Who Says You Can't Go Home?

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

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

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

I'm Home

I made it.

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

I'm so happy!

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

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.

Male interpretions of the fashion industry

Me: "It doesn't really matter what I do, I still have the body of a 14 year old boy."
My bro: "Well that means you can be a model!"

When Egos Collide

…now, enough of that thought-provoking, semi-intelligent rambling; let’s talk adventures. By now you probably have all safely and accurately assumed that Boswell and I managed to not kill each other during his visit last week. We represented Americans well; we did not end up as a headline.

After almost a three month period of not seeing each other, it takes less than 15 minutes for Boz to launch the first fat chick joke.

“What? I couldn’t let that one go.”
“Please, let’s just try to survive 24 hours.”

Was there any hope? We decided to encourage good will by breaking out a Siena standard – drinking together. Making sangria was the only thing actually on the itinerary for the weekend, and we wasted no time in accomplishing our goal.

Now, as you all know, I love sangria, it is truly a celebratory drink, except when f’ing Siena Security raids your room and takes its all. But this was a mildly celebratory evening and the Dutch are as laid back as Siena is uptight, so it was a fail proof plan. As we are preparing this heavenly beverage, I forget that irony rules my life, and make a truly poor thought statement:

“You know, red wine makes my head hurt sometimes, but if it’s in sangria form, it never makes me sick.”

Some of you already know where this is going, but I think all of you can see where it’s going. Anyways, several glasses of sangria later, we headed out to meet up with Molly for a bit. …the night’s festivities are cut just ever so slightly short when it is determined that sleep would be most beneficial for Maria.

The next morning commences with “Maria still loses” and “how did you even manage that?” Word to the wise: don’t mix antibiotics and wine.

I rallied though, of course, and we spent a good amount of time wandering the city and shopping before more sangria – I don’t learn – and booze and pancakes at Lenore’s, which was amusing. I had given a precursory warning to my friends here – “he’s my friend, but sometimes – read: often – he’s offensive” but everyone managed to play nice. We recounted my failings of the night before and discussed other similar college-style adventures of Siena, because our parties at Siena are comparable to other, much larger schools. We really do pre-game harder than most people party, though I’m not sure if we should wave that banner around.

The gallivanting continued: photography museum, shopping, apple pie and beer, watching soccer (yeah, a first), wandering. Shortly after Boz’s arrival, there was more alcohol in my flat than had ever been yet this semester and by Friday it was gone. Being it was Friday night though, we headed to the Red Light District. The weekend nights are when the best of the best are on display – “first class,” if you will. That is, in comparison to “economy.” The Red Light District is such a fun place to bring visitors – we all do it shortly after a new person arrives. The RLD was even better than normal this weekend for several reasons:

1)Tons (more than regular) drunken British; applauding each other as they emerged from the girls’ locales, taking over whole sports bars, waving their asses out of bar windows, advertising “50 Euro, 50 Euro.” Oh the Brits, they really might be more hated than us on the continent.

2)Red Light District Open House on the 31st – got into the (in)famous Casa Rosso, where a much tamer show than advertised was going on, got to see in one of the girls’ apartments (though, that’s an overstatement; it’s a bed, sink, and chair really), and the unveiling of the first monument to Sex Workers in the world. The monument's content/form had been an object of debate for days; it turned out to be a mildly unimpressive woman standing in a doorway.

3) As a feminist, I hate to admit this out loud, but walking around this city with a male makes life easier – no strangers blowing kisses or smacking their lips, no comments, and no harassment at the hands of the sex show bouncers. It was a nice respite from the daily sexual harassment that Europe regularly gifts me.
As usual though, the RLD proved entertaining every time we went – and we just seemed to keep on wandering back into it.

As if life in Europe isn’t interesting enough, as I was getting in touch with people about going out Saturday night and received the following email from Molly:

“Can’t [go to a bar] I’m going out with Kristen to smoke her Mom up.”

