Wednesdays are the days when I invariably begin to think about the possibility of permanent expatriation. Wednesdays are also the days of Greenwoods With Christy, the social appetizer for Fun Hour With Letje. Today there were people doing capoeira in Dam Square and it made me so happy/envious. Also I bought some pretty things for pretty people in my life. I came home and rocked out to Basement Jaxx whilst cooking potatoes, apples, carrots, garlic (I have been doing lots of experiments in the frying pan as of late, and almost all of them have turned out well - this is a good sign, I think, that I might be becoming a more intuitive cook). I had lots to say when FHWL ended, but I am not focused right now, so I'll just mention that I'm going to Luxembourg for the weekend and I am pretty amped for that. Also in Fun Hour WIth Letje we did another exercise that I took to - we had to write down five directed questions that we want to explore in our projects. I am so excited for all of them - Christy is doing hers on alternative art spaces and Drew is doing his on his family's history in the Netherlands/the colonies, and Marc is doing his on water management here. So they are all very different, and all equally fascinating for a reflector such as myself. Anyway, for those of you who are curious about my project, which I have mostly been pretty vague about, here were my questions:
1) How are the spaces in which male prostitution occurs formal and informal, organized and disorganized, regulated and free?
2) How do grassroots organizations that work with male sex workers interact with government regulation?
3) Does the government perceive these organizations as troublesome, or as an added bonus?
4)How directly do grassroots organizations and government regulatory bodies access and shape spaces in which male prostitution occurs?
5) Are there frequent intersections of research and sex work advocacy in these organizations?
I am so so so so so so excited! And tomorrow I am buying a bike fo realz.
27 February 2008
26 February 2008
Late
Last night pulled my first all-nighter in a foreign land - it was stange. Before the all-nighter Christy bought this brite and delicious donut and gave me half. Props to her and Hallie also for lending me caffeine to get through the long hard night (in exchange for envelopes).
Yesterday we took a neighborhood walk around the Jordaan with my Dutch class, although to my disappointment Freek did not come (although he did race by briefly to count heads and grin at us, before dashing back to his office). The Jordaan is a kind of quiet, hipstery neighborhood gridded along the canals in the northwest center of the city - there are lots of galleries, little places to eat, men in leather pants zipping around on fancy Italian motos (this is terrifying, as a pedestrian, on narrow streets) and babies toddling by. Our tour guide, Emily, was wearing some boss leather pants herself and was a wealth of information to boot. Apparently, the neighborhood was a slum until the 1960s, and then, as she put it "They just fixed this part of the city." Fixing neighborhoods here seems like a much more careful process than it is in the States - the Jordaan is very old and still looks it. For example, there are houses with stepped gables (the oldest kind of gabling) that have been equipped with brand new windows. I wish I had taken pictures, but I'll go back and do that some other time. Emily also told us that there's a huge fabric market on Monday mornings, so I'm hoping to get there one day soon and pick up some souvenirs for the textile lovers in my life (I see you, Maman, and Ashley). I also learned in Dutch class that housing is limited by salary in Holland, so you have to live somewhere that meshes well with your lifestyle - not too big or too small for your means. If you make 2000 euros a month you are only alowed to rent nice apartments. There are apartments on the ground floor of most buildings that are reserved for old people as well. It was a beautiful day and the Jordaan is one of my favorite parts of the city, so I was daydreaming about moving there permanently as we wandered - it was comforting to think that there would be some kind of nifty housing reserved for people of my demographic. It would be stressful to look for an apartment anywhere, but less so if the government had some provisions to help you with the process.
Today I bought mango sticks from Albert Heijn (good decision) and had a very productive networking meeting with Letje. I'm writing a letter to get permission to access an archive and calling some organizations, and I have a date with a man named John who is going to chat with me and show me around a male bordello that is just up the street from school. I pass it everyday and never knew, which goes to show how seamlessly integrated sex work is into this society.
Yesterday we took a neighborhood walk around the Jordaan with my Dutch class, although to my disappointment Freek did not come (although he did race by briefly to count heads and grin at us, before dashing back to his office). The Jordaan is a kind of quiet, hipstery neighborhood gridded along the canals in the northwest center of the city - there are lots of galleries, little places to eat, men in leather pants zipping around on fancy Italian motos (this is terrifying, as a pedestrian, on narrow streets) and babies toddling by. Our tour guide, Emily, was wearing some boss leather pants herself and was a wealth of information to boot. Apparently, the neighborhood was a slum until the 1960s, and then, as she put it "They just fixed this part of the city." Fixing neighborhoods here seems like a much more careful process than it is in the States - the Jordaan is very old and still looks it. For example, there are houses with stepped gables (the oldest kind of gabling) that have been equipped with brand new windows. I wish I had taken pictures, but I'll go back and do that some other time. Emily also told us that there's a huge fabric market on Monday mornings, so I'm hoping to get there one day soon and pick up some souvenirs for the textile lovers in my life (I see you, Maman, and Ashley). I also learned in Dutch class that housing is limited by salary in Holland, so you have to live somewhere that meshes well with your lifestyle - not too big or too small for your means. If you make 2000 euros a month you are only alowed to rent nice apartments. There are apartments on the ground floor of most buildings that are reserved for old people as well. It was a beautiful day and the Jordaan is one of my favorite parts of the city, so I was daydreaming about moving there permanently as we wandered - it was comforting to think that there would be some kind of nifty housing reserved for people of my demographic. It would be stressful to look for an apartment anywhere, but less so if the government had some provisions to help you with the process.
Today I bought mango sticks from Albert Heijn (good decision) and had a very productive networking meeting with Letje. I'm writing a letter to get permission to access an archive and calling some organizations, and I have a date with a man named John who is going to chat with me and show me around a male bordello that is just up the street from school. I pass it everyday and never knew, which goes to show how seamlessly integrated sex work is into this society.
24 February 2008
La Belgique
To be honest, I already forget a lot of what I thought and wanted to say about Brussels - that's what happens when you wait a day. Brussels is very stately and beautiful and left me not at all surprised that the EU is headquartered there. The weather was sort of crappy in a windy-and-cloudy way, and we took a hop-on hop-off bus around to all the major sites. This was a good idea that I do not regret, but the fact remains that all my pictures are gray and/or blurry due to the sky and the maniac driving of our bus guy - he was not into staying still so that tourists could snap pictures. Also a problem with sitting in the top of a double decker bus is that power lines get in the way of all your coolest pictures. Lame. We decided to embrace the fat that we were not in Amsterdam and act realll touristy - complete with moving in herds, excessive camera snappage, unabashedly speaking English to clerks*, purchasing things that say "Belgium" on them. Once I was in the tourist mindset, I felt compelled to buy things, which was dangerousss. Y'all are going to get some pretty sweet Belgian souvenirs - if you are lucky, some of the copious amounts of chocolates that I purchased (fun fact: I spent more on chocolate in Belgium than I spent on taking the bus to and from Belgium). We established a tradition of jumping in front of pretty things that we see - hence the photo above. There were lots of statues wearing face masks, I think in some sort of statement about pollution. See an example of this in the photos I posted on Flickr. There was some graffiti I loved, true to form, and a square where I was entranced by steeples and bright lights, and a street performer who contorted his body like whoa and had an awesome band (complete with French horn!) with him, and I spent close to an hour spying on and trying to videotape on my dinky camera the hijinks of some break dancers in the Gare Noord. The best thing about them, possibly, was that they were doing their thang to jazzy funk music and Sniper. I wish I had been brave and just gone up and asked them if I could tape them - that I was not means that all my stupid little videos have people walking fast in the forefront and fuzzy dancers in the far background. It's all very low rent and voyeuristic, but it's Brussels Captured, which is what I was going for. The Gare Noord is in sort of immigrant suburbia, I think, and it smells very strongly of urine and does not seem to have trash cans. All train stations are underwhelming after being in the vicinity of Amsterdam Centraal multiple times a day - not only is it majestic and beautiful, it is also clean and otherwise pretty pristine. It was cool hearing French spoken around me and being able to eavesdrop other things besides numbers (which is all I can eavesdrop in Dutch). I attempted to ask a guard for a map in French but started with the wrong construction, blushed, blanked, said "sorry" and rapidly got switched to English, much to my chagrin/relief. We saw the Mannekin Pis, which is tiny but ubiquitous. Dinner was the best 4 euros I have spent on a meal since I have been in Europe, I'm pretty sure - "Pitta Grecque," which is fries doner meat tzatziki tomato cucumber wrapped up in a pita. God, I am still thinking about that sandwich.
