I got accepted to BC's Lynch School of Education for the upcoming fall!
All of a sudden, despite the shitty housing, the freezing temps, and this godforsaken beaurocratic mess that is New York State, life is feeling pretty good.
...of course I have my Valentine to thank for a lot of that. <3
Showing posts with label joy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label joy. Show all posts
Monday, February 16, 2009
Sunday, September 23, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, June 11, 2007
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 :)
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 :)
Friday, June 8, 2007
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, 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.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Friday, May 25, 2007
The Hazards of Riviera Life
Friday morning we set out ready to wholly dedicate ourselves to a day at the beach. Megan and I arrived around noon, after the necessary pastry stop and did our best to rearrange the stones into comfortable bedding. Unfortunately, there really is no way to do that, but nevertheless, our spirits never lagged. Armed with books, slathered in sun block, the Mediterranean at our feet, we established our temporary empire. Perfection.
Now the beach is a prime location for people watching and there is, of course the French – or rather, is it European? - tradition of topless sunbathing, which is never as glamorous as American men would like to believe. It is not only the young supple things baring their breasts. Either way, not many sights tend to incite alarm in me, but sitting on the pebbly beach – i.e. perched atop small boulders which were attempting to reroute my spine – I was quite concerned by a vast trend.
Now, in comparison to anyone, I’m pretty white. I walk from the back door to my car, and I have 28 or so new freckles. I leisurely stop to chat with a neighbor for 9 and half minutes, and I’m approaching a lovely shade of rose. As a result, I am a sunscreen Nazi. I wear sunscreen on my face everyday, but when beach time approaches, I only leave shelter after at least three different applications of sunscreen to my face, and then an all over app of at least SPF 30. This is the major leagues.
While we may share some heritage, most French do not share my passion for sun protection. They sail across those rocks, jug of tanning oil in hand, and begin the dousing. After fully shined, they proceed to plant themselves in the correct sunlight and … bake. There is no other way to better describe it, because that’s what is literally occurring. As I gaped in horror at several women the color of Oompa Lumpas prep’ing themselves for the roast, the desire to issue a loud public service announcement arose within me. Despite my best intentions, I managed to restrain myself. So I just kept my mouth shut and applied more lotion.
Now the beach is a prime location for people watching and there is, of course the French – or rather, is it European? - tradition of topless sunbathing, which is never as glamorous as American men would like to believe. It is not only the young supple things baring their breasts. Either way, not many sights tend to incite alarm in me, but sitting on the pebbly beach – i.e. perched atop small boulders which were attempting to reroute my spine – I was quite concerned by a vast trend.
Now, in comparison to anyone, I’m pretty white. I walk from the back door to my car, and I have 28 or so new freckles. I leisurely stop to chat with a neighbor for 9 and half minutes, and I’m approaching a lovely shade of rose. As a result, I am a sunscreen Nazi. I wear sunscreen on my face everyday, but when beach time approaches, I only leave shelter after at least three different applications of sunscreen to my face, and then an all over app of at least SPF 30. This is the major leagues.
While we may share some heritage, most French do not share my passion for sun protection. They sail across those rocks, jug of tanning oil in hand, and begin the dousing. After fully shined, they proceed to plant themselves in the correct sunlight and … bake. There is no other way to better describe it, because that’s what is literally occurring. As I gaped in horror at several women the color of Oompa Lumpas prep’ing themselves for the roast, the desire to issue a loud public service announcement arose within me. Despite my best intentions, I managed to restrain myself. So I just kept my mouth shut and applied more lotion.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
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!
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!
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
Saturday, May 12, 2007
To Hold You Over While I'm out of Civilization
Just something I want to leave you with:
Now that you’re done giggling, let me share the thought of my Father that has been making me chuckle to myself all week. If you know our backyard, you’ve noticed the large field present. I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve experienced this (Neil likes to recycle stories and jokes) in my young life, but still it makes me laugh. Dad would stroll into the field, strike above pose and ask, grinning,
“Do you know what I am?”
