It’s been awhile

Hey.

I feel like I’ve abandoned a child or something. Almost like an internet pet that I left to die of hunger and thirst somewhere in cyberspace. So this journal has atrophied like the poor muscles of my heart. And I must do something I never wished to do. I must blame it on England. I’m so sorry England. The only reason you are to blame is because I loved you so. I so loved your inhabitants and your culture and your green pastures and rolling hills and I want nothing more than to return to your temperate comfort. But I have not the money, I have not the time, I have not the spirit, and I have not the rhyme.

But my time abroad, oh it sounds so cliché to say, my time with you – well it was more than anything I could ask for and I know that it will never return and though it hurts, I am so grateful for you. And you will be forever engrained in me, a part of my blood, my heart, my liver and my soul. And I will ask you no more questions, I will tell you no more lies. I only ask you for a little hug – some little memento some little hold-me-forever souvenir.

Thank you.

Thank you all of you.

A momentary lapse

Right now I am sitting in Bloomington, Indiana drinking a cup of rich black coffee after a relaxing night with friends. 24 hours ago, I was sleeping in a tent  in Tennessee at the famed and wonderfully weird and unpredictable Bonnaroo music festival. Some 2 weeks before that, I was in Canterbury, England saying ‘Good-bye’ to everything I had known for 9 months – tearing out a part that had become well attached to my other lives, just a little piece of soul fed to the dogs of distance.  So I have procrastinated dreadfully. Here’s a numerated list to help me explain why:

1. Although I wrote about the trip in my journal almost everyday, I felt that posting to this blog would solidify my experience as memories. A Journal is in the moment, but the blog is an afterthought, an analyzation, a ‘now that I’m home and safe and warm and have this great big cup of coffee, I can finally put this into words and leave it behind me.’ It’s like burying a dead horse on the trail. I didn’t want to give it up quite yet. I wanted to hold onto the experience as moments that still buzzed around with other daily moments – I was not ready to assign them a place in the past. 

2. The last couple of weeks in England were REALLY hard. I was upset pretty much everyday, packing and cleaning and throwing away the little trinkets that I had collected during my walks to and from campus. None of it really mattered, there was no inherent sentimentality in these objects. (If you didn’t know, I am quite the collector of unimportant things). I was in this multidimensional headspace where I desired to move on while still wishing I could stay firmly planted for a great time longer. I had an entirely new life, with new friends, a house, a pair of Wellingtons (rainboots), secret routes to my favorite places, a coffee maker, and most importantly – a boyfriend. One day I wake up and my room is empty – stuffed unceremoniously into two bulging suitcases and a backpack. The taxi is late and Dan is holding on desperately for me to stay. And all I can think is that I never want to leave his comfortable embrace, his prickly brown beard and Blueblocker sunglasses. His jokes and tangents about British comedy and the solar system. His lukewarm sugary cups of tea. His trainers and jumpers and ‘mess-head’ nicknames. His devotion. But then the taxi is waiting, knocking ferociously on the front door, and the driver is throwing my bags in the boot. And I hold on so tight and I’m crying uncontrollably. As we pull away, I get one last look at him, walking between the houses on a path we’ve walked together a thousand times. He’s holding my lamp in one hand and a small brown envelope with my house keys in the other. He lifts the lamp up slightly in a final wave. He’s gone. 

There’s this tight little ball in my body right now. It’s full of things that I have molded together to sort out later. It’s kind of like that drawer in the kitchen where you throw everything that doesn’t really have another place, batteries, rubberbands, Christmas cards and screwdrivers. It always takes a really long time to muster the courage to go throw and organize that drawer. Who knows what could be in there? It’s exciting, but also frustrating and long, and sometimes a little melancholy. That ball is still in there, in my heart, my head, my limbs, my soul. I haven’t quite coaxed the strength out of hiding. So I’m not quite ready to write it out yet. Not ready to catalogue and redistribute all that junk. For now, it will remain a tangled mess.

WHOA

Ok, so I just got back from the train trip through Europe – 9 cities in 17 days, what a beautiful and trying marathon it was! Unfortunately – now I have a 3500 word essay due that I have put off in order to pursue major happiness on the trip, so I have to finish that before I can post anything, But I do promise loads of pictures and some detailed accounts and good stories! Will update soon!

