oh wait, this is the Netherlands. They don’t know what “sue” means. Hence the large amount of sexual harassment.
Speaking of, after cruising the Red Light District – and checking out chicks together – Alex began to calculate how much money he could make by trafficking me into the industry. His first asking price was insultingly low (um, 75 Euro? No) while his later estimate of 200 Euro was better – but that was the night he was going to sell me to a carful of greasy Italians. Thanks, bro.
While we didn’t actually fight when we were younger, we now enjoy waging small-scale wars against each other at inopportune times. Unfortunately for me, I tend to be at a disadvantage (despite my “man shoulders;” yeah, Alex’s creativeness, again). I stayed over in their flat several nights and ended up sleeping in Alex’s room. Dead tired, I would come back from the bathroom to find my pillows gone. When I regained them, an arm would reach over and drag all my blankets off (f’ing narrow canal houses!) Or it was the damn emo music, blasting ever-so-lovingly out of the glowing mp3 player that was being shined in my eyes.
Since Alex was here – and Daddy was $upporting the adventure, as he put it so well – we went to see “Hot Fuzz” at the Pathe down on Muntplein. The theatre was beautiful and the movie was absolutely hilarious. It will be on regular rotation in Cushing 104 next semester.
Having lent them all my guidebooks to peruse while I was in class, I was met with a request to go to the ElectronicA museum. While Mom and I weren’t overly interested, I had read it up and knew it was the kind of place made for Alex. We headed over on my break from classes on Wednesday. As we walked in the door, I spied a sign in Dutch and stopped to play that game I like to call “Let’s pretend that I can read Dutch well while all I’m really doing is staring at the words in hopes they reveal the secrets of the Dutch Universe to me.” However, in this sign, one word stood out: “pacemaker.” And a few more: “niet ingang” (no entrance). I literally jumped lithely back out the first entrance and proceeded to step behind the door as a shield, which a really interesting self preservation tactic I’ve taken up more recently. While I knew enough Dutch to cement that I was not allowed in the building, the front desk translated for sure. Vast magnetic fields, duh – I’ve had a pacemaker all my life, my Dad and brother know all about that type of thing, and still we just stroll right in like it’s all good. Needless to say, Mom and I cleared out while the boys continued onward.
With some time to kill, I took Mom for a cappuccino down the way. I then proceeded to astound her with my ability to use Dutch throughout the transaction of ordering, getting the check, and paying. While it doesn’t take that much, it still pretty good, considering my total lack of formal education in the language.
On their last night here, we went on a boat tour with Paap. The temperatures had dropped drastically by now, but the tour was spectacular. Paap knows a lot of interesting things about the city, and while it sounds cliché, there is nothing like seeing Amsterdam from the canals. With everything lit up and the waterways bustling, it was perfect.
I stayed over the last night, so I could see them off to the airport, before biking home. I was a great week, but it arguably made me miss home even more.
With that said though, I have a little over a month left in the gorgeous Netherlands, and oh so many plans. A few day trips here and there amongst the Dutch, a CIEE overnight trip to a remote island (God preserve my soul, ugh), Nice, France for several days in the sun, and finally Barcelona to conclude May. Expect stories and pictures, as I’m sure you were.
Friday, April 27, 2007
It's coming...
Koninginnedag (Queen's Day) is coming up; as is Queen's Night, King's Night, and the night before that. The parties started last night and will continue every night until Sunday, whereupon they will just continue straight through the day until the early morning hours of Tuesday. I'm not partying all of those days - I know, where's my spirit? - but I have my orange to wear in honor of the Queen, and will be out and about with about a million other people Sunday/Monday. Will update better soon, but until then:
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
We interupt your regularly scheduled blogcast...
...for some not so important info. Yes, I will be blogging about my family's visit, but first, a side story.
Today began as any other day in Amsterdam: woke up, ate some nutella, dragged the bike out of the basement, and I was off to whatever adventures/mishaps the land of the Dutch had to offer.
Molly needed her tattoo touched up and I was going along as moral support and spectator. On the way there though, I decided a little sojourn in uncharted territory was fitting - this is only an extension of last night's venture into the Westerly unknown, during my late night run (weird I know, don't ask.) I head into the Jordaan and am quickly swept into a steady stream of traffic heading West. Before I realize that I have left the cocoon that is the Centrum, I am distracted by an Aldi's. Now, an Aldi's is not an impressive thing - not here, not in Bennington, VT. BUT, if you're a Segala, you possess a certain albeit forced, connection to Aldi's.
My Grandparents lived through the Great Depression and apparently never got over it. They probably have 2.5 - 3 times the amount of food in storage in their house for the 2 of them then we have for 4 active people, including a growing boy ("Hey Alex, what'd ya have for breakfast?" "Donuts." "Oh, what kind did you have?" "Um, one of each, except those lemon ones.") They also never had a lot of money, so they are always on the prowl for a good deal. I support that goal, there's no need to spend more money than necessary (this is why I drink alcohol that Laura pays for, duh) but, like everything else, you can go too far. Example: my Grandfather will drive to the Aldi's in Bennington, Vermont to buy vast amounts of sub par bananas, because, hey they are only 45 cents a pound, compared to Big Y, where they are 89 cents a pound. There is no use in pointing out the fact that Big Y is a 4 minute car drive, while Bennington is an half hour and in a totally different state on top of that; it doesn't matter. Grandpa is convinced; Aldi's is the place to go. So, when I realized that Aldi's were a German company and thus had stores in the Netherlands, I was amused - surprisingly enough I still had no desire to go to these Aldi's anymore than I do Vermont's. But back to this morning.
So, I see the Aldi's and I am nostalgic for home and Grandpa calling me just to tell me the price of bananas (and absolutely nothing else) and decide that when I have more time, I'm gonna go. Oh yay, Maria, you are a badass; the ideas your twisted mind brings forth!
Outside of the joy of finding an Aldi's in Amsterdam, I realize I have stumbled upon a residential area of lesser means. "Lesser means" here is not really an insult when you consider the canal houses I live near cost over 2.5 million Euro, the aforementioned apartment buildings are probably not cheap, but well kept, if uninspired. I also begin to notice an increase in Arabic store signs...and the fact that I just may be a minority. In comparison to the school children I pass, I give off that nice ghostly glow of uber whiteness, and I'm wearing white, just in case anyone mistakenly thought I had pigment. Anyways, I find myself in the Oud (Old) West. Oh cool! I've gotten out of the Centrum, I'm so integrated! Shortly there after, I'm in Bos en Lommer. All I know is that it translates as "Forest and..." who knows; there hasn't been a forest in this area in probably 400 years, and what good would it do me anyways? Noting the time, I head back in what I believe is an Easterly direction; all of a sudden, I'm in Westerpark? Now, without someone waiting on me, I wouldn't have been concerned at all, but that is not the current case. I eventually spy a tower that possibly resembles Westerkerk/Niewe Markt/Muntplein but I recognize it, so I basically head toward it, eventually coming out on my own canal. Score, Maria wins.
After the tattooing and a sorry attempt at school work, the 70 plus weather is calling me away. Abandoning the gym - only for today - for a longer bike ride, I decide to head back to the Aldi's.
Inside I feel as if all of us patrons are wandering a bit lost in this horribly set up, unappealing, and questionable warehouse. Browsing their extensive freeze case (AH, you kinda are slacking in this dept), I hear a loud ambulance siren cut short. In a city where cars pull U-turns at red lights or drive over the medians/tram tracks on a whim, I laugh at the fact that they would really pull such a low move as using their "authoritative power" to move traffic along. You don't deal with cops and such as much here as you do in America, but I still don't like authority figures; unless I am one, then it's ok.
Now, like many of supermarkets in Europe, they set them up so you go in through a gate and can only get out by going through the check out - after purchasing something. Well, no one is going to tell me I have to buy something, so I head back to the entrance to jump the turnstile (I've done it in AH) and see cops. I stop abruptly, because I tend to react to cops as if I was packing several unregistered weapons and at least a kilo of coke. Rest assured, outside of a traffic violation (on a bike) I have no reason to avoid the cops as much as I do. Though, 2 recent run-ins with the cops -both which were not essentially my fault - have increased my awareness. It takes but a moment to comprehend their presence, and oh yeah, that ambulance? It's here.
An old man, looking way too unhealthy to be out grocery shopping, appears to be having so chest issues, though he is sitting up and alert. My sympathies to the man of course, but I decide jumping/forcing my way through an entrance turnstile in front of 4 cops is a poorly conceived idea. Fine, Aldi's, you f'ing win, I'll buy something.
6 Euro later, I am the unwilling owner of Zuid Afrika vin and a box of liqueur chocolates. I'm sure the Aldi's people think I have a problem, but I'm cool with that. I clear out as the EMTS are rolling in the stretcher.
