New Space, Read On.*
*Addendum - Thus Dutch will be preserved in its entirety here, and I'll warn ya over at Thought Flesh if I'm going to post something new here (possible, if I go back to Europa).
08 July 2008
21 June 2008
A Note On Re-Entry
It's less strange than I expected to be, or perhaps it would be better to say that I could not and did not predict the ways in which it is strange. That said, I have so much more re-entering to do. I've only spent one full day in Buffalo since I've been back, what with jetting off to the Cape and the Big Apple and whatnot. And St. Paul is a whole new kettle of fish to tackle. I do think I want to keep blogging, although doing it in this space seems weird to me. I'm going to keep Thus Dutch as a travel blog, and I'm going to make a new one for anything that happens in America. I have to organize myself first though, and decompress a little. Stay tuned. Much love to all.
08 June 2008
Last Daze
Today is my last day, and I still have 5000 words to write. Can't focus. I'm wandering around my room reading highlighting pacing eating putting things in garbage bags trying to decide how best to get to the airport compulsively checking my email making a bibliography turning the fan on and off cleaning crying. I can't finish anything I start, it seems. What wreckage.
I couldn't have asked for a better last few days here, with everyone. Wednesday made a last round through Kitsch Kitchen, La Tertulia. Thursday night the Bitterzoet for the very very last time, everyone ecstatic, burning through joy liquor sorrow confusion and the building set of tensions within each of us as we prepare emotionally for departure (or fail to). A snapshot of the amazing : Hallie broke out her moves! Hipsters passing their hipster hats all around for everyone to wear, a case full of perfect cigs rolled en avance and on the dancefloor, a round robin of badass she-js, boyz in backpackz, a new height to our collective euphoria. Moshing with strangers, first ODB then Bodyrox then Dead Prez then don't push me...i don't wannaaaaa! then Bloc Party then A-ha. So many jams. Everyone happy pushing each other spilling beer on each other hugging kissing each other, friends and strangers alike, hands over shoulders, boys in pinstripe shirts with beautiful fros, girls with open shirts and black bras and Euro mullets, the requisite Rastas chillin' with their blunts in the corners, nodding. Four hours later we spill wet with beer and sweat and happiness into the street and lie down on the curb to reflect/pick glass out of our shoe-bottoms, trudge home elated. The best last night at the Bitterzoet that anyone could ask for. I danced so HARD with all of my being and screamed and stood next to the amp and I don't know when I'll next get to do that, certainly don't know when I'll next get to do that without a slew of worries attached. Texaco for ijsjes and water on the way home, up early Friday for one last lunch with Letje and Christy at our favorite cafe where we went faithfully every Wednesday, sat on a canal for an hour or two dangling feet watching birds getting viciously sunburned, wandered the Jordaan and Museumplein, yesterday Waterloo and the Resistance Museum and Alex's fake birthday (her real one is tomorrow) and a songs-of-our-youth singalong that lasted long into the night.
In the immortal words of our beloved Aaron Carter, circa House of Carters, my heart is so big right now. I feel like I'm straining so hard to preserve everything in every variety of sensory memory.
love is like tryin' to drink with no glass, cuppin' water in your hands tryin' to make it hold fast,
but be careful, sometimes the harder you grasp the quicker you lose your grip,
sip slow, make it last, everybody's gotta follow their path, and sometimes those of others intermingle with ours...
My cup runneth over. Everything about this place, these people, moments where I catch the eyes of others on the street or the bus or the tram, moments where I stop and look around me, the way my belly felt as I tried to rest in the sand on our last beach day, the way my arm felt when I woke up this morning having slept on it, crisscrossed with lines from my sheets, the way my headphones rest snugly in my ears, the way the air felt loose with storm-memory as I shuffled to school for the last time eating rasberries on Thursday, the particular combination of Christy and I jumping and shrieking trying not to burn our fingers lighting 21 candles on a cake from Albert Heijn, the particular combination of the six of us sitting in one room talking singing observing laughing. I had to stop in the middle of the party and clean the kitchen (not mine) until I calmed down, scrub, pour and consolidate. All of these things hit me BAM in the heart. I'm nothin' but a ball of nerve endings, hurtling through stimulus absorbing and feeling. A hyperconnection to my physical body in this sense of it transporting/creating memory and reacting to its surroundings, a huge disconnect in the sense of moderation, normalcy, what I put into it.
Alex wrote a beautiful post that expresses so much of what I'm feeling, the wants and not wants and, I think, most of all, the sense of community that we have here. It is us, the group of us who have bundled together and braved and enjoyed everything in concert with each other, but it is also more than us. Know, my lovely Amsterdam fambly, that I will be thinking of you always. I will be thinking of you when I leave my room finally in its barren state, I will be thinking of you hearing Dutch around me for the last time on the train to Schiphol, I will be thinking of you sitting exhausted in planes and airports, I will be thinking of you when I am home and it doesn't quite feel like home, in Minnesota when I am making sandwiches and sweating through the unbearable heat and dancing and laughing and taking walks with people who are not you.
I carry your hearts, I carry them with me in my heart.
04 June 2008
03 June 2008
I'm cracking down on my field experience paper, which is stressing me out to no end - I made an experiment out of it, in the hopes that I would discover some sort of new and exciting medium between academic research and narrative/creative/highly descriptive writing. I'm starting to despair a bit. I think I can yank myself out of it, it's just that I need to stop setting these grandiose change-the-world-in-one-semester goals and start just seeing what happens when I try hard.
Yesterday we went to the beach, for what is sposed to be the last beautiful day we have here. Tim and Christy and Alex fell asleep and I took creepy pictures of them napping in the sand. There was a really cute baby in a pink bandana running away from his mama, and a realistic seagull kite. A coke cost 3 euros, but I got one anyway. M+Ms were eaten, water was waded in. I have a strange sunburn on 1/2 of my right arm. Came home, ate falafel, wrote.
Yesterday we went to the beach, for what is sposed to be the last beautiful day we have here. Tim and Christy and Alex fell asleep and I took creepy pictures of them napping in the sand. There was a really cute baby in a pink bandana running away from his mama, and a realistic seagull kite. A coke cost 3 euros, but I got one anyway. M+Ms were eaten, water was waded in. I have a strange sunburn on 1/2 of my right arm. Came home, ate falafel, wrote.
30 May 2008
Wind-Down
My memory is a funny thing - highly sensory - sort of photographic, but more like cinematic. I can usually tell ahead of time when a moment is going to become a memory - a certain combination of senses hitting me at once in the head, the heart, the gut. These days my brain is working overtime to capture and store indefinitely, and I can do nothing but stand, rooted, when it hits me - watching C. buy flowers in the Dappermarkt, strolling along the Leidsestraat in the light rain, making lists of the last things I have to buy, see, photograph, walk through, do; the last benches I have to sit and write on, the last times (for a while, anyway), that I will laugh and dance, talk, drink, eat, listen, observe, with this constellation of people who I have entwined myself with in Nederland.
I think that leaving Amsterdam is going to be harder for me than leaving anywhere else has been, although it always rips at my heart a little to be transplanted. I've grown up here in a sense - navigated a language barrier, a bicycle, new neighborhoods, new ways of teaching and learning, making friends of my own accord,pursued curiosity rather than fear, taken care of myself, begun to integrate myself, and chosen things to love wholly without the influence of people I knew, emulated, adored, or needed before I came here. Even in Saint Paul, in the beginning, I had the comfort of a small campus and people who lived in the rooms directly surrounding me, moreover, I had the examples of cousins and bookstore friends and parents and people I had known my whole life to build upon and follow, a set of ideas about what college and liberal arts college and the Midwest could do for me. Here, I did not have that - I was ready, after years of fear and self-examination and worry and slow, steady rehabilitation from these things, to stumble into the world on my own shakey toddler legs, and I did, and I could not predict or regulate what would be difficult or easy, and I loved being thrown into that maelstrom fiercely, with all my heart. I'm concerned that I have/will become addicted to change of environment, reinvention, and the constant set of challenges and rewards spit at me from living in an unfamilier culture. Despite the fact that I am emotionally preparing to leave, wrapping things up, buying and taking pictures of last things, grappling with what it will be like to leave the life I have begun to build here, despite the fact that pieces of my heart are firmly grounded in Buffalo, Eagle, Saint Paul, North Truro, Many Glacier, Trumansburg, despite the fact that I love so many people who are not here, despite the fact that I am young still and far from full-grown, or even mature, I think in some ways I will always think of Amsterdam, of Nederland, as my first adult home.
Two nights ago, at the Bitterzoet, we listened to a Dutch funk family band blow the roof off for two solid hours. They were sweating, they were smoking, they were belting. The drummer sang a la Levon Helm, the bassist stuck his tongue out when he was concentrating, the sax player moved every part of his body except his arms, the lead singer was the one of the teeniest tiniest frailest looking waifs of a white girl I have ever seen, but she could have given Aretha a run for her money. They came back for an encore, the DJs began to spin - Sister Nancy, People Get Ready, A Tribe Called Quest for good measure. I was dehydrated, I had not been home for twelve hours, I was carrying my school bag on my right arm, I had just said goodbye to Letje, I was dancing with a familiar fever, a familiar smile. I looked around at my beautiful friends all concentrating, all happy, all busting moves that I have come to feel so much at home in the middle of. At the hipsters and go-go Dutch girls and slow rastas with beautiful dreads and scruffly young men with backpacks and headphones around their necks wagging their knees. And I teared up a little, realizing that I have only nine more nights of the potential to be surrounded by these particular characters and motions and sounds, to be in the midst of this particular mental film.
