Grace on the Go

More Updating (and a fun matching game!)

2010-11-17T00:00:00.013+01:00

It has been very easy for me to stop blogging.

Still, it is not something that I want to quit. As a matter of fact, I often get ideas for blog entries, but then I feel it would be strange to post them after such a gap.

So instead, what you get is a random entry every few months with an assortment of pictures to illustrate my goings-on.

I'm not feeling very writerly today, however. So let me just make a list of a few of the wonderful things I've been doing, and I'll put some pictures at the end, and this way you can have a fun game of "Match the Picture with its Caption".

So, without any more waiting...

Things Grace Has Done or Been Up To:

1. Looking for and applying for jobs and internships

2. Jury duty (one whole month)

3. Drinking lots of coffee.

4. Drinking lots of tea.

5. Biking around town.

6. Occasional trips downtown with mother or sister.

7. Attended a book release party at Tin House.

8. Seen "Gone With the Wind" at a theater in Hillsboro.

9. Gone on a few neighborhood walks.

10. Admired fall colors.

11. Had drinks at Driftwood in the Hotel deLuxe. (Hint: The hotel has a lobby)

12. Watched a Hitchcock movie and helped make & eat homemade doughnuts on Halloween (the doughnuts are tradition)

13. Read a few books (some fun, some trashy, some good)

14. Played with the kitty.

15. Watched TV ("Glee", "Psych", "The Office", "30 Rock", "Rescue Me", "Project Runway", and the new "Sherlock Holmes" series)

16. Ate out around town.

17. Caught up with visiting grandparents.

18. Voted (from home - thank you very much, Oregon vote-by-mail system)

19. Taken the MAX to the airport with my sister to pick up my Dad and visit Target on the way

20. Watched the World Series

21. Gone to Wordstock

22. Volunteered at Wordstock

23. Gone to the new Spirit of '77 Bar (to see the Rangers beat the Yankees)

24. Received my Master's diploma in the mail. In case you didn't know how to say "Book and Digital Media Studies" in Latin, that would be "studium librorum et instrumentorum communicationis numericorum".

25. Played with Microsoft Access.

26. And several other things.

Answers: a (6 and 10); b (9 and 10); c (8); d (6 and 10); e (TRICK QUESTION, just a funny Portland-y shot); f (12); g (13 and 3); h (5); i (11).

Hello Again

2010-10-02T01:38:00.030+02:00

It has been some time since I last posted. This is what I believe is referred to as a Blogging Fail.

It's not that I haven't been "on the go" - I have. Since that trip to Norway last January, I've made several little trips.

I went to England one weekend in March, to visit my dear friend Anne who was studying at Oxford.

And the next weekend, I went to visit my beloved sister in Caserta, outside of Naploli, with a day trip to Pompeii.

(Please excuse my horrible tennis shoes; it was the best I could do for the recently sprained ankle I was dealing with...)

A couple weeks later and I had to say my preliminary goodbye to the Netherlands, as I returned to my beautiful hometown, Portland, to write my master's thesis and sort of lead-in to my planned move back home.

I ate a lot...

(look! It's an elephant instead of a horse!)

...and said goodbye to Portland baseball.

(Seriously, how beautiful is that?! How could you let that GO?!)

A trip to the Oregon Coast

And a trip to California (Berkeley/Oakland/San Francisco/Sonoma County/Healdsburg) to visit family

Then we turned northward and headed up to southern Washington

After another couple of days in Portland, we drove up to Seattle to see our favorite Red Sox play the Mariners.

Then I had a couple of days left to give my thesis some finishing touches before returning to the Netherlands for 5 weeks in August and September. But that will have to come later.

Internationally Patriotic?

2010-03-10T14:48:00.008+01:00

Apologies to my thousands (not) of faithful (heh heh) readers for allowing this blog to be so dead lately.

I've had lots of good post ideas floating around in my head the past two months, but I always get them when I'm out walking or doing something, and then never get around to sitting down and typing it out and actually posting it.

One of these is a realization I had, during the Olympics. The realization that, growing up, I think I never rooted for American athletes or teams in almost any international sporting event. I don't think my brother and sister did either.

On the one hand, it's not that strange. My father is Czech and my whole family is very internationally- and foreign-minded (case in point: The three of us siblings are all living in foreign countries this year, learning and speaking three different languages. At Christmas, our family was spread across three continents.). I always just took it for granted.

It also makes sense because the US isn't very prominent in some international sporting events. Take the World Cup, for example. Who roots for the US? They usually get eliminated before anyone can start rooting for them in the first place. On the other hand, why would we root for the US even if they did make it, when we could root for Italy instead? That's what we did when I was a kid - one of my earliest sporting memories. I vaguely remember the 1994 World Cup, and watching the final on a VHS that our neighbor, who has cable, recorded for us, only to have the tape cut off before the end. Mom got the score somehow (did we have Internet yet?), and I still remember her sadly telling us that Italy had lost in penalty kicks.

Fast forward ten years, to the Euro 2004. Our family was in Europe that summer, driving a loop through multiple countries. Our favorites this time were France (as I had lived in Nice less than a year before and was still infatuated with all things France) and the Czech Republic (because, well... we are Czech.) We watched France beat England with Zidane's two goals in stoppage time in Normandy, the first half in a cafe filled with English tourists. We were the only people rooting for France and the goofy waiter literally fell to his knees when we told him this. We watched part of another game on the big screen in front of the Hotel de Ville with thousands of other people dressed in blue. (Big contrast to the 2008 Euro competition, when I rooted for the Netherlands on the main square of Middelburg and sang Dutch football songs at the five lone French fans in the city.)

When the Czech Republic lost in the semifinals, we were in a hotel somewhere - Slovenia? Austria? Or had we made it to the Czech Republic by then? - and some of us were pretty upset, particularly my brother and sister. (They thought I was a traitor as I had rooted pretty fiercely for France, before their elimination.)

Of course, in the Euro Cup, we don't even have the choice: The U.S. doesn't compete. But what about the World Baseball Classic? Haven't rooted for the US yet, because there are usually more Yankees than Red Sox on that team, and especially in 2006, the great Red Sox players were all playing for the Dominican Republic. Where I also happened to be living. Needless to say I rooted for the Dominican Republic that year. In 2009 I was torn between the DR and the Netherlands but as usual I went with the underdog in the end.

Then came the 2010 Winter Olympics. It is so interesting to see the American press coverage of the Olympics from afar! Medal counts are the most important thing, and the US wants to win the most medals. It's like aiming for quantity over quality. It's boring to root for the US in everything. "Oh... yeah... another medal..." They're kind of like the Yankees, in the Olympics.

Then, get a look at the commercials. They are so dramatic, full of this ridiculous rhetoric. "Uniting as one... celebrate the power, and precision.... the speed, and the grace..." In the voice of Morgan Freeman (or, for Canada, Donald Sutherland). Or the "to their moms, they'll always be kids" ad, which I still don't really get. How is that supposed to get me feeling excited (or even patriotic)?

But then take a look at a country like the Netherlands. Before this year, they had never won a medal off the ice, the whole point of the Olympics is speed-skating. Speed skating is so big that it's not called speed skating here, it is just called skating (schaatsen) - he OTHER kinds of skating have a descriptive word in front. Now, check out this commercial for soup that ran during the winter Olympics:

And then, check out this commercial for little orange lions that you got for "free" if you spent a certain amount of money at the Albert Heijn grocery store during the 2008 Euro Cup.

Now, which country would you rather root for? The overly-dramatic one, that tries to make these international tournaments extremely noble on the one and, while simultaneously reducing the competition to a medal tally on the other? Or a country like the Netherlands, who dresses up in orange and sings silly songs, drinks Heineken, and watches a really athletic sport, like speed skating, just because it is so amazing?

It's obvious which one I prefer...

Movie Musings

2010-02-26T10:46:00.002+01:00

The other night, I watched "Rear Window" again. You could almost say it was for research, as I plan to use it in a story I'm trying to work out.

I often watch movies for inspiration. Not only do they give me ideas, they give me a creative feeling. Watching a really good movie is a surefire way to get me thinking. They make me want to do something, to make something that can make you feel the way the movie made me feel.

So I was watching "Rear Window" because I plan to create a character who is very inspired by this movie, but while I was watching, I got distracted by the movie.

You go along, always knowing in your head that Alfred Hitchcock is great. Anytime someone says, 'Oh, I saw "The Man Who Knew Too Much" last night, and it was so good!' you are never surprised.

Then you watch a Hitchcock movie and still, it surprises you!