Armed with my alcohol, I manage to get back to Prinsengracht without a problem. I've visited an Aldi's, not got in any legal trouble, and I have wine and chocolates!
Now, truly my absolutely recounting of this near-adventure really ends here, but I decided to add a lovely little detail.
Many liqueur chocolates I've seen are very clearly marked: "Contains no alcohol." The inside of the truffle is often a gooey flavoring, as if they took the said liquor and boiled the ethanol out of it. For a moment, I guess I forgot I was in Europe.
I bite into a Raspberry brandy truffle only to be bombarded by a very real alcohol taste and a liquid center that assaults my chin and drips on my legs (thank God I'm not wearing pants!) (Many of you are giggling; yes I recognize the double entendre, why else would I include such an episode?) It's not enough liquor to burn, but its there. With about 15 more truffles and a borrel tonight, there may be no need for that bottle of wine.
Today began as any other day in Amsterdam: woke up, ate some nutella, dragged the bike out of the basement, and I was off to whatever adventures/mishaps the land of the Dutch had to offer.
Molly needed her tattoo touched up and I was going along as moral support and spectator. On the way there though, I decided a little sojourn in uncharted territory was fitting - this is only an extension of last night's venture into the Westerly unknown, during my late night run (weird I know, don't ask.) I head into the Jordaan and am quickly swept into a steady stream of traffic heading West. Before I realize that I have left the cocoon that is the Centrum, I am distracted by an Aldi's. Now, an Aldi's is not an impressive thing - not here, not in Bennington, VT. BUT, if you're a Segala, you possess a certain albeit forced, connection to Aldi's.
My Grandparents lived through the Great Depression and apparently never got over it. They probably have 2.5 - 3 times the amount of food in storage in their house for the 2 of them then we have for 4 active people, including a growing boy ("Hey Alex, what'd ya have for breakfast?" "Donuts." "Oh, what kind did you have?" "Um, one of each, except those lemon ones.") They also never had a lot of money, so they are always on the prowl for a good deal. I support that goal, there's no need to spend more money than necessary (this is why I drink alcohol that Laura pays for, duh) but, like everything else, you can go too far. Example: my Grandfather will drive to the Aldi's in Bennington, Vermont to buy vast amounts of sub par bananas, because, hey they are only 45 cents a pound, compared to Big Y, where they are 89 cents a pound. There is no use in pointing out the fact that Big Y is a 4 minute car drive, while Bennington is an half hour and in a totally different state on top of that; it doesn't matter. Grandpa is convinced; Aldi's is the place to go. So, when I realized that Aldi's were a German company and thus had stores in the Netherlands, I was amused - surprisingly enough I still had no desire to go to these Aldi's anymore than I do Vermont's. But back to this morning.
So, I see the Aldi's and I am nostalgic for home and Grandpa calling me just to tell me the price of bananas (and absolutely nothing else) and decide that when I have more time, I'm gonna go. Oh yay, Maria, you are a badass; the ideas your twisted mind brings forth!
Outside of the joy of finding an Aldi's in Amsterdam, I realize I have stumbled upon a residential area of lesser means. "Lesser means" here is not really an insult when you consider the canal houses I live near cost over 2.5 million Euro, the aforementioned apartment buildings are probably not cheap, but well kept, if uninspired. I also begin to notice an increase in Arabic store signs...and the fact that I just may be a minority. In comparison to the school children I pass, I give off that nice ghostly glow of uber whiteness, and I'm wearing white, just in case anyone mistakenly thought I had pigment. Anyways, I find myself in the Oud (Old) West. Oh cool! I've gotten out of the Centrum, I'm so integrated! Shortly there after, I'm in Bos en Lommer. All I know is that it translates as "Forest and..." who knows; there hasn't been a forest in this area in probably 400 years, and what good would it do me anyways? Noting the time, I head back in what I believe is an Easterly direction; all of a sudden, I'm in Westerpark? Now, without someone waiting on me, I wouldn't have been concerned at all, but that is not the current case. I eventually spy a tower that possibly resembles Westerkerk/Niewe Markt/Muntplein but I recognize it, so I basically head toward it, eventually coming out on my own canal. Score, Maria wins.
After the tattooing and a sorry attempt at school work, the 70 plus weather is calling me away. Abandoning the gym - only for today - for a longer bike ride, I decide to head back to the Aldi's.
Inside I feel as if all of us patrons are wandering a bit lost in this horribly set up, unappealing, and questionable warehouse. Browsing their extensive freeze case (AH, you kinda are slacking in this dept), I hear a loud ambulance siren cut short. In a city where cars pull U-turns at red lights or drive over the medians/tram tracks on a whim, I laugh at the fact that they would really pull such a low move as using their "authoritative power" to move traffic along. You don't deal with cops and such as much here as you do in America, but I still don't like authority figures; unless I am one, then it's ok.
Now, like many of supermarkets in Europe, they set them up so you go in through a gate and can only get out by going through the check out - after purchasing something. Well, no one is going to tell me I have to buy something, so I head back to the entrance to jump the turnstile (I've done it in AH) and see cops. I stop abruptly, because I tend to react to cops as if I was packing several unregistered weapons and at least a kilo of coke. Rest assured, outside of a traffic violation (on a bike) I have no reason to avoid the cops as much as I do. Though, 2 recent run-ins with the cops -both which were not essentially my fault - have increased my awareness. It takes but a moment to comprehend their presence, and oh yeah, that ambulance? It's here.
An old man, looking way too unhealthy to be out grocery shopping, appears to be having so chest issues, though he is sitting up and alert. My sympathies to the man of course, but I decide jumping/forcing my way through an entrance turnstile in front of 4 cops is a poorly conceived idea. Fine, Aldi's, you f'ing win, I'll buy something.
6 Euro later, I am the unwilling owner of Zuid Afrika vin and a box of liqueur chocolates. I'm sure the Aldi's people think I have a problem, but I'm cool with that. I clear out as the EMTS are rolling in the stretcher.
Armed with my alcohol, I manage to get back to Prinsengracht without a problem. I've visited an Aldi's, not got in any legal trouble, and I have wine and chocolates!
Now, truly my absolutely recounting of this near-adventure really ends here, but I decided to add a lovely little detail.
Many liqueur chocolates I've seen are very clearly marked: "Contains no alcohol." The inside of the truffle is often a gooey flavoring, as if they took the said liquor and boiled the ethanol out of it. For a moment, I guess I forgot I was in Europe.
I bite into a Raspberry brandy truffle only to be bombarded by a very real alcohol taste and a liquid center that assaults my chin and drips on my legs (thank God I'm not wearing pants!) (Many of you are giggling; yes I recognize the double entendre, why else would I include such an episode?) It's not enough liquor to burn, but its there. With about 15 more truffles and a borrel tonight, there may be no need for that bottle of wine.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Male interpretions of the fashion industry
Me: "It doesn't really matter what I do, I still have the body of a 14 year old boy."
My bro: "Well that means you can be a model!"
My bro: "Well that means you can be a model!"
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Times Change, Traditions Change
In a surprising move, the people of the Netherlands voted to override the traditional Christian holiday of Easter in favor of a new celebration: Couples Appreciation Day.
In a country with a vast number of atheists – some urban areas boasting over 50 percent self proclaimed – this move made sense to many. As one Amsterdam man put it:
“Christ’s resurrection? Impressive. But getting my girlfriend to watch a whole football game without complaint, now that’s a miracle!”
Couples Appreciation Day, which was celebrated both days previously reserved for the Easter Holiday, appeared to be a huge success in central Amsterdam. Sunday found hundreds of couples strolling arm in arm, couples gazing at the canals, couples lounging in boats; Amsterdam was just overflowing with feelings of companionship. Occasionally, there was the sight of a couple in conflict, but in true spirit of the holiday, they bickered in public, making their couple status – be it harmonious or not – known.
This change is just a continuation of the common European practice of sharing your love for another with the world. This is most often accomplished by affectionate displays in conspicuous locales, such as the middle of public squares, sidewalk benches, and centrally located café tables.
Throughout the city, it was apparent that couples unanimously enjoyed the holiday, but what about that forgotten minority, single persons?
“I didn’t get the memo; if you’re single, please stay inside today,” one solo female quipped.
Social researchers are curious to see if this trend will continue to spread throughout Europe. In respects to population growth and flower sales, scientists expect the movement to swell to other regions.
In a country with a vast number of atheists – some urban areas boasting over 50 percent self proclaimed – this move made sense to many. As one Amsterdam man put it:
“Christ’s resurrection? Impressive. But getting my girlfriend to watch a whole football game without complaint, now that’s a miracle!”
Couples Appreciation Day, which was celebrated both days previously reserved for the Easter Holiday, appeared to be a huge success in central Amsterdam. Sunday found hundreds of couples strolling arm in arm, couples gazing at the canals, couples lounging in boats; Amsterdam was just overflowing with feelings of companionship. Occasionally, there was the sight of a couple in conflict, but in true spirit of the holiday, they bickered in public, making their couple status – be it harmonious or not – known.