I'm not even entirely sure who my readership is, though I do know some. But whoever you are, I'd like you to think about whether you want me to continue this blog or not when I return, and let me know. I'm torn.
I think that leaving Amsterdam is going to be harder for me than leaving anywhere else has been, although it always rips at my heart a little to be transplanted. I've grown up here in a sense - navigated a language barrier, a bicycle, new neighborhoods, new ways of teaching and learning, making friends of my own accord,pursued curiosity rather than fear, taken care of myself, begun to integrate myself, and chosen things to love wholly without the influence of people I knew, emulated, adored, or needed before I came here. Even in Saint Paul, in the beginning, I had the comfort of a small campus and people who lived in the rooms directly surrounding me, moreover, I had the examples of cousins and bookstore friends and parents and people I had known my whole life to build upon and follow, a set of ideas about what college and liberal arts college and the Midwest could do for me. Here, I did not have that - I was ready, after years of fear and self-examination and worry and slow, steady rehabilitation from these things, to stumble into the world on my own shakey toddler legs, and I did, and I could not predict or regulate what would be difficult or easy, and I loved being thrown into that maelstrom fiercely, with all my heart. I'm concerned that I have/will become addicted to change of environment, reinvention, and the constant set of challenges and rewards spit at me from living in an unfamilier culture. Despite the fact that I am emotionally preparing to leave, wrapping things up, buying and taking pictures of last things, grappling with what it will be like to leave the life I have begun to build here, despite the fact that pieces of my heart are firmly grounded in Buffalo, Eagle, Saint Paul, North Truro, Many Glacier, Trumansburg, despite the fact that I love so many people who are not here, despite the fact that I am young still and far from full-grown, or even mature, I think in some ways I will always think of Amsterdam, of Nederland, as my first adult home.
Two nights ago, at the Bitterzoet, we listened to a Dutch funk family band blow the roof off for two solid hours. They were sweating, they were smoking, they were belting. The drummer sang a la Levon Helm, the bassist stuck his tongue out when he was concentrating, the sax player moved every part of his body except his arms, the lead singer was the one of the teeniest tiniest frailest looking waifs of a white girl I have ever seen, but she could have given Aretha a run for her money. They came back for an encore, the DJs began to spin - Sister Nancy, People Get Ready, A Tribe Called Quest for good measure. I was dehydrated, I had not been home for twelve hours, I was carrying my school bag on my right arm, I had just said goodbye to Letje, I was dancing with a familiar fever, a familiar smile. I looked around at my beautiful friends all concentrating, all happy, all busting moves that I have come to feel so much at home in the middle of. At the hipsters and go-go Dutch girls and slow rastas with beautiful dreads and scruffly young men with backpacks and headphones around their necks wagging their knees. And I teared up a little, realizing that I have only nine more nights of the potential to be surrounded by these particular characters and motions and sounds, to be in the midst of this particular mental film.
I'm not even entirely sure who my readership is, though I do know some. But whoever you are, I'd like you to think about whether you want me to continue this blog or not when I return, and let me know. I'm torn.
25 May 2008
21 May 2008
Eastern Docklands
If I had had my camera with me when the contents of this post happened, you'd be staring at the sun setting in orange, yellow, purple, red over open water, bright wispy jet trails, a darker cloud from adjacent smokestack floating in front. You would be wishing you were in Amsterdam.
As it happens, I did NOT have my camera with me last night, so you'll have to imagine it. I wanted to watch Shortbus, but there was nowhere to go, so C+I decided to take a walk down to KNSM Eiland instead. My secret inner plan was to pull over at the cafe where we played Dutch Monopoly a few weeks back and devour a platter of nachos, but nope. We got over there and it looked crowded. Two small Asian girls were sitting on the steps. They started to wave at us and shout "Hey!!! Hello!!!" My first thought was that some kind of event was going on inside, and they were the promoters. "Let's humor them," I thought, hoping that free beer or free music or something was in the cards.
They were not promoters. They were French teenagers, and I'm pretty sure they just wanted to practice their English. They asked where we were from, if we lived with our parents, if we played guitar, if we skateboarded, if we were 50 years old. They were from outside Paris, wanted to buy "I Love New York" shirts, and "didn't think the museum was very interesting." It was sort of cool and pretty bizarre being waylaid by them. I felt like we were going to run out of things to talk about, the cafe was still crowded, an enthusiastic pair of middle aged men was beckoning us from the window, and the night was young (it was 9:30, still light out, which is pretty standard here these days), so we moved on sans nachos.
The Eastern Docklands are "our" area of Amsterdam, but I haven't really explored them much. They're a group of islands in the "Y-Lake," which, as far as I understand, is sort of like an ocean delta that the city is situated on, connected by glamorous hypermodern bridges with majestic white arches. A combination of old harbor warehouses and incredibly stunning super modern architecture, artists' lofts and public housing. They're totally different from any other part of Amsterdam that I've been to - feel more like home, in ways. Quieter, less people. Open water and the smell of the ocean, big waves, buildings that make my heart pound, sights and smells of heavy industry lining the opposite shore (Niagara River, anyone?), fast cars bumping hip-hop and brash skateboarders. We walked for about an hour, eventually finding our way back to Funen after circling most of KNSM and sitting and contemplating the ridiculous sunset on a seaside bench for a while. As we circled away from the water and back towards our branch of civilization, we saw a motorboat with three dancing figures silhouetted against the water, an unmistakably familiar wail and bassline. "Is that - are they really playing that?" asked C, and they were. Sipping on coke and rum
I'm like so what, I'm drunk,
It's the freakin'weekend baby
I'm 'bout to have me some fun...
Oh, R. Kelly. Made my night to hear that bouncing off the waves - an extra little taste of home!
We walked back past a house that looked like it was made of Legos, across one of the bridges, along the train tracks and past an apartment building that had rapidly sparkling lights flashing to some kind of rhythm built into the ground of its courtyard.
Got chips at the Texaco (Sweet Chili Pepper Doritos, which much to my chagrin do not exist in America), home, bed.
Whitney arrives today, and Jordan tomorrow!
As it happens, I did NOT have my camera with me last night, so you'll have to imagine it. I wanted to watch Shortbus, but there was nowhere to go, so C+I decided to take a walk down to KNSM Eiland instead. My secret inner plan was to pull over at the cafe where we played Dutch Monopoly a few weeks back and devour a platter of nachos, but nope. We got over there and it looked crowded. Two small Asian girls were sitting on the steps. They started to wave at us and shout "Hey!!! Hello!!!" My first thought was that some kind of event was going on inside, and they were the promoters. "Let's humor them," I thought, hoping that free beer or free music or something was in the cards.
They were not promoters. They were French teenagers, and I'm pretty sure they just wanted to practice their English. They asked where we were from, if we lived with our parents, if we played guitar, if we skateboarded, if we were 50 years old. They were from outside Paris, wanted to buy "I Love New York" shirts, and "didn't think the museum was very interesting." It was sort of cool and pretty bizarre being waylaid by them. I felt like we were going to run out of things to talk about, the cafe was still crowded, an enthusiastic pair of middle aged men was beckoning us from the window, and the night was young (it was 9:30, still light out, which is pretty standard here these days), so we moved on sans nachos.
The Eastern Docklands are "our" area of Amsterdam, but I haven't really explored them much. They're a group of islands in the "Y-Lake," which, as far as I understand, is sort of like an ocean delta that the city is situated on, connected by glamorous hypermodern bridges with majestic white arches. A combination of old harbor warehouses and incredibly stunning super modern architecture, artists' lofts and public housing. They're totally different from any other part of Amsterdam that I've been to - feel more like home, in ways. Quieter, less people. Open water and the smell of the ocean, big waves, buildings that make my heart pound, sights and smells of heavy industry lining the opposite shore (Niagara River, anyone?), fast cars bumping hip-hop and brash skateboarders. We walked for about an hour, eventually finding our way back to Funen after circling most of KNSM and sitting and contemplating the ridiculous sunset on a seaside bench for a while. As we circled away from the water and back towards our branch of civilization, we saw a motorboat with three dancing figures silhouetted against the water, an unmistakably familiar wail and bassline. "Is that - are they really playing that?" asked C, and they were. Sipping on coke and rum
I'm like so what, I'm drunk,
It's the freakin'weekend baby
I'm 'bout to have me some fun...
Oh, R. Kelly. Made my night to hear that bouncing off the waves - an extra little taste of home!
We walked back past a house that looked like it was made of Legos, across one of the bridges, along the train tracks and past an apartment building that had rapidly sparkling lights flashing to some kind of rhythm built into the ground of its courtyard.
Got chips at the Texaco (Sweet Chili Pepper Doritos, which much to my chagrin do not exist in America), home, bed.
Whitney arrives today, and Jordan tomorrow!
14 May 2008
Chi
Yep, that's a Chi Machine. L has one - and I thought only Pam knew about this business! For those of you who don't know, you put your feet in a chi machine and it sort of rocks you back and forth for a while, and when you are done you feel very tingly and your chi, supposedly, is aligned.
Honore is a dear.
Another good food experiment: ham and leek in soy, lemon, coke, garlic, lemon pepper marinade.
Honore is a dear.
Another good food experiment: ham and leek in soy, lemon, coke, garlic, lemon pepper marinade.