That Green Isle.

This weekend was the Irish adventure.

Our flight was at 6:25 am, so we caught the latest bus to London the night before and slept in the airport. I was uncomfortable about sleeping there at first. I always feel intimidated by airport authorities, fearing that any wrong move will get me deported back to Hoosierville. It is an unfounded fear fueled by the terrorist obsessed media and my anxieties about traveling. But sleeping in the airport seems to be, well, a thing. A thing that people do, large numbers, I wouldn’t say droves, but enough to maybe call it a community. Walking to our gate at 4:30 in the morning, I could see the transition between our amateurish attempts (sweaters and coats as blankets) to the professionals, who clearly have a system. Some port-sleepers even bring their own inflatable sleeping mat, which is way genius, considering the frigidity of the tile floors, and the hardness that is sure to cause bruises from tossing and turning (my arms suffered a few injuries). The sleeping was not, well… good, but it wasn’t terrible either. I sleep much better on coaches and planes. Especially planes, the change in elevation knocks me out about 2 minutes after take-off. We boarded our plane at 6:25, no problems with security or boarding, straight on, no problems. We even arrived on the isle 15 minutes ahead of schedule. (This is actually a trick the airlines like to play on their customers to make us think that they are uber-efficient. They figure an extra 20 minutes in flight time so when they arrive before the scheduled time, it seems like they have outperformed themselves, when really – they flight took just as long as it should have, or even longer sometimes. ) We went to the tourist information office straight off and picked up 2 bus passes, a great asset in Dublin, especially if you are staying outside of city centre, which I recommend. Off the bus, we were STARVING. So hungry I could feel the muscles of my stomach seizing in preparation for a long haul. So we wandered dreamily down the street in search of some serious munch, Dan was looking forward to a good “fry-up.” Luckily we found it right away in a cafeteria- style joint called kylemore. About €7.50 for eggs, beans, hash browns, sausage, bacon, toast, and tea or coffee. Beautiful stuff. And despite the cafeteria- style (which I later found to be a common thing in Dublin) – it was not tourist central. There were clearly locals who had been meeting there for some time. The people were happy and talkative, looking around intensely, always searching for a friendly face. And this is how I would describe the Irish overall. For instance, while Dan was walking to the table with his tray and bag, he decided that the most efficient way to handle the heavy load would be to carry the tray and kick his bag across the floor to the table. En route, a tall, broad- shouldered, beak-nosed security gaurd approached him. In England, the man surely would have scolded him for childish behaviour, or kicked him out for disturbing some kind of unspoken code, or just caned him for being such a lout. But this beastly man simply picked up the bag, patted Dan on the shoulder and said, “Got quite a load there mate,” and carried the bag over to the table. I was amazed, and felt so welcome.

In the center of Dublin there is a huge, and I mean HUGE knitting needle. At nearly 400 ft. tall, ‘the Spire’ or ‘Monument of Light’ is a mystery to locals (our tour guide posited that some one in Australia had driven an enormous stake through the Earth, and the Spire was the end sticking out). It was a great way of orienting ourselves though. Smack in the center of O’Connell St. we could reorient ourselves with a simple glance at the great silver protrusion. This, though, at 8 in the morning after a terrible night’s sleep, was enough to make a weary travel think they were hallucinating. But luckily I was not alone in this.

We started walking in the direction of our hostel. We stopped at a corner to check the map. Suddenly a nice old man stopped and asked if he could help us. No prompting from us whatsoever! We showed him where we wanted to go. I said the name outloud (Iona) – he politely corrected me and said that we wouldn’t want to walk ( as we had planned) that it would take a solid 45 minutes. He suggested that we take the number 19 bus instead, that we would arrive in about 10 minutes that way. We thanked him profusely and he went about his day, strolling down a side-street with his arms clasped behind his back. Just another example of the Irish charisma. We caught the bus, made it to our hostel and slept for about 2 hours.

Back into the city center, we began to walk with renewed energy and cleared minds. Walked down O’Connell, into Trinity College (one of the oldest in the world). At this point we quite accidentally joined a tourist group. We followed them for a bit before getting completely annoyed with their dragging pace. We walked around Trinity. A beautiful college ground. The green courts were marvelous, with clusters of students lining the freshly cut grass.

