Its quite comphrendable that I would miss life in the Netherlands. Most Americans ever-so-slightly left of the middle think its a fabulous place to visit; its repuation precedes it around the world, for better or worse. Drugs and hooker jokes aside, the Dutch lifestyle proved very compatible with my own ways; being highly independent and proactive, I careened through Amsterdam with joy. Everyday I had to learn and adapt, making up rules and languages as I went along. Sometimes the cultural difference would wear me out and I'd head back to the flat to listen to the canned sound of pure American English. I was alone and, I was alone. I met a lot of intriguing people abroad, from scores of different countries, all with something to offer, but my family (both blood and chosen) were in America. I can't deny the beauty of Boston that clear Friday afternoon. The bemused customs empolyee was kind enough not to laugh at my overt giddyness. I was home. The return to Siena eariler this month just completed me. I was back in my realm.
It is curious to long for something that was never really yours. Studying abroad is the chance to be a glorified guest; more tolerated than a tourist, but still not truly a part of that society. At first glance, your host is the best thing you've ever seen, much better than back home or anywhere else for that matter. As time carries on, you come to see it realness. Like everywhere else, there are pros and cons. Beautiful art and despairing poverty stand side by side. Young white supremists stalk past the Anne Frank House, leering in ignorant hatred. It rains, and in the Netherlands, that means it rains alot, at the most inconvienent times possible. America, despite it all, is not that bad - we actually have it so well and we never seem able to acknowledge it without leaving for years or enduring some national tragedy. I can not say I am proud to be an American, but I am grateful for the opportunities its citizenship have afforded.
And still, I just completed a half heartd search of jobs in the Amsterdam area. I surprised myself yesterday during French Toast preparation as I mulled over graduate school in the Netherlands. I recalled the horrible housing statistics I learned in Dutch social policy, blatantly ignored my lack of funding, and ultimately just resigned myself to looking over the many photos of my trip abroad. While my outsider status was often apparent, I felt a part of the city, which is a testament to the Dutch way of life. I was just one of a legion of foreigners living there, having my own life just as my neighbors were. Outsider or not, I miss it . I miss riding my bike along the canals, dodging soulless taxis and errant tourists. I miss the shimmer of the canals in the deep quiet of the night, as I walked out live's tribulations along the narrow streets of the Jordaan. The random joys and terrors of the Dam, the bawdy and obnoxious spirit of the Red Light District, the blatant honesty of the Dutch way. Self sufficiency within and without.
I dream of Dutch life at least once a week. I impart useless and unnecessary Dutch vocabulary on innocent bystanders. To gain entrance to my house, one has to undergo the vast collection of photographic evidence of my time in Europe. I'm happy to be back amongst my friends and family, but I miss Amsterdam. Proudly independent, both the city and I always maintained our separateness, but that's the way I work with best with others.
Showing posts with label tourism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tourism. Show all posts
Sunday, September 23, 2007
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.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Stalking Hotels Can Prove Fruitful
Cannes Film Festival
More crepes, more rude, line cutting French.
More loud, snide remarks from me about lack of manners.
...But, we saw her 
step out of a cab and enter the Hotel Martinez.
That made the miserably hot two hour bus ride worth it.
Pretty Sweet, eh?
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 French Riviera: # 1 in the Series
I’ve always wanted to go to France. After a weekend in Paris, I discovered I loved the country just as much as I had always expected. Thus, when we were all huddled inside during those cold, rainy, miserable winter months, plans for the realization of another dream were born. We were going to the French Riviera for six days. Joining the elite and famous, the South of France would be our domain. And so, the adventure began.
Overcoming train strikes, plane delays, and the French language, we four lovely ladies arrived in Nice Tuesday evening, and were not 20 yards off the aircraft before I was warned not to “Americanize” the pronunciation of “Nice.” I guess my overuse of the word “nice” (to get the accent, look for the capital; that’ll be the French locale) has been recognized. But of course I wouldn’t do such an insensitive thing, I love the French, they are my people – really though, the Canadians are my blood, they are so much chiller and less rude.
Nice is a picturesque seaside city – open air markets, an ocean-side promenade, and sunbathers galore. The Mediterranean Sea is a close second to the Caribbean for clarity and color, and its not overly cold – and coming from me, that’s pretty amazing. 9 AM on the first day there, I was already knee deep – and yes, fully clothed - in the Mediterranean – and it only got better from there.
