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.
Showing posts with label RLD. Show all posts
Showing posts with label RLD. Show all posts
Sunday, September 23, 2007
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, 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).
Monday, February 5, 2007
The Adventure continues...
I mildly despise wholy chronological recaps, thus I shall highlight the most outstanding moments.
Saturday morning was the commencement of the ISN (International Student Network) adventure. We began with another canal tour, which was pretty sweet, then moved on to ice skating. We decided that the program must think that total and utter humiliation is the best way to bond.
Traversing Alexanderplein, I see that the crocuses are already in bloom. The irony brings me joy. This joy only increases when I discover that the ice skating rink is outside. With the sun shining and grass thriving in the center of the circular rink. Despite the hockey skates (I've never used them) and the amazingly good Dutch speed skaters (and all the six year olds) we all manage to survive with our dignity intact.
Later on, after dinner at a Mediterrenian place, we meet at Dam Square for the big party. Of course, no one shows up til 11 and we are standing in this cold as hell, hole in the wall, trashy club the whole time. Eventually a ton of people end up there. Leaving around 130 (to walk home alone) I realize what I know for sure is the worse part of Europe.
Smoking.
Inside.
My clothes, which I had been wearing for all of 3 hours now, reek of smoke, as does my hair. And my airways are like, "oh no, we are closing up to-NIGHT." It's nice to know I have large amounts of advair stashed away.
Sunday was spent shopping and then we went out to dinner with Kristen's friend who was visiting from Ireland. Indonesian food and pastries contributed to the night, but the drunk - obviously American - half-dressed frat boys completed it. As I took pictures of Megan and Dalma with these gentlemen, they decided it was a good idea to pick Dalma up. Literally. Photo evidence to follow.
Just in the case that we weren't all totally overwhelmed yet by the vast amount of information shoved down our throats in the past 5 days, today we began classes. It's a 1.5 mile walk from here to the ISHSS (International School of Humanities and Social Sciences) and several us gathered for moral support.
In between classes, we get lunch and do some shopping. I now have a tapestry that will function as a bed sheet until I learn the Dutch words for "sheet" and "duvet cover" and can thus differeniate. I also bought some of my books for class.
This evening was one of the surreal, European incidents. After chilling for a bit, Lauren and I went to a reknown apple pie locale and had us some huge pieces of Dutch Apple pie. The fact that we are lucky enough to live here - not to mention lucky enough to live in the best dorm, in the best neighborhood - has still not totally sunk in. In celebration of being in Amsterdam, we strolled the Red Light District for a bit (almost gaining a stalker on the way over) and spent sometime chilling on a bridge, pretending we weren't watching men approach the girls. After a half hour or so, we returned to our lovely Prinsengracht.
I have no classes tomorrow, and still have a bit of shopping to do. I may join some folks for an ikea trip, but I also need to buy books, setup my cell phone, find a bike (and locks) and maybe do some homework. Or, wander Jordaan with my camera.
Saturday morning was the commencement of the ISN (International Student Network) adventure. We began with another canal tour, which was pretty sweet, then moved on to ice skating. We decided that the program must think that total and utter humiliation is the best way to bond.
Traversing Alexanderplein, I see that the crocuses are already in bloom. The irony brings me joy. This joy only increases when I discover that the ice skating rink is outside. With the sun shining and grass thriving in the center of the circular rink. Despite the hockey skates (I've never used them) and the amazingly good Dutch speed skaters (and all the six year olds) we all manage to survive with our dignity intact.
Later on, after dinner at a Mediterrenian place, we meet at Dam Square for the big party. Of course, no one shows up til 11 and we are standing in this cold as hell, hole in the wall, trashy club the whole time. Eventually a ton of people end up there. Leaving around 130 (to walk home alone) I realize what I know for sure is the worse part of Europe.
Smoking.
Inside.
My clothes, which I had been wearing for all of 3 hours now, reek of smoke, as does my hair. And my airways are like, "oh no, we are closing up to-NIGHT." It's nice to know I have large amounts of advair stashed away.
Sunday was spent shopping and then we went out to dinner with Kristen's friend who was visiting from Ireland. Indonesian food and pastries contributed to the night, but the drunk - obviously American - half-dressed frat boys completed it. As I took pictures of Megan and Dalma with these gentlemen, they decided it was a good idea to pick Dalma up. Literally. Photo evidence to follow.
Just in the case that we weren't all totally overwhelmed yet by the vast amount of information shoved down our throats in the past 5 days, today we began classes. It's a 1.5 mile walk from here to the ISHSS (International School of Humanities and Social Sciences) and several us gathered for moral support.
