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?

"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.

Oh Monaco...

So beautiful, so rich, so much fun. Will recount tales shortly. Peace.

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.

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!

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!

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.

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!


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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.

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.

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.

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.