Following the green theme, we  continued onto Stephen’s Green, the first and largest green space in Dublin City Proper. Here we encountered a curious (and gigantic) swan who was swimming close to the edge of the pond nibbling at bits of thrown bread. The park was beautiful, tulips, green, fountains, and happy strolling people. We walked the length before emerging on the back end of the other side.

We continued to walk until we found a shopping mall. A bit peckish, we found an ice-cream stand where I got Raspberry Swirl with “sugar strands” (or really sugary sprinkles) and a hat for €5. We continued our stroll, discovering that Dublin is a huge fan of the American-diner-styled Eddie Rocket’s – we saw at least 6 during our stay. We tried to get some root beer (Dan has yet to indulge), but had no luck.

We found the Dublin Castle – which was… disappointing, really. I mean, maybe I’m spoiled, it is an old castle, but after Edinburgh, I think I have to be courted before I am really impressed by a castle.

I had planned out a little tourist route at some point that ended at the Guinness Storehouse (a must-see in Dublin that I will get to later). So next on our list was St. Patrick’s Cathedral. It was cool to stand on the ground of the Saint that pretty much everyone in the world celebrates for no reason. We sat on a bench for awhile, admiring the serenity of the grounds around the cathedral.

The last picture might seem unrelated, but it was posted just outside the cathedral. This was not the only pet cemetary I encountered, just keep reading and I’ll tell you about the other one.

We left St. Patrick’s with a clear route to the Guinness Storehouse, and immediately got lost. We ended up in a discount district, I would call it “shady” but I won’t because it was just a little grimy, and not even a tinge of danger. We walked, trying to prove that we knew a place we had never been too, but then it started to rain so we asked some nice officers (who are called Guards of the Peace) and they directed us to the Storehouse.

The Guinness Storehouse holds the history of the company and the famous beer. After a brief introduction from an awkwardly-not-funny announcer, we started our self-guided tour through the beer making process (barley, hops, water, fermentation…), the history of Arthur Guinness and his family, Guinness advertising since the 1960′s, and the best part – a taste-testing session, and finally our complimentary pint of the freshest Guinness in the world! I won’t go into detail about all the things I learned, I took enough pictures. But I will say, that I am now a lover of Guinness. Before it seemed bitter and pointless. But after learning how to accurately drink the strong brew, I have fallen in love with the creamy, bitter, hoppy combination. We enjoyed our pints in the highest point of Dublin – The Guinness Storehouse Gravity Bar- which provided a 360• panorama of the city proper. Good pint, great sites.

Then we walked in the rain, caught a bus and returned to our hotel exhausted and starving. The rest will be continued in part 2, Dublin and the Outside.

Mostly right.

Six Feet Under

Alert: There may be spoilers in this post, if you (Liz) are going to watch Six Feet Under, then don’t read on.

So I have been super-addicted to the television series Six Feet Under. I watched all 5 seasons in, I don’t know, 3 weeks or less. I got so sucked into the characters, their aspirations, their failures, their depression, sorrow (it is about the Fisher family who owns, operates, and lives above a funeral home). I just watched the last episode. Everyone dies in the end. Not in some freak accident at the same time. They all die at appropriate times, of heart attacks, old age, one person gets shot in the chest. And this all takes place over decade. I think the last death is in something like 2088. So it isn’t necesarrily tragic, they all seem to live their fair share of a good life. But to have it all piled up like that at the end. It’s like attending 7 funerals at once. I should have expected as much from a series entitled Six Feet Under, but I still remain surprised – I suppose I am naiive.

Grandma Edwards (my mother’s grandmother and my Mernie’s mother) just passed away, and though I regret to say I barely knew the woman and never knew her in health, I do know that she was a strong woman who held on to life for a very long time. A fighter, just like most of the women in my family. And more than anything it makes me proud to be a part of that legacy. I feel bad for my Mernie and my mother, I hope that they will be ok.

I hate thinking about death so much. I have become obsessed with feeling nothing lately. Feeling like everything is already over. And why? I am only a young woman, 21 yrs old now. I have years and years of some kind of happiness ahead of me I’m sure. It’s amazing what media can do to you. Someone else’s lives infect me with the same feelings, the depression especially. But the series if over, and I will not start another. It takes up too much of my time. I have never spent so much time watching “television.” I haven’t had a real television in my house for 3 years and for good reason. Once I get sucked into it, it is as if everything else doesn’t have to exist, because I can return to the imagined realities of people I can never know. Oh how futile the modern life seems at times.

