Adoption of homeland

Its quite comphrendable that I would miss life in the Netherlands. Most Americans ever-so-slightly left of the middle think its a fabulous place to visit; its repuation precedes it around the world, for better or worse. Drugs and hooker jokes aside, the Dutch lifestyle proved very compatible with my own ways; being highly independent and proactive, I careened through Amsterdam with joy. Everyday I had to learn and adapt, making up rules and languages as I went along. Sometimes the cultural difference would wear me out and I'd head back to the flat to listen to the canned sound of pure American English. I was alone and, I was alone. I met a lot of intriguing people abroad, from scores of different countries, all with something to offer, but my family (both blood and chosen) were in America. I can't deny the beauty of Boston that clear Friday afternoon. The bemused customs empolyee was kind enough not to laugh at my overt giddyness. I was home. The return to Siena eariler this month just completed me. I was back in my realm.

It is curious to long for something that was never really yours. Studying abroad is the chance to be a glorified guest; more tolerated than a tourist, but still not truly a part of that society. At first glance, your host is the best thing you've ever seen, much better than back home or anywhere else for that matter. As time carries on, you come to see it realness. Like everywhere else, there are pros and cons. Beautiful art and despairing poverty stand side by side. Young white supremists stalk past the Anne Frank House, leering in ignorant hatred. It rains, and in the Netherlands, that means it rains alot, at the most inconvienent times possible. America, despite it all, is not that bad - we actually have it so well and we never seem able to acknowledge it without leaving for years or enduring some national tragedy. I can not say I am proud to be an American, but I am grateful for the opportunities its citizenship have afforded.

And still, I just completed a half heartd search of jobs in the Amsterdam area. I surprised myself yesterday during French Toast preparation as I mulled over graduate school in the Netherlands. I recalled the horrible housing statistics I learned in Dutch social policy, blatantly ignored my lack of funding, and ultimately just resigned myself to looking over the many photos of my trip abroad. While my outsider status was often apparent, I felt a part of the city, which is a testament to the Dutch way of life. I was just one of a legion of foreigners living there, having my own life just as my neighbors were. Outsider or not, I miss it . I miss riding my bike along the canals, dodging soulless taxis and errant tourists. I miss the shimmer of the canals in the deep quiet of the night, as I walked out live's tribulations along the narrow streets of the Jordaan. The random joys and terrors of the Dam, the bawdy and obnoxious spirit of the Red Light District, the blatant honesty of the Dutch way. Self sufficiency within and without.

I dream of Dutch life at least once a week. I impart useless and unnecessary Dutch vocabulary on innocent bystanders. To gain entrance to my house, one has to undergo the vast collection of photographic evidence of my time in Europe. I'm happy to be back amongst my friends and family, but I miss Amsterdam. Proudly independent, both the city and I always maintained our separateness, but that's the way I work with best with others.

Who Says You Can't Go Home?

I don't like that song. I don't really care for Bon Jovi. However, I still reference the idea of this song once in a while. Anyway, who did say you can't go home? Unless you've committed serious enough crimes and aren't allowed in your home state (I know of someone in that catagory), you can always go home. Sure, it might be awkward. Or boring. You may cross the city line and begin to digress to your younger years, but you can still always go home. Revert to being someone's child instead of the independent island of the world beyond; there's nothing like baking cookies with Mom, as she yells at you to stop eating all the dough.

Recently, I have developed the unfortunate habit of waxing poetic over, oh, everything. For the sake of all others who can't take the sappiness, let's just say, I'm glad to be home. And for all of my loyal readers (all four of you), I think I might keep writing. Who knows about what, but now you have something to look forward to in your lives ;)

I'm off on another adventure in just a few short hours; that just might be the inspiration needed.

I'm Home

I made it.

I slipped into the U.S. just in time to miss the computer melt down that delayed so many others.

I'm so happy!

...and I go to Albany on Thursday :)

Tot Ziens (for now), Amsterdam!

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.

Craving America: It's Always the Little Things

With 16 days left on the great continent, I can't deny that I am really looking forward to returning to the land of my birth. Being apart from America for almost five months has revealed the many great aspects of the crazy States that I had previously not noticed. While the most obvious being my friends, family, dog, free water, and less sexual harassment, there are those little life details that stand out, that for me, are the best - or only available - in America.

1. Riding in my Dad's truck, blasting Petty
2. Chic tens from the Wrap Shop @ school
3. Saturday breakfast at Mems
4. Christmas music (I don't care if its May, I'd love me some Bing Crosby right now)
5. Wide open spaces
6. One stop shopping, ala' Walmart/Target (yeah, I said it; that's confidence right there)
7. Convection ovens
8. Jacuzzi Tub (at this point, any bathtub would be appreciated)
9. Trees over eight years old - and thus, taller than 15 feet.
10. Real cookies

...The list could go on and on, ranging from the inconsquential to the profound (ok, no, I won't be professing love for the Constitution anytime soon), but I'm supposed to be writing a paper presently, so back to that. Stories of the French Riviera soon though!