12 May 2008
Ham n Eggz
I've settled into life with Honore, overlooking the Bestevaerstraat. I made something delicious - ham + eggs scramble with cane sugar and lemon pepper (fully stocked spice cabinet)!
Reading Edie is an eye-opener. You hear these names, you know, but all I know about the Warhol gang comes from Basquiat, which is another matter entirely. The Sedgwicks were a mythical, crazy family, and Edie became mythical and crazy in her own right. It's also written really interestingly - pieced together from accounts from all sorts of people in her life. Bob Dylan and Bob Neuwirth are in there, Andy's in there, Ginsberg's in there. Paul America + Paul Morrissey, Viva. What a weird world. I've also been doing a lot of reading for school, and trying to further my hip-hop education.
some writing. cat hair everywhere. sunshine.
Reading Edie is an eye-opener. You hear these names, you know, but all I know about the Warhol gang comes from Basquiat, which is another matter entirely. The Sedgwicks were a mythical, crazy family, and Edie became mythical and crazy in her own right. It's also written really interestingly - pieced together from accounts from all sorts of people in her life. Bob Dylan and Bob Neuwirth are in there, Andy's in there, Ginsberg's in there. Paul America + Paul Morrissey, Viva. What a weird world. I've also been doing a lot of reading for school, and trying to further my hip-hop education.
some writing. cat hair everywhere. sunshine.
08 May 2008
HOT
It is HOT here. Beautiful, but HOT. I had forgotten that I don't do so well in the heat. I guess it's good preparation for the Saint Paul summer. Ha.
Another meeting with M. today about my paper, which turned into a long debate over appelsap about American and Dutch politics, about the Dutch fear of "Islamicisation", about sex tourism. He is so interesting to talk to because he thinks in the same way that I do - all over the place, connecting everything that he perceives. He says he's not concerned about my mess of a paper because I'm scrupulous and I'm just psyching myself out right now and I'll pull it together in the end. But what I think he means is that he's not concerned because I think like him, which is sort of comforting and sort of not. It is nice to see such a similar mind in the academic world - it makes me feel better about my chances hacking it. On my way out, he noted that my skirt is "an homage to the Warhol gang" and dragged me to his partner's apartment downstairs to look at his extensive Warhol library. I left with "Edie," which I've been instructed to read right away.
It's super nice to feel like I have an intellectual community of sorts in this country, one that I've built with my own intellectual connections with people and not with the names or skills of my very literary, very intellectual parents. I think I'll always feel that in Buffalo, to a certain extent whatever intellectual acceptance I find will be on their coat-tails rather than on my own merits. Not by virtue of recommendation, exactly, but by virtue of access. Like if I hadn't been running around poetry readings and literary parties when I was 4, if I hadn't spent so much time at the bookstore schmoozing, would I have that access? Maybe, but I'm not sure. Permeability of intellectual community is an interesting concept.
We talked a bunch about the pitfalls and advantages of postmodernism. M described it as a sort of "deprogramming," a good thing for people who want to be creative and fresh thinkers to go through. But if you stick to the language of deprogramming rather than a more communicable language when trying to apply postmodern ideas to concrete things, you lose your ability to do so. It's funny because I had a similar conversation with L. the day before, when I went to her house to get the keys and meet her cat, Honore de Balzac (formerly Guillaume), who I'll be caring for for the next ten days or so. It's something that I'm preoccupied with and more and more interested in parsing through, because postmodernist theory was the catalyst for some very real, very concrete changes in my life, thought processes, introspective patterns, and ways of relating to other people. I credit it with much of the transformation I've been going through over the past several years, and with helping me to be a happier and more grounded person. In conversation, it often comes up that fellow peers or professors find it too abstract, too empty,not applicable to the "real world" - which has been the opposite of truth for me. Chela Sandoval and Jose Estaban Munoz, two theorists who changed my life,also have many examples of the very concrete power and applicability of highly abstract thought.
Anyway. I've been mulling that over. I move into L.'s apartment for my cat-sitting duties on Sunday, tomorrow I am going to Leiden to see Sarah's childhood hangouts, and other things (like the University). Today I am going to try to push through the heat and get things done, and maybe take a trip to the market. The RA, embarrassingly, has to help me cut Lupe loose from the rack under cover of darkness, because I was dumb and somehow lost my keys.
Another meeting with M. today about my paper, which turned into a long debate over appelsap about American and Dutch politics, about the Dutch fear of "Islamicisation", about sex tourism. He is so interesting to talk to because he thinks in the same way that I do - all over the place, connecting everything that he perceives. He says he's not concerned about my mess of a paper because I'm scrupulous and I'm just psyching myself out right now and I'll pull it together in the end. But what I think he means is that he's not concerned because I think like him, which is sort of comforting and sort of not. It is nice to see such a similar mind in the academic world - it makes me feel better about my chances hacking it. On my way out, he noted that my skirt is "an homage to the Warhol gang" and dragged me to his partner's apartment downstairs to look at his extensive Warhol library. I left with "Edie," which I've been instructed to read right away.
It's super nice to feel like I have an intellectual community of sorts in this country, one that I've built with my own intellectual connections with people and not with the names or skills of my very literary, very intellectual parents. I think I'll always feel that in Buffalo, to a certain extent whatever intellectual acceptance I find will be on their coat-tails rather than on my own merits. Not by virtue of recommendation, exactly, but by virtue of access. Like if I hadn't been running around poetry readings and literary parties when I was 4, if I hadn't spent so much time at the bookstore schmoozing, would I have that access? Maybe, but I'm not sure. Permeability of intellectual community is an interesting concept.
We talked a bunch about the pitfalls and advantages of postmodernism. M described it as a sort of "deprogramming," a good thing for people who want to be creative and fresh thinkers to go through. But if you stick to the language of deprogramming rather than a more communicable language when trying to apply postmodern ideas to concrete things, you lose your ability to do so. It's funny because I had a similar conversation with L. the day before, when I went to her house to get the keys and meet her cat, Honore de Balzac (formerly Guillaume), who I'll be caring for for the next ten days or so. It's something that I'm preoccupied with and more and more interested in parsing through, because postmodernist theory was the catalyst for some very real, very concrete changes in my life, thought processes, introspective patterns, and ways of relating to other people. I credit it with much of the transformation I've been going through over the past several years, and with helping me to be a happier and more grounded person. In conversation, it often comes up that fellow peers or professors find it too abstract, too empty,not applicable to the "real world" - which has been the opposite of truth for me. Chela Sandoval and Jose Estaban Munoz, two theorists who changed my life,also have many examples of the very concrete power and applicability of highly abstract thought.
Anyway. I've been mulling that over. I move into L.'s apartment for my cat-sitting duties on Sunday, tomorrow I am going to Leiden to see Sarah's childhood hangouts, and other things (like the University). Today I am going to try to push through the heat and get things done, and maybe take a trip to the market. The RA, embarrassingly, has to help me cut Lupe loose from the rack under cover of darkness, because I was dumb and somehow lost my keys.
05 May 2008
Berlin The Second, or Why You Should Use the City Toilette
Day two of Berlin was busy – early rise, a long + fruitful trip to the Judische Museum, which we spent a solid 3 hours in, delicious falafel, and the East Side Gallery – a portion of the Wall that’s been preserved and dedicated to murals and messages from people the world over.
Public art is a particular kind of heaven for me, so I was just wandering along the wall in a happy daze at my own pace, and taking an obscene amount of pictures. A short man dressed all in white made me take his picture (with my camera) and then said ‘thank you” and wandered off with his tall blonde beautiful girlfriend. “He’s a ----(word that I could not understand)!” she repeated twice as they continued on their merry ways. I wonder if he was famous? or maybe he just likes posing for photos.
Sat and wrote postcards by an old church around the bend from Museum Island, went off in search of currywurst, which I passed up for a bacon pickle potato omelette, in the end. I'm sure it's delicious, but at the time I really felt strongly that I needed some gherkin.
We wanted to see the Reichstag at night, but we wanted to wait until it got dark, and had a few hours – so we rambled down the leafy, pristine West Berlin side of the Unter den Linden boulevard with our sights set on reaching the gold statuesque beauty in the distance. “The chick on a stick,” we called her affectionately. We hoped to get as far as Charlottenburg Palace, but it quickly became clear that dusk was approaching, and the Chick was as far as we were going to get if we wanted to make it back to the Reichstag before 10:15, the time of the last admittance. “We’re going to have to briskly strut if we want to make it,” observed C as we started to hurry back. We were either not brisk enough, or did not strut hard enough – held up + distracted by laughter, my imminent need to pee, and the discovery that setting your camera on the ground can result in some interesting photos. (“Hey look, it looks your foot is crushing that streetlight!”)
Needless to say, when we reached the Reichstag we were greeted by friendly women in red windbreakers, earnestly informing us that we probably wouldn’t make it in and might want to come back the next morning.
By this point I REALLY needed to pee and was dancing + prancing my way to a sketchy looking public toilet I had seen near the beginning of the park along Unter den Linden. Public urination is legal in Berlin, for boys AND girls, but the last time I tried that I peed on my shorts, so I wasn’t eager to risk it again, especially considering that I had tights in the way as well. At least I was wearing rain boots, if it had come to that.
