~Dear Co-workers,
I'd rather not know that you drive after drinking too much (4 bombays counts as too much, I'm quite convinced). I really rather not hear about it when it happened last weekend. I mistakenly thought people outgrew such poor decision making tendencies.
Love,
M~
~Telemarketers:
Your rudeness and sometimes blatant hostility makes me want to hunt your pitiful self down in your dingy little cubical and help you understand the importance of common human respect and decent manners. Through methods that will guarantee you never, ever forget it.
M~
Tuesday always seem so much more painful than Mondays. I can't figure out this phenom, because they are essentially the same day, except I have to do the mail twice on Monday (that is, Saturdays). I actually spend my day thinking "half way to lunch. Half way through the day. Half way through the afternoon. 14 minutes and 27 seconds left until I can stop working and pretend until I'm free."
However, that lacks intrigue for the common reader, so let's focus on...babies? Facebook? Those were my first two thoughts. I'm not sure what that really says about my current status of mind.
I think I should join Michael Phelps in his extracurricular activities and maybe I'd feel better.
Showing posts with label booze. Show all posts
Showing posts with label booze. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Monday, January 26, 2009
best worst trip to Canada
"This has got to be the best worst trip to Canada ever." We're staring in disbelief at a fountain that is lacking its most important feature - water. It was at least 10 degrees below zero, nevermind the wind chill outside, and we had been wandering aimlessly in a maze of underground malls for at least an hour. A fountain that shoots five stories in the air?! Who doesn't want to see that?
There was nothing else to do but take a picture of April with the dormant fountain.
The amount of things that had gone wrong - and would continue to go astray - was laughable. We had already managed to go to the wrong museum (Which wasn’t even open yet), were given incorrect information, and thus paid to see a movie about the origins of Montreal when we were expecting sea animals. The birth of a nation is fascinating, but cannot compete with smiling dolphins and frolicking waterfowl. It just can't. But that's fine really, it was only one little thing. That, and the cold. And by cold, I mean the radio warned not to go out with any exposed flesh. Mmm, tasty. But we were determined - until the barren fountain mocked us so cruelly. Only to be followed by the ATM refusing April's card three times.
Undeterred, we headed towards Rue St. Catherine (which happens to be an incredibly long street) to locate a sex shop for some giggles. I think sex shops are hysterical, personally. Any dull night in Amsterdam (ok, those don't really exist, but for the sake of argument), we head over to the Red Light District and consider the pros and cons of penis shaped pasta and pineapple flavored lube. I wanted to share this important cultural experience with the month, and so we were off.
...right into the ghetto. Graffiti sprawled across alleyways and convenience stores. There were bars on the windows, debris littering the front stoops. The bus stop signs were nearly destroyed - it was time to haul ass. I love being a foreigner, but being a foreigner in the wrong neighborhood is another level. To our relief, we made it to Rue St. Catherine. Dusk was quickly approaching as we power walked against the icy wind. Several blocks passed with no sign of S&M gear or gaudy window displays. Last time I was in Montreal, I could see a sex show from my hotel window. There was no hope. So, we got on a bus. The kid across from us was wearing two different sneakers. We couldn't figure out from the bus driver how much we owed together, or separate, or at all. At the metro station, he waved us off the bus and told us to pay inside. Riiiiiiiiiiight. Now that’s cheap travel at its best.
By the time we made it back to our hotel, we were thoroughly frozen and pretty exhausted. I have failed to mention thus far that our hotel turned out to be in the middle of Chinatown, complete with a koi pond in the lobby, two pagodas on the roof, and a completely “feng shui”ed layout. They spent a million dollars to move the entrance, to provide optimal energy flow. We picnicked on French champagne and cheese curds (that’s a meeting of our two cultures, I obviously being the champagne), had a rousing singalong to “I would do anything for love” and then promptly passed out before 10pm.
Sunday morning bore promise. The temperature had risen 20 degrees. We snagged free tea from the housekeeping cart. The muffins were delicious. Hope was in the air. We were determined that today would be successful.
We found the ocean. Well, we found the imax film “Wild Ocean” that we had originally set out for 24 hours prior. We were the only nonkids/parents in the place, and I insisted on wearing my 3D glasses as long as possible. The film was breathtaking, following the sardine migration along the southeastern coast of Africa. I smiled at a dolphin before recalling that he was, in fact not actually in front of me and thus could not appreciate my sign of friendliness. Success number one. Things were looking up. Next stop: the gay village.