The first thing that really strikes me about "Rear Window" is the hundreds of little stories embedded in the main one. L.B. "Jeff" Jeffries is watching the neighbors from his window, and soon thinks that one of them has murdered his wife. But while he's keeping an eye on this suspicious neighbor, he also sees many others: a sad woman deals with her loneliness, a young married couple slips out of newlywed bliss, a lonely composer puts on a show, a ballerina tries to figure out what she wants, and more.

The second thing that struck me is the music - or rather, lack of it, as there is almost no soundtrack. There is only one part with a bit of music. Other than that, all of the music comes from the narrative of the film itself - the Dean Martin song on the lonely woman's radio, the composer plunking away at his piano or his party singing "Mona Lisa". And this music fits in perfectly with other musical sounds - humming city sounds, rhythmic rain, dogs barking and casual conversation, doors opening and shutting, all drifting around a courtyard and making the soundtrack.

Conclusion: music, especially in movies, is often overused (but that's nothing new). Also, a lot of small narratives can, in some cases, make a whole (See also: "Love Actually").

Goodies Goodies!

2010-01-21T13:26:00.004+01:00

No trip to a foreign country - especially the first one to that country - could ever be complete without tasting some of the local edibles. Luckily, Norway has several things I've never seen before, let a lone tasted.

And no, I haven't tasted the brown goat cheese. Yet. (I also haven't decided against it. I feel like when I went to Scotland, and my mom said that I couldn't go to Scotland and not try haggis. Turns out, haggis was delicious...)

Last weekend, I stayed with my friend Maud's family. For dessert one night, we had ice cream cones - similar to a Drumstick or Cornetto cone. You can imagine my surprise and delight when I discovered that the caramel at the center of the ice cream scoop was not your typical ice cream - it was salty!

It turns out, Norway is a great place for people who like sweet & salty combinations. I nearly jumped up and down in the supermarket when I saw Smash! snacks: salty, potato-chip-like snacks, covered in chocolate!

I remember in high school, Lay's (or a similar brand) came out with chocolate chips. I thought they were actually potato chips covered in chocolate, and thought this was a wonderful idea. You can imagine my disappointment when I discovered it was nothing more than chocolate, shaped like potato chips, and sold in a box similar to those of pringles.

So these Smash! snacks have made up for that entire experience!

The only problem is the price. At 29 Norwegian kroner, the 100 gram pack that I bought today cost about the same as a cup of coffee does here. And what the say about the 4-dollar cups of coffee in Norway isn't true - at least, not anymore, because 29 kroner amounts to five dollars! (Reality check: that is only 3.56 in Euros... sigh...)

Obviously, this is a good thing. Well, actually, it's horrible that coffee is that expensive, because that is where most of my money has gone on this trip (as well as to those amazing, cardamom-laced raisin rolls). But it's a good thing for the Smash! snacks, because I refuse to believe that those have any nutritional value.

Norway in Brief

2010-01-19T09:13:00.003+01:00

Here's a quick look at some of the things I've done so far in Norway:

-Skied across frozen Lake Sognsvaten
-Drank tea and coffee out of a wide array of Finn Family Moomintroll mugs (including the one that I also have at home in Portland!)
-Visited the Vigeland Sculpture Park and seen all the great sculptures
-Had some very good coffee
-Eaten some delicious rosinbolle - a lot like the Dutch rozijnbol but translated to Scandinavian with the genius addition of cardamom
-Also eaten some really good cookies (oatmeal raisin, as it was meant to be, and chocolate chip with nuts, which you never see in the Netherlands)
-Visited the National Gallery, where I saw the Munchs and found two new artists to enjoy
-and last but not least, caught up with two very dear friends!

Resolutions

2010-01-14T12:55:00.004+01:00

Oops. Has it already been about half a month since I posted? I meant to post even more this year than last year! I did a pretty good job blogging in 2009, I think - at least one entry per month except August! Which is generally considered to be a month of vacation, so I am cutting myself some slack.

This year I was toying with the idea of resolving to post at least once a week. That died fast. But I suppose I could always start a little late!

So, now that I am here... Happy New Year, and all that jazz. I am back in Leiden, but have been here just one week, and tomorrow I am leaving again - to Norway! This is especially great because now my total countries visited number is the same as my brothers - we are in constant competition about this. (I wonder if I can sneak in a side trip across the border to Sweden? Just to get one country ahead of him?)

I'm also dreaming of, and vaguely planning, trips to Caserta (near Naples) to visit someone who I probably shouldn't be visiting but can't really resist the opportunity, and Oxford to see another friend.

I mean, hey. You only live once. And I will only live in Europe for a little longer. (Probably.)

But I thought I would update you all not on the general ramblings of my hectic mind (oops. too late) but, instead, on the other resolution I have been toying with.

That would be, to read all of the books I have here in Leiden before I leave.

Now, at this point, I have a return ticket to the US on March 30th. I'm still not sure if it will work for me to go; it depends on some school-related things (specifically my thesis). But if I want to read all of my books before then...

Well, let's see. I own 27 books that are in English that I have not read and that I do not intend to take back to the United States with me. (Oscar Wilde's Complete Short Fiction, which was a birthday gift from my friend Dilyana on our trip to Dublin, I would like to keep. Same goes to the lovely old copy of Little Men that I bought at a stall on the Seine last month.) I'm also not counting foreign language books because most of them I want to keep, as in bring back to the US - even with Powell's, it's hard to get good Dutch books in Portland! I know, I've looked! And I searched far and wide for Guy de Maupassant's Clair de Lune before finally buying it in Paris. Since I don't want to part with those I think I can exclude them from my best-read-by March 30 list.

So. 27 books. And today is January 14th, which means I have 84 days (right? anyone want to check my math?) to read them all. That comes to, more or less, one book every three days, with another four spare days that I can devote to... sightseeing in Norway or Italy, studying for my second semester courses, or the longer books on my shelf: Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude (a meager 417 pages), Trollope's Phineas Finn (651 pages), and Dostoyevsky's The Brothers Karamazov (906 pages). I might even give myself a full week for the Dostoyevsky - that's still over 100 pages per day. Oh, and I could probably save one of those books for the flight home.

Yes, I definitely have my work cut out for me.

Christmas Concert

2009-12-24T12:00:00.009+01:00

Happy Christmas Eve, everyone!

I am very busy today, so no time for a long post. Here, everything happens on Christmas Eve, so it's all about eating, decorating the tree (done this morning!) cooking, eating more, and opening presents today. We'll be eating potato salad and trout, salmon and/or schnitzel for dinner, apparently the Czech tradition. I'm quite happy as it is a lot like ours at home - we eat smoked fish and my dad makes a special potato salad - but no carp. Carp is the real Czech tradition - there are tubs filled with live carp all over the city, and when they are purchased, men in bloody aprons with big knives gut them on the spot. But my family here doesn't eat carp at Christmas. I am slightly disappointed as I think I have never tried it (or maybe when I was four), but it is a very mild disappointment as my mother says it tastes like mud, and I trust her opinions as well as her taste buds.

So, no big catch-up, but I uploaded some videos from the Christmas concert we went to yesterday afternoon, and I will embed them here. It was so nice and beautiful, underneath or at the foot of the Charles Bridge, and all Czech carols - I know the tunes to most of these but the words, except the chorus to one, which we learned as kids and performed for my father on Christmas Eve. Maybe we should have done that more often!

Snowflakes

2009-12-19T12:55:00.005+01:00

This morning, I went with Roman to take Ema sledding. (No, the picture I've posted has nothing to do with the entry, but it's Prague looking pretty at Christmastime. What more could you ask for?) We got all bundled up because it's -7 (that's 19 degrees Fahrenheit) or something out there (it was -10 earlier but we waited and it got a teeny bit warmer).

We trudged out - don't you love that crunching sound of snow beneath your feet? - to a little hill covered with kids. I stood on the hill while Roman went down with Ema, and watched.

At some point I looked down and gasped. Hundreds of little snowflakes were clinging to my black wool coat. Not the snowflakes like we get in Portland - little wet clumps of snow - but real snowflakes, that looked like the kind you cut out of paper! And, because it was so cold, they stayed like that: 6 little hooked arms radiating away from the center. I couldn't believe how pretty they were, and I can't remember ever seeing snowflakes that looked so much like, well, snowflakes.

I do remember, one year long long ago, when we lived on Morrisson street, and it was snowing, we ran for the microscope. We caught the flakes on plastic slides and slid them under the lens quickly, trying to catch a glimpse of their shape before they melted. (You see? Another random memory that I haven't thought of in years, and here, today, in PRague, it comes back to me.)