Anyway, yeah, I went to Belgium for the day - that is so surreal. Yesterday I spent hours buying cool postcards and walking and eating with Alex and Christy. I also mourned Heath Ledger and had what may be the best grilled cheese sandwich of my life. It set off Hallie and Christy's fire alarm and I felt bad, but it was sooooo worth it. At night cooked a good dinner representative of at least 4 food groups, downed some traditional Dutch dessert that I remain skeptical about (vla - it is kinda like flavorless watery pudding), had some good times chatting into the wee hours with friends + compatriots. Now come Sunday and Monday of Xtreme Homework - I have so so much to do.
*Sidenote - curiously, I heard more English in Brussels than I do in Amsterdam. Bizzare.
20 February 2008
Perfect Day
Disclaimer : This entry is going to be epic. Today was amazing. Not only was it amazing, but my perceptive and contemplative faculties have been in overdrive.
The best way to start a perfect day is a perfect night before. Christy and I wanted to go out but no one else did. Hallie was gracious enough to let me borrow her bike and so the city became our playground. We went to a bar/coffeeshop in Leidseplein that I had also visited with Whitney. A brief note on Dutch entertainment terminology for current and future reference. if something is called a coffeshop, it may or may not serve coffee, but definitely serves marijuana. A very few of these also have liquor licenses - it's hard for an establishment to get both a hash and a liquor license. If something is called a "cafe," it is what we Americans might consider a coffeeshop by day, and what we might consider a tiny bar by night. This place is called De Rokerij and is very small and gezellig, with couches and footstools and votive candles in bright holders, expensive beer in giant steins, hash lovers of all ages and races, a doorman who won't allow you to walk in with yo hood up (did he think I was part of a gang?), friendly bartenders, threadbare Tibetan tapestries on the wall. I was skeptical about biking, but figured nighttime, with no traffic, was a good time to take this most crucial baby step towards being a true Amsterdam resident. So off we went, and it was pretty great. We got to Leidseplein without traffic or incident, locked up our bikes, and sat on footstools amongst potheads for two hours, nursing our expensive beer and chatting. One of my favorite things about coffeeshops here is that you can be in them and be smoking or not, and be completely comfortable either way. I cried a little inside when I realized that we could have bought 3 bottles of Albert Heijn wine for the price of our two beers. It was lovely, though. We got Frites Special (fries with curry ketchup, mayo, and onion) at the Febo (a low-rent fried food automat - you look at food in tiny windows, put in some change, and take it out - but fancy Febos also have counters, which is where we nabbed the fries). Biking, coffeeshop, frites is pretty much the most stereotypically Amsterdam Tuesday night one can have. On the way back I ran into some difficulty - namely that the brakes were the backpedal sort and while they were good for stopping, they were not so good for starting again. I am skeptical about my ability to deal with this in traffic, seeing how faltering I was in its absence. Learning by doing, I guess.
And now, for the perfect day. The perfect day starts with the discovery of a coffee machine in the canteen of the ISHSS (the school building where I am most frequently to be found). This is no normal coffee machine. It sells approximately 16 types of coffee, tea, and hot chocolate, all of them delectable, in tiny plastic cups. It sets you back 50 eurocent a pop, which is not bad at all. I had two cups of hot chocolate "de lux" for good measure. All my Euro coins will be going to this dispenser, from now on. Next was the finalizing of our plans to take the bus to Brussels for the day on Friday (less grand a Belgian Journey than we had initially planned, but ultimately more economical and probably just as much fun). Plus I have learned by eavesdropping that everyone and their brother is going to Belgium this weekend. En serio, many many many foreign students will be running around Belgique.
There was a lecture on plagiarism and academic integrity, which was not in itself amazing. My mind wandered, though, to the European academic system, where it stayed happily for some time. School is taken so seriously here - there is not this culture of going to college to find yourself, or to play, or to figure out what you want to do, that I am so used to being in the midst of, even at my baby liberal arts college. Foibles are allowed in European higher education, but basically only to refine your already-formed plans for the future. What I have been throwing myself into full-force for the past two years qualifies as an "academic career" here - something to be proud of and revered, and also something terrible to risk (by plagiarizing). The institutionally sustained possibilities for specialization within a field in this country are mind-blowing for me. For example, the TA in my Masculinity and Migration class is getting his Masters in what boils down to a study of Intersex Political Movements - one of my specific interests within the very broad field of WGSS, Feminist and Queer Studies, and one of the most understudied at that. There are also things that I find off-putting about the way academia works over here - a certain self-importance that can't really be shaken at 400 year old institutions, what I find to be an overly empirical and professional approach to fields best addressed by intersections of activism and academia. Nonetheless, I think my Masculinity class is the best gender studies experience I've had yet, and that's saying something, considering my boundless love for all things WGSS. I would seriously consider coming to Europe for grad work, a Masters or a PhD.
The next perfect thing about my day was that I worked the transport system and my feet from the ISHSS to Centraal to the Plantage to the Bushuis library to the language building WITHOUT GETTING LOST ONCE. What's more, I only had to whip out my map to confirm where I was going TWICE! At the library, I found 5 books about male prostitution, including a Masters thesis written at the UvA in 1995 about prostitution and condom use in Amsterdam - this is going to be an invaluable resource for my field work, partly because of the extensive demographic information it offers and partly because of all the ideas for organizations and people to talk to it's giving me. Pleased with my finds and navigational skills, I made my way to PC Hoofthuis and sat in the lounge eating my peanut butter and banana sandwich (sidenote: Dutch peanut butter is called Pindakaas, and it is AMAAAAZZING - I would say Once Again is the closest thing I've had to it in the US) and reading/taking notes on male prostitution BECAUSE I WANTED TO, NOT BECAUSE I HAD TO, for two hours. During this time, a Dutch person ASKED ME WHAT TIME IT WAS IN DUTCH, AND I ANSWERED THEM CORRECTLY IN DUTCH! By now the day was well on its way to perfect, and I was well on my way to giddy. Christy and I had decided to try to locate a gezellig cafe to visit regularly in the vicinity of class, and so we wandered down Spuistraat and then the Singel looking for one. What we found was Greenwood's, a tiny cafe with WONDERFUL TEA, charming wooden tables, lemon meringue pie and all day breakfast, all cheap to boot! It also had an English language weekly alternative newspaper/events calendar which we pored over in excitement, and friendly/hilarious waitstaff. It unfortunately closes at 5, and so we had to leave a little prematurely. Our waiter was very concerned about this (it is considered un-gezellig to bring a table the check before they ask for it, even if there are 8 of them and they sit in your establishment for 6 hours and do not buy anything but one bottle of water to share), and when we told him it was fine because we had to go to class anyway, he was very relieved - "Oh good!" he said, perking up, "We are not ashamed then, we are not feeling guilty..." As I stacked up Euro coins to pay the bill, he turned to his coworker and laughed - "Look Avi!" he said, "Here we have a tower!" Christy and I definitely want to become regulars at this place. Hopefully it does not always close at 5, although I have never before been so charmingly booted out, and would gladly repeat the experience.