“I can see rainbows!” I ran up the metro stairs toward the bright array of colors. There was no need to worry, there was rainbows everywhere, including on top of the metro station. It was a little too early for most the stores to be open, so we just frolicked and took ridiculous pictures while on-lookers peered suspiciously in our general direction. We then dined on incredibly good – and cheap – Chinese food, during which we drank about 4 pots of tea, which is a great idea right before driving long distances.
Filled with culinary goodness, we declared Sunday a total success. And I’ll leave it at that, because the trip home was not so much of a winning situation.
There was nothing else to do but take a picture of April with the dormant fountain.
The amount of things that had gone wrong - and would continue to go astray - was laughable. We had already managed to go to the wrong museum (Which wasn’t even open yet), were given incorrect information, and thus paid to see a movie about the origins of Montreal when we were expecting sea animals. The birth of a nation is fascinating, but cannot compete with smiling dolphins and frolicking waterfowl. It just can't. But that's fine really, it was only one little thing. That, and the cold. And by cold, I mean the radio warned not to go out with any exposed flesh. Mmm, tasty. But we were determined - until the barren fountain mocked us so cruelly. Only to be followed by the ATM refusing April's card three times.
Undeterred, we headed towards Rue St. Catherine (which happens to be an incredibly long street) to locate a sex shop for some giggles. I think sex shops are hysterical, personally. Any dull night in Amsterdam (ok, those don't really exist, but for the sake of argument), we head over to the Red Light District and consider the pros and cons of penis shaped pasta and pineapple flavored lube. I wanted to share this important cultural experience with the month, and so we were off.
...right into the ghetto. Graffiti sprawled across alleyways and convenience stores. There were bars on the windows, debris littering the front stoops. The bus stop signs were nearly destroyed - it was time to haul ass. I love being a foreigner, but being a foreigner in the wrong neighborhood is another level. To our relief, we made it to Rue St. Catherine. Dusk was quickly approaching as we power walked against the icy wind. Several blocks passed with no sign of S&M gear or gaudy window displays. Last time I was in Montreal, I could see a sex show from my hotel window. There was no hope. So, we got on a bus. The kid across from us was wearing two different sneakers. We couldn't figure out from the bus driver how much we owed together, or separate, or at all. At the metro station, he waved us off the bus and told us to pay inside. Riiiiiiiiiiight. Now that’s cheap travel at its best.
By the time we made it back to our hotel, we were thoroughly frozen and pretty exhausted. I have failed to mention thus far that our hotel turned out to be in the middle of Chinatown, complete with a koi pond in the lobby, two pagodas on the roof, and a completely “feng shui”ed layout. They spent a million dollars to move the entrance, to provide optimal energy flow. We picnicked on French champagne and cheese curds (that’s a meeting of our two cultures, I obviously being the champagne), had a rousing singalong to “I would do anything for love” and then promptly passed out before 10pm.
Sunday morning bore promise. The temperature had risen 20 degrees. We snagged free tea from the housekeeping cart. The muffins were delicious. Hope was in the air. We were determined that today would be successful.
We found the ocean. Well, we found the imax film “Wild Ocean” that we had originally set out for 24 hours prior. We were the only nonkids/parents in the place, and I insisted on wearing my 3D glasses as long as possible. The film was breathtaking, following the sardine migration along the southeastern coast of Africa. I smiled at a dolphin before recalling that he was, in fact not actually in front of me and thus could not appreciate my sign of friendliness. Success number one. Things were looking up. Next stop: the gay village.
“I can see rainbows!” I ran up the metro stairs toward the bright array of colors. There was no need to worry, there was rainbows everywhere, including on top of the metro station. It was a little too early for most the stores to be open, so we just frolicked and took ridiculous pictures while on-lookers peered suspiciously in our general direction. We then dined on incredibly good – and cheap – Chinese food, during which we drank about 4 pots of tea, which is a great idea right before driving long distances.