This change is just a continuation of the common European practice of sharing your love for another with the world. This is most often accomplished by affectionate displays in conspicuous locales, such as the middle of public squares, sidewalk benches, and centrally located café tables.
Throughout the city, it was apparent that couples unanimously enjoyed the holiday, but what about that forgotten minority, single persons?
“I didn’t get the memo; if you’re single, please stay inside today,” one solo female quipped.
Social researchers are curious to see if this trend will continue to spread throughout Europe. In respects to population growth and flower sales, scientists expect the movement to swell to other regions.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
For your viewing pleasure...
The Main Square in Delft. I post rather than doing homework; bad trend.
Monday, April 9, 2007
Easter in Amsterdam
While you were all off to your family estates, I was celebrating this holy week in a largely atheist city. Of course, that’s perfectly fine for me – still to this day, no one knows how I ended up at Catholic School. Nevertheless, I still celebrate Easter and Good Friday (yeah, I know, supposed to be a solemn day. Day off from school, I say, so praise Christ) and this would be the first – and probably the only – year without a family gathering.
I started the weekend doing the best to occupy myself – doing homework, spring cleaning, absinthe, but still, as Easter Sunday approached, I was slightly grumpy lunch. In an attempt to pacify myself, I slept in, then made pancakes before getting all dressed up (read: actually getting dressed for the first time in almost three days) and heading over to plantage.
There were not many CIEE individuals left in the city of Red Lights, as many were traveling and/or with family over the long weekend. Several of us orphans left here decided it was only fair to throw ourselves an Amsterdam style Easter dinner.
Megan was in charge of the menu; I showed up to carry supplies and help cook. Tory and Ned sliced bread and made salad, while Megan, Sully, and I did most of the cooking. Megan’s very zealous and a-mazing menu included:
Spinach dip
Bruschetta
Chicken, with mysterious peppercorn sauce (it was all in Dutch)
Green beans
Bread
Salad
Mashed potatoes
Gravy
And dessert:
Pound cake with Caramelized bananas and ice cream
Now, of course, with so many cooks – and so many college cooks – practically everything was done at different times. The mashed potatoes were a successful, first time attempt by Sully; I don’t think he realized how long it would take to boil them to a satisfactory mashing point. The chicken was chopped up as it cooked. The spinach dip, bruschetta, and most of two loaves of French bread were all gone by the time we actually sat down for dinner. An hour and a half later, dinner was served. The meal was a resounding success all around.
It wasn’t the traditional Easter dinner per se, but pretty similar to many I’ve been privy to. Violent placing of food on plates,some yelling, inappropriate conversation topics…sounds like home to me.
After dinner – and a marvelous dessert – I headed home to skype the family celebration going on at Mem’s. I got to talk to almost every person present, which was awesome. Just an example of the glory that is my family:
Jon (my cousin): “Hey Cupcake”
Me: “Helllllllllllllloooo, what’s up?”
Jon: “Oh, you know, just being a silly goose.”
Then we talked about how I’m making him and Uncle Jay proud in my time here and also how we both despise all liquors that are licorice flavored (we are not meant to drink jager in my family).
In continuation of the holiday celebrations, I spent an hour at the gym this morning and then went to FOAM, a photography museum late this afternoon (yes I find both of those activities entertaining). I’ve also done no homework – this post is clear evidence of that.
And now, the productiveness begins as my parents arrive on Friday!
I started the weekend doing the best to occupy myself – doing homework, spring cleaning, absinthe, but still, as Easter Sunday approached, I was slightly grumpy lunch. In an attempt to pacify myself, I slept in, then made pancakes before getting all dressed up (read: actually getting dressed for the first time in almost three days) and heading over to plantage.
There were not many CIEE individuals left in the city of Red Lights, as many were traveling and/or with family over the long weekend. Several of us orphans left here decided it was only fair to throw ourselves an Amsterdam style Easter dinner.
Megan was in charge of the menu; I showed up to carry supplies and help cook. Tory and Ned sliced bread and made salad, while Megan, Sully, and I did most of the cooking. Megan’s very zealous and a-mazing menu included:
Spinach dip
Bruschetta
Chicken, with mysterious peppercorn sauce (it was all in Dutch)
Green beans
Bread
Salad
Mashed potatoes
Gravy
And dessert:
Pound cake with Caramelized bananas and ice cream
Now, of course, with so many cooks – and so many college cooks – practically everything was done at different times. The mashed potatoes were a successful, first time attempt by Sully; I don’t think he realized how long it would take to boil them to a satisfactory mashing point. The chicken was chopped up as it cooked. The spinach dip, bruschetta, and most of two loaves of French bread were all gone by the time we actually sat down for dinner. An hour and a half later, dinner was served. The meal was a resounding success all around.
It wasn’t the traditional Easter dinner per se, but pretty similar to many I’ve been privy to. Violent placing of food on plates,some yelling, inappropriate conversation topics…sounds like home to me.
After dinner – and a marvelous dessert – I headed home to skype the family celebration going on at Mem’s. I got to talk to almost every person present, which was awesome. Just an example of the glory that is my family:
Jon (my cousin): “Hey Cupcake”
Me: “Helllllllllllllloooo, what’s up?”
Jon: “Oh, you know, just being a silly goose.”
Then we talked about how I’m making him and Uncle Jay proud in my time here and also how we both despise all liquors that are licorice flavored (we are not meant to drink jager in my family).
In continuation of the holiday celebrations, I spent an hour at the gym this morning and then went to FOAM, a photography museum late this afternoon (yes I find both of those activities entertaining). I’ve also done no homework – this post is clear evidence of that.
And now, the productiveness begins as my parents arrive on Friday!
Sunday, April 8, 2007
When Egos Collide
…now, enough of that thought-provoking, semi-intelligent rambling; let’s talk adventures. By now you probably have all safely and accurately assumed that Boswell and I managed to not kill each other during his visit last week. We represented Americans well; we did not end up as a headline.
After almost a three month period of not seeing each other, it takes less than 15 minutes for Boz to launch the first fat chick joke.
“What? I couldn’t let that one go.”
“Please, let’s just try to survive 24 hours.”
Was there any hope? We decided to encourage good will by breaking out a Siena standard – drinking together. Making sangria was the only thing actually on the itinerary for the weekend, and we wasted no time in accomplishing our goal.
Now, as you all know, I love sangria, it is truly a celebratory drink, except when f’ing Siena Security raids your room and takes its all. But this was a mildly celebratory evening and the Dutch are as laid back as Siena is uptight, so it was a fail proof plan. As we are preparing this heavenly beverage, I forget that irony rules my life, and make a truly poor thought statement:
“You know, red wine makes my head hurt sometimes, but if it’s in sangria form, it never makes me sick.”
Some of you already know where this is going, but I think all of you can see where it’s going. Anyways, several glasses of sangria later, we headed out to meet up with Molly for a bit. …the night’s festivities are cut just ever so slightly short when it is determined that sleep would be most beneficial for Maria.
The next morning commences with “Maria still loses” and “how did you even manage that?” Word to the wise: don’t mix antibiotics and wine.
I rallied though, of course, and we spent a good amount of time wandering the city and shopping before more sangria – I don’t learn – and booze and pancakes at Lenore’s, which was amusing. I had given a precursory warning to my friends here – “he’s my friend, but sometimes – read: often – he’s offensive” but everyone managed to play nice. We recounted my failings of the night before and discussed other similar college-style adventures of Siena, because our parties at Siena are comparable to other, much larger schools. We really do pre-game harder than most people party, though I’m not sure if we should wave that banner around.
The gallivanting continued: photography museum, shopping, apple pie and beer, watching soccer (yeah, a first), wandering. Shortly after Boz’s arrival, there was more alcohol in my flat than had ever been yet this semester and by Friday it was gone. Being it was Friday night though, we headed to the Red Light District. The weekend nights are when the best of the best are on display – “first class,” if you will. That is, in comparison to “economy.” The Red Light District is such a fun place to bring visitors – we all do it shortly after a new person arrives. The RLD was even better than normal this weekend for several reasons:
1)Tons (more than regular) drunken British; applauding each other as they emerged from the girls’ locales, taking over whole sports bars, waving their asses out of bar windows, advertising “50 Euro, 50 Euro.” Oh the Brits, they really might be more hated than us on the continent.
2)Red Light District Open House on the 31st – got into the (in)famous Casa Rosso, where a much tamer show than advertised was going on, got to see in one of the girls’ apartments (though, that’s an overstatement; it’s a bed, sink, and chair really), and the unveiling of the first monument to Sex Workers in the world. The monument's content/form had been an object of debate for days; it turned out to be a mildly unimpressive woman standing in a doorway.