Then came our Field Experience class, which might as well be called Making Your Dreams Reality With Letje. I literally spend all week, and certainly Mondays and Tuesdays and the beginnings of Wednesdays, being excited about this class. Not to mention my project itself. Letje is our professor and I would like to be her one day. She is quirkily high fashion, warm, tall (all Dutch women are tall), and genuinely interested in making all of our projects realities. Today we did an extremely helpful exercise where we free-wrote about different approaches we were thinking about, shared with a partner, and then had them monitor our reactions as we explained ourselves, and tell us which we were most excited about. Then we made mind maps of brainstorms of different questions/worries/ideas/logistics/hopes/fears/possibilities/expectations. This all sounds cheesy, and was, but it was also unbelieveably helpful. I am so thrilled about my project - I'll spare you the details right now, but I am going to be investigating the naissance, functions, and internal politics of grassroots organizations that work directly with male prostitutes. I am so excited that I am taking notes on everything I think and see and read, and making a more professional mind map to put on my wall, like a storyboard, so I can constantly plan and add to it and refine it. Wowza! Here I am, out in the field, studying things that I love! In a city that I am becoming more and more attached to each day.
This love for Amsterdam hit me as I was walking back from my Perfect Day up the Damrak (the most tourist-ridden strip in the city) - past Francophone tourists having their picture taken in front of a KFC housed in a 17th century building, past a Rasta with beautiful dreads down to his waist blowing into the largest digeridoo I've ever seen, past a mother teaching her small daughter how to ride in the bike lane.
Everyone should come here and see this place. I never want to leave.
The best way to start a perfect day is a perfect night before. Christy and I wanted to go out but no one else did. Hallie was gracious enough to let me borrow her bike and so the city became our playground. We went to a bar/coffeeshop in Leidseplein that I had also visited with Whitney. A brief note on Dutch entertainment terminology for current and future reference. if something is called a coffeshop, it may or may not serve coffee, but definitely serves marijuana. A very few of these also have liquor licenses - it's hard for an establishment to get both a hash and a liquor license. If something is called a "cafe," it is what we Americans might consider a coffeeshop by day, and what we might consider a tiny bar by night. This place is called De Rokerij and is very small and gezellig, with couches and footstools and votive candles in bright holders, expensive beer in giant steins, hash lovers of all ages and races, a doorman who won't allow you to walk in with yo hood up (did he think I was part of a gang?), friendly bartenders, threadbare Tibetan tapestries on the wall. I was skeptical about biking, but figured nighttime, with no traffic, was a good time to take this most crucial baby step towards being a true Amsterdam resident. So off we went, and it was pretty great. We got to Leidseplein without traffic or incident, locked up our bikes, and sat on footstools amongst potheads for two hours, nursing our expensive beer and chatting. One of my favorite things about coffeeshops here is that you can be in them and be smoking or not, and be completely comfortable either way. I cried a little inside when I realized that we could have bought 3 bottles of Albert Heijn wine for the price of our two beers. It was lovely, though. We got Frites Special (fries with curry ketchup, mayo, and onion) at the Febo (a low-rent fried food automat - you look at food in tiny windows, put in some change, and take it out - but fancy Febos also have counters, which is where we nabbed the fries). Biking, coffeeshop, frites is pretty much the most stereotypically Amsterdam Tuesday night one can have. On the way back I ran into some difficulty - namely that the brakes were the backpedal sort and while they were good for stopping, they were not so good for starting again. I am skeptical about my ability to deal with this in traffic, seeing how faltering I was in its absence. Learning by doing, I guess.
And now, for the perfect day. The perfect day starts with the discovery of a coffee machine in the canteen of the ISHSS (the school building where I am most frequently to be found). This is no normal coffee machine. It sells approximately 16 types of coffee, tea, and hot chocolate, all of them delectable, in tiny plastic cups. It sets you back 50 eurocent a pop, which is not bad at all. I had two cups of hot chocolate "de lux" for good measure. All my Euro coins will be going to this dispenser, from now on. Next was the finalizing of our plans to take the bus to Brussels for the day on Friday (less grand a Belgian Journey than we had initially planned, but ultimately more economical and probably just as much fun). Plus I have learned by eavesdropping that everyone and their brother is going to Belgium this weekend. En serio, many many many foreign students will be running around Belgique.
There was a lecture on plagiarism and academic integrity, which was not in itself amazing. My mind wandered, though, to the European academic system, where it stayed happily for some time. School is taken so seriously here - there is not this culture of going to college to find yourself, or to play, or to figure out what you want to do, that I am so used to being in the midst of, even at my baby liberal arts college. Foibles are allowed in European higher education, but basically only to refine your already-formed plans for the future. What I have been throwing myself into full-force for the past two years qualifies as an "academic career" here - something to be proud of and revered, and also something terrible to risk (by plagiarizing). The institutionally sustained possibilities for specialization within a field in this country are mind-blowing for me. For example, the TA in my Masculinity and Migration class is getting his Masters in what boils down to a study of Intersex Political Movements - one of my specific interests within the very broad field of WGSS, Feminist and Queer Studies, and one of the most understudied at that. There are also things that I find off-putting about the way academia works over here - a certain self-importance that can't really be shaken at 400 year old institutions, what I find to be an overly empirical and professional approach to fields best addressed by intersections of activism and academia. Nonetheless, I think my Masculinity class is the best gender studies experience I've had yet, and that's saying something, considering my boundless love for all things WGSS. I would seriously consider coming to Europe for grad work, a Masters or a PhD.
