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.