After a sustaining crepe to hold us over, we set off to climb the numerous stairs of Le Chateau. The view from the first summit was a breathtaking panorama of the city, ocean, and the residences on the hills. We couldn’t go all the way up, as the park closed at twilight. While the view was spectacular, we were lucky enough to witness an even more astounding sight. I had joked on one of our rest stops to the top, that if I lived in Nice, I’d run these stairs once a day and call it my total body workout. Shortly there after, a man carrying a mountain bike on his shoulder passed us. Now, that’s a workout. At first it seems a bit odd, but then we realize there must be trails down the other side of the hill. Kudos, sir, you put my sorry ass to shame. Little did I know, he was going to capitalize on that fact in a matter of moments.Descending Le Chateau, I hear the common place sound of a bike in a not very common place. We turn to discover this man is biking down the stairs. We stop dead and gape in horror as this brave individual thunders down several long flights of stairs, turn a corner, barely miss some pedestrians, pull a wheelie before hopping onto the last flight of stairs. Dumbstruck, we can’t stop discussing the likelihood that emergency medical attention is imminent. An old man passing through laughs at our exclamations and offers, “he crazy, yes?” When we reached the bottom – at a much slower rate – we were pleasantly surprised to not stumble upon a battered human being intertwined with cycle. Sir, you win, hands down. None of us could even fathom a way to beat that move.
And it just keeps on going; be ready!
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
For your viewing pleasure...
The Main Square in Delft. I post rather than doing homework; bad trend.
Sunday, March 4, 2007
Why is there a pear under your bed?
Just because the week started did not mean the adventures stopped. During the days that I had class, I’d go and Laura would stay home and clean/cook…not. She did create a new game for me, called “Let’s discover the new music in my media player.”
On Monday night, I chartered six of us a private boat tour around the old center of the city. While the weather was not the best, the tour was awesome – the price was much cheaper than the large tours and we had chocolate and wine as our guide told us interesting trivia about the city. When we arrived home, we watched some Nip/Tuck and plotted our next move.
Tuesday found us at NEMO, a large kid’s science museum. The place was mobbed with small children, which is to be expected. The most amusing part of NEMO was the new feature, “Teen Fact.” This exhibition was an educational but teen-friendly look at puberty, relationships, sex, etc. Let’s just say, the Dutch don’t beat around the bush. While the pictures speak for themselves, here’s an example: within a display labeled “Let’s Talk about Sex” there was a monitor of animals mating and a couple making out hardcore, which was just a prelude to the Kama sutra puppets and the birth control display. A-mazing.
Mixing it up a bit, we went to the Bible Museum early Wednesday afternoon (after more pancakes). It was pretty cool, considering what you may believe. After my night class, we headed to the Sex Museum with Molly. For 3 euro, its one of the most entertaining/mildly disturbing ways to spend an evening. Such wonderful features included classic Greek and Roman artifacts to homemade porn from the late 19th century. The S&M/Fetish room actually had a warning on the door and the sound effects within justified such caution. Continuing with the theme, we headed over to the Red Light District (or, RLD as I like to refer to it). We wander into the Erotic Museum’s gift shop and discuss what would be the best gifts to send home. I suggested Laura just buy a handful of pornos and pass them out when she returned to campus.
Thursday commences with breakfast with Molly, then shopping on Spui/Kalverstraat. It is not a very productive shopping day though; we spend several hours just wandering. By early afternoon, we return home to drop off groceries that Laura bought me (I’m gonna make it through the winter guys!) and rush to the Anne Frank Huis before other people realize it’s a good time to go. We get in without a wait, which is miraculous. It was such an experience to finally see this place. I first read the book when I was 9 years old and most recently re-read it this past January; still it proves moving. The tour proceeds through the lower levels, which were the offices of Otto and the storage rooms. Videos of interviews with Miep and others who helped the families in hiding are throughout, as are quotes from Anne’s diary. Some of the most treacherous stairs I’ve ever seen lead to the Secret Annexe. Anne’s room (which she shared with the dentist) is incredibly small and her collages remain on the wall to this day. Her original diary is also on display, along with Otto’s letters with family as he tried to locate his daughters. It is heart wrenching to realize that Anne died a month before the liberation; friends who saw her shortly before even speculated that if she had realized her father was still alive, she might have found the strength to survive.