The next perfect thing about my day was that I worked the transport system and my feet from the ISHSS to Centraal to the Plantage to the Bushuis library to the language building WITHOUT GETTING LOST ONCE. What's more, I only had to whip out my map to confirm where I was going TWICE! At the library, I found 5 books about male prostitution, including a Masters thesis written at the UvA in 1995 about prostitution and condom use in Amsterdam - this is going to be an invaluable resource for my field work, partly because of the extensive demographic information it offers and partly because of all the ideas for organizations and people to talk to it's giving me. Pleased with my finds and navigational skills, I made my way to PC Hoofthuis and sat in the lounge eating my peanut butter and banana sandwich (sidenote: Dutch peanut butter is called Pindakaas, and it is AMAAAAZZING - I would say Once Again is the closest thing I've had to it in the US) and reading/taking notes on male prostitution BECAUSE I WANTED TO, NOT BECAUSE I HAD TO, for two hours. During this time, a Dutch person ASKED ME WHAT TIME IT WAS IN DUTCH, AND I ANSWERED THEM CORRECTLY IN DUTCH! By now the day was well on its way to perfect, and I was well on my way to giddy. Christy and I had decided to try to locate a gezellig cafe to visit regularly in the vicinity of class, and so we wandered down Spuistraat and then the Singel looking for one. What we found was Greenwood's, a tiny cafe with WONDERFUL TEA, charming wooden tables, lemon meringue pie and all day breakfast, all cheap to boot! It also had an English language weekly alternative newspaper/events calendar which we pored over in excitement, and friendly/hilarious waitstaff. It unfortunately closes at 5, and so we had to leave a little prematurely. Our waiter was very concerned about this (it is considered un-gezellig to bring a table the check before they ask for it, even if there are 8 of them and they sit in your establishment for 6 hours and do not buy anything but one bottle of water to share), and when we told him it was fine because we had to go to class anyway, he was very relieved - "Oh good!" he said, perking up, "We are not ashamed then, we are not feeling guilty..." As I stacked up Euro coins to pay the bill, he turned to his coworker and laughed - "Look Avi!" he said, "Here we have a tower!" Christy and I definitely want to become regulars at this place. Hopefully it does not always close at 5, although I have never before been so charmingly booted out, and would gladly repeat the experience.
Then came our Field Experience class, which might as well be called Making Your Dreams Reality With Letje. I literally spend all week, and certainly Mondays and Tuesdays and the beginnings of Wednesdays, being excited about this class. Not to mention my project itself. Letje is our professor and I would like to be her one day. She is quirkily high fashion, warm, tall (all Dutch women are tall), and genuinely interested in making all of our projects realities. Today we did an extremely helpful exercise where we free-wrote about different approaches we were thinking about, shared with a partner, and then had them monitor our reactions as we explained ourselves, and tell us which we were most excited about. Then we made mind maps of brainstorms of different questions/worries/ideas/logistics/hopes/fears/possibilities/expectations. This all sounds cheesy, and was, but it was also unbelieveably helpful. I am so thrilled about my project - I'll spare you the details right now, but I am going to be investigating the naissance, functions, and internal politics of grassroots organizations that work directly with male prostitutes. I am so excited that I am taking notes on everything I think and see and read, and making a more professional mind map to put on my wall, like a storyboard, so I can constantly plan and add to it and refine it. Wowza! Here I am, out in the field, studying things that I love! In a city that I am becoming more and more attached to each day.
This love for Amsterdam hit me as I was walking back from my Perfect Day up the Damrak (the most tourist-ridden strip in the city) - past Francophone tourists having their picture taken in front of a KFC housed in a 17th century building, past a Rasta with beautiful dreads down to his waist blowing into the largest digeridoo I've ever seen, past a mother teaching her small daughter how to ride in the bike lane.
Everyone should come here and see this place. I never want to leave.
18 February 2008
J'Sais
I know, I know, it's been a while. Not much of import has happened. Well, that's not entirely true. This weekend I went to see a castle!
It was pretty small as far as castles go, and the tour was in Dutch so we didn't understand anything. It was very picturesque though - note, also, the moon in the corner of this photo. Muiden is what you would expect if you were expecting a quaint Dutch village - windy streets, locals at cafes with children and dogs, tiny bikes locked next to canals. Castles!
My Dutch is getting better though. I know how to piece together half phrases that come in handy in cafes, bars, and supermarkets. For example, today Freek (my professor) asked me
"Wat eet je bij de ontbijt?" (what did you eat for breakfast?) and I responded with something that translates to
"I eat a loaf with the Nutella."
"With the Nutella? What do you drink?"
"Um...I drink the milk."
"Cold milk or warm milk?"
"Old milk?"(the words for "cold" and "old" also rhyme in Nederlands)
"Old milk?"
"Um...cold milk."
"Do you eat fruit?"
"Apple!"
It's a slow process, but today I was excited because I was able to eavesdrop on people riding the bus - only people who were talking about time, though.
Wednesday I am buying a bike so we don't have to improvise when we go out anymore.
13 February 2008
On Pretending to be Dutch
Steps in this direction include:
-saying thank you in Dutch
-ordering beer in Dutch (this is the only thing I know how to order, thanks a lot Freek Bakker!)
-wearing leather and walking fast
Things that still need some work:
-riding a bike
-riding sidesaddle on the back of someone else's bike
#1 will have to wait until march 5th, when my 38 euro bus pass runs out.
#2 will have to wait until we all have a little more practice - as it stands right now, i can engage in this activity for approximately 15 seconds, before tumbling slowly into oncoming traffic. sometimes it is mindboggling to me that this is a helmet-free culture. you see dutch people whizzing around two or three to a bike all the time, in their stylish designer boots, like it's no problem.
-saying thank you in Dutch
-ordering beer in Dutch (this is the only thing I know how to order, thanks a lot Freek Bakker!)
-wearing leather and walking fast
Things that still need some work:
-riding a bike
-riding sidesaddle on the back of someone else's bike
#1 will have to wait until march 5th, when my 38 euro bus pass runs out.
#2 will have to wait until we all have a little more practice - as it stands right now, i can engage in this activity for approximately 15 seconds, before tumbling slowly into oncoming traffic. sometimes it is mindboggling to me that this is a helmet-free culture. you see dutch people whizzing around two or three to a bike all the time, in their stylish designer boots, like it's no problem.
10 February 2008
Goedenmiddag!
I was in Vondelpark to see Twelve Angry Men at the Filmmuseum for one of my classes. The Filmmuseum is this beautiful old building with a huge collection of old movies that they play in rotation - right now they are also playing Adam's Rib, and I don't know what else. You have to wander through the park for awhile to get there, including a circle of highly accomplished rollerbladers doing tricks and blasting reggae, and then (if it is a beautiful day like it was today, and maybe even if it is not) you see this old marble structure covered in people sitting and laughing and eating and drinking and smoking and talking. I gave myself an extra hour to get there because I was taking a new tram route (this is why I am chronically early, in case anyone was wondering), and so I had a solid forty minutes of sitting and writing in the park and watching all the Amsterdammers playing in the sun before I headed to the movie. At some point this group of young Dutch people walked past me with a soccer ball and this girl was looking at me intently and smiling, and then I looked over my shoulder and noticed this guy crouching there reading what I was writing! And I looked pretty shocked, I bet, and he flashed a big smile at me and gave a thumbs up and said "Good!" and then he ran away. Bullshit, Dutch people aren't friendly. He was lying to me, though, what I was writing wasn't good at all. It was no more and no less than a ramble about what I was seeing, which was mostly bikes and dogs.
The morning I spent in the ultra-modern, ultra-hip Bibliotheek (the new public library) on Oosterdokskade, writing a reflection about "crossing the first threshold" on my "hero's journey" as a study abroad student, eating chic cafe food in the chic rooftop cafe with Hallie and Christy, tricking the cashier into thinking I spoke Dutch (this is the first success I have had in such a venture) and failing to access the wireless. In theory, I am sort of opposed to hypermodern minimalist libraries (mostly just because I associate age and wood and dust with books). In reality, I would like to live in (this) one. Check it out at http://www.oba.nl.