But these ones, today, were so much bigger!

A Different Sort of Home for a Different Holiday

2009-12-18T13:24:00.006+01:00

Prague is a complicated place, for me. The sensations that are wrapped up in, through, and around this city are so multi-dimensional, concerning so many different parts of me, of family, of memories and future, of linguistic phenomena... it's like a sensual explosion of self-discovery.

Kablooie.

Getting here was certainly an adventure. I came by train, dragging my suitcase down three or four cars to find my compartment. My compartment mates were not the dressed up girls or older couples on vacation that I had passed in the other compartments, no; in my compartment were three guys, in their twenties, some pierced, some tatooed, drinking beers before moving on to whiskey.

In my head I was thinking, how is this possible? Then, This never would have happened to Betsy on her train trips through Europe. No, I live in the 21st century, when it is okay to put young women in cars alone with three strange men...

Of course I was making a mountain out of a molehill. There were two Dutch guys, friends, and a German, who made the trip from Dresden to Amsterdam frequently for work. They watched TV on a laptop, I watched the last episode of "Glee" on my iPod. (It was excellent.) Then, at some point, a German man got on and insisted through huffs and puffs and pouts, rather than just talking like a normal person, for bed. (The younger German in my compartment even said, "Whoa, tiger!" to get him to calm down!) So I got in my bunk, too, and the others went to an empty compartment to kill a few hours.

I woke up around 8, looked out the window at the sunrise - a layer of pink sitting on the horizon - and thought, "Hooray! Prague in an hour and a half!" I dozed until we pulled into a station, the name of which included the word "Berlin".

That did not seem right. I tried to picture a map of Europe in my head, wondering if we really were in Berlin, and if you could really get from Berlin to Prague in under two hours.

The answer is no, you cannot. We were 326 minutes delayed.

At least I got to enjoy some scenery. The snow in Berlin made everything look dirty - you know the dusting that is not enough to cover any of the unsightly things, but enough to make everything look filthy and old in comparison to that fresh white snow? It was like that. But once we were in the country, it was very pretty. And the landscape is so rugged! hills and bluffs and huge wide rivers... Oh, I have missed this sort of topography.

We finally arrived at Holesovice station - I knew we were in the Czech Republic when I saw the haceks on the signs for Decin station - and I stepped off the train just as Kata, my second cousin, and her daughter Ema came up the stairs to the platform. I had finally arrived in Prague, where I am spending Christmas and New Year's.

And that's when the strange feelings and thoughts and observations and memories start coming.

Well, really it started with the Decin station. I had only seen the name written without accents, but when I saw the sign, I knew how it was supposed to be said. My father's language is one that I can pronounce, to a certain extent. I can read, I just don't know what I am saying.

Then I start hearing things, reading signs. Zlaty means gold. I remember that. And Cerny is black. And Most is bridge. And these are all words I saw on signs during our tram ride through Prague. Short phrases sound almost as familiar as English, though I don't know what they mean. When I hear the translation, it's like deja vu - I knew that.

Of course, the Czech Republic is inextricably linked with my father - but so many different versions! I saw three bridges in a row, and thought of the time, 5 years ago, when the whole family was in Prague. Dad showed three small bridges, directly above and below each other, and said proudly, funnily, "Now, kids, here, we have a tri-bridge situation."

And then there's the memories, the little ways Czech was always present in my childhood: my dad speaking Czech, which mostly happened in the background - Dad on the phone with the grandparents. Or when my grandparents visit, and Dad stumbles along, his English showing through where his Czech has worn thin from under-use. Letters that came for my father on rustling paper as thin as tissue paper, in air mail envelopes with the blue and red borders, in writing I found illegible - whether it was the handwriting or the language that I didn't recognize, I don't know. The occasional box of oplatky that my grandparents sometimes brought after a trip to the Czech Republic, the unreal stories my Dad told to me and sometimes my classmates at school about running away in the middle of the night, and those flickering silent movies of him and his sister, as children, fighting corn-husk wars.

And even dimmer, and weirder, are the memories of my first time in Prague, when I was four. I think some of these memories are the re-fabricated kind, growing in my mind out of stories and pictures and home videos and my mother's Gourmet article. But some things I remember for sure: Kata and Lucka playing with... comics? bubble gum wrappers? Something which they kept very specially in an envelope and took out to admire. The amazing playmobil farmhouse we got for Christmas. Looking out of the car at several inches of snow, and footprints and car tracks in that snow. A shop window like some sort of elaborate vending machine. I think I remember even breakfast on Christmas morning, and then, of course, the Christmas tree sparkling with real candles, and my brother and I on our new hobby horses.

And that's not even the half of it. I can't explain it all, but it's so strange to come here. Memories and a strange feeling of having found something that's missing, but not being able to reach it. It is so strange to feel like, in a way, I belong here, or come from here, that this is somehow a home, and on the other hand being such a stranger to it.

I've decided that 2010 is the year I start making an active effort to learn Czech. In the past, each time I've come to Prague, there has been a reason not to start learning. In 2003, I was living in France, and I needed to focus on French, not get distracted by another language. In 2004, I was with the family, speaking our bubble of English, like all of the other tourists. But this time... my Dutch could use a distraction, I'll be here for nearly three weeks, and... it's time.

In the past, when I have mentioned to my father or grandparents that I want to learn Czech, that I wish Dad had spoken it to us more as children and think it's too bad that I don't speak it, they have told me, "Oh, Czech is a useless language, you don't need to learn it." But now I speak two useful languages (French and Spanish), and after this many trips to the Czech Republic, where I actually have family, it would indeed be fairly useful for me to speak it.

So I will start now, while I'm here, because at the age of 22 I still don't know how to conjugate a basic verb in what was my father's primary language until he was... well. Not much older than I am now. Which gives this undertaking a nice sort of symmetry, a link to the past and my Dad. It's time to start, and hopefully after this year, I will be closer (proximity-wise, I mean; my father and I to have a very good relationship) to my Dad and be able to test out whatever I learn and practice pronunciation and conversational skills with him. I will treat him as an untapped resource of great cultural value!

Sinterklaas 2009

2009-12-10T11:45:00.005+01:00

I'm celebrating a little late this year. As Sinterklaas was actually on a weekend, most group celebrations were postponed. (Luckily for me, as I was in Paris on the 5th.)

So yesterday we had a Sinterklaas party with all my fellow students and most of the teachers. I feel silly calling them classmates because although I don't know all of them that well, I like them all, and all of my friends here are also my classmates. So the distinction is fuzzy.

We had the party in someone's apartment, not far from school, and everyone brought some food - it was supposed to be something from your country. This gets tricky for me, because what is there to bring? Hamburgers?

Okay, I know there are more American foods than that - once I brought coleslaw to a potluck, I thought that worked pretty well. But this time I opted for hot chocolate. Not exactly an easy thing but one thing about me is I love cooking and making things complicated for myself in that area. So, yes, let's premix the dry ingredients for two different hot chocolate recipes at 7 in the morning, cart them to school with all sorts of whisks and measuring cups, stop at the grocery store later to lug around 5 liters of milk and a pack of marshmallows besides, and then take over someone's stove for an hour or two, invite various friends to be co-chefs, and whip up a couple of batches of the stuff under the impression of very great effort.

Actually, lots of people asked if I had made it myself (what does that mean, actually?) or if I usually made it that way at home. (Yes. I mean, we don't grind the cacao beans ourselves to make the cocoa powder or anything, but we get plain milk and cocoa powder or chop up some chocolate and add our own sugar and spices and all of that sort of thing.)

So I threw together some Mexican hot chocolate and a batch of "Hungarian Heat" from my hot chocolate book ("Is this really just a book about hot chocolate?" someone asked. Again - yes.), and although I think I added a bit too much paprika it was pretty tasty, especially with the melted marshmallows to soften the picante blow.

We did it all in English this year, so I did not have the trouble writing my poem that I did last year. But in hustling to get everything together at the last minute (up until 3, and then up at 7 to get the hot chocolate together) I forgot that I would be receiving something too. (Don't you love that?)

As usual, however, the poem was by far the best part. Since it references my blog, I obviously have to repost it here. I still don't know who was my sinterklaas, so if you would care to reveal yourself in my comment box you're welcome to, and receive some credit for your creativity. But the mystery is also pretty fun.