Filled with culinary goodness, we declared Sunday a total success. And I’ll leave it at that, because the trip home was not so much of a winning situation.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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 19, 2007
Carnaval
A decision made only 4 days before (and a quick hotel switch the morning of departure) found us on a 7:37 train to Maastricht in South Holland. In the process of getting to Centraal we had gained another traveler, a touch of drama, and no dinner, but we made the train. We arrived in Maastricht to discover our hotel was relatively close to downtown, in the way Siena is relatively close to say, Saratoga. Actually, it was about a 15 minute bus ride and we wereconvienently located right on the bus route. We checked in, and were back on the bus in under 12 minutes, and hit downtown by 11ish.
To say the very least, the celebration was in full swing. The main square was already trashed, broken glass everywhere, while several varieties of music competed for attention. From techno to really shitty American music to traditional Dutch songs, the array proved amusing which we took full advantage of by breaking out every rediculous dance move we could think of. We traveled the bars of the Square, making friends, trying to explain we didn't speak much (read: any) Dutch, and dancing. We were unfortunately very underdressed for the occasion, as most people were in some form of costume - either the Carneval colors of red, yellow, and green, something totally rediculous, or actual costume. There were quite a few people in army fatigues, one who took a liking to me, and ended up taking me down in the middle of a side street as a result of his inebration.
While it is hard to describe every interesting moment - of which there were many - I'll highlight. We, by chance, found other friends for CIEE outside a bar, which was exciting and traveled deeper into the city with them. I danced with a man more than twice my age (arguably 3 times my age - insert joke here, I can here you laughing from NL) and then we took over a stage with a pair of boys dressed as Snow White. There is no explanation at all. I ended up really dehydrated and tired because I hadn't really eaten dinner and water is so hard to get for free here, so by 3 am we cleared out, hailed a cab, and headed back home.
I don't spend a lot of time in cabs, but I view it as they are doing me a service, and I am paying them much too much, so I don't expect to be morally judged by them. For example, 4 of us are in the taxi, no one is overly intoxicated, we are reviewing the night, discussing how one of our friends was too shy to kiss this guy. Not too R-rated at all - we have much more intense conversations at home around the dinner table with my family - and the cab driver asks us to not talk about this subject. We are all stunned into silence, with no idea how to react. He then stops to get petrol, and I refuse to see any justification in this request, but there's nothing really that can be done. After an awkwardly quiet trip back, we sneak 4 people into a triple, crash immediately and I am sleeping in the crack of the two single beds. Niccccccccccccccccce.
The next day's adventures did not commence until almost 13:30. We went to a cheap Asian buffet, then to the only church in the NLs that is built on a Saint's burial place. Our original plan had been to go downtown and just stay until the parties that night. By 16:00 the parties had started, but our asses were kicked. If I were to start drinking at 4 in the afternoon, I'd probably be out by 10. We had luckily snagged all day bus passes and thus headed back to crash for a few hours. By 21:00 we are back downtown, complete with feather boas et all so we "blend in" a bit more. We head to a really cheap Fraternity-run bar (beer + shots, 1 euro each, mixed drinks, 2 euro) where everyone begins to drink semiheavily (not me though, I had 3 drinks all night. Really!) We end up wandering some more, I sign my name on some Dutch guy's ass (after I stop him from marking my friend's back with a permenant marker), you know, the regular. Around midnight, we end up splitting into two groups; Kristen, Dalma, and Torie head back into the bars, while me, Molly, and Megan go to a coffeeshop entitled "Cool Runnings." The name alone brought me joy. We three chilled and talked for a while, but didn't have any phone signal inside, so as soon as we got outside again, I had several messages and no idea what was going on with the other half of the group (this confusion was a result of shitty cell phones, not other things, as you may suspect). From what I can glean though, there is drama.
We find the other 3 outside of a McDonalds and Kristen's chilling on the sidewalk. The drama is not worth getting into, but basically we decide to leave. Its about a quarter of 2 at this point, and I am more than happy to go back. There is the regular debriefing before bed and then finally, marvelous sleep.
10:00 comes too soon; we rush to check out, get all of us out without them questioning our numbers and catch the bus back to Centraal. We arrive 20 minutes before the next train fortunately, and by 1130ish we are headed back to A'dam.
It was quite the party, to put it lightly. I was dead to the world most of Sunday after we returned, but it was an experience worth the sacrifice.
Pictures will follow shortly, be ready.