The morning I spent in the ultra-modern, ultra-hip Bibliotheek (the new public library) on Oosterdokskade, writing a reflection about "crossing the first threshold" on my "hero's journey" as a study abroad student, eating chic cafe food in the chic rooftop cafe with Hallie and Christy, tricking the cashier into thinking I spoke Dutch (this is the first success I have had in such a venture) and failing to access the wireless. In theory, I am sort of opposed to hypermodern minimalist libraries (mostly just because I associate age and wood and dust with books). In reality, I would like to live in (this) one. Check it out at http://www.oba.nl.
09 February 2008
Bird Attack
Whitney came to visit and we walked everywhere - home from school, down to Leidseplein (a popular nightlife area in the south center of the city), back from Leidseplein, to Waterlooplein (a flea market where I bought some really cool, really comfortable boots that I can wear everywhere!), to the Bloemenmarket (flower market), to the UvA library, to the Red Light District, through the Jordaan (where we hung out by the Homo Monument and got Indonesian 2 Go, and where I had the best milkshake of my life in a coffeeshop). I have eaten more sprinkles/butter/chocolate on bread in the last two days than anyone should ever eat in their life, probably. It was so good to see Whitney though, even so briefly.
So, let me tell you the story of this bird. It was our dream to eat Indonesian food, and another dream to eat on a bench by a canal. We found an Indonesian 2 Go restaurant and so packed off to the nearest bench on Prinsengracht with our food. First, we noticed a bird like this (a heron? birdwatchers among the audience, please share your wisdom) sitting on a car across the canal from us, and had a conversation about how we thought it was so cool that it was so brave in the midst of all the human activity. Then it looked at us, and flew over. Then it spent a long time looking at our food. Then four more swooped down. Some of them fought with each other, and I stood up and huddled with my food in a corner, while Whitney sat frozen in fear to the bench. Then an old guy showed up and started tossing what looked like dead baby ducks at them, for them to eat. That took the focus off of us for long enough that we could get away unscathed. And probably, what happened was just that this guy always feeds the birds there and we happened to choose his turf to eat our Indonesian food. In any case it was a big ruckus, and a little scary. I have seen The Birds. I am wary.
We were also part of a few other ruckuses during Whitney's stay: the first night, we witnessed a high speed chase! (man on foot, police in car). Yesterday morning, we were swarmed by rowdy schoolchildren on the tram! And yesterday afternoon, the birds! We also contrived to be part of a perceived ruckus at a bar/disco called "Pirates" (see Flickr for the garish sign), but in reality that ruckus was just the sound of a poor DJ interspersing girly Latin techno with the sweet sounds of Will Smith circa 1995 and JOHN DENVER circa 1971. Not the way to get the club hoppin'. So just three ruckuses, ultimately, for us.
So, let me tell you the story of this bird. It was our dream to eat Indonesian food, and another dream to eat on a bench by a canal. We found an Indonesian 2 Go restaurant and so packed off to the nearest bench on Prinsengracht with our food. First, we noticed a bird like this (a heron? birdwatchers among the audience, please share your wisdom) sitting on a car across the canal from us, and had a conversation about how we thought it was so cool that it was so brave in the midst of all the human activity. Then it looked at us, and flew over. Then it spent a long time looking at our food. Then four more swooped down. Some of them fought with each other, and I stood up and huddled with my food in a corner, while Whitney sat frozen in fear to the bench. Then an old guy showed up and started tossing what looked like dead baby ducks at them, for them to eat. That took the focus off of us for long enough that we could get away unscathed. And probably, what happened was just that this guy always feeds the birds there and we happened to choose his turf to eat our Indonesian food. In any case it was a big ruckus, and a little scary. I have seen The Birds. I am wary.
We were also part of a few other ruckuses during Whitney's stay: the first night, we witnessed a high speed chase! (man on foot, police in car). Yesterday morning, we were swarmed by rowdy schoolchildren on the tram! And yesterday afternoon, the birds! We also contrived to be part of a perceived ruckus at a bar/disco called "Pirates" (see Flickr for the garish sign), but in reality that ruckus was just the sound of a poor DJ interspersing girly Latin techno with the sweet sounds of Will Smith circa 1995 and JOHN DENVER circa 1971. Not the way to get the club hoppin'. So just three ruckuses, ultimately, for us.
07 February 2008
How Many Licks Does It Take To Get To the Center of Your Universe?
Listening to American hip hop and getting lost among old European streets and canals, I felt my first ever serious pang for Saint Paul (as a city), which, fascinatingly enough, coincided exactly with my first ever joyful pang of wandering this city. I was pleasantly roaming city center for about two hours - I had no idea where I was or where I was going, but that wound up being OK. Suddenly the Night Watch came out of nowhere, and then I was on Rokin and Centraal Station was looming in the distance. I feel safe being lost here, if that makes sense. Something about the small, and the fact that I carry a map everywhere, and the fact that Dutch people are without exception helpful when they see me whipping it out. Dutch people are kinda great. They're very blunt but very hilarious, and kind. These are all stereotypes, that have thus far been supported by my week here.
I bought some apple/pear/rasberry nectar and some of that cumin cheese that we all love (I can't figure out what it's called). And I understood what the cashier said when she said twaalf euro! And I did my Dutch homework in an austere computer lab with seven locked doors and one (hidden) open door.
Today is the kind of day where music hits me hard.
Whitney tonight - stepping back into the friend comfort bubble, whatever that is - the ability to talk about important things with ease and sometimes be silent? The ability to wander without worrying? Whatever it is, I'm glad.
I bought some apple/pear/rasberry nectar and some of that cumin cheese that we all love (I can't figure out what it's called). And I understood what the cashier said when she said twaalf euro! And I did my Dutch homework in an austere computer lab with seven locked doors and one (hidden) open door.
Today is the kind of day where music hits me hard.
Whitney tonight - stepping back into the friend comfort bubble, whatever that is - the ability to talk about important things with ease and sometimes be silent? The ability to wander without worrying? Whatever it is, I'm glad.
05 February 2008
Prins Hendrikkade, Centraal, Damrak, Kalverstraat, Spui
So, today I had two more classes - one on Masculinity and Migration which I am SUPER EXCITED for, and one on Regulating Religious and Cultural Diversity in the Netherlands which I am slightly less super excited for, just because it's not my field - but I am still pretty amped. It is nice to have classes with non-IES kids (although there are also boatloads of IES kids in my classes, and that is nice too). But today I met an Australian boy and a French girl and some other interesting people who are not from the Netherlands or America. My masculinity professor is kinda hilarious - he spent a while talking to us about how he was "very taken with lady hats." Intellectually, too, I'm really pumped to take a class in masculinity studies. We are supposed to do and incorporate 1300-1600 pages of independent academic reading in addition to the two books on the syllabus, and so I am hoping that I'll get to do a lot of reading that I can connect back to my independent study and my general academic background. Matthias will also be a good contact, I think, for my independent project - he was very interested in the little bit I explained during our introductions today, and he's spent a lot of time working as a parliamentary assistant in sexual policy here. Maybe I can interview him. I'm just not sure if it's done here or not, to use professors as connections. I will try to feel that out.