Sinterklaas was worried because he couldn't find Grace in his book
Fortunately Zwarte Piet yelled: Sint! Come look!
Kids these days have a book of their own
On which they can show how much they've grown
I found a link to a diary of sorts
And it seems Grace really likes sports
She would love to receive the Boston Red Sox
Alas, I couldn't fit the players into a box
Eventually I used her blog as my muse
And bought her something I think she can use
Love,
Sint and Piet

Genius! Genius!

Oh yes, the gift: A Time for Tea with Mary Engelbreit box, containing a tea egg (always extremely useful) and a very informative booklet on varieties of tea. In the second pack was not just one chocolate letter, but five, carefully wrapped so as to spell out my name.

Dank je, Sinterklaasje!

Tonight, it's off to Utrecht to do it again with my old RA friends, in the form of a Sinterklaas sleepover. It is sure to involve more good food and merriment, as well as a Christmas movie and a game of Scrabble. Can't wait!

Faux Pas

2009-12-07T21:23:00.003+01:00

Yesterday morning, I made a mistake.

It was really obvious, and the moment I said it I felt like such an idiot. I did, after all, LIVE in France for six months, but I guess the influence of the somewhat prompter and more time-concerned Netherlands has rubbed off on me.

Marie Clare and I had stepped into a honey store near her apartment. There was a funny round man presiding over the store, stocking and unpacking boxes at a leisurely pace. We said our bonjours and began to hover over beeswax candles and soap and the widest collection of honey varieties I have ever seen.

Really: Orange honey, lemon honey, and honey of just about every other citrus fruit you can imagine, plus their blossoms. Rosemary honey and thyme honey and all sorts of other herbs. Eucalyptus and Acacia honey and other trees. Even Buckwheat honey.

Another man came in to look around. He was either a street cleaner or a garbageman or one of those other jobs that involves green clothes and a brighter, more neon vest on top. The two men were chatting happily. Marie Clare and I wanted to smell some of the honey, so I turned to the man and politely waited for him to finish talking to the other customer.

When he turned to me, I asked if we could smell the honey.
"Non," he said, and for a second I was afraid I had asked if I could feel the honey rather than smell it, but then he continued to explain that we could taste it.

Then he turned back to his other customer.

I waited a moment longer, and when he turned back to me, I explained (still in French, of course!), "It's just that, we don't have that much time."

I knew the moment I spoke those words that they were the wrong words to say. Very wrong. Faux pas is an understatement, I think.

But it turned out okay. Although I could see a little glint in his eye, He simply replied, "D'accord. Mais je finis", and turned back to the customer.

At which point I thought, okay, laisser tomber, fair enough. Let the guy finish his conversation. It is Sunday morning, after all, and you should probably just be glad that he hasn't kicked you out of his shop.

In the end it was fine. He seemed quite happy with us. I asked if he had a larger jar of some of the flavors and he began explaining to me how the bees, you see, they are not like humans, they take vacations all the time (which to me sounds an awful lot like some French persons. Marie Clare has lived in that area, a very non-touristy one, since August and never passed the honey store when it was open, and then suddenly on a Sunday morning, voila!) and therefore it is impossible to predict when you will be able to get honey and when you will have to wait. And then, after we made our purchases, he said, "Merci, jolies filles", so I think it worked out okay.

But still. Really. Telling the Frenchman in the store that we were in a rush, when he was in the middle of a conversation? I thought I knew better!

Bonjour Paris!

2009-12-05T09:40:00.006+01:00

It's an unoriginal title, but it has been floating through my head the past few days as I've walked around Paris, because for some reason, I can't stop thinking about the song from the Fred Astaire/Audrey Hepburn film, "Funny Face". (And I don't even like that movie very much. I know, sacrilege, for a Fred fan like me...)

But it's true, I am in Paris, and I am loving it. How could anyone not?

The first day I was thinking of Portland a lot. I felt a little guilty, because really, who comes to Paris for a long weekend and can't stop thinking of Portland, Oregon?

But then I realized that, even if I could go home now, I would at least push it off until next week, and probably until after the end of January. (I'll really be on the go these two months, with trips to Paris, Prague for two + weeks at Christmas, a day trip to Antwerp with school, and, hopefully, a week in Norway in January.)

And I am so happy here!

Paris at Chrstimastime is really nice. I've only ever been here in the April-June months before, and once in October, and December is very different. One thing I discovered is that it costs more to come here in winter because you can't sit in a park all afternoon. You can't buy your sandwich to go and eat outside because the benches are all wet from the rain or it's just too darn cold to sit still that long. (Although I'm being a little silly, it's not that cold!) So, instead, you buy your sandwiches for there and pay almost a euro extra to sit. Or you do what I do, and walk all day, wreaking havoc on your feet.

So far I have seen some very funny little things. The first morning, I arrived at 6, dropped my things off in Marie Clare's apartment, and went for a cup of coffee. Then I spent most of the morning on the banks of the Seine, the Ile de la Cite and the Ile Saint-Louis, watching the sky. It was amazing. (When I get back home I will post pictures but as you can imagine they hardly do the real thing justice.)

While I was doing this, I saw a boat, which seemed to be looking at something. Then I saw what it was looking at: two snorkelers in the river. They were covered head to toe in wetsuits, except their hands, which were bright red. That water must be so cold.

Yesterday I saw a very impressive man in a cafe. He was extremely tall. His overcoat nearly reached the floor. He had on black suede shoes and blue and black striped socks, a great pair of glasses and held a cigarette in a holder. It did seem too bad that he had to go outside to actually smoke. The indignity! But in reality, I still can't say that I mind.

Today is a busy busy day! Fabric shopping and coffee with a friend of my family. Actually, both our families. And I'll fill the rest of the day with... more walking, probably, and possibly shoes - my feet are really dying here - and either a movie (although Marie Clare disapproves) or lots of sitting in a cafe with my journal and Guy de Maupassant's "Clair de Lune et autres contes", which I have looked for in three countries and finally purchased here.

Home for the Holidays

2009-11-29T16:37:00.012+01:00

Middelburg early on the morning of (my) Thanksgiving

Last weekend, I returned to Middelburg for the first time since early September.

The reason I finally made the trip was to make Thanksgiving dinner for and with all of my old housemates (as well as the new ones) and some friends. They had been trying to reserve me for the meal almost since the semester began, but I deferred, as I thought I might want to try it up here in Leiden with my new friends. However, my kitchen is miniscule, the oven is more of a microwave, and I have no place to serve the meal. Moreover, as the weeks went by, I began to really miss my housemates, and realized that the only thing that could be better than Thanksgiving in Middelburg would be Thanksgiving in Portland.

Thanksgiving has always been one of my favorite holidays. This is to be expected, for a girl who likes food as much as I do. I remember in 3rd grade, when I did my state-wide writing exam, I chose the option to describe my favorite holiday and why I liked it. Needless to say, it was really easy for me to go through the November meal dish by dish, describing each platter in depth. I don't think I mentioned the friends and family part, and if I mentioned being thankful, it was probably only to appreciate the food.

And so, from the first year I was out of the U.S. on Thanksgiving, I undertook to make it myself. This is my fourth year celebrating in the Netherlands, and the third year celebrating with this group of housemates (the first year I served a group of 12 friends). Each year, an item is added to the menu. The first time, I only made cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, stuffing, and Brussels sprouts. I bought rotisserie chicken at the market, and made apple compote with whipped cream for dessert.

The second year I ate with my new housemates, but only a few of them, as I believe there were "only" 8 at the table. The addition to the menu was yams, which I did not really know how to make, or how to buy, so we had a mixture of yams and sweet potatoes, and we made the chicken at home, as that year I started the tradition of pushing Thanksgiving back to Fridays, when there is no market (but also no school/deadlines the next day). One of my housemates made the dessert - Baked Alaska.

Last year was the biggest meal I have ever prepared, or at least directed. In attendance were 10 housemates, plus several boyfriends and girlfriends and neighbors. It was a huge undertaking, and I believe quite successful. The edible addition was the second kind of yam, provided by my housemates Sarah and Sascha, who had begged me to make yams with marshmallows on top. Being me, I refused, but said they were welcome to make it if they wanted to. So they did, and we all decided it belonged with dessert, which were jelly roll cakes.

This year we ate with 12 friends, housemates and acquaintances. I invited Lacey, a girl from Portland who I helped get set up at RA, and she in turn brought another American girl from Austin. The three of us and Sophia - who's lived mostly in New Jersey, making her the 4th American girl - took care of most of the cooking, and the others (almost) all helped with preparation.

Fleshy pumpkin and dark brown sugar (it's what they have here) look like scoops of delicious ice cream.