This toilet looked like a phone booth or something – a little circular enclave set back in the urban forest. It looked like the kind of place where serial killers might lurk. I didn’t have enough change, nor did I really have enough time to read the instructions before I entered, or worry too much about the serial killers. It is a) hard to believe that anything bad could happen to you along Unter den Linden, and b) we made a big ruckus so we wouldn't shock them. There was a lot of hilarity as Christy hastily paid the required 50 cents and she and Hallie watched me bum rush the automatic-open door and lift my skirt almost before it closed again.
But let me tell you, this toilet was one of the highlights of my journey! From the Muzak that pleasantly began to filter in as the light turned on and the bathroom came to life for me, to the pee disappearing into an abyss, compost-toilet style, to the dim fluorescent lights and the automatic water, soap, and air dispensers over the “sink,” this was practically a luxury experience. A sign by the automatic door open /close buttons, much like those of an elevator, informed me that I was only allotted 20 minutes in the oasis. I could gladly have spent that, or more, exploring all the nifty gadgets and pacing up and down the wide space that I was allotted, contemplating my day in solitude, soaking in the tunes. What a wonderful experience! When I exited, the doors shut behind me, the lights and Muzak shut off, and the whole unit began to tremble. A lit-up sign by the door said something in German, we think “cleaning.” And more satisfied than I had expected to be, EVER, by a public toilet, off we meandered back to the Wombat, and the roof terrace of the so-called “Wombar," to finish off our journey with a quiet drink and a stunning view of the city.
This morning we woke up at 6 and got to the train station way too early, and now we are headed back to the Dam.
Berlin is/was/will always be incredible. It energized me and I fell in love with it and I probably won’t ever shut up about it.
Public art is a particular kind of heaven for me, so I was just wandering along the wall in a happy daze at my own pace, and taking an obscene amount of pictures. A short man dressed all in white made me take his picture (with my camera) and then said ‘thank you” and wandered off with his tall blonde beautiful girlfriend. “He’s a ----(word that I could not understand)!” she repeated twice as they continued on their merry ways. I wonder if he was famous? or maybe he just likes posing for photos.
Sat and wrote postcards by an old church around the bend from Museum Island, went off in search of currywurst, which I passed up for a bacon pickle potato omelette, in the end. I'm sure it's delicious, but at the time I really felt strongly that I needed some gherkin.
We wanted to see the Reichstag at night, but we wanted to wait until it got dark, and had a few hours – so we rambled down the leafy, pristine West Berlin side of the Unter den Linden boulevard with our sights set on reaching the gold statuesque beauty in the distance. “The chick on a stick,” we called her affectionately. We hoped to get as far as Charlottenburg Palace, but it quickly became clear that dusk was approaching, and the Chick was as far as we were going to get if we wanted to make it back to the Reichstag before 10:15, the time of the last admittance. “We’re going to have to briskly strut if we want to make it,” observed C as we started to hurry back. We were either not brisk enough, or did not strut hard enough – held up + distracted by laughter, my imminent need to pee, and the discovery that setting your camera on the ground can result in some interesting photos. (“Hey look, it looks your foot is crushing that streetlight!”)
Needless to say, when we reached the Reichstag we were greeted by friendly women in red windbreakers, earnestly informing us that we probably wouldn’t make it in and might want to come back the next morning.
By this point I REALLY needed to pee and was dancing + prancing my way to a sketchy looking public toilet I had seen near the beginning of the park along Unter den Linden. Public urination is legal in Berlin, for boys AND girls, but the last time I tried that I peed on my shorts, so I wasn’t eager to risk it again, especially considering that I had tights in the way as well. At least I was wearing rain boots, if it had come to that.
This toilet looked like a phone booth or something – a little circular enclave set back in the urban forest. It looked like the kind of place where serial killers might lurk. I didn’t have enough change, nor did I really have enough time to read the instructions before I entered, or worry too much about the serial killers. It is a) hard to believe that anything bad could happen to you along Unter den Linden, and b) we made a big ruckus so we wouldn't shock them. There was a lot of hilarity as Christy hastily paid the required 50 cents and she and Hallie watched me bum rush the automatic-open door and lift my skirt almost before it closed again.
But let me tell you, this toilet was one of the highlights of my journey! From the Muzak that pleasantly began to filter in as the light turned on and the bathroom came to life for me, to the pee disappearing into an abyss, compost-toilet style, to the dim fluorescent lights and the automatic water, soap, and air dispensers over the “sink,” this was practically a luxury experience. A sign by the automatic door open /close buttons, much like those of an elevator, informed me that I was only allotted 20 minutes in the oasis. I could gladly have spent that, or more, exploring all the nifty gadgets and pacing up and down the wide space that I was allotted, contemplating my day in solitude, soaking in the tunes. What a wonderful experience! When I exited, the doors shut behind me, the lights and Muzak shut off, and the whole unit began to tremble. A lit-up sign by the door said something in German, we think “cleaning.” And more satisfied than I had expected to be, EVER, by a public toilet, off we meandered back to the Wombat, and the roof terrace of the so-called “Wombar," to finish off our journey with a quiet drink and a stunning view of the city.
This morning we woke up at 6 and got to the train station way too early, and now we are headed back to the Dam.
Berlin is/was/will always be incredible. It energized me and I fell in love with it and I probably won’t ever shut up about it.
Berlin the First: Ik Ben Verlieft
(n.b. - I wrote these on the road, and that is why the tense is weird.)
Berlin is electric. It took me right away, as many "A" and "B" cities seem to (Amsterdam, Austin, Buffalo, Barcelona...). Could my love for it endure? I don't know, but two days isn't enough. I need to come back.
Christy and Hallie and I pulled into town on the train and enjoyed Pizza Hut (for shame, but we were so hungry and we WANTED it) in the shadow of T-Punkt (T-Mobile), took the S-bahn to the U-bahn, disembarked by a large white brand new building that houses our hostel, called Wombat's - the windows are floor to ceiling and every room has a shiny bathroom - the bar, on the 7th floor, has a sizeable terrace that looks out into whatever you want to see of the East Berlin night.
It was warm and clear and the TV tower and the sky were massive and stunning. Off we took into the beautiful evening, down the beautiful Torstrasse, and it hit us - as we passed gallery after gallery, as we noticed the enthused, fedora-adorned "walk" symbol, as cyclists zipped by us. Convenience stores have bar stools, food that costs 12 euro in Amsterdam costs half as much here, we passed a lively bar with a full living room set up on the street in front of it - worn oriental carpet, threadbare plush chairs and couches, a floor lamp. The graffiti is beautiful or shocking, or both, more often than not, even when it is tiny enough to fit in the palm of your hand.
Today we took the best tour I have ever taken of anything, James Monroe's house in Virginia (which we only went to because Monticello was crowded and impossible), coming in a close second. Our guide's name was Nick and he is some sort of badass Nazi-bunker-specialist archaeologist with a penchant for rolling his own cigarettes. He was hilarious and British and full of more information and witticisms than I can even begin to recall. At the site of Hitler's bunker (he wrote the text for the English part of the modest commemorative sign, so he must be pretty important around these parts), he whipped this out (I scribbled it on the back of my map so I wouldn't forget, something I should have done more often) - "You don't think Hitler's really dead? Well he'd be gettin' on a bit, wouldn't he? You think he's off having mojitos somewhere with Biggie and 2Pac and John Lennon and all those other people who die and aren't allowed to be dead? No, let me tell you, he's really dead."
Berlin has so much history and so much memory packed into the center, it boggles the mind. The Reichstag has a transparent roof and is always open to the public, so people can look down on their politicians and the politicians can look up at them, and everyone can remember what they're sposed to be doing. The Holocaust Memorial is a sea of cement blocks. The Book-Burning Memorial (see photo) is underground and shows many, many empty shelves. There are only tiny, war-scarred (but still grand) bits of the glorious Prussian empire left over. At the end of the tour (which lasted almost four hours), Nick stopped us and told us the story of the Wall coming down. It almost brought tears to my eyes, really and truly, and I hope I can remember it so that I can retell it one day. A pale imitation of how he told it, I'm sure, but I bet I could capture some of the energy. The history of Communist East Berlin is, like many Communist histories, pretty horrifying. The history of its end is, like many histories of ends of Communist regimes, pretty spectacular.
Berlin, as an undivided city, is only 18 years old. And it's a great example of what can happen when enough people fiercely love a place and fight and improvise and pour their hearts into it to build up a vibrant culture out of destruction (Buffalo, take note).
After the tour, sat in a cafe and ate a big meal for not very many euro, sauntered through some tourist stores (so far, my junk collection habit in Europe has been limited to postcards, which are both aesthetically pleasing and useful - but here, on account of the low low prices and my panic at leaving Europe sooner than later, my hoarding out-of-context glittery crap instinct kicked in and I bought - drumrolllllll - a black ashtray with a gold filigree/pastel drawing of the Brandenburg Gate in the bottom! I don't even know).
Evening brought us, on a whim, to the Konzerthaus, where we joined many many aging German people to sit in prime cheap seats directly behind the orchestra. I can't even begin to describe how amazing it was. There was some Beethoven and some Bartok, the concert hall itself is decked out in red plush and white marble and gold leaf and Prussian charm. We could see the conductor's face, which was wicked. He was incredible. He conducted without a score (I didn't think about that being a big deal, but Christy, who is a violist, made it clear that it's pretty rare, and risky), and he moved his whole body as he directed, and it was beautiful to watch and to listen to the synchronicity he was causing. The orchestra themselves were wonderful as well. We were sitting sort of behind the basses and cellos. Good place to be.