The rest of Thursday was pretty low key. We made dinner together and watched Eurotrip and Moulin Rouge. Molly and Kristen came up for a while and we all watched Little Miss Sunshine, which was pretty amusing. We cleaned up the room (FOR ONCE) and gathered Laura’s belongings. At 6 am we were on our way to the taxi stop. We managed to avoid any tears.
So that is the story of our beautiful reunion. Good times were had by all but it went by so fast.
Upcoming: Paris this weekend!
On Monday night, I chartered six of us a private boat tour around the old center of the city. While the weather was not the best, the tour was awesome – the price was much cheaper than the large tours and we had chocolate and wine as our guide told us interesting trivia about the city. When we arrived home, we watched some Nip/Tuck and plotted our next move.
Tuesday found us at NEMO, a large kid’s science museum. The place was mobbed with small children, which is to be expected. The most amusing part of NEMO was the new feature, “Teen Fact.” This exhibition was an educational but teen-friendly look at puberty, relationships, sex, etc. Let’s just say, the Dutch don’t beat around the bush. While the pictures speak for themselves, here’s an example: within a display labeled “Let’s Talk about Sex” there was a monitor of animals mating and a couple making out hardcore, which was just a prelude to the Kama sutra puppets and the birth control display. A-mazing.
Mixing it up a bit, we went to the Bible Museum early Wednesday afternoon (after more pancakes). It was pretty cool, considering what you may believe. After my night class, we headed to the Sex Museum with Molly. For 3 euro, its one of the most entertaining/mildly disturbing ways to spend an evening. Such wonderful features included classic Greek and Roman artifacts to homemade porn from the late 19th century. The S&M/Fetish room actually had a warning on the door and the sound effects within justified such caution. Continuing with the theme, we headed over to the Red Light District (or, RLD as I like to refer to it). We wander into the Erotic Museum’s gift shop and discuss what would be the best gifts to send home. I suggested Laura just buy a handful of pornos and pass them out when she returned to campus.
Thursday commences with breakfast with Molly, then shopping on Spui/Kalverstraat. It is not a very productive shopping day though; we spend several hours just wandering. By early afternoon, we return home to drop off groceries that Laura bought me (I’m gonna make it through the winter guys!) and rush to the Anne Frank Huis before other people realize it’s a good time to go. We get in without a wait, which is miraculous. It was such an experience to finally see this place. I first read the book when I was 9 years old and most recently re-read it this past January; still it proves moving. The tour proceeds through the lower levels, which were the offices of Otto and the storage rooms. Videos of interviews with Miep and others who helped the families in hiding are throughout, as are quotes from Anne’s diary. Some of the most treacherous stairs I’ve ever seen lead to the Secret Annexe. Anne’s room (which she shared with the dentist) is incredibly small and her collages remain on the wall to this day. Her original diary is also on display, along with Otto’s letters with family as he tried to locate his daughters. It is heart wrenching to realize that Anne died a month before the liberation; friends who saw her shortly before even speculated that if she had realized her father was still alive, she might have found the strength to survive.
The rest of Thursday was pretty low key. We made dinner together and watched Eurotrip and Moulin Rouge. Molly and Kristen came up for a while and we all watched Little Miss Sunshine, which was pretty amusing. We cleaned up the room (FOR ONCE) and gathered Laura’s belongings. At 6 am we were on our way to the taxi stop. We managed to avoid any tears.
So that is the story of our beautiful reunion. Good times were had by all but it went by so fast.
Upcoming: Paris this weekend!
Monday, February 5, 2007
The Adventure continues...
I mildly despise wholy chronological recaps, thus I shall highlight the most outstanding moments.
Saturday morning was the commencement of the ISN (International Student Network) adventure. We began with another canal tour, which was pretty sweet, then moved on to ice skating. We decided that the program must think that total and utter humiliation is the best way to bond.
Traversing Alexanderplein, I see that the crocuses are already in bloom. The irony brings me joy. This joy only increases when I discover that the ice skating rink is outside. With the sun shining and grass thriving in the center of the circular rink. Despite the hockey skates (I've never used them) and the amazingly good Dutch speed skaters (and all the six year olds) we all manage to survive with our dignity intact.