This year's addition was pumpkin pie, making it the most traditional Thanksgiving (in terms of food) so far! I was quite pleased with the way it turned out. They took forever to pre-bake, and the crust on one was a little underdone, but other than that they were fine. The filling was very delicious, despite the lumpiness (just about every Thanksgiving recipe calls for a food processor. I know the pilgrims did not have these, and still, it is almost impossible to find a recipe for handmade pumpkin pie!) and the crust was not perfect but at least the outer edges were quite flaky and delicious. I even made hard sauce, so the whole meal was complete. I think it should be noted that almost none of the diners had ever had pumpkin pie before, and they all (said they) liked it.

Each year, of course, something goes a little wrong. The first year, I cooked at a friend's house, and in my haste brought over a carton of yogurt instead of milk for the mashed potatoes. (This was fixed by a run to the store.) Last year everyone ate really fast, which was disappointing for me.

This year, we managed to last at least an hour before we ran out of food - three chickens is not enough for 15 hungry college students, it turns out. However, we had to wait for the chickens a little long, and did not eat until 8. This meant that the glass of wine before dinner turned into glasses of wine before dinner, which meant that by the time we sat down to eat, some people were pretty tipsy. And that might be an understatement.

But it didn't matter. We all went around the table to say something we were thankful for - most people were thankful for RA, for bringing us together and for liking it so much, and for me making the meal; only David was clever enough to come up with something original ("I'm thankful that it's the weekend!").

And then we ate. And talked, and laughed, and ate some more, and discovered a forgotten dish of stuffing in the oven (which had turned itself off) and ate some more, until there was nothing left but some mashed potatoes and a few stray Brussels sprouts, and the plate we had set aside for a housemate who couldn't be there.

While the pie baked, we sat in a circle in the common room and played singstar and had a generally lovely time.

And it really was like going home for the holidays.

Cures for Homesickness

2009-11-14T11:55:00.007+01:00

Lately, I've been a little homesick.

Not miserably so; far from it. I'm pretty happy here, but it's hard to settle in to a new place in a bigger city when you've just spent three years in a small town where almost everyone knows almost everyone else and where you practically live with all of your friends and classmates.

Luckily, though, I've been living abroad (off and on) since I was 15, so I'm getting pretty good at dealing with homesickness. These are the things that always make me feel better - or at least make me feel like I'm not the only person in the world who has felt this way before!

1. Betsy and the Great World, by Maud Hart Lovelace
The Betsy-Tacy series includes several of my most beloved books, and the 9th book in the series is perhaps my favorite. I first read it when I was barely 16, living in France, and pretty homesick most of the time. It was such a comfort. Following 22-year-old Betsy Ray across Europe in 1914 always makes me feel more glad to be in Europe and less sad not to be in the U.S. I take it with me everywhere I go.

2. Les Demoiselles de Rochefort a film with music by Michel Legrand - or the soundtrack
This is one of my favorite movies. A musical, in French, with Gene Kelly speaking in a wonderful and hilarious American accent (though I've never been able to figure out how much of his part is dubbed). Anyway, it concerns two young women, dissatisfied with their small town lives and lack of love, and lots of amazing costumes and nice songs. It also reminds me how much I've learned through these experiences and how worthwhile it all is. Each time I watch it, I understand a new aspect, plot twist, or scene better, and I'm so glad I went to France, which was the foundation for all of my other trips abroad.

3. Alles is Liefde
A Dutch Sinterklaas movie, inspired by Love Actually. Every time I watch it, I feel like I could never bear to leave this beautiful country. I also have the same type of learning experience as I do with #2, only this time, it's with the Dutch language and culture.

4. "Frasier"
Sometimes I just want to be sad. Getting over it is all very good, but happiness isn't so great if it isn't contrasted with occasional periods of sadness. So when I just want to miss the Pacific Northwest, I curl up with a cup of tea and a few episodes of Frasier, which always crack me up, and have since I was a little kid.

5. Portland's Wikipedia page
A similar way to wallow that is always fun - and educational! - is to spend some quality time with Portland's wikipedia page, learning some awesome new facts. When people here ask me about Portland, I tend to overwhelm them with random facts. I start with the more well-known things - the Simpsons! Nike! - and then move on to the obscure. For example, did you know that Portland is the second-largest wheat port in the WORLD? Also, it has the most beer-breweries of any city in the United States. And, the Portland Art Museum has 40,000 pieces, compared to Seattle's 25,000, and is the 7th oldest art museum in the country, and the oldest on the West Coast.

Take as many doses as necessary, preferably with chocolate, and you'll be good as new in no time!

Reasons

2009-11-11T20:32:00.003+01:00

October was really good, as far as personal blogging records go.

And then came November, and here it is, nearly two weeks in, and I haven't posted once.

What happened?

I've decided to put it in a (short) list, for maximum clarity.

#1: NaNoWriMo. Yup. National Novel Writing Month is upon us. Or me. I've been wanting to do this since 2007, but the Roosevelt Academy simply didn't allow for any student to invest so much of their time outside of school, least of all in the month of November. At Leiden, I have fewer hours of class and less homework and therefore I am finally able to attempt to write a 50,000 word novel in one month.
So far I have learned that, when using this writing strategy, you can't spend much time searching for the perfect word.

#2: Distractions. For example, today, I spent several hours on Microsoft Access, which we are learning to use in my Digital Media Technology class, creating a database of my book collection. Just for fun. It is exactly that.

#3: Lack of inspiration. For some reason, nothing has hit my blogging fancy lately.

Until Tuesday, when my History of the Book professor mentioned something about the fact that, when you walk into the University Library, there are no books.

THANK you! Someone else notices this! I have been wondering. What a weird idea! When you walk into the library, you pass through a main hallway, devoid of books, to a locker and coffee room, where there are obviously know books.

Then you walk back through the main hallway and into a huge hall of computers. According to my professor, they used to keep Encyclopedias and other reference books here. Now, however, it is table after table of computers. And it is always packed. And there is not a book in sight.

Pass through to the next large hall, as we always do on our way to our manuscript class, and you come to a huge open space, with a glass ceiling three stories up, and... no books.

They are all hidden away, behind the walls.

Now, in Portland, there are lots of books in the libraries I've been to. You can't miss them. Except maybe in the grand hall of the Central Library, but that's where people are checking out books, so you're bound to at least catch a glimpse of something. And sure, there are a lot of people on the computer. But there were also people looking at books.

And in Middelburg, you walk into the library, and there's a big open space, but... you can see the books. And when they have their sale days to sell of the old, discontinued books, they are front and center. You can't miss them.

At the Leiden University Library, you basically have to hunt them down. Also, the staff is not helpful. I couldn't figure out how to use the printer last week and people kept trying to explain it to me from their desks, far away from the printers. No one would actually get up and show me.

No good library, and no good cafe. How's a girl supposed to get any work done around here?!

I have a Secret...

2009-10-28T22:49:00.008+01:00

... I miss Middelburg.

Two weeks ago, I had a skype call with a group of friends from RA, and one of them said, "Do you know, I don't miss Middelburg, one bit? I miss you guys, but not Middelburg."

Even as I responded indignantly, I was questioning whether I really missed Middelburg myself. Most of it, certainly, is missing such great friends. Maybe what I miss now is my housemates? And they'll all be gone in the next year or two.

Then again, I obviously miss the coffee. Ko D'oooooor claims it has the best cappuccino in Zeeland, but so far I haven't found anything better in the Netherlands.

And the lovely walk to school! I even miss the parking lot all back, like a brick park, all red and green, or red and orange in fall. And the street I raved about last spring. Just looking at those pictures makes me want to go for a walk, in Middelburg, with the Lange Jan tilting over every other building, and the graceful Oostkerk standing humbly on its little square.

I knew for certain that I missed something about Middelburg, not just my friends, the other night when I was trying to fall asleep. I was lying in bed, too warm, because although it is late October, and I open the window every time I am home, and I haven't turned on the heat in two weeks, my room is always warm and stuffy.

I lay there and could not settle down, so as I closed my eyes, I pictured my room in Middelburg. My table over there, the couch and armchair and bookshelf with four times as many books as I have now. More than picturing it, I could hear it: quiet. Or maybe housemates laughing in the common room, their voices growing loud the minute someone opened the door. The wind in the vines that grew along the street, and the occasional scooter buzzing by to deliver a pizza. The voices of students humming louder and softer as they passed my window, mere feet away from me in my bed.