“No, Daddy, what?”
“I’m outstanding in my field!” (Insert ridiculous Segala laugh here)
Scene.
Now that you’re done giggling, let me share the thought of my Father that has been making me chuckle to myself all week. If you know our backyard, you’ve noticed the large field present. I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve experienced this (Neil likes to recycle stories and jokes) in my young life, but still it makes me laugh. Dad would stroll into the field, strike above pose and ask, grinning,
“Do you know what I am?”
“No, Daddy, what?”
“I’m outstanding in my field!” (Insert ridiculous Segala laugh here)
Scene.
Sunday, May 6, 2007
Love conquers all; Or, how Susan and Neil finally made it to Europe (Al would have made it here eventually)
*NOTE* I suck at updating; I know this. There's a lot of things that require my attention here, I'm sorry! I'll do better next time.
The Segalas were happily reunited for an unseasonably warm week in this here delightful city of Amsterdam. This in and of itself was practically miraculous, for several reasons.
Dad never had a desire to leave his own country, and if he was going to, he was going somewhere 1) like America and 2) Where they spoke English.
Mom doesn’t really care to fly; its 7-8 hours to the Netherlands from the East Coast.
BUT, obviously, if I’m in Europe, they’re coming to visit. To make a very long story of suffering short, their original flight was canceled, they were put on and taken off another flight, drove to JFK only to have to battle the airline that they had been switched too, and then finally getting on a later flight and were then separated for the duration of the trip.
I was here, only kind of hearing the story, explaining to my roommate (several times) that “My Mom really doesn’t like to fly, this can’t be good!” On my end, I had conveniently discovered the limit on my debit card, and had my account effectively frozen without warning – I guess I have a 500 dollar a day limit, which really sucks when you need to withdraw a thousand Euro.
This is truly “the ends justifies the means” type situation, but we get from the airport to their – breathtaking – flat without a hitch.
With only six days to experience all that Amsterdam has to offer, we set out immediately, making the 2 mile sojourn up to my flat, throughout the Jordaan, the Dam and the other surrounding neighborhoods. Since we did so much, I’ll highlight.
We went to the Artis Zoo. I was overjoyed, as usual. My immediate family (and one exboyfriend) are the only people who really truly understand my love for Zoos, aquariums, and the like. My parents paid 200 dollars for us to go to SeaWorld in Florida back when I was …16. So, I’m not outgrowing this anytime soon.
The zoo was very nice and had quite the selection; I wanted to steal several birds and make them my minions. They also had a baby elephant, monkeys that seemed dangerously in reach of human contact, and orange tulips. Mmmhmm.
The weather was summer-time hot for the first 4 days my family was here – which was amazing and I wish it would come back to me – but still did not stop me from making them walk several miles a day. We headed down to the van Gogh museum one of those 80 degree days and I finally got the chance to climb the “I Amsterdam” sign. Alex and I – and several dozen small Dutch kinders – scaled the height, posed for pictures, and discussed how this was a lawsuit waiting to hap…oh wait, this is the Netherlands. They don’t know what “sue” means. Hence the large amount of sexual harassment.
Speaking of, after cruising the Red Light District – and checking out chicks together – Alex began to calculate how much money he could make by trafficking me into the industry. His first asking price was insultingly low (um, 75 Euro? No) while his later estimate of 200 Euro was better – but that was the night he was going to sell me to a carful of greasy Italians. Thanks, bro.
While we didn’t actually fight when we were younger, we now enjoy waging small-scale wars against each other at inopportune times. Unfortunately for me, I tend to be at a disadvantage (despite my “man shoulders;” yeah, Alex’s creativeness, again). I stayed over in their flat several nights and ended up sleeping in Alex’s room. Dead tired, I would come back from the bathroom to find my pillows gone. When I regained them, an arm would reach over and drag all my blankets off (f’ing narrow canal houses!) Or it was the damn emo music, blasting ever-so-lovingly out of the glowing mp3 player that was being shined in my eyes.