3) As a feminist, I hate to admit this out loud, but walking around this city with a male makes life easier – no strangers blowing kisses or smacking their lips, no comments, and no harassment at the hands of the sex show bouncers. It was a nice respite from the daily sexual harassment that Europe regularly gifts me.
As usual though, the RLD proved entertaining every time we went – and we just seemed to keep on wandering back into it.
As if life in Europe isn’t interesting enough, as I was getting in touch with people about going out Saturday night and received the following email from Molly:
“Can’t [go to a bar] I’m going out with Kristen to smoke her Mom up.”
It was quickly decided that this was a must see. It was one of those kinda amusing, kinda awkward experiences – though Molly is so chill, I love her – watching a mother, her son, and her daughter’s friend (Kristen doesn’t smoke) pass a bowl around. Oh Amsterdam.
That, my friends, is the story of two egos coexisting within the same general area. In reality we had a good time, and I only threatened violence once…and roofies, but that is another story you may or may not hear.
After almost a three month period of not seeing each other, it takes less than 15 minutes for Boz to launch the first fat chick joke.
“What? I couldn’t let that one go.”
“Please, let’s just try to survive 24 hours.”
Was there any hope? We decided to encourage good will by breaking out a Siena standard – drinking together. Making sangria was the only thing actually on the itinerary for the weekend, and we wasted no time in accomplishing our goal.
Now, as you all know, I love sangria, it is truly a celebratory drink, except when f’ing Siena Security raids your room and takes its all. But this was a mildly celebratory evening and the Dutch are as laid back as Siena is uptight, so it was a fail proof plan. As we are preparing this heavenly beverage, I forget that irony rules my life, and make a truly poor thought statement:
“You know, red wine makes my head hurt sometimes, but if it’s in sangria form, it never makes me sick.”
Some of you already know where this is going, but I think all of you can see where it’s going. Anyways, several glasses of sangria later, we headed out to meet up with Molly for a bit. …the night’s festivities are cut just ever so slightly short when it is determined that sleep would be most beneficial for Maria.
The next morning commences with “Maria still loses” and “how did you even manage that?” Word to the wise: don’t mix antibiotics and wine.
I rallied though, of course, and we spent a good amount of time wandering the city and shopping before more sangria – I don’t learn – and booze and pancakes at Lenore’s, which was amusing. I had given a precursory warning to my friends here – “he’s my friend, but sometimes – read: often – he’s offensive” but everyone managed to play nice. We recounted my failings of the night before and discussed other similar college-style adventures of Siena, because our parties at Siena are comparable to other, much larger schools. We really do pre-game harder than most people party, though I’m not sure if we should wave that banner around.
The gallivanting continued: photography museum, shopping, apple pie and beer, watching soccer (yeah, a first), wandering. Shortly after Boz’s arrival, there was more alcohol in my flat than had ever been yet this semester and by Friday it was gone. Being it was Friday night though, we headed to the Red Light District. The weekend nights are when the best of the best are on display – “first class,” if you will. That is, in comparison to “economy.” The Red Light District is such a fun place to bring visitors – we all do it shortly after a new person arrives. The RLD was even better than normal this weekend for several reasons:
1)Tons (more than regular) drunken British; applauding each other as they emerged from the girls’ locales, taking over whole sports bars, waving their asses out of bar windows, advertising “50 Euro, 50 Euro.” Oh the Brits, they really might be more hated than us on the continent.
2)Red Light District Open House on the 31st – got into the (in)famous Casa Rosso, where a much tamer show than advertised was going on, got to see in one of the girls’ apartments (though, that’s an overstatement; it’s a bed, sink, and chair really), and the unveiling of the first monument to Sex Workers in the world. The monument's content/form had been an object of debate for days; it turned out to be a mildly unimpressive woman standing in a doorway.
3) As a feminist, I hate to admit this out loud, but walking around this city with a male makes life easier – no strangers blowing kisses or smacking their lips, no comments, and no harassment at the hands of the sex show bouncers. It was a nice respite from the daily sexual harassment that Europe regularly gifts me.
As usual though, the RLD proved entertaining every time we went – and we just seemed to keep on wandering back into it.
As if life in Europe isn’t interesting enough, as I was getting in touch with people about going out Saturday night and received the following email from Molly:
“Can’t [go to a bar] I’m going out with Kristen to smoke her Mom up.”
It was quickly decided that this was a must see. It was one of those kinda amusing, kinda awkward experiences – though Molly is so chill, I love her – watching a mother, her son, and her daughter’s friend (Kristen doesn’t smoke) pass a bowl around. Oh Amsterdam.
That, my friends, is the story of two egos coexisting within the same general area. In reality we had a good time, and I only threatened violence once…and roofies, but that is another story you may or may not hear.
Monday, April 2, 2007
The Dutch Way
I have been trying to read the local news daily (in English, I'm not that good...yet) both as a point of interest and a source of education. The political system and the social climate differ in significant ways from the US, and I'm not talking about the near-total lack of conservative mind-sets or the Red Light District. One of the biggest notable differences between Europe and America is the amazing lack of political correctness here - the concept and practice are met with disgruntled looks by the straightforward Dutch. In a country where the openly gay politician Fortuyn got elected - and reelected - all the while referring to Muslims as "goat fuckers" in the media, saying whatever happens to be on your mind is perfectly acceptable.
The more I read Dutch journalism, the more I see examples of such. General news articles have a touch of informality and even a pinch of unabashed biasedness. This "cut to the chase" kind of realness can prove quite entertaining. For example, this was on the front page of March 30th edition of "The Times:"
Sexual Relations with Animals Punishable
And just a taste "Having intercourse with animals can only be punishable if it can be proved that the animal has been hurt during the act."
The Dutch - always working for the rights and protection of all beings.
On a much more serious note, the city of Amsterdam is reeling from a real tragedy. Early last week, a 17 year old French girl committed suicide from the bridge near NEMO while under the influence of magic mushrooms. In a surprisingly snap decision, some officials issued a statement suggesting a country-wide ban on mushrooms. The girl's parents are holding the country of the Netherlands directly responsible for her death - mushrooms are very easy to get, arguably a touch easier than cannabis. The smart shop that sold the offending mushrooms did not ID the girl (you need to be 18 to buy shrooms) and only had information and warnings in English, Dutch, and Spanish.
While I've never had any interest in doing shrooms, I am still well aware of their supposed effects. Even more, if someone had a desire to do them, I'd imagine they realized their potential effects - otherwise, why would you want to do them? The smart shop admitted it failed to ID the girl, which does not come as a surprise to me, having lived in the city for over two months now. In my experience, bars, supermarkets, and liquor stores never ID, while coffeeshops do sporadically, either ID'ing all those present (even those not partaking) or at least the direct buyer.
An editorial I read today echoed my own thoughts - isn't jumping right to a complete ban mildly illogical and strangely nonpragmatic for the Dutch. Mushrooms, in and of themselves, do not cause death - though I wouldn't be surprised about permanent brain damage, considering the stories I've heard - but, like many other mind-altering substances, tend to emphasize emotions and perceptions. Specifically, they are known to heighten depression. I don't know the statistics for France, but in the Netherlands Prozac and other anti-depressants are the number one prescribed drug. That number is probably not that much different in the US. So, who's to blame for the girl's suicide - a substance or a previously existing chemical problem?
Upon reading this case, I was immediately reminded of the American way of dealing with cannabis. Cannabis is not completely harmless and I'm not suggesting anything of the sort, but I am suggesting that it is not the cause behind crime, poverty, or broken homes. Millions of individuals go to jail every year for a minor drug possession, while real "criminals" get off on bail and go on with their life. Cannabis use and personal possession are tolerated practices in the NLs because this allows the government to regulate an evitable occurrence. There are negative aspects of cannabis and mushroom use, but are we pointing the gun at the right enemy?
The previously mentioned editorial pointed to alcohol (ab)use in youth - a much more common occurrence around the world, with many more documented cases of injury, death, and resulting legal problems. This was the first mushroom related incident in five years in the NLs, while alcohol abuse causes problems every day. Mushrooms in Amsterdam, Weed in Albany...but when its liquor, we all conveniently avert our eyes? To alleviate a symptom, one must treat the cause, not just the resulting discomfort.
It will be interesting to see how the Dutch handle this singular case, and if any actions taken affect other currently standing policies. In America, I don't imagine much will change soon; even the liberal Dutch are progressively growing more conservative, I think that means there's no hope in sight for right wing America.
...Now, for those who are quick to judge (though I can't imagine there's many such individuals like that reading my blog) a disclaimer: I'm not advocating drug use, but nor am I condemning it. I only wish that others would take responsibility for their personal actions; if we could all just aim for that goal, I think we would see a reduction in many little problems throughout society. Then maybe, the bigger problems could get the attention they so desperately need.