Later on, after dinner at a Mediterrenian place, we meet at Dam Square for the big party. Of course, no one shows up til 11 and we are standing in this cold as hell, hole in the wall, trashy club the whole time. Eventually a ton of people end up there. Leaving around 130 (to walk home alone) I realize what I know for sure is the worse part of Europe.
Smoking.
Inside.
My clothes, which I had been wearing for all of 3 hours now, reek of smoke, as does my hair. And my airways are like, "oh no, we are closing up to-NIGHT." It's nice to know I have large amounts of advair stashed away.
Sunday was spent shopping and then we went out to dinner with Kristen's friend who was visiting from Ireland. Indonesian food and pastries contributed to the night, but the drunk - obviously American - half-dressed frat boys completed it. As I took pictures of Megan and Dalma with these gentlemen, they decided it was a good idea to pick Dalma up. Literally. Photo evidence to follow.
Just in the case that we weren't all totally overwhelmed yet by the vast amount of information shoved down our throats in the past 5 days, today we began classes. It's a 1.5 mile walk from here to the ISHSS (International School of Humanities and Social Sciences) and several us gathered for moral support.
In between classes, we get lunch and do some shopping. I now have a tapestry that will function as a bed sheet until I learn the Dutch words for "sheet" and "duvet cover" and can thus differeniate. I also bought some of my books for class.
This evening was one of the surreal, European incidents. After chilling for a bit, Lauren and I went to a reknown apple pie locale and had us some huge pieces of Dutch Apple pie. The fact that we are lucky enough to live here - not to mention lucky enough to live in the best dorm, in the best neighborhood - has still not totally sunk in. In celebration of being in Amsterdam, we strolled the Red Light District for a bit (almost gaining a stalker on the way over) and spent sometime chilling on a bridge, pretending we weren't watching men approach the girls. After a half hour or so, we returned to our lovely Prinsengracht.
I have no classes tomorrow, and still have a bit of shopping to do. I may join some folks for an ikea trip, but I also need to buy books, setup my cell phone, find a bike (and locks) and maybe do some homework. Or, wander Jordaan with my camera.
Saturday morning was the commencement of the ISN (International Student Network) adventure. We began with another canal tour, which was pretty sweet, then moved on to ice skating. We decided that the program must think that total and utter humiliation is the best way to bond.
Traversing Alexanderplein, I see that the crocuses are already in bloom. The irony brings me joy. This joy only increases when I discover that the ice skating rink is outside. With the sun shining and grass thriving in the center of the circular rink. Despite the hockey skates (I've never used them) and the amazingly good Dutch speed skaters (and all the six year olds) we all manage to survive with our dignity intact.
Later on, after dinner at a Mediterrenian place, we meet at Dam Square for the big party. Of course, no one shows up til 11 and we are standing in this cold as hell, hole in the wall, trashy club the whole time. Eventually a ton of people end up there. Leaving around 130 (to walk home alone) I realize what I know for sure is the worse part of Europe.
Smoking.
Inside.
My clothes, which I had been wearing for all of 3 hours now, reek of smoke, as does my hair. And my airways are like, "oh no, we are closing up to-NIGHT." It's nice to know I have large amounts of advair stashed away.
Sunday was spent shopping and then we went out to dinner with Kristen's friend who was visiting from Ireland. Indonesian food and pastries contributed to the night, but the drunk - obviously American - half-dressed frat boys completed it. As I took pictures of Megan and Dalma with these gentlemen, they decided it was a good idea to pick Dalma up. Literally. Photo evidence to follow.
Just in the case that we weren't all totally overwhelmed yet by the vast amount of information shoved down our throats in the past 5 days, today we began classes. It's a 1.5 mile walk from here to the ISHSS (International School of Humanities and Social Sciences) and several us gathered for moral support.
In between classes, we get lunch and do some shopping. I now have a tapestry that will function as a bed sheet until I learn the Dutch words for "sheet" and "duvet cover" and can thus differeniate. I also bought some of my books for class.