I wandered around in the rain for a long time, looking for a black sweatshirt and reasonably priced rainboots, and finding neither - I was in the touristy commercial center, though, so I'm sure reasonable prices can be found elsewhere. I also got my Dutch book at a store called Athenaeum - it's a student bookshop, but it made me homesick for Talking Leaves. There were lots of levels with staircases between them and little nooks full of books and students everywhere browsing and reading. A man approached me on the Spui as I left. "Excuse me," he said, "and started to walk with me with an ease that took me aback, "I have a proposition for you. My name is Matthew and I will recite a poem for you. I am a wanderer. If you like this poem, perhaps you can give me a small donation because this is Amsterdam and - are you a poet?" (I nod yes)- "I thought so - we poets, it is good to expand our consciousness, if you give me this donation I will go to a coffeeshop to enjoy myself and write more poems to recite to you. And if you don't like the poem, it's free and you don't have to give me anything. Do you agree to this attempt?" I considered and nodded. Then he recited a pretty decent poem - mostly, though, I was impressed with his cadence. He had a very light Dutch or South African lilt and a very good grasp of dynamics. I don't remember any of it except something about tripping in Switzerland. So there we were, walking in the rain, and he finished and stood expectantly. "Very nice," I said. "Was it worth a small donation? Perhaps ten cents?" Certainly, I said, and rummaged around - but the only coin I had was a 2 euro, which is quite a lot to be giving away. But, in the spirit of supporting a fellow poet - "Here," I said, and pressed it into his palm. He looked at it and shook his head in wonder. "This, miss," he said, "this is amazing," and he pulled off his hood. "Look at my face - if you are again walking these streets and see the man with this face, know that he will recite for you always for free." And then he went on his merry way, and I went back to my apartment to eat potatoes and dry my shoes and pants.
I wandered around in the rain for a long time, looking for a black sweatshirt and reasonably priced rainboots, and finding neither - I was in the touristy commercial center, though, so I'm sure reasonable prices can be found elsewhere. I also got my Dutch book at a store called Athenaeum - it's a student bookshop, but it made me homesick for Talking Leaves. There were lots of levels with staircases between them and little nooks full of books and students everywhere browsing and reading. A man approached me on the Spui as I left. "Excuse me," he said, "and started to walk with me with an ease that took me aback, "I have a proposition for you. My name is Matthew and I will recite a poem for you. I am a wanderer. If you like this poem, perhaps you can give me a small donation because this is Amsterdam and - are you a poet?" (I nod yes)- "I thought so - we poets, it is good to expand our consciousness, if you give me this donation I will go to a coffeeshop to enjoy myself and write more poems to recite to you. And if you don't like the poem, it's free and you don't have to give me anything. Do you agree to this attempt?" I considered and nodded. Then he recited a pretty decent poem - mostly, though, I was impressed with his cadence. He had a very light Dutch or South African lilt and a very good grasp of dynamics. I don't remember any of it except something about tripping in Switzerland. So there we were, walking in the rain, and he finished and stood expectantly. "Very nice," I said. "Was it worth a small donation? Perhaps ten cents?" Certainly, I said, and rummaged around - but the only coin I had was a 2 euro, which is quite a lot to be giving away. But, in the spirit of supporting a fellow poet - "Here," I said, and pressed it into his palm. He looked at it and shook his head in wonder. "This, miss," he said, "this is amazing," and he pulled off his hood. "Look at my face - if you are again walking these streets and see the man with this face, know that he will recite for you always for free." And then he went on his merry way, and I went back to my apartment to eat potatoes and dry my shoes and pants.
04 February 2008
This is Amsterdam
A lot has happened over the past few days. I've been pretty overwhelmed, to be honest - my flight in was the roughest I've ever had, I was late for orientation, it is bitterly cold and windy and rainy here, and I had to endure the 48 hours of forced togetherness with 45 other people that is orientation.
But things are settling more now. I haven't been taking nearly as many pictures as I should be, but that will change soon - I'm getting into the groove now. This photo was taken out the top of a canal boat that the whole group went on on Friday afternoon - it was really gorgeous, as you might imagine. I didn't have a picture of Amsterdam in my head before coming here, but it's a cross between how I imagine Vienna and how I imagine Venice. That is, lots of ornate old buildings set close together around cobblestone streets and canals.
I'm living, by contrast, in an ultramodern, Ikea styled and furnished high rise in a quiet part of town east of the center city. It's close to everything, though. I have a ten minute bus ride to Centraal Station, which is right at the top of the city in the very center, and it only takes about 45 minutes to walk from end to end. It is nice to be in such a compact place. The apartment is just one room plus a bathroom, but it's incredibly spacious. I'm living with a girl from Miami.
Today I had my first class of the semester, which is Dutch. I learned how to say "Goedenmiddag! Mijn voornam is Sarah." I also learned how to say "I am from the United States." and "I live in Amsterdam," but I have forgotten how to say those things already. I really like language classes. This is going to be intense, but I am really excited to not be a total idiot when people try to speak to me in Dutch. I have been having a hard time overcoming my American guilt, here, because I have to speak English everywhere I go (because I don't know enough Dutch to avoid it). The next few days are more class and getting things sorted with immigration, and then Whitney is going to be here on Thursday and Friday nights, so I'm excited to see her!
Orientation has been crazy, and I'm exhausted. But I am starting to make some friends, and settle in more, and soon I will have more stories and more pictures. French fries here ARE amazing (with mayonnaise). There are these caramel-wafer cookies called stroepwaffels that I am addicted to. The city, when you first glance at a map, looks nothing short of unnavigable - but it's an illusion.
Love to everyone.
But things are settling more now. I haven't been taking nearly as many pictures as I should be, but that will change soon - I'm getting into the groove now. This photo was taken out the top of a canal boat that the whole group went on on Friday afternoon - it was really gorgeous, as you might imagine. I didn't have a picture of Amsterdam in my head before coming here, but it's a cross between how I imagine Vienna and how I imagine Venice. That is, lots of ornate old buildings set close together around cobblestone streets and canals.
I'm living, by contrast, in an ultramodern, Ikea styled and furnished high rise in a quiet part of town east of the center city. It's close to everything, though. I have a ten minute bus ride to Centraal Station, which is right at the top of the city in the very center, and it only takes about 45 minutes to walk from end to end. It is nice to be in such a compact place. The apartment is just one room plus a bathroom, but it's incredibly spacious. I'm living with a girl from Miami.
Today I had my first class of the semester, which is Dutch. I learned how to say "Goedenmiddag! Mijn voornam is Sarah." I also learned how to say "I am from the United States." and "I live in Amsterdam," but I have forgotten how to say those things already. I really like language classes. This is going to be intense, but I am really excited to not be a total idiot when people try to speak to me in Dutch. I have been having a hard time overcoming my American guilt, here, because I have to speak English everywhere I go (because I don't know enough Dutch to avoid it). The next few days are more class and getting things sorted with immigration, and then Whitney is going to be here on Thursday and Friday nights, so I'm excited to see her!
Orientation has been crazy, and I'm exhausted. But I am starting to make some friends, and settle in more, and soon I will have more stories and more pictures. French fries here ARE amazing (with mayonnaise). There are these caramel-wafer cookies called stroepwaffels that I am addicted to. The city, when you first glance at a map, looks nothing short of unnavigable - but it's an illusion.
Love to everyone.
Brizzle
Bristol was a very different kind of visit from my previous two. First, because Hayley and I had two years of our lives to catch up on. Second, because Hayley has been living in Bristol for a long time now. Third, because there aren't a lot of wondrous things in Bristol - I mean that in the most complimentary way possible. It reminded me of Buffalo in ways - it's a smaller city, lots of class divisions.