My digital camera is broken. And I’m going to be traveling by rail across Europe soon. I think my heart was in that camera.

Television is mostly another facade to hide behind.

Amsterdam Amsterdam! FINAL PART

Sorry it has taken so long to write this out. I have been distracted and found myself writing less and less. But don’t fret dear friends, I will finish this epic trilogy now.

So the next day we decided that we would hit some tourist spots. Our hotel was nice enough to let us leave our baggage in the lobby, so we were bagless and worry free until 6pm. We headed North towards Centraal Station and passed through Dam square – host of the National Monument, an incredibly phallic monument, and many political protests in Amsterdam’s history. There were these great street performers dressed in shiny fantastical costumes that simmered in the sunlight. Dan fancied one done up like King Neptune, so he approached him and dropped a Euro in his bucket (after some protest from the performer when Dan tried to slide by with only 5p.) The performer suddenly came to life and started dancing with Dan and patting his head, allowing me to get amble video footage of the whole experience. We watched a loud American performer lock himself up in chains (an act that I had actually seen performed in London), and then continued on to the infamous Red Light District. I don’t know about you, but when I think of the Red Light District, I think trashy neon lights and shady alleyways – drunk and dangerous men throw themselves against the prostitute’s streaked glass booths. The women are loose and appear to have  lived dangerously and fast. But it is nothing of these things. The glass windows are streak-free, there are no neon lights. In fact if one were caught up in their own head while passing through, they might actually miss the whole district. It is truly a clean, safe place. The women are scantily clad – sure, but they are clean, good-looking, and behave like swimsuit models behind the glass. We visited during the daytime, so my perspective could be skewed by the innocence of light. Who knows? I could still see the red neon lights above their windows – even in day. We passed through quickly, and to tell the absolute truth, I was a little disappointed. All this hype for all these years, and the one place where prostitution is legal is actually really chilled out. Which makes sense. There wouldn’t be as much hype for something that is commonplace. I want to make a comparison to pet-shop windows here, but I won’t. I’ll just plant that seed.

We walked on North, stopped to get some coffee… and continued on to Centraal Station. On the way I spotted a bakery and ran in, a sucker for national sweets,  and got this great icing covered waffle. It was so good that I had to stop and write about it in my journal. The entry goes like this:

“Dutch Waffle. Like a donut (similar in  texture) but cold, crunchy and a little less cakey. Topped with thick sweet strawberry icing that is frozen cold like the cake. But the temperature is just right so when you bite down, the combination is like warm,  firm ice-cream.”

Quite an impact, I’d say. It was delicious and the perfect treat for a semi-warm windy day. After the wonderful waffle, we found our way to the main part of Centraal station (which was actually not so Centraal in the scheme of things). Here we bought two tickets for the Blue Line Canal boat trip. We had figured out the night before that we could ride the canal to the Artis zoo, which is right where we wanted to be. The canal ride was at 2pm, so we walked back across the street where Dan got caught between a tram and a car, squealing madly as he ran across the street (like a girl I might add). We walked around a bit more talking about what it would have been like to grow up in the kind of city where sex and drugs are legal. I’ll stop here to say that, while I believe in complete liberalism – I also understand (as I grow older) the need for cultures with more ‘conservative’ ideologies. I’ve decided that I am a selfish Anarchist. While I want the right to do what I want, I don’t want Man to have the right to do as they please (more specifically to do those things which are now illegal) because I think that most people don’t want or are unable to handle that kind of freedom. So, like all life, the binary of liberal and conservative is necessary for the continued existence of things, without the definition allowed that which is not – there can not be that which is. So while I would say that growing up in Amsterdam would be an interesting experience and at one time of my life, a fantasy world, I can say now that I do not resent conservative Warsaw. Though at one time, I did so ferociously resist it. I am glad that I could be Warsaw’s liberal binary.