To say the very least, the celebration was in full swing. The main square was already trashed, broken glass everywhere, while several varieties of music competed for attention. From techno to really shitty American music to traditional Dutch songs, the array proved amusing which we took full advantage of by breaking out every rediculous dance move we could think of. We traveled the bars of the Square, making friends, trying to explain we didn't speak much (read: any) Dutch, and dancing. We were unfortunately very underdressed for the occasion, as most people were in some form of costume - either the Carneval colors of red, yellow, and green, something totally rediculous, or actual costume. There were quite a few people in army fatigues, one who took a liking to me, and ended up taking me down in the middle of a side street as a result of his inebration.
While it is hard to describe every interesting moment - of which there were many - I'll highlight. We, by chance, found other friends for CIEE outside a bar, which was exciting and traveled deeper into the city with them. I danced with a man more than twice my age (arguably 3 times my age - insert joke here, I can here you laughing from NL) and then we took over a stage with a pair of boys dressed as Snow White. There is no explanation at all. I ended up really dehydrated and tired because I hadn't really eaten dinner and water is so hard to get for free here, so by 3 am we cleared out, hailed a cab, and headed back home.
I don't spend a lot of time in cabs, but I view it as they are doing me a service, and I am paying them much too much, so I don't expect to be morally judged by them. For example, 4 of us are in the taxi, no one is overly intoxicated, we are reviewing the night, discussing how one of our friends was too shy to kiss this guy. Not too R-rated at all - we have much more intense conversations at home around the dinner table with my family - and the cab driver asks us to not talk about this subject. We are all stunned into silence, with no idea how to react. He then stops to get petrol, and I refuse to see any justification in this request, but there's nothing really that can be done. After an awkwardly quiet trip back, we sneak 4 people into a triple, crash immediately and I am sleeping in the crack of the two single beds. Niccccccccccccccccce.
The next day's adventures did not commence until almost 13:30. We went to a cheap Asian buffet, then to the only church in the NLs that is built on a Saint's burial place. Our original plan had been to go downtown and just stay until the parties that night. By 16:00 the parties had started, but our asses were kicked. If I were to start drinking at 4 in the afternoon, I'd probably be out by 10. We had luckily snagged all day bus passes and thus headed back to crash for a few hours. By 21:00 we are back downtown, complete with feather boas et all so we "blend in" a bit more. We head to a really cheap Fraternity-run bar (beer + shots, 1 euro each, mixed drinks, 2 euro) where everyone begins to drink semiheavily (not me though, I had 3 drinks all night. Really!) We end up wandering some more, I sign my name on some Dutch guy's ass (after I stop him from marking my friend's back with a permenant marker), you know, the regular. Around midnight, we end up splitting into two groups; Kristen, Dalma, and Torie head back into the bars, while me, Molly, and Megan go to a coffeeshop entitled "Cool Runnings." The name alone brought me joy. We three chilled and talked for a while, but didn't have any phone signal inside, so as soon as we got outside again, I had several messages and no idea what was going on with the other half of the group (this confusion was a result of shitty cell phones, not other things, as you may suspect). From what I can glean though, there is drama.
We find the other 3 outside of a McDonalds and Kristen's chilling on the sidewalk. The drama is not worth getting into, but basically we decide to leave. Its about a quarter of 2 at this point, and I am more than happy to go back. There is the regular debriefing before bed and then finally, marvelous sleep.
10:00 comes too soon; we rush to check out, get all of us out without them questioning our numbers and catch the bus back to Centraal. We arrive 20 minutes before the next train fortunately, and by 1130ish we are headed back to A'dam.
It was quite the party, to put it lightly. I was dead to the world most of Sunday after we returned, but it was an experience worth the sacrifice.
Pictures will follow shortly, be ready.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
How I came to love the British
When we last left off, I was on my way to a V-Day Borrel on Rembrandt Square, wearing a satin red shirt and hot pink sneakers from the flea market. The first night time bike ride was harrowing, but I obviously survived. Upon completion of this journey, the adventure of your night began.
The ISN borrel was packed - a fire code violation in the making. I am way too short for the dutch, and was quickly lost in a sea of people until I got to the balcony like thing. Kristen cleared out within 10 minutes of getting through the door, and I followed shortly there after, to find her, Jackie, and Aaron planning to hop to the bar across the street. My jacket is the only one we can't find, but we decide to come back for it when the crowd clears out for the after party.