It was wonderful to see Hayley. I stepped off the bus exhausted, dirty, and surprisingly famished (my appetite disappeared entirely in Dublin and Barcelona - since Bristol, where I was force-fed delicious things at every moment, it has been raging), and she gave me a big hug and took me home, put me in the shower, lent me slippers, took me out to dinner, made me hot chocolate, made me go to bed early. We did a lot of walking and talking, as one might expect. More than that, even, a lot of sitting in our pajamas and talking. I sat in on one of her lectures (Thomas Wyatt, what what!), and bought a beautiful pair of dark teal boots. We ate toasted tea cakes and I drank more hot chocolate than I've ever had in a four day period, ever. And ultimately, because of all this, and because Hayley is so wonderful, I will forever associate Britain with comfort.
The tragedy of this trip was mainly that I lost all of my beautiful pictures of the cathedral and downtown Bristol with a mis-press of a button. I have never been inside a cathedral before, and Bristol's was built by Henry VIII. It's not the Sagrada Familia, but it made my jaw drop in its own very old, very traditional way. When we went to see the Sagrada, late in the night on my last night in Barcelona, Andrew said "Now this, THIS is for Jesus." Bristol Cathedral made me feel that way too. It's amazing, the things that people produce for God.
Despite the loss of those photos, I did manage to take a lot of surrealistic night vision shots in the clubs we went to - the first for the birthday of a friend of Hayley's, and the second to get some time to ourselves out of the house (and to dance). I am fascinated with the effect that my camera has in dark spaces - maybe this is just the hipster in me, liking the fact that I can make reality seem abstract. Ha. In any case, they were good nights. I discovered, to my great interest, that I can dance better than the majority of British people. Or at least, better than the majority of Bristol club-goers. In America I am just an OK dancer, but in Bristol I am queen of the dance floor.
The second night we went out to a club with a much older, much more mellow crowd, and had something approximating a dance-off and then a lesson with the most talented dancer in the club, who spotted Hayley and I moving with a little more rhythm than the majority and took us under his wing. I was excited and proud that he wanted to trade moves with us - it reminded me of Rize and other clips I've seen from the communal street dance life. (See Rize, if you haven't - it's incredible.) I love this stuff - dancing, certainly, absolutely, more and more the more that I do it and the better I get at it. Loud music, certainly. Blurry night vision shots, certainly. There is something about these temporary communities built around a love of music and an exploration of what bodies are capable of, alone and in concert with other bodies, that is so satisfying to me.
Another thing that I noticed was that there are a lot of people who look like me in Britain. I wonder why that would be? (That is a mock question - I know why. But still, it was really trippy to be amongst the people who could most closely be approximated as "my people" for a few days.)
It was wonderful to see Hayley. I stepped off the bus exhausted, dirty, and surprisingly famished (my appetite disappeared entirely in Dublin and Barcelona - since Bristol, where I was force-fed delicious things at every moment, it has been raging), and she gave me a big hug and took me home, put me in the shower, lent me slippers, took me out to dinner, made me hot chocolate, made me go to bed early. We did a lot of walking and talking, as one might expect. More than that, even, a lot of sitting in our pajamas and talking. I sat in on one of her lectures (Thomas Wyatt, what what!), and bought a beautiful pair of dark teal boots. We ate toasted tea cakes and I drank more hot chocolate than I've ever had in a four day period, ever. And ultimately, because of all this, and because Hayley is so wonderful, I will forever associate Britain with comfort.
The tragedy of this trip was mainly that I lost all of my beautiful pictures of the cathedral and downtown Bristol with a mis-press of a button. I have never been inside a cathedral before, and Bristol's was built by Henry VIII. It's not the Sagrada Familia, but it made my jaw drop in its own very old, very traditional way. When we went to see the Sagrada, late in the night on my last night in Barcelona, Andrew said "Now this, THIS is for Jesus." Bristol Cathedral made me feel that way too. It's amazing, the things that people produce for God.
Despite the loss of those photos, I did manage to take a lot of surrealistic night vision shots in the clubs we went to - the first for the birthday of a friend of Hayley's, and the second to get some time to ourselves out of the house (and to dance). I am fascinated with the effect that my camera has in dark spaces - maybe this is just the hipster in me, liking the fact that I can make reality seem abstract. Ha. In any case, they were good nights. I discovered, to my great interest, that I can dance better than the majority of British people. Or at least, better than the majority of Bristol club-goers. In America I am just an OK dancer, but in Bristol I am queen of the dance floor.
The second night we went out to a club with a much older, much more mellow crowd, and had something approximating a dance-off and then a lesson with the most talented dancer in the club, who spotted Hayley and I moving with a little more rhythm than the majority and took us under his wing. I was excited and proud that he wanted to trade moves with us - it reminded me of Rize and other clips I've seen from the communal street dance life. (See Rize, if you haven't - it's incredible.) I love this stuff - dancing, certainly, absolutely, more and more the more that I do it and the better I get at it. Loud music, certainly. Blurry night vision shots, certainly. There is something about these temporary communities built around a love of music and an exploration of what bodies are capable of, alone and in concert with other bodies, that is so satisfying to me.
Another thing that I noticed was that there are a lot of people who look like me in Britain. I wonder why that would be? (That is a mock question - I know why. But still, it was really trippy to be amongst the people who could most closely be approximated as "my people" for a few days.)
Deu, Guapo!
So, I've dropped the blog ball in the chaos of the past while, but I'm picking it back up. Thus begins a stream of catch-up entries.
A little more about Barcelona before I lose my memories of those mild, sunny days to the bitter Northern European winds.
Anyone who knows me knows how easily I get emotionally tied to places and spaces - either immediately, or begrudgingly. Being in Barcelona was an instant arrow to the heart, probably exacerbated by the fact that Andrew is a kindred spirit in this sense - we are always waxing poetic about our home cities, and other cities. He fell in love with Barcelona, and it follows that wandering with such a smitten guide I would fall under its spell as well.
Since I started this journey, I've talked to a lot of people who don't like Barcelona or have heard bad things about it - people who think it's dirty and vice-driven, people who hate Catalan, people who are overwhelmed by the nightlife.
All of these complaints have their places. Remember, those of you who were with me then, how I got coated in a thin layer of grime when we were in Montreal? That happened in Barcelona too, and without sunscreen to blame. It took at least four days after I left and three scrub-intensive showers to return to my normal shade of not-grey. I think maybe that's why so many people wear black there (besides the fact that it's incredibly stylish). I also felt totally at a loss not speaking any Spanish or Catalan, and like an idiot for relying on Andrew to act as interlocutor between me and the man in the falafel shop, me and the man at the bus station, me and anyone else. I don't do well with that kind of dependency.
And as for the nightlife, well, it's something else. This photo was taken on Las Ramblas at around 2:30 am - Catalunyans go out late (midnight) and come home late (or early in the morning, depending on how you'd rather think about it). There are tiny stylish bars everywhere you wander, especially in the Barri Gothica. Walking down Las Ramblas at night you have to dodge crowds of merrymakers, prostitutes who will grab your genitalia if you're a man alone or with other men (Andrew and Ben didn't get hassled when I was walking with them, but do usually), and, about every fifty feet, a man selling 1 euro street beer and whatever else he has - they mutter as you walk past, "cervesa-hash-coke?" It's not a city for the easily shocked.