The more I read Dutch journalism, the more I see examples of such. General news articles have a touch of informality and even a pinch of unabashed biasedness. This "cut to the chase" kind of realness can prove quite entertaining. For example, this was on the front page of March 30th edition of "The Times:"
Sexual Relations with Animals Punishable
And just a taste "Having intercourse with animals can only be punishable if it can be proved that the animal has been hurt during the act."
The Dutch - always working for the rights and protection of all beings.
On a much more serious note, the city of Amsterdam is reeling from a real tragedy. Early last week, a 17 year old French girl committed suicide from the bridge near NEMO while under the influence of magic mushrooms. In a surprisingly snap decision, some officials issued a statement suggesting a country-wide ban on mushrooms. The girl's parents are holding the country of the Netherlands directly responsible for her death - mushrooms are very easy to get, arguably a touch easier than cannabis. The smart shop that sold the offending mushrooms did not ID the girl (you need to be 18 to buy shrooms) and only had information and warnings in English, Dutch, and Spanish.
While I've never had any interest in doing shrooms, I am still well aware of their supposed effects. Even more, if someone had a desire to do them, I'd imagine they realized their potential effects - otherwise, why would you want to do them? The smart shop admitted it failed to ID the girl, which does not come as a surprise to me, having lived in the city for over two months now. In my experience, bars, supermarkets, and liquor stores never ID, while coffeeshops do sporadically, either ID'ing all those present (even those not partaking) or at least the direct buyer.
An editorial I read today echoed my own thoughts - isn't jumping right to a complete ban mildly illogical and strangely nonpragmatic for the Dutch. Mushrooms, in and of themselves, do not cause death - though I wouldn't be surprised about permanent brain damage, considering the stories I've heard - but, like many other mind-altering substances, tend to emphasize emotions and perceptions. Specifically, they are known to heighten depression. I don't know the statistics for France, but in the Netherlands Prozac and other anti-depressants are the number one prescribed drug. That number is probably not that much different in the US. So, who's to blame for the girl's suicide - a substance or a previously existing chemical problem?
Upon reading this case, I was immediately reminded of the American way of dealing with cannabis. Cannabis is not completely harmless and I'm not suggesting anything of the sort, but I am suggesting that it is not the cause behind crime, poverty, or broken homes. Millions of individuals go to jail every year for a minor drug possession, while real "criminals" get off on bail and go on with their life. Cannabis use and personal possession are tolerated practices in the NLs because this allows the government to regulate an evitable occurrence. There are negative aspects of cannabis and mushroom use, but are we pointing the gun at the right enemy?
The previously mentioned editorial pointed to alcohol (ab)use in youth - a much more common occurrence around the world, with many more documented cases of injury, death, and resulting legal problems. This was the first mushroom related incident in five years in the NLs, while alcohol abuse causes problems every day. Mushrooms in Amsterdam, Weed in Albany...but when its liquor, we all conveniently avert our eyes? To alleviate a symptom, one must treat the cause, not just the resulting discomfort.
It will be interesting to see how the Dutch handle this singular case, and if any actions taken affect other currently standing policies. In America, I don't imagine much will change soon; even the liberal Dutch are progressively growing more conservative, I think that means there's no hope in sight for right wing America.
...Now, for those who are quick to judge (though I can't imagine there's many such individuals like that reading my blog) a disclaimer: I'm not advocating drug use, but nor am I condemning it. I only wish that others would take responsibility for their personal actions; if we could all just aim for that goal, I think we would see a reduction in many little problems throughout society. Then maybe, the bigger problems could get the attention they so desperately need.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Just in case this wasn't interesting enough...
...So it's safe to say that I kinda suck at blogging. Granted, no major traveling/events/catastrophes have occured lately, but still, there are always things that I could talk about, considering how interesting life in the Netherlands is on a regular basis.
Speaking of interestingness, as most of you already know, we are going to add to the level of interestingness with a visit from Boz. Can we coexist in the same general area from tonight until Sunday morning? We shall see. Chuckle, place bets, speculate, just remember - bad decisions make the best stories.
Now, I'm off to get ready and head out to Schiphol, PEACE.
Speaking of interestingness, as most of you already know, we are going to add to the level of interestingness with a visit from Boz. Can we coexist in the same general area from tonight until Sunday morning? We shall see. Chuckle, place bets, speculate, just remember - bad decisions make the best stories.
Now, I'm off to get ready and head out to Schiphol, PEACE.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
"We are in a hostel situation!"
So to set the stage for the telling of the Parisian adventure, let me divulge how I pregamed Paris. Even when it does not involve alcohol and Southpark, I frequently refer pre activities as pregaming, because as real pregaming does, these aforementioned events greatly contribute to the actual event.
On Monday March 12th, I had a paper for Dutch Social Policy. March 9th through the 11th were to be spent in Paris. Obviously, any logical person would do the paper during the week before. But I was unfortunately quite sick and very miserable, spending a vast amount of time and energy finding a doctor, getting medication, and not being a total loser about the whole situation. (Imagine the pity party: I’m alone, cold, in the rain, sick, and lost. Yeah, feel bad, I did.) Sooooo, this paper gets started on Thursday night. But, oh wait! I have to pack! And go to Megan’s for dinner! Long story short, I spend 1 – 4 AM writing a paper on human trafficking. Sleep til 7:30 so I can shower before they shut off our water, then finish my packing, and rush to Centraal.
We make it on the train without a hassle. First goal attained. Life here in Europe tends to be a process for us – nothing is simple, easy, or cheap, and we have accepted that. So, it’s important to realize that that is the first goal. Before the night is out, we are on like number 27 and its 3 AM.
Now, I’ve had about 3 hours of sleep, and while I’m used to sleep deprivation, it lowers my tolerance for most everything. Some would say I don’t have all that much tolerance to start with, but that’s up for debate. Within minutes of being on the train, my tolerance is maxed out. Here is the problem. I’m not a prude in any sense of the word, but I hate public displays of affection. HATE. Now, I’m not a total asshole, I’m ok with some mild touching, but the whole making out, on top of each other practically, on a train…no. Stop acting co-dependent and inconsiderate; it makes me want to throw shit at you – and on a bad day (or good, depending how you view it) I just might. Between the couple across from us, and the “slurping” sounds (Kristen’s delightful word choice) behind us, I am preoccupied with planning our weekend and hating most of the world. Eventually, planning aside, I am allowed to pass out and ignore people.
Arrival, Paris Nord, 14:06. We realize we have no idea what we are doing. We are approached about seven times by apparently Eastern European women and girls, asking if we speak English and if we will give them money. I am alternately very sympatric and very suspicious, and decide its best if we pretend we don’t speak English. Thus, we exit Nord with a map of Paris in hand, clinging to each other and responding to all requests in Spanish.
Now, did I mention we don’t have the address to our hostel? I, being the clever bunny I am, decided that the booking information would be the best thing to forget at home. But, Sam has the address; we’ll just call him! …Now if Sam just answered his phone. Well, I remember the information said it was a short walk from the Eiffel Tower, so we honestly decide that going the Eiffel Tower and walking around is the best game plan. Here’s where it’s quite understandable if you’re questioning my logic, but remember, Maria’s life is just one big ball of irony.
We jump off the metro and begin walking. All of sudden, Kristen announces she’s found it. Being the ass that I am, I almost inquire upon what she has found, until I look up.
…Duh. As we head toward the Eiffel Tower, a street artist commences to accost us; I, for some reason, hate soliciting with a fiery passion, and will go out of my way to avoid sellers/Mormons/scam artists. It is fortunate that Kristen is both more socially resourceful in such situations, and asks the man about directions. He points to the building behind us – an information center. Within, we find a woman who googles (the answer to all problems) the hostel, draws directions on our map, and points us the right direction. Um, score!? We check in at the “front desk” (i.e. bar), enter our room, and begin to scream. I called my Mom at work to tell her that her daughter would be spending the weekend in a Cuban Guerilla Military Training camp, complete with sketchtastic courtyard with scanty roofed showers and toilets, bunk houses, scratchy wool blankets, and the opportunity to fight for your own life at every turn. We hold each other, eat our chocolate, and decide that sleeping in one single bed (again) is perfectly acceptable, even desirable.
Not to be discouraged, we re-gather and head to the Louvre. The Louvre is one of the most spectacular museums/buildings/institutions ever. First of all, it’s the LOUVRE. Secondly, it’s so big, it’s mildly unfathomable. Literally we got lost in Ancient Egypt. We could not get out of Ancient Egypt for over 45 minutes, all we wanted was to see the Mona Lisa and leave, but oh no. Osiris had other plans…and that was the dumbest thing I’ve thought out loud in at least a week. We managed to escape and want nothing more but to be outside. We are supposed to meet Sam at the Louvre, but we can’t get through to him and want to head back. By luck, we get back to the hostel in time to discover his train came in late and we meet up in the bar.