We end up at "Cafe Nasty," which an expensive bar (6.50 euro a drink) but has a stripper pole in the center of the dance floor. We don't stay all that long, and it's early in the night for pole dancing (for ourselves and the locals) and end up back outside. Here, fortune decided to shine upon our evening.
A delightful British guy asked me where a good bar is; we enter into a conversation about where to go, and where we're all from (all 3 of them were from Manchester) and I then decide to lead the newly combined group of them (Matt, Stew, and Brenden) and us (Me, Kristen, Jackie, Aaron) to a new bar. That doesn't work out, so we invite them to join the ISN afterparty. After loosing sight of them for a bit (in which I am in a fury over my missing jacket) we reunite on the corner of the dance floor. We are attempting to hold conversations over the music, eventually succumbing to dancing to some of the poorest examples of American music ever (bon jovi, cyndi lauper, um...I did not fly over 3000 miles for this bullshit). We kinda pair off, (which leaves one of the brits bouncing back and forth, pouting a bit), and Kristen insists she's leaving soon if they dont buy us drinks. I personally do not care to flirt my way into a drink, because A) I can buy my own drink, thank you; and B) Buying me a drink is going to get you gratitude and most likely, nothing else, and I will tell you that up front. She keeps asking me how you get guys to buy you drinks, and shes mentioning how she doesn't have money and how she's not drunk at all. I, being the magical being I am, am just chilling, talking about the music or politics (yes, politics at 130, in a bar), and Matt offers to buy me a drink. I have now inspired hatred in Kristen's heart, but hey free beer for Maria! (Side note: I will be questioned on how fast I drink that beer; I'm sorry, I'm american?)
So the night is progressing well; Matt is not creepy, he's (supposedly) only 25; they all leave Thursday morning, so it's a good time. We insist we are leaving at 2 AM (we both have 9 am class with half of the people on the dance floor at any given moment) and exchange some numbers in hopes of making plans for tomorrow (i.e. Wednesday night). We head outside for some air and to say our good byes, and fortune once again returns, this time to rain on our parade.
Matt, Kristen, Brenden and I are chilling on the stairs when we look up and witness a very ungraceful egress of a fellow CIEE student. We had already spent part of the night disowning our fellow CIEE females because of the rediculousness they were taking part in, so this only added to it. A lot of falling, stumbling, belligerent arguing, and the like commence in front of us. My roommate, who is trying to help out the girl, comes to stand with us, because most of the American girls present have found creepy men who now are stalking them. The drunken girl's friends all leave, and for some reason, me and Kristen are left with her. After I take her to the bathroom, get her back outside, and rationalize some actions, our British friends are bemusingly offering help, but now it's heading toward 3 am and my jacket is still missing. Conclusion: in a rage.
Segue: we went back to look for my jacket a third time, and literally as Kristen was like "Sweetheart, give it up, its gone" I found it. My blood pressure up until that moment was at highly unhealthy levels.
Unsegue, we part from the Brits, telling them to call us about tomorrow, and begin to move back toward Kristen and my bikes. I take mine, Kristen takes our friends, locking hers up (note: Kristen does not live near Rembrandt Square at all). Here, I am luckily freed from responsibility, as I have the furthest ride home, and I'm alone. Riding home at 3 AM through all the little side streets and bridges is pretty sweet, a moment of transcendence of society, if I may.
I arrive in Prinsengracht to find my roommate waiting up for me. We review the night's damage, discuss future plans for increased safety, and then call Kristen. She had managed to strong-arm the belligerent into a cab, and now was home - but with the other girl's bike. Shortly after 4 am, I crash.
7:30 AM - It does not feel as if I have been asleep at all. I shower, knock on Allie's door, manage to get my bike out of the basement (if you visit me, ask to see me do this, its f 'ing redic). I end up getting off track, because I'm avoiding the trams/buses/scooters/cars/crazy dutch bikers who do not value life and end up taking a side trip through the Red Light District. I am fortunate enough not to pass any day whores, for last time that happened, Lauren summed it up perfectly in one word: wildebeasts. That being said, the morning does not go all that smoothly, and of course, its raining.
As a result of all of the above and a conversation with a very impressive law student last weekend, I have made the executive decision to take on EU Law as independent study. Jaani said I can go to lecture or read the book, as long as I do one, (and write the paper) I can pass - and he seems like he'd know. So while I should be in EU Law now, being screamed at by the crazy woman, I am at PHK recounting my life's moments for others'enjoyment. Now I just really need to buy that book.