I don't know, here I am collecting places to love again. It's so exciting to be somewhere that is not only rebuilding, but excited about all the possibilities in its rebuilding. Tomorrow we will see more and I'm sure I will love more.
Time for bed.
Berlin is electric. It took me right away, as many "A" and "B" cities seem to (Amsterdam, Austin, Buffalo, Barcelona...). Could my love for it endure? I don't know, but two days isn't enough. I need to come back.
Christy and Hallie and I pulled into town on the train and enjoyed Pizza Hut (for shame, but we were so hungry and we WANTED it) in the shadow of T-Punkt (T-Mobile), took the S-bahn to the U-bahn, disembarked by a large white brand new building that houses our hostel, called Wombat's - the windows are floor to ceiling and every room has a shiny bathroom - the bar, on the 7th floor, has a sizeable terrace that looks out into whatever you want to see of the East Berlin night.
It was warm and clear and the TV tower and the sky were massive and stunning. Off we took into the beautiful evening, down the beautiful Torstrasse, and it hit us - as we passed gallery after gallery, as we noticed the enthused, fedora-adorned "walk" symbol, as cyclists zipped by us. Convenience stores have bar stools, food that costs 12 euro in Amsterdam costs half as much here, we passed a lively bar with a full living room set up on the street in front of it - worn oriental carpet, threadbare plush chairs and couches, a floor lamp. The graffiti is beautiful or shocking, or both, more often than not, even when it is tiny enough to fit in the palm of your hand.
Today we took the best tour I have ever taken of anything, James Monroe's house in Virginia (which we only went to because Monticello was crowded and impossible), coming in a close second. Our guide's name was Nick and he is some sort of badass Nazi-bunker-specialist archaeologist with a penchant for rolling his own cigarettes. He was hilarious and British and full of more information and witticisms than I can even begin to recall. At the site of Hitler's bunker (he wrote the text for the English part of the modest commemorative sign, so he must be pretty important around these parts), he whipped this out (I scribbled it on the back of my map so I wouldn't forget, something I should have done more often) - "You don't think Hitler's really dead? Well he'd be gettin' on a bit, wouldn't he? You think he's off having mojitos somewhere with Biggie and 2Pac and John Lennon and all those other people who die and aren't allowed to be dead? No, let me tell you, he's really dead."
Berlin has so much history and so much memory packed into the center, it boggles the mind. The Reichstag has a transparent roof and is always open to the public, so people can look down on their politicians and the politicians can look up at them, and everyone can remember what they're sposed to be doing. The Holocaust Memorial is a sea of cement blocks. The Book-Burning Memorial (see photo) is underground and shows many, many empty shelves. There are only tiny, war-scarred (but still grand) bits of the glorious Prussian empire left over. At the end of the tour (which lasted almost four hours), Nick stopped us and told us the story of the Wall coming down. It almost brought tears to my eyes, really and truly, and I hope I can remember it so that I can retell it one day. A pale imitation of how he told it, I'm sure, but I bet I could capture some of the energy. The history of Communist East Berlin is, like many Communist histories, pretty horrifying. The history of its end is, like many histories of ends of Communist regimes, pretty spectacular.
Berlin, as an undivided city, is only 18 years old. And it's a great example of what can happen when enough people fiercely love a place and fight and improvise and pour their hearts into it to build up a vibrant culture out of destruction (Buffalo, take note).
After the tour, sat in a cafe and ate a big meal for not very many euro, sauntered through some tourist stores (so far, my junk collection habit in Europe has been limited to postcards, which are both aesthetically pleasing and useful - but here, on account of the low low prices and my panic at leaving Europe sooner than later, my hoarding out-of-context glittery crap instinct kicked in and I bought - drumrolllllll - a black ashtray with a gold filigree/pastel drawing of the Brandenburg Gate in the bottom! I don't even know).
Evening brought us, on a whim, to the Konzerthaus, where we joined many many aging German people to sit in prime cheap seats directly behind the orchestra. I can't even begin to describe how amazing it was. There was some Beethoven and some Bartok, the concert hall itself is decked out in red plush and white marble and gold leaf and Prussian charm. We could see the conductor's face, which was wicked. He was incredible. He conducted without a score (I didn't think about that being a big deal, but Christy, who is a violist, made it clear that it's pretty rare, and risky), and he moved his whole body as he directed, and it was beautiful to watch and to listen to the synchronicity he was causing. The orchestra themselves were wonderful as well. We were sitting sort of behind the basses and cellos. Good place to be.
I don't know, here I am collecting places to love again. It's so exciting to be somewhere that is not only rebuilding, but excited about all the possibilities in its rebuilding. Tomorrow we will see more and I'm sure I will love more.
Time for bed.
(Queen's) Night + Day
The night of April 29th is a special time in Amsterdam. Stages get set up all over the city, for Dutch pop stars to wail and gyrate on, expensive beer and giant inflated beer bottles can be found on every corner, and the Dutch go wild – dancing in the streets, decked out in orange (I saw some pretty choice outfits), drunken, uninhibited. It’s a sight to be seen, for sure. This is Queen’s Night, and the next day is Queen’s Day – all a big celebration of Beatrix, the current matriarch of the nation, and Wilhelmina before her.
Monday night I got a fuzzy phone call, and pulled an all-nighter to write a paper that (surprise!) turned out not to be due the next day. Tuesday I ran on adrenaline all day long, and well into the night, as we roamed around the city taking in/partaking in the spectacle. And around midnight, I went to meet Eleni and Anne, who came up from Maastricht for the big day and stayed with/wandered around with me. It was so wonderful to see them! These occasional appearances by Mac friends make me realize, cornily, what a special place our school is, and how cool it is that despite many differences we all share a certain sensibility – a sense of humor, an endless curiosity, a taste for the wonder in the everyday. Blah blah blah. But really, it was great to have them!
We did NOT stay up all night (some people did, but I don’t think I could have handled a double all-nighter) and had a leisurely start on Wednesday. Once we got going, we managed to spend almost eight hours walking (with the occasional dance or rest break), and hit every major square in the city. From Funen to Rembrandtplein to Museumplein, to Leidseplein to Spui (where we got some beer and chorizo and danced for a bit), to Dam Square (where Anne got “normal” sized Suikerspin (cotton candy) that was half her size), to Nieuwmarkt (through an almost-brawl in the Red Light District – racial slurs, a lot of shoving, and a man brandishing a banana liquer bottle over his head), and finally back home in the most glorious sunset I’ve seen in a while. Or rather, the most glorious sunset I would have seen in a while, until I got to Berlin (see next entries). There was lots of good food and good music and lots of people were selling their old junk on the streets – the city was sort of like a giant garage sale/block party – and it was really neato to see the Dutch go nuts, and to be a part of something with such an amazing spirit. Hopefully one day I can come back and do the whole thing again. So much to see, and you can barely even scratch the surface in one day. My camera died which I was super bummed about.
When we first got to Amsterdam, Queen’s Day seemed so very far away. It was almost unfathomable to try and imagine what our lives would be like three months after arriving. Now, it’s unfathomable to try and imagine what the next month of frantic finishing-everything trying-to-see-everything trying-to-bond-with-everyone will be like, and, even more frighteningly, what my life will be like upon return. If Glacier was any indication, I am going to have really severe reverse culture shock. Dang. Best make the most of these last few weeks.
Monday night I got a fuzzy phone call, and pulled an all-nighter to write a paper that (surprise!) turned out not to be due the next day. Tuesday I ran on adrenaline all day long, and well into the night, as we roamed around the city taking in/partaking in the spectacle. And around midnight, I went to meet Eleni and Anne, who came up from Maastricht for the big day and stayed with/wandered around with me. It was so wonderful to see them! These occasional appearances by Mac friends make me realize, cornily, what a special place our school is, and how cool it is that despite many differences we all share a certain sensibility – a sense of humor, an endless curiosity, a taste for the wonder in the everyday. Blah blah blah. But really, it was great to have them!
We did NOT stay up all night (some people did, but I don’t think I could have handled a double all-nighter) and had a leisurely start on Wednesday. Once we got going, we managed to spend almost eight hours walking (with the occasional dance or rest break), and hit every major square in the city. From Funen to Rembrandtplein to Museumplein, to Leidseplein to Spui (where we got some beer and chorizo and danced for a bit), to Dam Square (where Anne got “normal” sized Suikerspin (cotton candy) that was half her size), to Nieuwmarkt (through an almost-brawl in the Red Light District – racial slurs, a lot of shoving, and a man brandishing a banana liquer bottle over his head), and finally back home in the most glorious sunset I’ve seen in a while. Or rather, the most glorious sunset I would have seen in a while, until I got to Berlin (see next entries). There was lots of good food and good music and lots of people were selling their old junk on the streets – the city was sort of like a giant garage sale/block party – and it was really neato to see the Dutch go nuts, and to be a part of something with such an amazing spirit. Hopefully one day I can come back and do the whole thing again. So much to see, and you can barely even scratch the surface in one day. My camera died which I was super bummed about.
When we first got to Amsterdam, Queen’s Day seemed so very far away. It was almost unfathomable to try and imagine what our lives would be like three months after arriving. Now, it’s unfathomable to try and imagine what the next month of frantic finishing-everything trying-to-see-everything trying-to-bond-with-everyone will be like, and, even more frighteningly, what my life will be like upon return. If Glacier was any indication, I am going to have really severe reverse culture shock. Dang. Best make the most of these last few weeks.