After dinner, we decide to head to Montmartre for the Erotic Museum – as if we don’t get enough of that type of thing in Amsterdam. We get to see the original Moulin Rouge, which on top of the Louvre basically makes my night. The Museum is like a lot of erotic museums I’ve been to (…); quite amusing, slightly disturbing, and greatly lacking historical information on the “artifacts.” When we leave there, it’s about half past 1 and the metro is closed (why do metros close so early? Serially) and we begin the stroll across Paris – which bears a striking resemblance to the Trail of Tears across Montreal except: 1) Paris is bigger, prettier, and Frencher, 2) This walk is more like 5-6 miles, not 2. To say the least, it’s a really great idea for the first half hour. By 3, we are back, making our beds in the pitch black, so to not waken our Canadian roommates. Here is where the hostel situation elevates. A general ruckus is going on outside our door, and then a bag of cement mix is dropped in our door. I head into the bathroom; Kristen follows.
Me: “Hm, that’s weird; it sounds just like someone is talking in our room.”
Kristen: “That’s because someone is in our room; I shoved Sam at him and told him to make him leave.”
Me: “Oh, well that’s good.”
When the drunken Portuguese – we think – leaves, we finally allowed to pass out, and that we did.
"So, I see you brought home some cement last night?" One of the Canadian backpackers inquired. Oh no, some guy dropped that in the door. "Well, watch out if they back a cement mixer up to the door!" Oh Canadians, how I love you. We head out with the intention of doing everything. First we walk up to the Arc d'Triumph and the tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Then we continue on to Notre Dame, where Sam's little brother is supposed to be visiting with a school group, but Sam can't get through to his brother's teacher, and the whole "look for a kid about 14 years old who resembles Sam" is not helping either.
We tour the Cathedral as mass is being said in the center. It is kind of a strange contrast; a few hundred tourists, a few dozen languages, way too many camera flashes and Catholic Mass. Afterward, we head across a bridge to this little island and find lunch, which we eat in the park behind Notre Dame. We then tour a World War II monument in honor of the French who were deported to concentration/work camps. As such monuments are, it is a somber reminder of a war that deeply scarred this continent. While we teach the Holocaust, Anne Frank et al in America, it is here that people lived it.
We head across town to a vast cemetery in which the likes of Proust, Moliere, and Jim Morrison are buried. Make sure to check out the photos - while I realize my interest in cemetery architecture may seem morbid, you have to admit these structures are quite awe inspiring. Energy lagging, (despite the chocolate for breakfast and the ice cream for tea, and yes, I do support the British tradition of distinguishing a specific time of day as tea time) Kristen and I end up laying in the grass for a while, before deciding to split up, so we can rest and Sam can find his brother. I had no plans of napping, but once my bed was made, I passed out.
Dinner was a truly multicultural experience; we had Italian food, served under promise of Greek Cuisine, from Middle Eastern men listening to Arabic radio. Ironically, we also returned that night for crepes. We spent most of the evening wandering our neighborhood and having tea (!) An early bed time was welcomed, as the extreme sport of tourism was not over yet.
Sam's choice of the Musee D''Orsay on Sunday morning was arguably the best decision I've seen a man make in ages. An amazing collection of pre/impressionism/post and several other schools/styles all housed within an intriguing architectural design (read: we got lost in it) brought me so much joyness. I could have moved right in and gotten a job on the spot. Obviously I decided against this plan and after lunch and saying good bye to Sam, we headed to the Catacombs of Paris. Several million peoples' remains lie in repose in the former quarries below downtown Paris, quite often arranged in geometric patterns, by priests with too much free time. (See: picture of the skulls in a heart shape). The best part was the sign of the impending doom of the sink hole hanging over our head - in which the writer, with an obvious sense of humor, decided in the last sentence to mention it had been reinforced with concrete.
We emerged into the sunlight, met some more Canadians who half-led us back to the metro station. We headed to the Eiffel Tour like good little tourists, but with only 3 hours left in Paris, and over a two hour wait in line, we ditched that plan quite efficiently, and spent our time sitting in Commerce Park, eating baked goods and watching kids play soccer.
Half-asleep in the train station, I open my eyes and am reminded of this amazing magnetism I have with children. A 3 or 4 year old little girl with a lolly pop is standing in front of me, looking for entertainment. Her parents don’t call her away, so we try to figure out what she’s telling us (yeah, that’s how little French I know) and play peek-a-boo and such. No one children like me, shit. Of course, when she starts prodding us, balancing water bottles on our heads, and then tries to climb on top of Kristen, the American in us screams “law suit” and we quickly relocate. The Dutch don’t even consider suing people; but hell, we know the risks.
First class ride home and we now know why first class tickets cost an extra 30 Euro – because that’s about how much food they serve you. We literally were served food 4 times and they gave us lots of water without harassing us. It was awesome.
Surviving the hostel situation was a feat that will go down in history; filed under “never stay in a hostel again.” Our next trip to France will be spent in a hotel, for sure. And that will be in May – Maria goes to Nice and probably won’t ever leave the beach. Say your farewells before then.
On Monday March 12th, I had a paper for Dutch Social Policy. March 9th through the 11th were to be spent in Paris. Obviously, any logical person would do the paper during the week before. But I was unfortunately quite sick and very miserable, spending a vast amount of time and energy finding a doctor, getting medication, and not being a total loser about the whole situation. (Imagine the pity party: I’m alone, cold, in the rain, sick, and lost. Yeah, feel bad, I did.) Sooooo, this paper gets started on Thursday night. But, oh wait! I have to pack! And go to Megan’s for dinner! Long story short, I spend 1 – 4 AM writing a paper on human trafficking. Sleep til 7:30 so I can shower before they shut off our water, then finish my packing, and rush to Centraal.
We make it on the train without a hassle. First goal attained. Life here in Europe tends to be a process for us – nothing is simple, easy, or cheap, and we have accepted that. So, it’s important to realize that that is the first goal. Before the night is out, we are on like number 27 and its 3 AM.
Now, I’ve had about 3 hours of sleep, and while I’m used to sleep deprivation, it lowers my tolerance for most everything. Some would say I don’t have all that much tolerance to start with, but that’s up for debate. Within minutes of being on the train, my tolerance is maxed out. Here is the problem. I’m not a prude in any sense of the word, but I hate public displays of affection. HATE. Now, I’m not a total asshole, I’m ok with some mild touching, but the whole making out, on top of each other practically, on a train…no. Stop acting co-dependent and inconsiderate; it makes me want to throw shit at you – and on a bad day (or good, depending how you view it) I just might. Between the couple across from us, and the “slurping” sounds (Kristen’s delightful word choice) behind us, I am preoccupied with planning our weekend and hating most of the world. Eventually, planning aside, I am allowed to pass out and ignore people.
Arrival, Paris Nord, 14:06. We realize we have no idea what we are doing. We are approached about seven times by apparently Eastern European women and girls, asking if we speak English and if we will give them money. I am alternately very sympatric and very suspicious, and decide its best if we pretend we don’t speak English. Thus, we exit Nord with a map of Paris in hand, clinging to each other and responding to all requests in Spanish.
Now, did I mention we don’t have the address to our hostel? I, being the clever bunny I am, decided that the booking information would be the best thing to forget at home. But, Sam has the address; we’ll just call him! …Now if Sam just answered his phone. Well, I remember the information said it was a short walk from the Eiffel Tower, so we honestly decide that going the Eiffel Tower and walking around is the best game plan. Here’s where it’s quite understandable if you’re questioning my logic, but remember, Maria’s life is just one big ball of irony.
We jump off the metro and begin walking. All of sudden, Kristen announces she’s found it. Being the ass that I am, I almost inquire upon what she has found, until I look up.
…Duh. As we head toward the Eiffel Tower, a street artist commences to accost us; I, for some reason, hate soliciting with a fiery passion, and will go out of my way to avoid sellers/Mormons/scam artists. It is fortunate that Kristen is both more socially resourceful in such situations, and asks the man about directions. He points to the building behind us – an information center. Within, we find a woman who googles (the answer to all problems) the hostel, draws directions on our map, and points us the right direction. Um, score!? We check in at the “front desk” (i.e. bar), enter our room, and begin to scream. I called my Mom at work to tell her that her daughter would be spending the weekend in a Cuban Guerilla Military Training camp, complete with sketchtastic courtyard with scanty roofed showers and toilets, bunk houses, scratchy wool blankets, and the opportunity to fight for your own life at every turn. We hold each other, eat our chocolate, and decide that sleeping in one single bed (again) is perfectly acceptable, even desirable.
Not to be discouraged, we re-gather and head to the Louvre. The Louvre is one of the most spectacular museums/buildings/institutions ever. First of all, it’s the LOUVRE. Secondly, it’s so big, it’s mildly unfathomable. Literally we got lost in Ancient Egypt. We could not get out of Ancient Egypt for over 45 minutes, all we wanted was to see the Mona Lisa and leave, but oh no. Osiris had other plans…and that was the dumbest thing I’ve thought out loud in at least a week. We managed to escape and want nothing more but to be outside. We are supposed to meet Sam at the Louvre, but we can’t get through to him and want to head back. By luck, we get back to the hostel in time to discover his train came in late and we meet up in the bar.