This evening was one of the surreal, European incidents. After chilling for a bit, Lauren and I went to a reknown apple pie locale and had us some huge pieces of Dutch Apple pie. The fact that we are lucky enough to live here - not to mention lucky enough to live in the best dorm, in the best neighborhood - has still not totally sunk in. In celebration of being in Amsterdam, we strolled the Red Light District for a bit (almost gaining a stalker on the way over) and spent sometime chilling on a bridge, pretending we weren't watching men approach the girls. After a half hour or so, we returned to our lovely Prinsengracht.
I have no classes tomorrow, and still have a bit of shopping to do. I may join some folks for an ikea trip, but I also need to buy books, setup my cell phone, find a bike (and locks) and maybe do some homework. Or, wander Jordaan with my camera.
Friday, February 2, 2007
Arrival.
...So I have been in the Netherlands for only 36 hours, and I have already met over 40 different people, walked probably 15 miles around downtown, gone on a canal tour, cruised the red light district, and been in at least 5 or 6 bars.
"Borrel" is a Dutch social event that includes alcohol consumption. Literally, "borrel" translates into "drink." While CIEE struggles to organize many other programs, they can make sure we have free drinks.
Orientation has been a clusterfuck of programming: canal tour, campus tour, scavenger hunt (my group sucked, as we live practically in Jordaan, we are forever away from downtown), lots of drawn-out "info sessions" and bar hopping with other international students. With so much going on, I will only highlight the cool stuff.
My dorm: I moved in to discover the most amazing dorm I've ever seen. 20 foot ceilings, a kitchenette, huge windows overlooking a courtyard, and a bathroom I only have to share with one other girl; Ally, who's also from MA. I know all the CIEE students that live here. We are arguably 4 and half miles or more away from the other dorms, which kinda sucks.
Navigating has been an adventure. In this "do it yourself" society, people will correct your Dutch then offer you directions in perfectly good English. We have been left to wander - in hopes of luck or mercy from the Dutch - back to our dorms. I was in charge last night, and we ended up in a branch of the Red Light District. I gawked - totally tourist staring, while Tori insisted she wanted to go home. I was amused, but when am I not? We also walked through Chinatown this evening, which was a crazy array of restaurants and such - with whole roasted ducks hanging in the window. Mmmmmm...not.
Also, they tell you everyone can speak English here; well yes they can speak English, but that does not mean they do. I have already begun the undertaking of learning enough dutch to not look like an idiot, as I was already proclaimed an American by the bathroom attentant in a bar this evening (tipping in bathrooms is weird, sorry).
I've done so much in the past 2 days , it's hard to describe it all. Tomorrow, we have numerous programs with ISN (International Student Network) planned, then out to the bars again. Look for pictures, coming soon to a blog near you.
"Borrel" is a Dutch social event that includes alcohol consumption. Literally, "borrel" translates into "drink." While CIEE struggles to organize many other programs, they can make sure we have free drinks.
Orientation has been a clusterfuck of programming: canal tour, campus tour, scavenger hunt (my group sucked, as we live practically in Jordaan, we are forever away from downtown), lots of drawn-out "info sessions" and bar hopping with other international students. With so much going on, I will only highlight the cool stuff.
My dorm: I moved in to discover the most amazing dorm I've ever seen. 20 foot ceilings, a kitchenette, huge windows overlooking a courtyard, and a bathroom I only have to share with one other girl; Ally, who's also from MA. I know all the CIEE students that live here. We are arguably 4 and half miles or more away from the other dorms, which kinda sucks.
Navigating has been an adventure. In this "do it yourself" society, people will correct your Dutch then offer you directions in perfectly good English. We have been left to wander - in hopes of luck or mercy from the Dutch - back to our dorms. I was in charge last night, and we ended up in a branch of the Red Light District. I gawked - totally tourist staring, while Tori insisted she wanted to go home. I was amused, but when am I not? We also walked through Chinatown this evening, which was a crazy array of restaurants and such - with whole roasted ducks hanging in the window. Mmmmmm...not.
Also, they tell you everyone can speak English here; well yes they can speak English, but that does not mean they do. I have already begun the undertaking of learning enough dutch to not look like an idiot, as I was already proclaimed an American by the bathroom attentant in a bar this evening (tipping in bathrooms is weird, sorry).
I've done so much in the past 2 days , it's hard to describe it all. Tomorrow, we have numerous programs with ISN (International Student Network) planned, then out to the bars again. Look for pictures, coming soon to a blog near you.
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