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.
30 May 2008
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.
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