27 April 2008
Blijburg
You roll out of Funen with your homegrown biker gang five deep, cross a hodgepodge of really-real urbanscape and salt marsh, you bike up a sleek ultramodern loopy bridge that is a veritable mountain (the pained cry of Christy behind me, as we clambered, and I huffed and puffed and focused every muscle on not backsliding - "what...the hell...IS THISSSS..."), past what almost looks like it could be a New Urban Wasteland but is not, and arrive at the lovely zee itself.
The beach is called Blijburg, and translates to "Happyville," and there are many naked children and amiable dogs, many hip parents with long dreadlocks and tall black boots or perhaps Fela tshirts or perhaps lip rings, there is a tiki shack and a restaurant with battered wooden benches and too-melted candles, and there you must pay for your ice cream or your beer (if they believe you are over 16, which if you hang back from the counter and are barefoot and mill awkwardly with your party, some of whom hesitantly and quietly speak broken Dutch, some a melange, some only English, they may not), they give you a red plastic token with a starry "one" in the middle and you wander to a window outside and hand the snarky open-shirted single-earringed teenager the token and he smirks and hands you a towering, shiny cone that looks like it might be made of paint, but is in fact made of air, sugar, cold, heaven. There is a bus of the ancient hippie variety (for sale!) and a blue Model T of the nouveau biker-with-cash variety (not for sale!), and many towering Buddhas throwing up peace signs, an "Om" alter, you do not discover your burns til later - one angry red arm here, one angry red shin there, no burns for those who sported sunscreen (me) or were already tan (Bri) or are genetically gifted (Tim). You wonder at pens notebooks sand in shoes Coke doritos + pesto + cheese (together), you stare blatantly into the sun, you hear we're jammin', we're jammin', I hope you like jammin' too.
So quite a new thing, this day - or rather, its capacities - how full are you of happy? Brimming.
On the way home, I slam into a brick wall on my bike and escape completely unscathed, except for one teeny scrape on my left ring finger knuckle. I SLAMMED INTO A BRICK WALL while going FAST on a BIKE and it did not phase me. Another warning? No one else has had this many accidents, or perhaps to put it better, near misses. I am beginning to wonder.
The beach is called Blijburg, and translates to "Happyville," and there are many naked children and amiable dogs, many hip parents with long dreadlocks and tall black boots or perhaps Fela tshirts or perhaps lip rings, there is a tiki shack and a restaurant with battered wooden benches and too-melted candles, and there you must pay for your ice cream or your beer (if they believe you are over 16, which if you hang back from the counter and are barefoot and mill awkwardly with your party, some of whom hesitantly and quietly speak broken Dutch, some a melange, some only English, they may not), they give you a red plastic token with a starry "one" in the middle and you wander to a window outside and hand the snarky open-shirted single-earringed teenager the token and he smirks and hands you a towering, shiny cone that looks like it might be made of paint, but is in fact made of air, sugar, cold, heaven. There is a bus of the ancient hippie variety (for sale!) and a blue Model T of the nouveau biker-with-cash variety (not for sale!), and many towering Buddhas throwing up peace signs, an "Om" alter, you do not discover your burns til later - one angry red arm here, one angry red shin there, no burns for those who sported sunscreen (me) or were already tan (Bri) or are genetically gifted (Tim). You wonder at pens notebooks sand in shoes Coke doritos + pesto + cheese (together), you stare blatantly into the sun, you hear we're jammin', we're jammin', I hope you like jammin' too.
So quite a new thing, this day - or rather, its capacities - how full are you of happy? Brimming.
On the way home, I slam into a brick wall on my bike and escape completely unscathed, except for one teeny scrape on my left ring finger knuckle. I SLAMMED INTO A BRICK WALL while going FAST on a BIKE and it did not phase me. Another warning? No one else has had this many accidents, or perhaps to put it better, near misses. I am beginning to wonder.
26 April 2008
Been a While
I've had other things on my plate. Mostly just procrastination, and some wanderings. Had a picnic one day, on the Herengracht (a canal that I hadn't explored before). Had to break out a sundress/sunscreen, another day, and read outside. Spent one day cooped up reading in the Bibliotheek cafe. Two days ago, we hit up Poptrash, which is a pretty intense dance party at the Melkweg in Leidseplein - every time we've gone, I've groggily emerged from my bed after noon the next day, usually with some ailment - this time, whiplash. All my friends reported soreness. DANCE DANCE DANCE. Yesterday I spent working on my research paper and "making flair" - I won't go into what that means, because it's convoluted and kind of embarrassing, but it basically involves making virtual buttons that you can send to people. I had a pretty great time. Evening came and the posse convened, decided to go rest in the gorgeous half-light at a cafe. Tim led us behind Funen, across a bridge to an island with names reminiscent of Indonesia (Borneolaan, etc.). There we sat and talked and played Monopoly in Dutch (mostly worked out, except we couldn't read a lot of the Community Chest and Chance cards so we sort of arbitrarily decided what they meant.) Kalverstraat is the Boardwalk of Dutch Monopoly - can't say I'm surprised. I also got what might be some of THE BEST nachos I have ever consumed, ever. They were smothered in sour cream (which is a little thicker here), guac, melted cheese, and a sweet chili sauce with it's roots in Indonesia that perfectly complemented everything else. It stayed light out until almost 10, I gawked at the beautiful hypermodern buildings across the water from where we sat, we came home and I read Into the Wild for about five minutes before passing out. Had a strange epic dream that left me, this morning, a little uneasy - it didn't come to a conclusion, but it was surrealist and involved traveling and losing things and small evil salamander-like creatures biting me and it kept looping back on itself. Today, there's been talk of finding a beach and sitting on it. For now, I am writing about Dandyism and reading about homonormativity.
20 April 2008
Keukenhof
Today, went to the Keukenhof. Flowers galore! Took 134 pictures, many with 100% legit nutso colors, which are up on the Flickr. I'm so glad I got to go - really, flowers are pretty beautiful, and it's a whole park chock full! We stayed for four hours, which is approximately two more than I estimated I could spend looking at flowers. Guessed wrong!
Came home, ate vegetables which I had let marinate for 24 hours, and wild rice! Pineapple, snap pea, green bean, onion, garlic. Marinade/sauce: soy, apple cider vinegar, honey, pepper, garlic.
Tonight, Live at the BBQ round 2. The Bitterzoet is great. Everyone is happy there, and hip! A girl near us was wearing a shirt that said "Funky Fresh, In the Flesh." They played Cadillac Grillz and I freaked out.
Love.
Came home, ate vegetables which I had let marinate for 24 hours, and wild rice! Pineapple, snap pea, green bean, onion, garlic. Marinade/sauce: soy, apple cider vinegar, honey, pepper, garlic.
Tonight, Live at the BBQ round 2. The Bitterzoet is great. Everyone is happy there, and hip! A girl near us was wearing a shirt that said "Funky Fresh, In the Flesh." They played Cadillac Grillz and I freaked out.
Love.
16 April 2008
Mon Coeur
This city is officially cemented as a place that I want to live one day. It was a very different experience than the first time around - partly because it was warmer, partly because I was more touristing than visiting, partly because our collective language skills in this nation pale in comparison to those of Andrew and Ben. Still, though, having such a different experience of it, it made my heart burst. Catalunya here I come, hopefully, someday.
My camera battery died immediately. I had foreseen this and packed my charger, but a pretty important piece of the cord didn't make it to Spain, meaning that the majority of my photos are actually Bri's photos. She did such a good job though!
When we arrived it was rainy, and the sole of my boot legitimately, completely fell apart. Like, my toe sticks out. Time to either go to a cobbler, or buy new shoes. We wandered around, up and down the Rambla, in and out of the Boqueria, which is a big beautiful market, by the cathedral (where, incidentally, someone was getting married - must have been weird with all the tourists floating in and out), into a parlor where the waiters wore bow-ties and we ate chocolade (which is like a cross between hot chocolate and chocolate pudding - so rich - it took us a long time to finish), went back and hung out in our hostel. We were calling it the "treehouse," although it wasn't wooden, because our beds were lofted and behind curtains and it felt like we were five and fort-building. It was so cool! The staff were young and punky and there were murals everywhere and there was always loud music playing in the common area. Bri went to bed and Whitney and I attempted to venture out - we wandered not very far, to a bar that looks like a forest and is hidden away behind the wax museum. There are trees and stumps and stuff inside, it's very surreal and lovely and ambient. Retired early.
Day 2 was Tibidabo - you take the metro and emerge into sunlight and buildings that you wish you lived in, and then you hike up an urban mountainside for awhile, and then you take a funicular. And when you get to the top, surprise! There's a huge church with an observation tower, and a charming amusement park! The weather and the views were amazing and we just sort of wandered around in awe for awhile, and took the ferris wheel in awe, and wandered up by the church in awe. Walked to Parc Guell, which was more of the same (beauty, and awe). Afternoon brought us to the Boqueria and the supermercat to buy lunch fixings - Whitney bought a KILO of strawberries for 1.69, which is ridiculous. They were great, became a hassle to carry around though. After some time at the beach they wound up getting sat on, and met with a sad end. We also bought a half kilo of the BEST chorizo I have ever had, and ate it. All of it. Just the two of us. It's amazing how cheap good food can be in Spain - we bought a veritable feast, certainly enough food to last us 24 hours, and it only cost us about 8 euro each. Most of that cost was the meat and cheese - fruit was 1 euro in the market, and bread was 43 cents, and I bought a jar of olives for 83 cents, and it was such a change from Albert Heijn (which, while I am obsessed, costs significantly more). We spent all afternoon blissfully lying on the beach and eating and all evening blissfully wandering from beach to beach. Saw Whitney off on her night bus to Bilbao and retired early, again. We were not party animals, this journey.