We returned to the canal and our boat arrived, packed with tourists and a well-spoken, multi-lingual guide. We learned about the shores of the canal, the years of the buildings and the customs of the people during our short ride to Artis Zoo. We got off and headed towards the entrance. It was €18 to get in, but well worth the price. Our first stop was the Planetarium – Dan’s main interest in the zoo. They were playing SPACETRIP, we waited about 30 minutes in the gift shop for the show to start. The wait insisted that I buy 3 glow-in-the-dark astronaut iron-ons, which I think will be the great addition to something I have yet to find. Finally, the show. Spacetrip is in Dutch, but it doesn’t really matter – it’s a planetarium with tilted seats so that we can all get a fair view of the ceiling as we travel lightspeed through the depths of the milkway galaxy, stopping to explore stars, planets, deep space. Much better than the IMax, although I couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to see it all in 3D.

After the show, we explored the zoo. It was still a little cold, and late in the day so a lot of the animals were already resting. But we got our fill of strange creatures, including the Manenwolf, and beaverrats.

Ginger

walking in high heels

There were also camels, buffalo, energetic seals, a butterfly exhibit (where I got to see an owl-spotted butterfly), monkeys, meerkats, giant tortoises, and a good deal of reptiles and marine life. We spent some 2 hours in the zoo, exploring until it closed.

While leaving the zoo I saw this amazing urinal. First, I need to divulge a little obsession I have as of late – toilets. I find myself taking stock of the different kinds of bathrooms I run into in each country. I often take pictures of the facilities. I don’t know why exactly. I think it has something to do with the sanctuary of the bathroom. Especially while traveling. It is a place to collect yourself in isolation, to regather your thoughts and relieve yourself in more ways than, well, you can finish the rest of that.  I have run into some strange public toilets, some are like booths where the male user walks up in broad daylight and performs the task with his bare backside to society (not actually bare, just with the potential of being so). But this urinal, just outside the zoo was shaped like a seashell, curling inward to hide the user (save his feet and head) from the prying eyes of passersby. Quite ingenious, simple, and beautiful. I didn’t take a picture, because someone was using it and I thought it would be quite classless of me to do so.

We got back on the canal bus at 5:10 and rode it to the Opera house, relishing the sights and loving every moment of the slow lulling trip. At the Opera house we got off and high-tailed it back to our hotel to make it to the 6pm pick-up. Even though we arrived on time the woman in the lobby gave us shit for coming past six, we ignored her, grabbed our luggage, and made our way back to the streets of Amsterdam. By this time we were quite hungry and it was my birthday (March8th) so we decided to have a feast. I felt Indian, so we found the nearest place, just off the flower market and dove inside in time to beat a storm.

Our meal was 3 course fantastic, with an incredibly attentive waiter who insisted that we sit far from the window to beat the cold. I had some vegetarian Korma dish, Dan had lamb Korma. So filling, beautiful Indian tea, warm crusty nan, hot curries, full full meal. We stretched out the meal as long as possible because we had to catch the coach at 10 and wanted to stay inside for awhile. We sat and ate leisurely, which is a nice feeling, knowing that there is nothing waiting for you, that you really can be absorbed in the moment- free from guilt.

After the meal we made our way to Amstel station. We took our time in the brisk wind and biting rain. Stopped off at the Metro station to warm up until we finally got to the station an hour early. Checked in and waited for the coach to arrive. Slept soundly until a rude fluorescent awakening on the ferry. At the ferry station we had to make a transfer to Canterbury, so we were disgruntled, disoriented, and hopeful that the coach driver would let us on without the tickets that the driver took in Amsterdam (these tickets showed our transfer to Canterbury). We sat in the coach station for awhile. Got restless and moved closer to the bus stop, where we decided to sit on this great plastic pirate ship ride for kids. We were on for less than 30 seconds when a broad shouldered ‘police-officer’ came over and demanded that we stop acting childish and get off the ride. So early in the morning, it was hard to resist biting back at him, insisting that he was the childish one for provoking such nonsense at such an hour. But he was untouchable and got into his car outside, yelling back “Grow up” as we sat down next to a drunk, gambling man. I couldn’t help but think, he wants me to gamble – that’s the kind of games he wants me to play. No more abandon, no more freedom.

The coach arrived, the driver was nice to let us on home. Bus to campus and sleep sleep sleep.

Amsterdam was mostly amazing.

Amsterdam pt.2

I’m separating this event because I don’t want to overwhelm you with my wordiness. I feel like explaining Amsterdam in great detail, and as we were there for 2 days, that will take me some time to accomplish. And by time, I mean many words.