Since Alex was here – and Daddy was $upporting the adventure, as he put it so well – we went to see “Hot Fuzz” at the Pathe down on Muntplein. The theatre was beautiful and the movie was absolutely hilarious. It will be on regular rotation in Cushing 104 next semester.
Having lent them all my guidebooks to peruse while I was in class, I was met with a request to go to the ElectronicA museum. While Mom and I weren’t overly interested, I had read it up and knew it was the kind of place made for Alex. We headed over on my break from classes on Wednesday. As we walked in the door, I spied a sign in Dutch and stopped to play that game I like to call “Let’s pretend that I can read Dutch well while all I’m really doing is staring at the words in hopes they reveal the secrets of the Dutch Universe to me.” However, in this sign, one word stood out: “pacemaker.” And a few more: “niet ingang” (no entrance). I literally jumped lithely back out the first entrance and proceeded to step behind the door as a shield, which a really interesting self preservation tactic I’ve taken up more recently. While I knew enough Dutch to cement that I was not allowed in the building, the front desk translated for sure. Vast magnetic fields, duh – I’ve had a pacemaker all my life, my Dad and brother know all about that type of thing, and still we just stroll right in like it’s all good. Needless to say, Mom and I cleared out while the boys continued onward.
With some time to kill, I took Mom for a cappuccino down the way. I then proceeded to astound her with my ability to use Dutch throughout the transaction of ordering, getting the check, and paying. While it doesn’t take that much, it still pretty good, considering my total lack of formal education in the language.
On their last night here, we went on a boat tour with Paap. The temperatures had dropped drastically by now, but the tour was spectacular. Paap knows a lot of interesting things about the city, and while it sounds cliché, there is nothing like seeing Amsterdam from the canals. With everything lit up and the waterways bustling, it was perfect.
I stayed over the last night, so I could see them off to the airport, before biking home. I was a great week, but it arguably made me miss home even more.
With that said though, I have a little over a month left in the gorgeous Netherlands, and oh so many plans. A few day trips here and there amongst the Dutch, a CIEE overnight trip to a remote island (God preserve my soul, ugh), Nice, France for several days in the sun, and finally Barcelona to conclude May. Expect stories and pictures, as I’m sure you were.
The Segalas were happily reunited for an unseasonably warm week in this here delightful city of Amsterdam. This in and of itself was practically miraculous, for several reasons.
Dad never had a desire to leave his own country, and if he was going to, he was going somewhere 1) like America and 2) Where they spoke English.
Mom doesn’t really care to fly; its 7-8 hours to the Netherlands from the East Coast.
BUT, obviously, if I’m in Europe, they’re coming to visit. To make a very long story of suffering short, their original flight was canceled, they were put on and taken off another flight, drove to JFK only to have to battle the airline that they had been switched too, and then finally getting on a later flight and were then separated for the duration of the trip.
I was here, only kind of hearing the story, explaining to my roommate (several times) that “My Mom really doesn’t like to fly, this can’t be good!” On my end, I had conveniently discovered the limit on my debit card, and had my account effectively frozen without warning – I guess I have a 500 dollar a day limit, which really sucks when you need to withdraw a thousand Euro.
This is truly “the ends justifies the means” type situation, but we get from the airport to their – breathtaking – flat without a hitch.
With only six days to experience all that Amsterdam has to offer, we set out immediately, making the 2 mile sojourn up to my flat, throughout the Jordaan, the Dam and the other surrounding neighborhoods. Since we did so much, I’ll highlight.
We went to the Artis Zoo. I was overjoyed, as usual. My immediate family (and one exboyfriend) are the only people who really truly understand my love for Zoos, aquariums, and the like. My parents paid 200 dollars for us to go to SeaWorld in Florida back when I was …16. So, I’m not outgrowing this anytime soon.