In between classes, we get lunch and do some shopping. I now have a tapestry that will function as a bed sheet until I learn the Dutch words for "sheet" and "duvet cover" and can thus differeniate. I also bought some of my books for class.
This evening was one of the surreal, European incidents. After chilling for a bit, Lauren and I went to a reknown apple pie locale and had us some huge pieces of Dutch Apple pie. The fact that we are lucky enough to live here - not to mention lucky enough to live in the best dorm, in the best neighborhood - has still not totally sunk in. In celebration of being in Amsterdam, we strolled the Red Light District for a bit (almost gaining a stalker on the way over) and spent sometime chilling on a bridge, pretending we weren't watching men approach the girls. After a half hour or so, we returned to our lovely Prinsengracht.
I have no classes tomorrow, and still have a bit of shopping to do. I may join some folks for an ikea trip, but I also need to buy books, setup my cell phone, find a bike (and locks) and maybe do some homework. Or, wander Jordaan with my camera.
Friday, February 2, 2007
Arrival.
...So I have been in the Netherlands for only 36 hours, and I have already met over 40 different people, walked probably 15 miles around downtown, gone on a canal tour, cruised the red light district, and been in at least 5 or 6 bars.
"Borrel" is a Dutch social event that includes alcohol consumption. Literally, "borrel" translates into "drink." While CIEE struggles to organize many other programs, they can make sure we have free drinks.
Orientation has been a clusterfuck of programming: canal tour, campus tour, scavenger hunt (my group sucked, as we live practically in Jordaan, we are forever away from downtown), lots of drawn-out "info sessions" and bar hopping with other international students. With so much going on, I will only highlight the cool stuff.
My dorm: I moved in to discover the most amazing dorm I've ever seen. 20 foot ceilings, a kitchenette, huge windows overlooking a courtyard, and a bathroom I only have to share with one other girl; Ally, who's also from MA. I know all the CIEE students that live here. We are arguably 4 and half miles or more away from the other dorms, which kinda sucks.
Navigating has been an adventure. In this "do it yourself" society, people will correct your Dutch then offer you directions in perfectly good English. We have been left to wander - in hopes of luck or mercy from the Dutch - back to our dorms. I was in charge last night, and we ended up in a branch of the Red Light District. I gawked - totally tourist staring, while Tori insisted she wanted to go home. I was amused, but when am I not? We also walked through Chinatown this evening, which was a crazy array of restaurants and such - with whole roasted ducks hanging in the window. Mmmmmm...not.
Also, they tell you everyone can speak English here; well yes they can speak English, but that does not mean they do. I have already begun the undertaking of learning enough dutch to not look like an idiot, as I was already proclaimed an American by the bathroom attentant in a bar this evening (tipping in bathrooms is weird, sorry).
I've done so much in the past 2 days , it's hard to describe it all. Tomorrow, we have numerous programs with ISN (International Student Network) planned, then out to the bars again. Look for pictures, coming soon to a blog near you.
"Borrel" is a Dutch social event that includes alcohol consumption. Literally, "borrel" translates into "drink." While CIEE struggles to organize many other programs, they can make sure we have free drinks.
Orientation has been a clusterfuck of programming: canal tour, campus tour, scavenger hunt (my group sucked, as we live practically in Jordaan, we are forever away from downtown), lots of drawn-out "info sessions" and bar hopping with other international students. With so much going on, I will only highlight the cool stuff.
My dorm: I moved in to discover the most amazing dorm I've ever seen. 20 foot ceilings, a kitchenette, huge windows overlooking a courtyard, and a bathroom I only have to share with one other girl; Ally, who's also from MA. I know all the CIEE students that live here. We are arguably 4 and half miles or more away from the other dorms, which kinda sucks.
Navigating has been an adventure. In this "do it yourself" society, people will correct your Dutch then offer you directions in perfectly good English. We have been left to wander - in hopes of luck or mercy from the Dutch - back to our dorms. I was in charge last night, and we ended up in a branch of the Red Light District. I gawked - totally tourist staring, while Tori insisted she wanted to go home. I was amused, but when am I not? We also walked through Chinatown this evening, which was a crazy array of restaurants and such - with whole roasted ducks hanging in the window. Mmmmmm...not.
Also, they tell you everyone can speak English here; well yes they can speak English, but that does not mean they do. I have already begun the undertaking of learning enough dutch to not look like an idiot, as I was already proclaimed an American by the bathroom attentant in a bar this evening (tipping in bathrooms is weird, sorry).
I've done so much in the past 2 days , it's hard to describe it all. Tomorrow, we have numerous programs with ISN (International Student Network) planned, then out to the bars again. Look for pictures, coming soon to a blog near you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