The ISN borrel was packed - a fire code violation in the making. I am way too short for the dutch, and was quickly lost in a sea of people until I got to the balcony like thing. Kristen cleared out within 10 minutes of getting through the door, and I followed shortly there after, to find her, Jackie, and Aaron planning to hop to the bar across the street. My jacket is the only one we can't find, but we decide to come back for it when the crowd clears out for the after party.
We end up at "Cafe Nasty," which an expensive bar (6.50 euro a drink) but has a stripper pole in the center of the dance floor. We don't stay all that long, and it's early in the night for pole dancing (for ourselves and the locals) and end up back outside. Here, fortune decided to shine upon our evening.
A delightful British guy asked me where a good bar is; we enter into a conversation about where to go, and where we're all from (all 3 of them were from Manchester) and I then decide to lead the newly combined group of them (Matt, Stew, and Brenden) and us (Me, Kristen, Jackie, Aaron) to a new bar. That doesn't work out, so we invite them to join the ISN afterparty. After loosing sight of them for a bit (in which I am in a fury over my missing jacket) we reunite on the corner of the dance floor. We are attempting to hold conversations over the music, eventually succumbing to dancing to some of the poorest examples of American music ever (bon jovi, cyndi lauper, um...I did not fly over 3000 miles for this bullshit). We kinda pair off, (which leaves one of the brits bouncing back and forth, pouting a bit), and Kristen insists she's leaving soon if they dont buy us drinks. I personally do not care to flirt my way into a drink, because A) I can buy my own drink, thank you; and B) Buying me a drink is going to get you gratitude and most likely, nothing else, and I will tell you that up front. She keeps asking me how you get guys to buy you drinks, and shes mentioning how she doesn't have money and how she's not drunk at all. I, being the magical being I am, am just chilling, talking about the music or politics (yes, politics at 130, in a bar), and Matt offers to buy me a drink. I have now inspired hatred in Kristen's heart, but hey free beer for Maria! (Side note: I will be questioned on how fast I drink that beer; I'm sorry, I'm american?)
So the night is progressing well; Matt is not creepy, he's (supposedly) only 25; they all leave Thursday morning, so it's a good time. We insist we are leaving at 2 AM (we both have 9 am class with half of the people on the dance floor at any given moment) and exchange some numbers in hopes of making plans for tomorrow (i.e. Wednesday night). We head outside for some air and to say our good byes, and fortune once again returns, this time to rain on our parade.
Matt, Kristen, Brenden and I are chilling on the stairs when we look up and witness a very ungraceful egress of a fellow CIEE student. We had already spent part of the night disowning our fellow CIEE females because of the rediculousness they were taking part in, so this only added to it. A lot of falling, stumbling, belligerent arguing, and the like commence in front of us. My roommate, who is trying to help out the girl, comes to stand with us, because most of the American girls present have found creepy men who now are stalking them. The drunken girl's friends all leave, and for some reason, me and Kristen are left with her. After I take her to the bathroom, get her back outside, and rationalize some actions, our British friends are bemusingly offering help, but now it's heading toward 3 am and my jacket is still missing. Conclusion: in a rage.
Segue: we went back to look for my jacket a third time, and literally as Kristen was like "Sweetheart, give it up, its gone" I found it. My blood pressure up until that moment was at highly unhealthy levels.
Unsegue, we part from the Brits, telling them to call us about tomorrow, and begin to move back toward Kristen and my bikes. I take mine, Kristen takes our friends, locking hers up (note: Kristen does not live near Rembrandt Square at all). Here, I am luckily freed from responsibility, as I have the furthest ride home, and I'm alone. Riding home at 3 AM through all the little side streets and bridges is pretty sweet, a moment of transcendence of society, if I may.
I arrive in Prinsengracht to find my roommate waiting up for me. We review the night's damage, discuss future plans for increased safety, and then call Kristen. She had managed to strong-arm the belligerent into a cab, and now was home - but with the other girl's bike. Shortly after 4 am, I crash.