After our brief nap, we watched a little Dutch television. I know what you’re thinking, and it is the same thing I was thinking at the time, why the hell are you watching TV in Amsterdam? Because it is hilarious, that’s why. Cartoons in Dutch, priceless priceless humor. There is something so funny about hearing another language come out of cartoon mouths. I can’t explain it. We didn’t stay for long, just waiting for Dan to shower off the coach ride. We gathered out things and left, on our way to a very spantaneous day.

We walked South, then West. I bought some crazy postcards. By crazy, I mean, I don’t think I could even describe them. Mutations of faces, and a teddy bear with an eye patch blowing bubbles and one that is just literally monsters – psychedelic monsters. After this shop, which also housed a large collection of portraits of famous people like JFK, Jim Morrison, Gandhi… we walked south toward Vondelpark and the Van Gogh Museum. After a pit stop, we found ourselves in the Park, sitting on a bench watching children through giant branches into the river. I felt like I should say something, like “hey kids, rivers don’t like trees all up in their business!” but then I realized that I didn’t know any Dutch, so I would just end up sounding like an English lunatic. We sat for awhile longer, it is great that such a large expanse of green space is available to the citizens of Amsterdam. It is unlike any city park I have come across, it seems like you have suddenly stepped into another world, free from the chaos of the city. I think the happiest places harbor a good combination of urbanity and escape from urbanity.

Next up, we went to the Van Gogh mueseum. Tickets in were €18, but it was money well spent. I don’t know how exhibition works there, but I get the impression that they change the contents of their collection, maybe lending out or borrowing to create new shows. I would like to know more about the politics of museum. No matter, the show on in March was ‘Van Gogh: Night and Day.” A chronicle of his light work leading up to Starry Night. Including two versions of the Sower and some pieces he did while in the asylum. I have always favored Van Gogh in museums, but have never had the opportunity to experience so much of his work at one time. Quite brilliant and slightly overwhelming. We finished the show, collected our coats and bags from the constantly buzzing cloak room, and walked outside to ease out of a minor case of Stendhal syndrome. We ate out and went back to the hotel early, tired and overwhelmed by the serenity of Amsterdam.

Amsterdam, Amsterdam, Amsterdam! pt.1

Serenity, the smiling people ride endlessly innovative bicycles holding steady conversations while they pedal side-by-side – ringing gentle bells when an inattentive pedestrian happens upon the bike path. The canals run perpendicular and parallel to the streets and harbor, creating a soft grid that seems to converge around Centraal Station. Trams, buses, everything can be reached by foot – though the journey may take some 45 minutes. With the backdrop of a sunny cloudless or gray spitting sky, Amsterdam is both endless and contained in self-conclusive moments. It is the first place I could define the rhythm, so characterized by the easy pace of cyclers, passing trams, and gently running water. Delicate maybe, but not fragile, ahistorical – suggesting a timelessness, as if this could exist at any moment in the past. Easy to navigate and even easier to feel comfortable in. A free-spirited maze, an idealism granted cautiously to never-ending tourism.
The first day we arrived stiff and disoriented from a 10 hour coach journey. The coach in itself was quite the experience. I always seem to sit next to the right person – by right person, I mean the most insane, the most talkative or drunk or smelly. I’ll say extreme. It’s subconscious perhaps. I situate myself to receive a blissful torture, material, fodder for my revelations. This time, the right person was named Tim. He instantly struck up a conversation with me – a conversation which continued near to non-stop for the duration of the journey. From the self-reflexive conversation style he employed, I picked up that he was single, unemployed, living in Manchester with several flat mates. He was around 32, and had studied Media some 13 years ago in University. He was the greatest conversationalist I have yet to chance upon. He instantly assumed the information I gave him and played it back to me, asking questions about Welfare and unemployment in America, regurgitating a million and one popular culture references ranging from Star Wars to Joseph Campbell’s theories of the Hero Myth. He astounded me, well-traveled, well-referenced, and well- adapted to taking a hint that the conversation was lulling on a little too long. At some point, after I had been sleeping for sometime, we stopped off at a petrol station. He offered to change Dan seats, saying something about the heater giving him a time. He moved over and started talking to the bald man who had been so silent next to Dan. From what I can remember (through bouts of restless sleep), they talked all night. Dan later told me that the conversation was 90% Tim and 10% bald guy. I will not attempt to guess the kind of life he lives outside of the coach, but he seemed to need the conversation. He left the coach in Rotterdam. He disappeared, then as we passed by the station, I saw him one last time, standing on the sidewalk, posed waving at us from below, smiling so broadly. Think John Candy in Trains, Planes, and Automobiles.