How could I not miss the place that had been my home for three years? Middelburg was not a six-month excursion, like Nice and Moca were. Though I loved both those places in their own way, and they have shaped who I am, they simply aren't Middelburg. Though I get excited when I remember the Dominican Republic, or hear Spanish being spoken, and still have that weird, unrequited love of France, when a teacher now mentions a printing press in Middelburg or a 17th-century map of Zeeland, I'm as thrilled as if they're telling the class what a wonderful place Powell's Books is.

I doubt that I'll feel that way about Leiden after only one year, but then again... you never know.

Letter to the Vlaamsche Broodhuys (Flemish Bakery)

2009-10-27T15:21:00.004+01:00

Dear Vlaamsche Broodhuys,

You are a blessing. In this country of mostly mediocre bread (though much better than the soggy white rolls in the Dominican Republic, or the weird, collapsing baguettes in France), you are a culinary highlight.

You make what my mother once called "honest bread" – a description that has stuck with me. I know what this bread is. It gets hard, not moldy. It was not meant to be sliced ahead of time. It has air bubbles and hard, dark crust, and when you tear it, it is fascinating to watch each little segment part from another.

When you toast your product, it doesn’t acquire the texture of cardboard (made worse when it is put on a plate to sweat in its own steam), and when you press it, it springs back to life, rather then squishing into sad form.

After three years of mediocre bread, three years of bringing better, crustier bread back from vacations to brighter bread cities… it is heaven to have you waiting just down the street.

I just wish you put a bit – just a bit! – more salt in it.

Yours in bread and butter,
Grace

Write, Jot, Scribble - Part II

2009-10-26T16:13:00.004+01:00

I didn't think there would be a follow-up post on this topic, but you never know where a blog is going to take you.

I've been shut up in my room without internet since Friday, with the exception of an hour in the computer lab at school on Sunday, and it's enough to drive me crazy. Especially since I have spent most of that time writing a paper on the subject of... blogs. (If I was shut up in my room for two days without internet and without looming deadlines, I'm sure I would be quite happy to watch some of the movies I own and read through half of my bookshelf. But I had a looming deadline.)

This paper is supposed to be 8-10 pages, with type size 11 and 1.5 spacing, which ends up being at least 3,500 words. Okay. Not the end of the world. Luckily I had done some research Wednesday and saved several articles to my computer, so I could do most of the writing without the internet. I'm not quite finished, but close.

Today in class - the first since last Tuesday - everyone asked each other about their progress on this essay, which is due tomorrow at 6 p.m. The answers varied greatly, but the one that surprised me the most was from a classmate who said he wasn't a very good typer and had therefore written his entire paper... by hand.

All I'm going to say is - imagine! That used to be the norm! Despite my love of pen and paper, I can't imagine doing such a thing. I remember a few years ago, I used to sometimes get started on a research paper by writing the introduction by hand, because my ideas seemed to flow better that way. Nowadays, I can get started very easily on the computer. But since I began my bachelor's degree, the idea of writing 3,500 words of academic writing by hand hasbecome more or less... unthinkable.

Slow Down

2009-10-22T19:09:00.002+02:00

I am going to learn from the past week and do something productive tonight.

And I don't mean write my essay or work on my manuscript assignment.

I mean sit down in my armchair, away from this confounded computer, and read.

This week has gone by too fast. Tomorrow is already Friday! All I have done is set my alarm ambitiously early and end up sleeping through it until 11. (Even on the day I had class at 11:15, heh heh.)

So after spending the entire afternoon counting the pages of a very old Dutch Bible and trying to figure out where one quire begins and another ends, I am going to sit back and chill out.

Nothing spectacular - It'll be Hans Brinker or the Silver Skates, along with some tea and the last couple stroopwafels. But I am very excited.

Stroop-stupid

2009-10-21T22:27:00.004+02:00

The stroopwafel (pronounced "Strope-vaffle", kind of) is one of those truly wonderful Dutch things. One of the things the Netherlands should be known for, along with tulips and clogs and windmills and canals (and maybe instead of weed and red light districts).

The truth is, I can go ages without these things. I think I have to, because if I buy a pack, I usually end up eating the entire package in one day, which is obviously bad for my health. It is also bad for my stomach - take it from me, it really doesn't feel good to eat ten of those in a day.

I could occasionally just buy one "Superwafel" at the market, but the problem with that is they don't come with a cup of tea. Stroopwafels were meant to be eaten after being softened over a cup of steaming tea, preferably until the layer of stroop (syrup) between the two waffles is runny and gooey.

So I usually go weeks, or even months, without a stroopwafel. And then someone comes to visit.

When Katharine was here a few weeks ago, I think we ate a pack a day. (Sounds like a bad smoking habit, doesn't it?) Granted, there were two of us, and we walked a lot as well, so it slightly lessened the damage. Only slightly.

Whenever I go home, or go somewhere, I take a pack or two as gifts. I took some to Hopi when I visited her in Edinburgh. I bring several packs home to my family when I return.

Well, I bought a pack today. I've been so disciplined with sweets lately; that stash of lebkuchen and pfeffernusse are packed up in a kitchen cupboard, and I eat only 2-3 after tea and another 1-2 after dinner, which is a true accomplishment for me. I am my father's daughter. I eat until it's gone.

I had two after a very nice lunch (good bread, cheese, and two mandarins), and two more after dinner (chicken, mushrooms, eggplant, and potatoes - the eggplant was supposed to be gone by now and it distracted me, so I forgot about the brussels sprouts which were to be my greens! Tomorrow, I guess).

But even the steep Dutch stairs between my room and the kitchen cupboard were not enough to keep me away from the stroopwafels. Just now I ran (climbed?) back up the steps and grabbed two more. I plan to get started on a big essay tonight, after all.

I took two from the package and, before I twisted the plastic sack back together and closed it with a twistie, I noticed that there were only three left.

Meaning... there were only nine in the package.

Meaning I was CHEATED! Out of a stroopwafel! There are always 10 stroopwafels in a package!

It's probably a good thing, but I am very disappointed.

Frankfurt Buchmesse

2009-10-19T23:41:00.006+02:00

Last week, the students on my program (and some of the professors) went to Germany.

The main reason for the trip was to go to the Frankfurt Book Fair.

Photo by Juliana

This was not a book-lover's heaven, as you might have expected. "Book Fair" sounds like an amazing, fantastical place, like Powell's Books only floating on a cloud. Or something.

It's basically a place for publishers and printers to talk shop and make deals and get the rights to translations. Also, if you want to buy something, you can't until the last day, or if you are talking to a very nice person and smiling and begging a lot. So really it's kind of like a book-lover's hell, seeing all these things and not being able to buy anything.

(Really good for the student wallet, though.)

It's also a place to introduce new gadgets. For example, we found an eReader we hadn't heard of, the Hanvon WISEreader, which was cheaper than we expected and looked to be at least as good as the two we had seen in class. (I still hate how they flash the negative of the page to mimic page-turning, though. I think they should just have a bar slide across the screen or something.)

We were less impressed with the OnlineMag and OnlineBook, basically a PDF that can show videos and has a slightly niftier bookmarking option. I see the draw for promotional material, but other than that it didn't seem like a very clever answer to the question "what is going to happen to print?"

We were more impressed with a Spanish company, Moleiro, which makes facsimiles of manuscripts, only better. Down to the last detail. If a page in the original manuscript was made from two pieces of parchment stitched together, than the reproduction page is also stitched together, by hand.

I was also impressed with a Czech textbook I spent some time poring over.

What I enjoyed the most, though, was the international experience.

The expo center (I guess that's what the venue is) is probably the most enormous complex I have ever been to, and it is full of stands from pretty much every country in the world.

I went to the area for Italian publishers, and it was full of Italians, talking and gesturing on their telefoninos. It was like stepping into Italy.

I spoke and heard so much Spanish it was amazing. This was due to spending time with my Colombian friend Juliana, who really got us into the stands and into conversations with the people working them.

There was a big Dutch section where people were speaking Dutch, and at the Norwegian book stands, people were speaking Norwegian.

I found the Czech stand and looked at all sorts of books and thought about how I should be able to read these titles, but can't. I looked out for any Peter Sis translations, too, but didn't see any. So I sat and looked at that Czech course for quite a while, while Juliana and Chiara rested their feet.

Photo by Juliana

It was so much fun to step from one country into another, or, more precisely, one language into another. So, although it was maybe not a book-lover's heaven, it was perhaps something close to a linguist's paradise.