After dinner, we decide to head to Montmartre for the Erotic Museum – as if we don’t get enough of that type of thing in Amsterdam. We get to see the original Moulin Rouge, which on top of the Louvre basically makes my night. The Museum is like a lot of erotic museums I’ve been to (…); quite amusing, slightly disturbing, and greatly lacking historical information on the “artifacts.” When we leave there, it’s about half past 1 and the metro is closed (why do metros close so early? Serially) and we begin the stroll across Paris – which bears a striking resemblance to the Trail of Tears across Montreal except: 1) Paris is bigger, prettier, and Frencher, 2) This walk is more like 5-6 miles, not 2. To say the least, it’s a really great idea for the first half hour. By 3, we are back, making our beds in the pitch black, so to not waken our Canadian roommates. Here is where the hostel situation elevates. A general ruckus is going on outside our door, and then a bag of cement mix is dropped in our door. I head into the bathroom; Kristen follows.
Me: “Hm, that’s weird; it sounds just like someone is talking in our room.”
Kristen: “That’s because someone is in our room; I shoved Sam at him and told him to make him leave.”
Me: “Oh, well that’s good.”
When the drunken Portuguese – we think – leaves, we finally allowed to pass out, and that we did.
"So, I see you brought home some cement last night?" One of the Canadian backpackers inquired. Oh no, some guy dropped that in the door. "Well, watch out if they back a cement mixer up to the door!" Oh Canadians, how I love you. We head out with the intention of doing everything. First we walk up to the Arc d'Triumph and the tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Then we continue on to Notre Dame, where Sam's little brother is supposed to be visiting with a school group, but Sam can't get through to his brother's teacher, and the whole "look for a kid about 14 years old who resembles Sam" is not helping either.
We tour the Cathedral as mass is being said in the center. It is kind of a strange contrast; a few hundred tourists, a few dozen languages, way too many camera flashes and Catholic Mass. Afterward, we head across a bridge to this little island and find lunch, which we eat in the park behind Notre Dame. We then tour a World War II monument in honor of the French who were deported to concentration/work camps. As such monuments are, it is a somber reminder of a war that deeply scarred this continent. While we teach the Holocaust, Anne Frank et al in America, it is here that people lived it.
We head across town to a vast cemetery in which the likes of Proust, Moliere, and Jim Morrison are buried. Make sure to check out the photos - while I realize my interest in cemetery architecture may seem morbid, you have to admit these structures are quite awe inspiring. Energy lagging, (despite the chocolate for breakfast and the ice cream for tea, and yes, I do support the British tradition of distinguishing a specific time of day as tea time) Kristen and I end up laying in the grass for a while, before deciding to split up, so we can rest and Sam can find his brother. I had no plans of napping, but once my bed was made, I passed out.
Dinner was a truly multicultural experience; we had Italian food, served under promise of Greek Cuisine, from Middle Eastern men listening to Arabic radio. Ironically, we also returned that night for crepes. We spent most of the evening wandering our neighborhood and having tea (!) An early bed time was welcomed, as the extreme sport of tourism was not over yet.
Sam's choice of the Musee D''Orsay on Sunday morning was arguably the best decision I've seen a man make in ages. An amazing collection of pre/impressionism/post and several other schools/styles all housed within an intriguing architectural design (read: we got lost in it) brought me so much joyness. I could have moved right in and gotten a job on the spot. Obviously I decided against this plan and after lunch and saying good bye to Sam, we headed to the Catacombs of Paris. Several million peoples' remains lie in repose in the former quarries below downtown Paris, quite often arranged in geometric patterns, by priests with too much free time. (See: picture of the skulls in a heart shape). The best part was the sign of the impending doom of the sink hole hanging over our head - in which the writer, with an obvious sense of humor, decided in the last sentence to mention it had been reinforced with concrete.
We emerged into the sunlight, met some more Canadians who half-led us back to the metro station. We headed to the Eiffel Tour like good little tourists, but with only 3 hours left in Paris, and over a two hour wait in line, we ditched that plan quite efficiently, and spent our time sitting in Commerce Park, eating baked goods and watching kids play soccer.
Half-asleep in the train station, I open my eyes and am reminded of this amazing magnetism I have with children. A 3 or 4 year old little girl with a lolly pop is standing in front of me, looking for entertainment. Her parents don’t call her away, so we try to figure out what she’s telling us (yeah, that’s how little French I know) and play peek-a-boo and such. No one children like me, shit. Of course, when she starts prodding us, balancing water bottles on our heads, and then tries to climb on top of Kristen, the American in us screams “law suit” and we quickly relocate. The Dutch don’t even consider suing people; but hell, we know the risks.
First class ride home and we now know why first class tickets cost an extra 30 Euro – because that’s about how much food they serve you. We literally were served food 4 times and they gave us lots of water without harassing us. It was awesome.
Surviving the hostel situation was a feat that will go down in history; filed under “never stay in a hostel again.” Our next trip to France will be spent in a hotel, for sure. And that will be in May – Maria goes to Nice and probably won’t ever leave the beach. Say your farewells before then.
Dear Diary
I have been very busy/slightly ill/lazy lately and have not updated my blog in weeks. I've realized that this counter-intuitive to the statement: "When was the last time Maria let you down?" Thus, for the loyal spectators of my fabulous life, I promise to blog at least once before the week is out. Now I go drag my bike out of the basement, go to class, then do dutch yoga.
Love,
M
Love,
M
Sunday, March 4, 2007
Why is there a pear under your bed?
Just because the week started did not mean the adventures stopped. During the days that I had class, I’d go and Laura would stay home and clean/cook…not. She did create a new game for me, called “Let’s discover the new music in my media player.”
On Monday night, I chartered six of us a private boat tour around the old center of the city. While the weather was not the best, the tour was awesome – the price was much cheaper than the large tours and we had chocolate and wine as our guide told us interesting trivia about the city. When we arrived home, we watched some Nip/Tuck and plotted our next move.
Tuesday found us at NEMO, a large kid’s science museum. The place was mobbed with small children, which is to be expected. The most amusing part of NEMO was the new feature, “Teen Fact.” This exhibition was an educational but teen-friendly look at puberty, relationships, sex, etc. Let’s just say, the Dutch don’t beat around the bush. While the pictures speak for themselves, here’s an example: within a display labeled “Let’s Talk about Sex” there was a monitor of animals mating and a couple making out hardcore, which was just a prelude to the Kama sutra puppets and the birth control display. A-mazing.
Mixing it up a bit, we went to the Bible Museum early Wednesday afternoon (after more pancakes). It was pretty cool, considering what you may believe. After my night class, we headed to the Sex Museum with Molly. For 3 euro, its one of the most entertaining/mildly disturbing ways to spend an evening. Such wonderful features included classic Greek and Roman artifacts to homemade porn from the late 19th century. The S&M/Fetish room actually had a warning on the door and the sound effects within justified such caution. Continuing with the theme, we headed over to the Red Light District (or, RLD as I like to refer to it). We wander into the Erotic Museum’s gift shop and discuss what would be the best gifts to send home. I suggested Laura just buy a handful of pornos and pass them out when she returned to campus.
Thursday commences with breakfast with Molly, then shopping on Spui/Kalverstraat. It is not a very productive shopping day though; we spend several hours just wandering. By early afternoon, we return home to drop off groceries that Laura bought me (I’m gonna make it through the winter guys!) and rush to the Anne Frank Huis before other people realize it’s a good time to go. We get in without a wait, which is miraculous. It was such an experience to finally see this place. I first read the book when I was 9 years old and most recently re-read it this past January; still it proves moving. The tour proceeds through the lower levels, which were the offices of Otto and the storage rooms. Videos of interviews with Miep and others who helped the families in hiding are throughout, as are quotes from Anne’s diary. Some of the most treacherous stairs I’ve ever seen lead to the Secret Annexe. Anne’s room (which she shared with the dentist) is incredibly small and her collages remain on the wall to this day. Her original diary is also on display, along with Otto’s letters with family as he tried to locate his daughters. It is heart wrenching to realize that Anne died a month before the liberation; friends who saw her shortly before even speculated that if she had realized her father was still alive, she might have found the strength to survive.
The rest of Thursday was pretty low key. We made dinner together and watched Eurotrip and Moulin Rouge. Molly and Kristen came up for a while and we all watched Little Miss Sunshine, which was pretty amusing. We cleaned up the room (FOR ONCE) and gathered Laura’s belongings. At 6 am we were on our way to the taxi stop. We managed to avoid any tears.
So that is the story of our beautiful reunion. Good times were had by all but it went by so fast.