That said, I loved all of it - there is so much of the human comedy to observe every way you spin. Visiting, and, I imagine, living there, is something like constantly being in the midst of a "choose-your-own-ending" novel. This is one of the most undeniably alive places I've ever been to, New York and Chicago and Austin during SXSW being the only cities that even come close in terms of their respective heart-rates.
How could you not love a city where there is something beautiful to look at everywhere you turn? Tiny parks, dazzling mosaic Modernist fish, the man with the accordion in the corner of the Metro, the mountain to your back and the sea to your front, the crumbling castle that you drink under in the Barri Gothica, the fashion-plate black-leather black-sunglasses dark-haired punky women and dreadlocked men who will surely be aloof and pushing past you on the street, lying on the grass with a guitar and a book and a bottle of beer in the Parc de la Ciutadella, stumbling home singing songs in the Metro. In Barcelona, there is art (in the broadest, most inclusive, most abstract sense of the word) everywhere and anywhere you seek to find it - I've never gotten such a rush from the aesthetic of a place before. I wonder if people who live there feel like they need to step up their look a notch in order to match their gorgeous surroundings? I felt like that, while I was there. Although apparently people on the subway were talking about me and "how British people dress," so I wasn't up to the challenge. In transit, I often play the game of who-would-I-like-to-know, who-can-I-imagine-in-my-life - in Barcelona, 85% of the people I saw fit this bill.
I got called "guapa" by a sweet old Jehovah's witness who cornered me in a park and tried to convert me through and despite the language barrier. I could understand her but couldn't answer back. I found myself trying to speak French.
She asked me where I was from - "Je suis de New York." "Do you know Brooklyn?" "Oui, oui." "Our big church is there - have you seen it?" "Oui." Maybe it's because they're romance languages, maybe it's because the part of me that is "Other," foreigner, struggler, idiot, lost, is by default French. A friend walking a dog approached her and asked what she was doing. "I'm trying to tell her about Jehovah." "She doesn't understand much, though." "No, no, she doesn't understand much, but Jehovah loves us all. Here, I'll walk with you.It's a beautiful afternoon." "Gracia, guapa." "Guapa" or "guapo" translates to something akin to "hot stuff," but here it's friendly, not an innuendo.
In Barcelona, you can order something called "spaghetti" that is actually noodles, doner meat, and hot sauce at the "American Snack Bar" (run by Pakistanis). In Barcelona, you can climb an escalator in broad daylight. In Barcelona, you can take a cable car above the harbor and up the mountain USING YOUR METROCARD. I could go on and on and on, but I won't, because we've got other fish to fry - suffice it to say, I'll be back, I hope for much longer, I hope with some Spanish under my belt, I hope with some more money in my pocket.
A little more about Barcelona before I lose my memories of those mild, sunny days to the bitter Northern European winds.
Anyone who knows me knows how easily I get emotionally tied to places and spaces - either immediately, or begrudgingly. Being in Barcelona was an instant arrow to the heart, probably exacerbated by the fact that Andrew is a kindred spirit in this sense - we are always waxing poetic about our home cities, and other cities. He fell in love with Barcelona, and it follows that wandering with such a smitten guide I would fall under its spell as well.
Since I started this journey, I've talked to a lot of people who don't like Barcelona or have heard bad things about it - people who think it's dirty and vice-driven, people who hate Catalan, people who are overwhelmed by the nightlife.
All of these complaints have their places. Remember, those of you who were with me then, how I got coated in a thin layer of grime when we were in Montreal? That happened in Barcelona too, and without sunscreen to blame. It took at least four days after I left and three scrub-intensive showers to return to my normal shade of not-grey. I think maybe that's why so many people wear black there (besides the fact that it's incredibly stylish). I also felt totally at a loss not speaking any Spanish or Catalan, and like an idiot for relying on Andrew to act as interlocutor between me and the man in the falafel shop, me and the man at the bus station, me and anyone else. I don't do well with that kind of dependency.
And as for the nightlife, well, it's something else. This photo was taken on Las Ramblas at around 2:30 am - Catalunyans go out late (midnight) and come home late (or early in the morning, depending on how you'd rather think about it). There are tiny stylish bars everywhere you wander, especially in the Barri Gothica. Walking down Las Ramblas at night you have to dodge crowds of merrymakers, prostitutes who will grab your genitalia if you're a man alone or with other men (Andrew and Ben didn't get hassled when I was walking with them, but do usually), and, about every fifty feet, a man selling 1 euro street beer and whatever else he has - they mutter as you walk past, "cervesa-hash-coke?" It's not a city for the easily shocked.
That said, I loved all of it - there is so much of the human comedy to observe every way you spin. Visiting, and, I imagine, living there, is something like constantly being in the midst of a "choose-your-own-ending" novel. This is one of the most undeniably alive places I've ever been to, New York and Chicago and Austin during SXSW being the only cities that even come close in terms of their respective heart-rates.
How could you not love a city where there is something beautiful to look at everywhere you turn? Tiny parks, dazzling mosaic Modernist fish, the man with the accordion in the corner of the Metro, the mountain to your back and the sea to your front, the crumbling castle that you drink under in the Barri Gothica, the fashion-plate black-leather black-sunglasses dark-haired punky women and dreadlocked men who will surely be aloof and pushing past you on the street, lying on the grass with a guitar and a book and a bottle of beer in the Parc de la Ciutadella, stumbling home singing songs in the Metro. In Barcelona, there is art (in the broadest, most inclusive, most abstract sense of the word) everywhere and anywhere you seek to find it - I've never gotten such a rush from the aesthetic of a place before. I wonder if people who live there feel like they need to step up their look a notch in order to match their gorgeous surroundings? I felt like that, while I was there. Although apparently people on the subway were talking about me and "how British people dress," so I wasn't up to the challenge. In transit, I often play the game of who-would-I-like-to-know, who-can-I-imagine-in-my-life - in Barcelona, 85% of the people I saw fit this bill.
I got called "guapa" by a sweet old Jehovah's witness who cornered me in a park and tried to convert me through and despite the language barrier. I could understand her but couldn't answer back. I found myself trying to speak French.
She asked me where I was from - "Je suis de New York." "Do you know Brooklyn?" "Oui, oui." "Our big church is there - have you seen it?" "Oui." Maybe it's because they're romance languages, maybe it's because the part of me that is "Other," foreigner, struggler, idiot, lost, is by default French. A friend walking a dog approached her and asked what she was doing. "I'm trying to tell her about Jehovah." "She doesn't understand much, though." "No, no, she doesn't understand much, but Jehovah loves us all. Here, I'll walk with you.It's a beautiful afternoon." "Gracia, guapa." "Guapa" or "guapo" translates to something akin to "hot stuff," but here it's friendly, not an innuendo.
In Barcelona, you can order something called "spaghetti" that is actually noodles, doner meat, and hot sauce at the "American Snack Bar" (run by Pakistanis). In Barcelona, you can climb an escalator in broad daylight. In Barcelona, you can take a cable car above the harbor and up the mountain USING YOUR METROCARD. I could go on and on and on, but I won't, because we've got other fish to fry - suffice it to say, I'll be back, I hope for much longer, I hope with some Spanish under my belt, I hope with some more money in my pocket.
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