The German Prince

2009-10-16T23:54:00.008+02:00

Just got home from my course's trip to the Frankfurt Book Fair, the Gutenberg Museum, and the Kloster Eberbach, and have to admit that the highlight of the trip - though probably not the most illuminating experience of it - was none of these things.

It happened today, at a gas station mini-mart on the German highway.

We - nine young women packed in a mini-bus, screaming along to Alanis Morissette and Michael Jackson - were just hanging out, stretching or smoking or stocking up on German treats, and about to hit the road again.

When suddenly, up pulled this amazing car. Maybe it was a Rolls Royce, but whatever it was, it looked like a million dollars.

Literally.

Out of the car came, first, the chauffeur, with a mustache, glasses, and a black jacket with a seal embroidered over the pocket and a crown on his lapel.

Then, out of the back seat, came a guy wearing a ridiculous, ruffled, silver shirt.

And finally, a thin blonde woman with huge hair and dramatic makeup, a red mini-dress, matching red strappy sandals and a black fur stole.

So we all convinced Malka to go and ask who it was, because, as Elli kept repeating, "I really think it's someone famous! Maybe an actor or a singer..."

Malka came running back.

"Oh my God, you guys! He's a prince!"

Shrieks and excitement from the car, which we had been on the verge of starting up and driving off in. Instead, Malka went back and asked if we could take a picture with them (and the car), and they agreed! The silvery guy did not seem to mind at all. We asked what his name was, and he told his chauffeur to write it down for us, which made us very excited - he even has someone write for him!

So the chauffeur wrote, "Maximilian Michael von Anhalt".

After much laughter and many "Dankeschön!"s, we got back in the car to laugh some more, speculate about the prince, boast to each other about how we would surely win the photograph contest, and scream along to some more Alanis Morissette. (She's very empowering.)

So, now that I'm back in Leiden, with internet access, I thought I would look this guy up.

Maximilian Michael Prinz von Anhalt is a rich health club owner and socialite who, according to wikipedia, bought the name (not the title) "Prinz von Anhalt" from Zsa-Zsa Gabor's husband, Frederic Prinz von Anhalt, for two million dollars. Frederic got the name from his adoption by an actual Royal. Apparently Maximilian was adopted by Fred and Zsa-Zsa last year. Technically, neither he nor Fred are royals - though Maximilian certainly tries to present himself as one.

Write, Jot, Scribble

2009-10-09T21:17:00.007+02:00

I like to write by hand, generally; I think it comes from my years of journal-keeping. I feel my thoughts flow better when they are released in one fine, concentrated point, rather than splayed out across the keyboard via ten fingers. When I start a story, I usually begin with my writing notebook, and don't turn to a computer until my second draft.

So I thought it was funny when one of my Digital Media Technology teachers said, "from now on, all documents are digital-born". Meaning, I suppose, that nothing comes to be on paper anymore, which I would argue is not yet the case.

I type school assignments and papers, and sometimes little blurbs of fictional thought. I also type my blog, unless I get an idea on the road and flesh it out in my jotter.

That is what I meant this entry to be about: my jotters. (Just another example of how typing allows too much freedom - I tend to jump back and forth between paragraphs, and even sentences, which is a confusing and annoying technique.) I was just flipping through them to gather some ideas, and as usual, I was surprised by the amount of material I've stored away there, and was motivated to try harder with my current jotter. (It comes and goes, and was best kept, unsurprisingly, when I was graded for it.)

Another thing about writing by hand: more shopping. It's just so fun to look at all the different types of paper and notebooks and pens! What joy is greater than discovering a new pen that suits you perfectly? Or a notebook with dimensions that are perfectly conducive to your needs?

One of my best writing techniques was to use a particular fountain pen - a rather cheap one that dried up kind of quickly. As long as I was writing, the ink flowed properly, but if I spent too much time thinking or daydreaming, I had to put the lid back on and tap it impatiently on a surface to get the ink moving again. So I kept writing, and if I didn't know what to write next, I wrote slowly, rather then stopping, until the words came to me.

The problem was that I was writing a story for an assignment in the creative writing course I took last winter, and it had a word limit. A word limit I surpassed - 8,500 words, instead of the 4,000 word limit, which resulted in me having to literally cut it in half.

In that case, it might have been good to use a word processor, and have the word count in a simple click.

Curse of the Cool Course

2009-10-08T21:24:00.004+02:00

Last semester at the Roosevelt Academy I took a course about 17th-century Dutch painting. It was a great class - so much so that it rarely felt like a class. Mostly, I just felt like I was attending an interesting art lecture, as I have done occasionally in the past, or reading an exhibition guide. I always meant to write a blog entry about the way it felt, but never got around to it.

The problem was that it was hard to get motivated. I felt so laid-back about the whole thing - dark lectures with the paintings lit up on the powerpoint screen and a stream of information flooding in - that I really had to make sure I was thinking about the studying part. And not getting distracted by the interesting bits of historical information that kept cropping up in my reading.

(For example: couples' portraits were often two separate portraits, one of the husband, and one of the wife, with them sort of facing each other, so that they could hang on opposite sides of the fireplace. This was because Dutch houses of the time [holds true today, though] were rather small, and people didn't have a wall that was big enough for a huge double portrait.)

Now I am re-experiencing this phenomenon at Leiden, in the course called "The Manuscript Book in the West".

I never expected to study ancient manuscripts. (If I had, I would have paid a lot more attention in that not-for-credit Latin class I took in my first year at RA.) Yet every Thursday, there I am, in the special manuscript collection section of the university library to spend two hours learning about manuscripts.

And it's the exact same thing. That classes are great. We look at really old books and the teacher tells us how they were made, how they were preserved, how they were marked, and why.

But it really just feels like a trip to the museum (okay, if I was an extra-special, high-profile client), where instead of reading a plaque I hear it from an expert, and there is no glass between the manuscript and me.

I need a switch in my brain. One side would be labeled "Focused Academic Active Listening/Reading/Studying". The other would be "Passive Absorbing Oh-My-Gosh-Isn't-That-COOL?". In this one, you tend to remember the little, fascinating-but-useless bits of information rather than the big picture things and theory that help you pass the test.

Incidentally, the latter one was especially dominant in most of my linguistics courses.

Leids Ontzet, Part II

2009-10-07T22:04:00.014+02:00

Well, I promised I would report back, and I promised I would take pictures. It actually wasn't quite what I expected - much more like a big old kermis (carnival) and a lot less like... well, I guess I expected something more like Queen's Day. More partying in the street and live music. There were outdoor discos Friday night. But as there isn't much to report, I'll treat you to a quiet, visual entry, beginning with dinner on Friday and ending with dinner on Saturday.

Leids Ontzet, Part I

2009-10-02T17:03:00.006+02:00

Tonight begins the special Leiden festival, Leids Ontzet. Every October 3rd, the gemeente celebrates their release from Spanish invadaers. Or something, definitely don't quote me on this. It's about when the Spanish were repelled from the city. There was a siege, and the residents were starving, but when it ended, troops brought the citizens herring, and a boy found a pot of hutspot that the Spanish had left behind: potato mashed with carrot and onion. (The picture below is from the time we had it for dinner with my housemates at the Roosevelt Academy in Middelburg.)

The streets and sidewalks outside restaurants are tented, there is a huge carnival in town, with stands for oliebollen, sausages, and suikerspin (cotton candy) all over. It is drizzling but no one seems to care. There are barges on the canals which will eventually support stages and beer stands. There are an enormous amount of beer kegs in the street, waiting to be hooked up to the spigots.

My friend Katharine is visiting on part of her trip around Europe and Morocco, and two of my RA friends are coming from Utrecht tomorrow to check out the madness that will be Leiden on the 3rd of October.

I promise to take pictures!

10 Years

2009-09-23T20:54:00.003+02:00

Today is a special day in my family: 10 years as Red Sox fans! I've blogged about it on the baseball blog I keep, rather irregularly, with my mother and sister.

Other than that, I have a horrible cold and can't be bothered to do much of anything, such as go to class, try to write coherent sentences (I had to, for the Red Sox, but that's as much as I can offer today), or even think.

So I'm going to go watch "Fever Pitch" now, and remember how exciting everything was, and daydream about how much I want to live in Boston. Which I don't. I used to, and movies like that make me want to again, but mostly, I don't. It's just a romanticized notion in my mind.

See? I can't think straight, let alone write, so I'm really going to stop now.

Letter to Shawn Spencer from "Psych"

2009-09-22T15:20:00.005+02:00

SPOILER ALERT! If you watch Psych, and haven't seen the episode "Bollywood Homicide", you don't want to read this.