Sunday Bri and I had dubbed "animal day," which meant we were going to the zoo and the aquarium. Oh man. The walk down Passeig de Luis Companys and through the Parc de la Ciutadella to the zoo is really beautiful. You walk under the Arc de Triomf and down a palm-lined passageway and then you meander through a park that looks like it belongs in prehistory, or would if the scale were a little bigger. Meaning, the trees have gargantuan trunks and roots and big flat leaves. There is also a mammoth statue! The zoo was big and we spent a lot of time there. There were European bison, and an escaping tortoise, and angry macaws, and tapirs! The aquarium was cool too - there was a shark tunnel, which means that you step onto a slow-moving walkway and there is a huge tank above and in front of you, full of sharks, manta rays, and other gigantic fish. This lasts for about ten minutes. My favorite was the guitar fish, which I can't really describe. But he was cool. Google him! A lot of the sharks had big scars, which made me wonder about their lives before captivity. Or if, perhaps, they fight each other. Being in the shark tunnel when a shark fight broke out would be pretty terrifying. Afternoon was supermercat and beach again. We sat in the same spot on the beach every day, and the beer dudes who roam the city would wander past us with their backpacks muttering "cervesa-beer?" We also witnessed a pretty strange phenomenon, which was a lady roaming the beach selling 5 euro massages. What would that even entail? She was so persistent. "Ola, massagia?" "No, gracias." As she wandered off, clutching her red baseball cap, she would mutter a menacing and drawn-out "Yesss..." This happened to us every day. At night we stumbled, sunburned and exhausted, into one of the numerous beachside eateries. I ordered razor clams, but there were only six of them and my seafood craving hadn't subsided, so while Bri got dessert, I got steamed mussels. A GIANT pot of about 45 steamed mussels. I was shocked at first, but they were unbelievably delicious. And talk about good value! 6.90 for a full tummy that carried me through to the next morning. On our way back to the Metro we saw the Sagrada Familia in the distance and decided to walk there so we could look at it at night. What a good decision. The weather was balmy, the walk was perfect, and the cathedral, lit up at night, is truly the best concrete, man-made expression of awe of heavenly power that I have ever seen. I doubt something more miraculous exists anywhere in the world. We wandered around it in circles, staring, for probably close to an hour. The kind of mind that it takes to put something so ornate and seemingly incongruous, and yet so beautiful, together, is mind-boggling. What I would give to have known Gaudi.
Monday was our last day, and we were spending the night in Girona to catch our early flight back to Nederland, so we wanted to make it count. Got up early, said farewell to the hostel, and climbed to the top of Mont Juic. I think that beach + mountains + city is about as good as it gets, for my soul's odd combination of need for urban grit and natural majesty, old things and new things. Spent the afternoon, again, on our little stretch of beach, but were driven away by wind and clouds. We went to bed super early once we got to Girona, in preparation for early rising. But the hotel was really cool! Even though it was next to the airport. The woman insisted on PACKING US a continental breakfast, because we would miss theirs and it was included in the price of the room. What service!
Came back to Amsterdam, which, while cold in comparison, was still shining and welcoming and wonderful.
How do I contend with such a big part of my heart having been ceded to these European cities? Moreover, how do I contend with such big parts of my heart being ceded to so many places - to Buffalo, to Glacier, to North Truro, to Eagle, to Minneapolis? When will it reach capacity, when will it burst, will it burst? I am only 20. Imagine what could happen if I (godwilling) continue to explore my country and the rest of the world and find outlooks, people, streets, buildings, skies, oceans, graffiti, friends that I cannot bear to always leave behind. And how, when so many places grip my heart, do I decide on a place to settle?
My camera battery died immediately. I had foreseen this and packed my charger, but a pretty important piece of the cord didn't make it to Spain, meaning that the majority of my photos are actually Bri's photos. She did such a good job though!
When we arrived it was rainy, and the sole of my boot legitimately, completely fell apart. Like, my toe sticks out. Time to either go to a cobbler, or buy new shoes. We wandered around, up and down the Rambla, in and out of the Boqueria, which is a big beautiful market, by the cathedral (where, incidentally, someone was getting married - must have been weird with all the tourists floating in and out), into a parlor where the waiters wore bow-ties and we ate chocolade (which is like a cross between hot chocolate and chocolate pudding - so rich - it took us a long time to finish), went back and hung out in our hostel. We were calling it the "treehouse," although it wasn't wooden, because our beds were lofted and behind curtains and it felt like we were five and fort-building. It was so cool! The staff were young and punky and there were murals everywhere and there was always loud music playing in the common area. Bri went to bed and Whitney and I attempted to venture out - we wandered not very far, to a bar that looks like a forest and is hidden away behind the wax museum. There are trees and stumps and stuff inside, it's very surreal and lovely and ambient. Retired early.
Day 2 was Tibidabo - you take the metro and emerge into sunlight and buildings that you wish you lived in, and then you hike up an urban mountainside for awhile, and then you take a funicular. And when you get to the top, surprise! There's a huge church with an observation tower, and a charming amusement park! The weather and the views were amazing and we just sort of wandered around in awe for awhile, and took the ferris wheel in awe, and wandered up by the church in awe. Walked to Parc Guell, which was more of the same (beauty, and awe). Afternoon brought us to the Boqueria and the supermercat to buy lunch fixings - Whitney bought a KILO of strawberries for 1.69, which is ridiculous. They were great, became a hassle to carry around though. After some time at the beach they wound up getting sat on, and met with a sad end. We also bought a half kilo of the BEST chorizo I have ever had, and ate it. All of it. Just the two of us. It's amazing how cheap good food can be in Spain - we bought a veritable feast, certainly enough food to last us 24 hours, and it only cost us about 8 euro each. Most of that cost was the meat and cheese - fruit was 1 euro in the market, and bread was 43 cents, and I bought a jar of olives for 83 cents, and it was such a change from Albert Heijn (which, while I am obsessed, costs significantly more). We spent all afternoon blissfully lying on the beach and eating and all evening blissfully wandering from beach to beach. Saw Whitney off on her night bus to Bilbao and retired early, again. We were not party animals, this journey.
Sunday Bri and I had dubbed "animal day," which meant we were going to the zoo and the aquarium. Oh man. The walk down Passeig de Luis Companys and through the Parc de la Ciutadella to the zoo is really beautiful. You walk under the Arc de Triomf and down a palm-lined passageway and then you meander through a park that looks like it belongs in prehistory, or would if the scale were a little bigger. Meaning, the trees have gargantuan trunks and roots and big flat leaves. There is also a mammoth statue! The zoo was big and we spent a lot of time there. There were European bison, and an escaping tortoise, and angry macaws, and tapirs! The aquarium was cool too - there was a shark tunnel, which means that you step onto a slow-moving walkway and there is a huge tank above and in front of you, full of sharks, manta rays, and other gigantic fish. This lasts for about ten minutes. My favorite was the guitar fish, which I can't really describe. But he was cool. Google him! A lot of the sharks had big scars, which made me wonder about their lives before captivity. Or if, perhaps, they fight each other. Being in the shark tunnel when a shark fight broke out would be pretty terrifying. Afternoon was supermercat and beach again. We sat in the same spot on the beach every day, and the beer dudes who roam the city would wander past us with their backpacks muttering "cervesa-beer?" We also witnessed a pretty strange phenomenon, which was a lady roaming the beach selling 5 euro massages. What would that even entail? She was so persistent. "Ola, massagia?" "No, gracias." As she wandered off, clutching her red baseball cap, she would mutter a menacing and drawn-out "Yesss..." This happened to us every day. At night we stumbled, sunburned and exhausted, into one of the numerous beachside eateries. I ordered razor clams, but there were only six of them and my seafood craving hadn't subsided, so while Bri got dessert, I got steamed mussels. A GIANT pot of about 45 steamed mussels. I was shocked at first, but they were unbelievably delicious. And talk about good value! 6.90 for a full tummy that carried me through to the next morning. On our way back to the Metro we saw the Sagrada Familia in the distance and decided to walk there so we could look at it at night. What a good decision. The weather was balmy, the walk was perfect, and the cathedral, lit up at night, is truly the best concrete, man-made expression of awe of heavenly power that I have ever seen. I doubt something more miraculous exists anywhere in the world. We wandered around it in circles, staring, for probably close to an hour. The kind of mind that it takes to put something so ornate and seemingly incongruous, and yet so beautiful, together, is mind-boggling. What I would give to have known Gaudi.
Monday was our last day, and we were spending the night in Girona to catch our early flight back to Nederland, so we wanted to make it count. Got up early, said farewell to the hostel, and climbed to the top of Mont Juic. I think that beach + mountains + city is about as good as it gets, for my soul's odd combination of need for urban grit and natural majesty, old things and new things. Spent the afternoon, again, on our little stretch of beach, but were driven away by wind and clouds. We went to bed super early once we got to Girona, in preparation for early rising. But the hotel was really cool! Even though it was next to the airport. The woman insisted on PACKING US a continental breakfast, because we would miss theirs and it was included in the price of the room. What service!
Came back to Amsterdam, which, while cold in comparison, was still shining and welcoming and wonderful.