Off of the coach we are disoriented and walk in the wrong direction for some 10 minutes. We find North and begin walking along a canal, it is both flat and rolling, houseboats line the shore, resembling eclectic floating trailers. We find our hotel, after some direction problems and a quick currency exchange. We’re staying at the Waterfront Hotel on Singel, just north of the flower market, but we can’t check in until noon. It’s 10am when we arrive, so we drop off our bulky luggage and make our way to a cafe for a delicious breakfast and much needed caffeine boost. We wander around the canal for a bit, grazing the flower stalls, and avoiding the touristy shops where everything is emblazoned with IAMSTERDAM. At noon we return to our hotel. It is sparse, but not too small, equipped with a well stocked tea and coffee making facility and an irregularly spouting shower head. Exhausted from close quarter traveling, we shower and nap until 1.

Happy Birthday to Me!

yeah! It is my 21st birthday! I get so excited about birthdays, I make a really big deal and drag them out for at least three days, most especially the days before and after. But this year has been a strange one. The 21st birthday is arguably the most important in American culture, it means that you are finally an adult, finally allowed to play with the big guns in public. Allowed to meet your co-workers for a relaxing drink after work, and all the other interactions that come with full access to the bar scene. Well I have been immersed in that for 6 months now. They start drinking at 18 in England, so my final access was brought on a little early. So I decided I would go to Amsterdam, and see what this beautiful place is like for my birthday! We went exploring far and wide yesterday and came back to the hotel tired and sore from sleeping in a coach for 10 hours the night before. But now we have had plenty of sleep so we are ready to take on the city once more! i am 21 and in Amsterdam, and I feel wonderful!

Things are mostly unexpected, unplanned.

flicks essay sicks

Been a little bit since my last post. I haven’t traveled anywhere since I went to London, Canterbury has been my steady weathered rock. Another two essays on the burner. I have finished one on Hitchcock’s Spellbound, an interrogation of androgynous representations, and am now embarking on the 2nd, a strict analysis of Maya Deren’s At Land. At Land is an avant garde film where Deren uses the camera to travel through space and time. You can watch it here if you’re interested.

I’m starting on a new film. I have yet to make a film in England. Sometimes I wish I had more time so these friendships and connections did not seem so futile. I have found a great group of people that it would be fun to mature with cinematically. The Film Society, while still burgeoning, is a group that I do not have access to in the States. Maybe I’ll have to start something up when I get back, It is wonderful to have a kind of film-co-op.

I have watched the last season of Dexter, all of Weeds, Flight of the Conchords, and It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. I have never completed so many series in my life. Oh the joys of the Internet and unlimited Viewing.

This week I have seen Choke, Charlie Bartlett, and Rossellini’s La Strada. The first was about sex addicts and their attempts to make it to the fourth step. It is based on Chuck Palanuik’s book of the same name. I think it was a good translation of the narrative, nothing incredibly special other than the wickedness of the story. Charlie Bartlett is a high school rebellion film where the rich kid whose father is in jail for tax evasion finally gets the popularity he has always fantasized about, by giving mock psychology sessions and selling prescription drugs to his fellow students. I didn’t know what I was getting into when I started watching, but I finished because I can’t walk away from an alright film. Not recommended. The last, La Strada is an Italian film, so it was melodramatic, tragic, and left me feeling like all the good blood had been drained out of my heart. The story is about a traveling performer (Zampanó) and his happy, childish assistant/wife (Gelsomina). Zampanó is cruel and violent, he harldy speaks to Gelsomina, whom he bought for 10,000 lire, and runs off with other women. Gelsomina slowly goes insane, her happiness drained from her comic face, by dent of her isolation, abuse, and feelings of uselessness. Beautiful film, highly recommended.

I must now get on to my essay! Hope everything is bright and beautiful for everyone!