It was quickly decided that this was a must see. It was one of those kinda amusing, kinda awkward experiences – though Molly is so chill, I love her – watching a mother, her son, and her daughter’s friend (Kristen doesn’t smoke) pass a bowl around. Oh Amsterdam.

That, my friends, is the story of two egos coexisting within the same general area. In reality we had a good time, and I only threatened violence once…and roofies, but that is another story you may or may not hear.

Just in case this wasn't interesting enough...

...So it's safe to say that I kinda suck at blogging. Granted, no major traveling/events/catastrophes have occured lately, but still, there are always things that I could talk about, considering how interesting life in the Netherlands is on a regular basis.

Speaking of interestingness, as most of you already know, we are going to add to the level of interestingness with a visit from Boz. Can we coexist in the same general area from tonight until Sunday morning? We shall see. Chuckle, place bets, speculate, just remember - bad decisions make the best stories.

Now, I'm off to get ready and head out to Schiphol, PEACE.

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!

48 Hours of A'dam Stereotypes, or Maria and Laura are reunited in Europe

After an enjoyable Friday evening at the van Gogh and a local cafe, I eagerly awaited the early morning arrival of Ms. Daingerfield. Shortly before 7 AM, we were joyfully - and loudly - reunited in the lobby of Prinsengracht. We quickly settled in and after probably waking up most of the first floor, we went back to sleep.

At noon, we met Kristen and her visiting friend, Em at the Pancake Bakery for a delightful meal, in which it was deduced that every life situation can be improved by the application of powdered sugar. We cruised the Noodermarkt and then met up with Molly at the Botantical gardens.

That evening, we prepared a romantic meal of gnocchi - Maria cooked, Laura videotaped. A little Dane Cook and a Nip/Tuck episode later, it's just like home.

We head to Rembrandt Square around 21:00 to meet up for some adventures. Picking a bar is worse than going on a blind date; no one has any preferences, or at least, won;t just come out and demand them. So and so wants to watch the Madrid v. Madrid game, but the bar listing it is currently showing a France v. who knows rugby game. One place is crowded; oh wait, it's Saturday night, every place is crowded. In one possibility we would be the only women - isn't that what some of you want? All I want is a drink that is not beer and is less than 8 euro.

We end up in a cafe, and I initiate a conversation that proves to be foreshadowing.

"What song would a locale have to play that would encourage you to leave?"

...And I'm talking bad. I tend to be pretty opinionated on music (yeah, and everything else) and often find myself trying to understand what the f the Europeans are thinking when they make club playlists. My votes for tonight include "Every time we Touch" and recent Gwen Stefani songs.

In the continuing epic to find a bar, Molly votes for "Club Cafe Smokey;" most likely because of the adjacent sister coffeeshop with the same name. Drink prices are alright, and when we first get there its not too crowded. People are smoking inside alot (weed and cigs) which only aggreviates my fastly developing cold.

The nights soundtrack commences with a large amount of Justin Timberlake's most recent album, some Sean Paul, and then it hits...M.C. Hammer. When I hear "can't touch this" start, I am standing at the bar, gesturing my dislike across the room to my table.

We then get the bright idea to request shitty songs. First order; "Call on Me." We're not sure the request was understood, but oh yes, "Call on Me" starts, we scream, as usual. Continuing in the amazingness of shitty music, out of nowhere it happens "Cuz every time we touch..." More screaming. The rest of the night is a mess of more JT and AKON.

We meet more Manchester men and other parts of England (we attract them like flies, its awesome) including a pretty decent looking guy who tries to make eye contact several times, but I am too lazy to socialize. As usual though, we make lots of new friends. By midnight, its packed, and security is harassing up to check our coats and leave. On principle, we leave and after a debate about more partying, Laura and I walk home in the pouring rain, only to crash joyfully into bed.

Sunday was less eventful; I got us lost on the way to the Rijks, we cruised the Red Light District and had INDIAN! Which I had been saving my first trip to share with Laura.

Upcoming adventures: A chartered canal tour, a rainy day diversion for stir-crazy kids like L-Dog, and the Bible Museum (really not joking).