How do I contend with such a big part of my heart having been ceded to these European cities? Moreover, how do I contend with such big parts of my heart being ceded to so many places - to Buffalo, to Glacier, to North Truro, to Eagle, to Minneapolis? When will it reach capacity, when will it burst, will it burst? I am only 20. Imagine what could happen if I (godwilling) continue to explore my country and the rest of the world and find outlooks, people, streets, buildings, skies, oceans, graffiti, friends that I cannot bear to always leave behind. And how, when so many places grip my heart, do I decide on a place to settle?
10 April 2008
Today Was Good.
Yesterday, in Fun Hour With Letje, I decided that it's important to me to make my project not just straight-up research, but also an experiment with narrative, memory, reflection, oral history. Amping up my subjectivity as researcher, basically, and seeing what comes out of it. I'm excited.
Today, for Squiggling Ocean (the writing roundtable that Bri and Nick and Tim and i hold weekly), I actually submitted something new. Well, that's not entirely true. It was born out of a freewrite that I did in Parc de la Ciutadella when I was in Barcelona, so fragments of it are old, but it is basically new. I'm not sure how I feel about it yet, if it is dull or productively tense; if it is absurd, or boring for people who don't know French. I kept thinking about Mary Poppins In the Park when I was writing it. I'm excited to go back for round two! Even if I will not have the advantage of a good friend and tour guide, this time.
For your viewing pleasure.
Partout, n'Importe Où, Le Coeur Casse
Pigeon poop.
Gratis.
Hungry.
Parc.
Bonsoir?
Elle ne dit pas bonsoir?
Men and pigeons.
What?
The scent of fresh feces.
Tu marches trop vite pour moi.
Je ne peux plus t’ignore.
Qui en plus?
Vieux hommes whistling a tune.
Welcome to umbrella leaves tickling your head-top,
Stylish mothers wheeling strollers.
In Turkïye, you go and sit down next to someone you don’t know, you say
“Hello uncle, how are you, fine weather today,"
And in this country they look at you like you are a murderer.
Where did I get off the Metro?
Where you at, crayzee?
Duh, bébé, I am hungry for this.
Maybe appetite is not as urgent a breathing thing as I thought, once.
Torrent,
If you do not turn around.
If you do not open your eyes, if we do not meet just yet.
If we do not find what we are looking for here.
If I do not know what direction you are coming from, if maybe you have forgotten me,
If perhaps I get a little cold waiting;
If I see you emerge calm from the mer of scenester bikers jumping twirling, and smile,
If the pigeons are smiling also,
If we do not understand foreign airports,
You home?
I would have guessed you were French.
I would have guessed you were from Ireland,
I would have guessed you would have learned Spanish before coming here.
I would not have guessed, from your demeanor, that you missed me ever or at all.
Where you first jumped off the boat.
How high, my man, how high?
This time she will pick up.
This time we will climb the montagne.
Who bought food for this journey,
Pain and chorizo, drinks and drinks.
As I said, skip to skip on the boardwalk as we passed your ship,
How high?
Made in Espagne,
Si,
Si,
Claro,
Oui,
Oui,
Claire.
Today, for Squiggling Ocean (the writing roundtable that Bri and Nick and Tim and i hold weekly), I actually submitted something new. Well, that's not entirely true. It was born out of a freewrite that I did in Parc de la Ciutadella when I was in Barcelona, so fragments of it are old, but it is basically new. I'm not sure how I feel about it yet, if it is dull or productively tense; if it is absurd, or boring for people who don't know French. I kept thinking about Mary Poppins In the Park when I was writing it. I'm excited to go back for round two! Even if I will not have the advantage of a good friend and tour guide, this time.
For your viewing pleasure.
Partout, n'Importe Où, Le Coeur Casse
Pigeon poop.
Gratis.
Hungry.
Parc.
Bonsoir?
Elle ne dit pas bonsoir?
Men and pigeons.
What?
The scent of fresh feces.
Tu marches trop vite pour moi.
Je ne peux plus t’ignore.
Qui en plus?
Vieux hommes whistling a tune.
Welcome to umbrella leaves tickling your head-top,
Stylish mothers wheeling strollers.
In Turkïye, you go and sit down next to someone you don’t know, you say
“Hello uncle, how are you, fine weather today,"
And in this country they look at you like you are a murderer.
Where did I get off the Metro?
Where you at, crayzee?
Duh, bébé, I am hungry for this.
Maybe appetite is not as urgent a breathing thing as I thought, once.
Torrent,
If you do not turn around.
If you do not open your eyes, if we do not meet just yet.
If we do not find what we are looking for here.
If I do not know what direction you are coming from, if maybe you have forgotten me,
If perhaps I get a little cold waiting;
If I see you emerge calm from the mer of scenester bikers jumping twirling, and smile,
If the pigeons are smiling also,
If we do not understand foreign airports,
You home?
I would have guessed you were French.
I would have guessed you were from Ireland,
I would have guessed you would have learned Spanish before coming here.
I would not have guessed, from your demeanor, that you missed me ever or at all.
Where you first jumped off the boat.
How high, my man, how high?
This time she will pick up.
This time we will climb the montagne.
Who bought food for this journey,
Pain and chorizo, drinks and drinks.
As I said, skip to skip on the boardwalk as we passed your ship,
How high?
Made in Espagne,
Si,
Si,
Claro,
Oui,
Oui,
Claire.
09 April 2008
Academia, What?
It's been a pretty uneventful week, except for the daily joys of trundling about the city, looking at beautiful things, eating, playing with my friends, blah blah blah. I'm going back to Barcelona for the weekend, with Bri and Whitney, which I'm super pumped for.
Last Friday I had a meeting with Mattias, my Masculinity + Migration professor, and it was unbelievably fruitful. it was nice to be in the house of an academic, drinking tea, and surrounded by books and plants and talking about gender theory. He gave me a lot of really useful books and contacts that will help to further my project. For example, he asked me if I had read anything by Paul van Gelder, who is THE Dutch male prostitution expert. No, I said, because his work hasn't been translated into English. "Oh!" said Mattias, "But you know, you could talk to him! You will like each other very much!" And at the end of our meeting, I left his house with Paul van Gelder's email address in hand. It is times like that that I am sure that academia is where I belong.
But there are also other times. I emailed Christine a while back to update her and get an update (Christine, for those of you who don't know, is the woman who brought me into the WGSS fold where I since have been comfortably residing). I also wanted to pick her brain about History of Consciousness. She sent me back a nice long email chock-a-block full of the humor and bluntness that I had forgotten made me love her, and with a lot of information about the program. She talked about it as if she thought I could probably get in, if I play my cards right - and then she went into detail about what those cards are. it's not anything out of this world, but it reminded me that the life of an academic is more than sitting surrounded by books and papers and having revelations and publishing books that People Like and having cozy meetings with your students wherein you change their lives a little. It's also strenuous, and political - the politics of getting into grad school, the politics of doing and writing the right things to get you money and a job, the politics of academic self-representation. Maybe it's just because I'm still a little worn from the rigamarole that I went through with high school and IB and college applications, but I'm not sure that I have the patience for those games. Where does that leave me, though? I can't envision what my life would be without school, pens, books, an intellectual community. Maybe I just need to grow up a little before I can enter that world, and let go of my vague and unrealistic hopes of being a prodigy. Or maybe I need to use my mind to radically shape an intellectual world around myself and my beliefs. Possible? I don't know. Mostly, what I know is that I want to think and write as much as possible. I'm not sure that the sort of thinking and writing actually matters to me very much at all.
Last Friday I had a meeting with Mattias, my Masculinity + Migration professor, and it was unbelievably fruitful. it was nice to be in the house of an academic, drinking tea, and surrounded by books and plants and talking about gender theory. He gave me a lot of really useful books and contacts that will help to further my project. For example, he asked me if I had read anything by Paul van Gelder, who is THE Dutch male prostitution expert. No, I said, because his work hasn't been translated into English. "Oh!" said Mattias, "But you know, you could talk to him! You will like each other very much!" And at the end of our meeting, I left his house with Paul van Gelder's email address in hand. It is times like that that I am sure that academia is where I belong.
But there are also other times. I emailed Christine a while back to update her and get an update (Christine, for those of you who don't know, is the woman who brought me into the WGSS fold where I since have been comfortably residing). I also wanted to pick her brain about History of Consciousness. She sent me back a nice long email chock-a-block full of the humor and bluntness that I had forgotten made me love her, and with a lot of information about the program. She talked about it as if she thought I could probably get in, if I play my cards right - and then she went into detail about what those cards are. it's not anything out of this world, but it reminded me that the life of an academic is more than sitting surrounded by books and papers and having revelations and publishing books that People Like and having cozy meetings with your students wherein you change their lives a little. It's also strenuous, and political - the politics of getting into grad school, the politics of doing and writing the right things to get you money and a job, the politics of academic self-representation. Maybe it's just because I'm still a little worn from the rigamarole that I went through with high school and IB and college applications, but I'm not sure that I have the patience for those games. Where does that leave me, though? I can't envision what my life would be without school, pens, books, an intellectual community. Maybe I just need to grow up a little before I can enter that world, and let go of my vague and unrealistic hopes of being a prodigy. Or maybe I need to use my mind to radically shape an intellectual world around myself and my beliefs. Possible? I don't know. Mostly, what I know is that I want to think and write as much as possible. I'm not sure that the sort of thinking and writing actually matters to me very much at all.
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