Upcoming: Paris this weekend!
On Monday night, I chartered six of us a private boat tour around the old center of the city. While the weather was not the best, the tour was awesome – the price was much cheaper than the large tours and we had chocolate and wine as our guide told us interesting trivia about the city. When we arrived home, we watched some Nip/Tuck and plotted our next move.
Tuesday found us at NEMO, a large kid’s science museum. The place was mobbed with small children, which is to be expected. The most amusing part of NEMO was the new feature, “Teen Fact.” This exhibition was an educational but teen-friendly look at puberty, relationships, sex, etc. Let’s just say, the Dutch don’t beat around the bush. While the pictures speak for themselves, here’s an example: within a display labeled “Let’s Talk about Sex” there was a monitor of animals mating and a couple making out hardcore, which was just a prelude to the Kama sutra puppets and the birth control display. A-mazing.
Mixing it up a bit, we went to the Bible Museum early Wednesday afternoon (after more pancakes). It was pretty cool, considering what you may believe. After my night class, we headed to the Sex Museum with Molly. For 3 euro, its one of the most entertaining/mildly disturbing ways to spend an evening. Such wonderful features included classic Greek and Roman artifacts to homemade porn from the late 19th century. The S&M/Fetish room actually had a warning on the door and the sound effects within justified such caution. Continuing with the theme, we headed over to the Red Light District (or, RLD as I like to refer to it). We wander into the Erotic Museum’s gift shop and discuss what would be the best gifts to send home. I suggested Laura just buy a handful of pornos and pass them out when she returned to campus.
Thursday commences with breakfast with Molly, then shopping on Spui/Kalverstraat. It is not a very productive shopping day though; we spend several hours just wandering. By early afternoon, we return home to drop off groceries that Laura bought me (I’m gonna make it through the winter guys!) and rush to the Anne Frank Huis before other people realize it’s a good time to go. We get in without a wait, which is miraculous. It was such an experience to finally see this place. I first read the book when I was 9 years old and most recently re-read it this past January; still it proves moving. The tour proceeds through the lower levels, which were the offices of Otto and the storage rooms. Videos of interviews with Miep and others who helped the families in hiding are throughout, as are quotes from Anne’s diary. Some of the most treacherous stairs I’ve ever seen lead to the Secret Annexe. Anne’s room (which she shared with the dentist) is incredibly small and her collages remain on the wall to this day. Her original diary is also on display, along with Otto’s letters with family as he tried to locate his daughters. It is heart wrenching to realize that Anne died a month before the liberation; friends who saw her shortly before even speculated that if she had realized her father was still alive, she might have found the strength to survive.
The rest of Thursday was pretty low key. We made dinner together and watched Eurotrip and Moulin Rouge. Molly and Kristen came up for a while and we all watched Little Miss Sunshine, which was pretty amusing. We cleaned up the room (FOR ONCE) and gathered Laura’s belongings. At 6 am we were on our way to the taxi stop. We managed to avoid any tears.
So that is the story of our beautiful reunion. Good times were had by all but it went by so fast.
Upcoming: Paris this weekend!
Monday, February 26, 2007
48 Hours of A'dam Stereotypes, or Maria and Laura are reunited in Europe
After an enjoyable Friday evening at the van Gogh and a local cafe, I eagerly awaited the early morning arrival of Ms. Daingerfield. Shortly before 7 AM, we were joyfully - and loudly - reunited in the lobby of Prinsengracht. We quickly settled in and after probably waking up most of the first floor, we went back to sleep.
At noon, we met Kristen and her visiting friend, Em at the Pancake Bakery for a delightful meal, in which it was deduced that every life situation can be improved by the application of powdered sugar. We cruised the Noodermarkt and then met up with Molly at the Botantical gardens.
That evening, we prepared a romantic meal of gnocchi - Maria cooked, Laura videotaped. A little Dane Cook and a Nip/Tuck episode later, it's just like home.
We head to Rembrandt Square around 21:00 to meet up for some adventures. Picking a bar is worse than going on a blind date; no one has any preferences, or at least, won;t just come out and demand them. So and so wants to watch the Madrid v. Madrid game, but the bar listing it is currently showing a France v. who knows rugby game. One place is crowded; oh wait, it's Saturday night, every place is crowded. In one possibility we would be the only women - isn't that what some of you want? All I want is a drink that is not beer and is less than 8 euro.
We end up in a cafe, and I initiate a conversation that proves to be foreshadowing.
"What song would a locale have to play that would encourage you to leave?"
...And I'm talking bad. I tend to be pretty opinionated on music (yeah, and everything else) and often find myself trying to understand what the f the Europeans are thinking when they make club playlists. My votes for tonight include "Every time we Touch" and recent Gwen Stefani songs.
In the continuing epic to find a bar, Molly votes for "Club Cafe Smokey;" most likely because of the adjacent sister coffeeshop with the same name. Drink prices are alright, and when we first get there its not too crowded. People are smoking inside alot (weed and cigs) which only aggreviates my fastly developing cold.
The nights soundtrack commences with a large amount of Justin Timberlake's most recent album, some Sean Paul, and then it hits...M.C. Hammer. When I hear "can't touch this" start, I am standing at the bar, gesturing my dislike across the room to my table.
We then get the bright idea to request shitty songs. First order; "Call on Me." We're not sure the request was understood, but oh yes, "Call on Me" starts, we scream, as usual. Continuing in the amazingness of shitty music, out of nowhere it happens "Cuz every time we touch..." More screaming. The rest of the night is a mess of more JT and AKON.
We meet more Manchester men and other parts of England (we attract them like flies, its awesome) including a pretty decent looking guy who tries to make eye contact several times, but I am too lazy to socialize. As usual though, we make lots of new friends. By midnight, its packed, and security is harassing up to check our coats and leave. On principle, we leave and after a debate about more partying, Laura and I walk home in the pouring rain, only to crash joyfully into bed.
Sunday was less eventful; I got us lost on the way to the Rijks, we cruised the Red Light District and had INDIAN! Which I had been saving my first trip to share with Laura.
Upcoming adventures: A chartered canal tour, a rainy day diversion for stir-crazy kids like L-Dog, and the Bible Museum (really not joking).
At noon, we met Kristen and her visiting friend, Em at the Pancake Bakery for a delightful meal, in which it was deduced that every life situation can be improved by the application of powdered sugar. We cruised the Noodermarkt and then met up with Molly at the Botantical gardens.
That evening, we prepared a romantic meal of gnocchi - Maria cooked, Laura videotaped. A little Dane Cook and a Nip/Tuck episode later, it's just like home.
We head to Rembrandt Square around 21:00 to meet up for some adventures. Picking a bar is worse than going on a blind date; no one has any preferences, or at least, won;t just come out and demand them. So and so wants to watch the Madrid v. Madrid game, but the bar listing it is currently showing a France v. who knows rugby game. One place is crowded; oh wait, it's Saturday night, every place is crowded. In one possibility we would be the only women - isn't that what some of you want? All I want is a drink that is not beer and is less than 8 euro.
We end up in a cafe, and I initiate a conversation that proves to be foreshadowing.
"What song would a locale have to play that would encourage you to leave?"
...And I'm talking bad. I tend to be pretty opinionated on music (yeah, and everything else) and often find myself trying to understand what the f the Europeans are thinking when they make club playlists. My votes for tonight include "Every time we Touch" and recent Gwen Stefani songs.
In the continuing epic to find a bar, Molly votes for "Club Cafe Smokey;" most likely because of the adjacent sister coffeeshop with the same name. Drink prices are alright, and when we first get there its not too crowded. People are smoking inside alot (weed and cigs) which only aggreviates my fastly developing cold.
The nights soundtrack commences with a large amount of Justin Timberlake's most recent album, some Sean Paul, and then it hits...M.C. Hammer. When I hear "can't touch this" start, I am standing at the bar, gesturing my dislike across the room to my table.
We then get the bright idea to request shitty songs. First order; "Call on Me." We're not sure the request was understood, but oh yes, "Call on Me" starts, we scream, as usual. Continuing in the amazingness of shitty music, out of nowhere it happens "Cuz every time we touch..." More screaming. The rest of the night is a mess of more JT and AKON.
We meet more Manchester men and other parts of England (we attract them like flies, its awesome) including a pretty decent looking guy who tries to make eye contact several times, but I am too lazy to socialize. As usual though, we make lots of new friends. By midnight, its packed, and security is harassing up to check our coats and leave. On principle, we leave and after a debate about more partying, Laura and I walk home in the pouring rain, only to crash joyfully into bed.
Sunday was less eventful; I got us lost on the way to the Rijks, we cruised the Red Light District and had INDIAN! Which I had been saving my first trip to share with Laura.
Upcoming adventures: A chartered canal tour, a rainy day diversion for stir-crazy kids like L-Dog, and the Bible Museum (really not joking).
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