7:30 AM - It does not feel as if I have been asleep at all. I shower, knock on Allie's door, manage to get my bike out of the basement (if you visit me, ask to see me do this, its f 'ing redic). I end up getting off track, because I'm avoiding the trams/buses/scooters/cars/crazy dutch bikers who do not value life and end up taking a side trip through the Red Light District. I am fortunate enough not to pass any day whores, for last time that happened, Lauren summed it up perfectly in one word: wildebeasts. That being said, the morning does not go all that smoothly, and of course, its raining.
As a result of all of the above and a conversation with a very impressive law student last weekend, I have made the executive decision to take on EU Law as independent study. Jaani said I can go to lecture or read the book, as long as I do one, (and write the paper) I can pass - and he seems like he'd know. So while I should be in EU Law now, being screamed at by the crazy woman, I am at PHK recounting my life's moments for others'enjoyment. Now I just really need to buy that book.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
This one goes out to this hot chick I know, Katy DeCorah...
I has been brought to my attention that I need to blog so people know what I'm doing 24/7, so here's a mini update until the real adventure of this weekend occurs.
Jorge finally came through; I have a bike. (We secretly nicknamed the bike man because we have seen him more than any other individual in the past week). Its a pretty crappy bike, but that will hopefully deter thieves.
I also finally got to the van Gogh museum. It was, simply put, breathtaking. We discussed going everyday, but that seemed a little overkill. When I got to the metal detectors and refused to pass through them, the man took my word and had me hold his hand all the way around security, it was awesome.
In a uncharacteristic fit of spontanaity (sp?), we have decided to go to Maastricht for the weekend. For those who have no idea what/where/why (i.e. all of you), Maastricht is a lovely medevil town on Southern Holland where Carnaval/Mardi Gras is celebrated heartily. While we won't be there for the actual Carnaval (because we can't start skipping class already), we will be there for some liveiness. We have a hotel, now we just need train tickets and we're set. Blog will follow.
Now, I am getting ready to go out (who thought Tuesday was a good night for drinking?) for the Valentine's Day Borrel (gheyyyyyyyyy), wearing red pink. Rediculousness, just one more service I offer.
Jorge finally came through; I have a bike. (We secretly nicknamed the bike man because we have seen him more than any other individual in the past week). Its a pretty crappy bike, but that will hopefully deter thieves.
I also finally got to the van Gogh museum. It was, simply put, breathtaking. We discussed going everyday, but that seemed a little overkill. When I got to the metal detectors and refused to pass through them, the man took my word and had me hold his hand all the way around security, it was awesome.
In a uncharacteristic fit of spontanaity (sp?), we have decided to go to Maastricht for the weekend. For those who have no idea what/where/why (i.e. all of you), Maastricht is a lovely medevil town on Southern Holland where Carnaval/Mardi Gras is celebrated heartily. While we won't be there for the actual Carnaval (because we can't start skipping class already), we will be there for some liveiness. We have a hotel, now we just need train tickets and we're set. Blog will follow.
Now, I am getting ready to go out (who thought Tuesday was a good night for drinking?) for the Valentine's Day Borrel (gheyyyyyyyyy), wearing red pink. Rediculousness, just one more service I offer.
Friday, February 9, 2007
Buying bikes from junkies
...I realize that people actually read this blog, thus I'll update. No major adventures (though currently everything is an adventure to us.) Steph from CIEE celebrated her 21st last night, twas a good time, and we made it back on the tram safely. I went to bed with Lynch's "I wanna F your sister" in my head. Random, I realize.
We are still trying to get bikes, and being wicked short Americans in the World's Tallest Nation is not serving us well. We have some bikes promised on Tuesday, so hopefully that will work out...otherwise, I'll just be walking everywhere, forever.
Also in the works: travel plans for the semester (already). Me and the girls are going somewhere in May, which is still yet to be decided. Many people are buying tickets now, so I'm working on figuring out when I need to get things organized.
Alright, I am hopefully off to adventure in the city...more stories to come soon!
We are still trying to get bikes, and being wicked short Americans in the World's Tallest Nation is not serving us well. We have some bikes promised on Tuesday, so hopefully that will work out...otherwise, I'll just be walking everywhere, forever.
Also in the works: travel plans for the semester (already). Me and the girls are going somewhere in May, which is still yet to be decided. Many people are buying tickets now, so I'm working on figuring out when I need to get things organized.
Alright, I am hopefully off to adventure in the city...more stories to come soon!
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.
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