The zoo was very nice and had quite the selection; I wanted to steal several birds and make them my minions. They also had a baby elephant, monkeys that seemed dangerously in reach of human contact, and orange tulips. Mmmhmm.
The weather was summer-time hot for the first 4 days my family was here – which was amazing and I wish it would come back to me – but still did not stop me from making them walk several miles a day. We headed down to the van Gogh museum one of those 80 degree days and I finally got the chance to climb the “I Amsterdam” sign. Alex and I – and several dozen small Dutch kinders – scaled the height, posed for pictures, and discussed how this was a lawsuit waiting to hap…oh wait, this is the Netherlands. They don’t know what “sue” means. Hence the large amount of sexual harassment.
Speaking of, after cruising the Red Light District – and checking out chicks together – Alex began to calculate how much money he could make by trafficking me into the industry. His first asking price was insultingly low (um, 75 Euro? No) while his later estimate of 200 Euro was better – but that was the night he was going to sell me to a carful of greasy Italians. Thanks, bro.
While we didn’t actually fight when we were younger, we now enjoy waging small-scale wars against each other at inopportune times. Unfortunately for me, I tend to be at a disadvantage (despite my “man shoulders;” yeah, Alex’s creativeness, again). I stayed over in their flat several nights and ended up sleeping in Alex’s room. Dead tired, I would come back from the bathroom to find my pillows gone. When I regained them, an arm would reach over and drag all my blankets off (f’ing narrow canal houses!) Or it was the damn emo music, blasting ever-so-lovingly out of the glowing mp3 player that was being shined in my eyes.
Since Alex was here – and Daddy was $upporting the adventure, as he put it so well – we went to see “Hot Fuzz” at the Pathe down on Muntplein. The theatre was beautiful and the movie was absolutely hilarious. It will be on regular rotation in Cushing 104 next semester.
Having lent them all my guidebooks to peruse while I was in class, I was met with a request to go to the ElectronicA museum. While Mom and I weren’t overly interested, I had read it up and knew it was the kind of place made for Alex. We headed over on my break from classes on Wednesday. As we walked in the door, I spied a sign in Dutch and stopped to play that game I like to call “Let’s pretend that I can read Dutch well while all I’m really doing is staring at the words in hopes they reveal the secrets of the Dutch Universe to me.” However, in this sign, one word stood out: “pacemaker.” And a few more: “niet ingang” (no entrance). I literally jumped lithely back out the first entrance and proceeded to step behind the door as a shield, which a really interesting self preservation tactic I’ve taken up more recently. While I knew enough Dutch to cement that I was not allowed in the building, the front desk translated for sure. Vast magnetic fields, duh – I’ve had a pacemaker all my life, my Dad and brother know all about that type of thing, and still we just stroll right in like it’s all good. Needless to say, Mom and I cleared out while the boys continued onward.
With some time to kill, I took Mom for a cappuccino down the way. I then proceeded to astound her with my ability to use Dutch throughout the transaction of ordering, getting the check, and paying. While it doesn’t take that much, it still pretty good, considering my total lack of formal education in the language.
On their last night here, we went on a boat tour with Paap. The temperatures had dropped drastically by now, but the tour was spectacular. Paap knows a lot of interesting things about the city, and while it sounds cliché, there is nothing like seeing Amsterdam from the canals. With everything lit up and the waterways bustling, it was perfect.
I stayed over the last night, so I could see them off to the airport, before biking home. I was a great week, but it arguably made me miss home even more.
With that said though, I have a little over a month left in the gorgeous Netherlands, and oh so many plans. A few day trips here and there amongst the Dutch, a CIEE overnight trip to a remote island (God preserve my soul, ugh), Nice, France for several days in the sun, and finally Barcelona to conclude May. Expect stories and pictures, as I’m sure you were.
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