Dear Shawn,

Do you ever learn from your cases?

I mean, you're a twit, and a dope, and all of that, but then you solve all these cases, so you must be pretty smart. (You're funny, too, which is the main reason I like "Psych", but that's a whole other story.)

So you help this guy Raj, who thinks he's cursed because bad stuff happens to all of the women he gets serious with. And you, Mister Super Psych(ic) Detective Shawn, you find out the person who's doing it is Raj's brother's fiance. She's in love with Raj, and keeps pushing back her own wedding date with his brother Jay.

Meanwhile, Shawn, you get insanely jealous when Juliet dates Raj as bait, and pretends to be engaged to him. And you know Juliet is jealous of your girlfriend, Abigail. And even when you're getting all smoochy with Abigail, you still get distracted by Juliet.

So really, didn't you learn anything from that case? Like, maybe you should stop putting it off, and break up with Abigail?

But I guess that wouldn't do much for the suspense of the TV show.

Sincerely,
Grace

The Future of Reading

2009-09-20T14:34:00.005+02:00

This weekend, I was to read an article for school on The Future of Reading, from a 2007 issue of Newsweek, mostly about the kindle and the ebook.

I find this stuff rather depressing.

Sure, I think the kindle is a good idea. I can definitely see the attraction of the gadget, especially for travelers and frequent fliers. It would be a great thing for any exchange student, who is only allowed one or two suitcases to stuff her whole life into. Same for the college student, and school reading as well as recreational.

But as a replacement to the book, I remain quite old-school in opinion. I don't like to imagine a world without the material book as we now know it, and it depresses me to read so much about it. Different theories on how the book will die, when the book will die... It's enough to make any book reader want to go bury themselves in a book! (Preferably one that takes place hundreds of years ago and doesn't contain any of these modern distractions).

What scares me the most is that when people talk about the future and the book, they indicate that all sorts of changes will have to be made - to novels, and to the way people write. This isn't the case with the future of music and film - these media are already well-adjusted to the fast pace that the internet enables. But the kindle will be able to link all of these words, ideas, and works together through hyperlinks, etc. - a modern, networked footnote.

And that is going to change the way we read.

And that prospect, to me, is not a very happy one. Luckily, I don't think the book will disappear during my lifetime - I think there are too many people of my generation who like books for their physical form as well as their content. To me, however, it's still a dismal thought. How can you compare browsing on amazon.com with a trip to Powell's or De Slegte and browsing in person, not just scanning the books but touching them, and smelling them, and finding little inscriptions and dedications from previous readers?

The kindle, as far as I can see, only stimulates two senses, and one of them - touch - it stimulates only minimally.

On the other hand, many people love the smell of books, or the weight of different-sized works in their hands. When I turn to one of my favorite comfort books, I pick up Betsy and Joe - the binding is coming undone and the pages are yellowed. It is old and dog-eared, but it is familiar and comfortable, like a friend. And that's what you want in a comfort read. For me, the physical differences between and variety of books is a big part of the attraction.

One more thing about books and their current form that I think will keep people from giving them up too quickly: books are an identity construct.

When I go to someone's house, I notice what books they keep on their bookshelves. And I'm quite sure I'm not the only one who does this. I may not have very many books here in Leiden, but the ones that I do have - baseball books, travel guides, books in French, Spanish, and Dutch, Betsy-Tacy books, Jane Austen, poetry, Dominican authors - it's all part of who I am, and it's displayed on my bookshelves.

As Cicero said, "A room without books is like a body without a soul". I don't think he was referring purely to content. It is the presence of that content. I take comfort in the fact that it will be a while before the feeling that is conveyed through a single kindle on a table will be the same as the feeling we get through hundreds of books on shelves.

Letters to Hell

2009-09-16T23:24:00.006+02:00

Once a week, I go have a course called History of the Book. This week, the lecture was about the spread of the printing press, it's basic workings, and interesting aspects of the press or results of the printing press - for example, the decision to use Latin fonts instead of Gothic ones.

During the break, we ran upstairs to get a look at the printing room they keep for our department.

What a nice room! Some tables, several bookshelves, piles of papers and all sorts of odds and ends, including a surprisingly high number of beer bottles.

In the center was a printing press - not the original kind, but the rolling kind, which is a later development - and nearby, the typecase - the divided box, resembling what people use to store fishing flies or beads, containing the letters according to frequency of use. One corner was labeled "Hel" (Dutch for "Hell").

The type, made of lead, damage easy. If you drop a letter, it becomes useless - so the typecasters put them in the little box (which must really be more like Purgatory) before they gathered them all and sent them to "Hell" - that is, back to the pot, to be melted and recast as new letters.

On our way out, the instructor said we could all take a letter from a box. I just reached in and grabbed one, opting to be surprised rather than to dig around for something I liked. One girl got a nice capital g, and another girl, a lower-case e in some sort of helvetica font. A friend of mine got a sort of stamp spelling out the words, "The Netherlands".

I got this teeny B. How teeny? In this picture, it is lying on a stack of post-it notes.

Single Servings

2009-09-13T23:15:00.005+02:00

Here's something about living in Leiden that I hadn't thought of before I actually experienced it:

Cooking for one.

What can I say about it, except that... it sucks?

I've forgotten, over the years I spent in the best house at RA (that would be Bagijnhof 14), what it was like to cook for one person. I did that in my first semester at RA, when I lived in a different house, one in which no one ever cooked together. The last two and a half years, though, I had dinner with my housemates four nights a week. That usually meant:

Three nights a week I didn't have to cook; food was provided for me. This was usually a complete meal, although sometimes low on vegetables - but not usually. (My) favorites included stamppot, David's delicious, simple, lentil soup, Anouk's tortellini with cheese and bell peppers, Dana's pasta with salmon, spinach, and mushrooms... etc.

One night each week, I cooked for 8 or 9 people. Usually it was fun, although it could be difficult to accommodate everyone's tastes and diets. (Like the boys who wanted meat every single night, and later, the vegetarian.)

That left three nights to provide for myself. No problem. Make something easy on Friday, like pasta with tomato sauce (people started to think I ate nothing else, but it's not true, I swear!). Eat half on Friday and save the other half for Saturday. Sunday was the lazy night; since you had procrastinated all weekend, and probably not left your room on Sunday, a bit of rice with butter or some simple easy vegetables was usually enough.

But here, in Leiden... I'm on my own. Seven nights a week.

Which means that last week, I had the same thing for dinner on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday night: pasta with bacon, wilted spinach, and parmesan. Not bad at all, but anything gets repetitive by the third night. I changed the menu on Thursday to polenta with tomato sauce with sausage, but had a repeat on Friday. Saturday I took a break, but just ate salad and some bread and cheese, which isn't exactly a hearty meal, and now that it's pretty much fall, I like the idea of a hot meal more often.

Wanting to save the two portions of Thursday's tomato sauce that I froze for Monday and Tuesday (when I have class until 5), I decided to be creative and simple tonight. I browned some onions in olive oil with some "Italian herb mix" and made polenta. When the polenta was almost done, I put the onions in the polenta and wilted some arugula from yesterday's salad in the oil. I served the arugula half on top, half on the side of the polenta with lots of salt, pepper, and chopped (this house has no grater!) parmesan.

Not bad. Plus, I made plenty of extra polenta to refry for lunches during the week.

But this kind of ingenuity is exhausting. Those three thoughtless days each week at RA were really an amazing thing, and I am going to miss them - but not only for the food.

Here, after making my little plate of food for one, I climb backwards down the stairs (they're stereotypically steep) to my little room, and watch an episode of something, or the Red Sox game. I'm done within 15 minutes, for sure, and then I go back upstairs and do the dishes.

The end.

In Middelburg, dinners could last two hours, if the conversation was good. Everyone in my house got along, and most of us liked most everybody else as a friend, not just as a housemate.

I was so lucky.

Now my ex-housemates keep trying to engage me to go back to Middelburg and cook them a Thanksgiving dinner, as I have the past two years. I'm holding out a little, still hoping I might make some friends here who I could share the holiday with. But if I'm not lucky, I'm pretty sure it'll be a traditional Middelburg Thanksgiving, once again.

A Glimpse of Life in Leiden

2009-09-11T01:39:00.002+02:00

This morning, as I was walking into town and noticing the little things that are becoming more and more familiar to me, I started thinking about the phrase, “A picture is worth a thousand words.”

What a stupid phrase! Sure, it works for some things, but only if those things can’t be explained in less than a thousand words.

I could take one picture of my new life and post it here, or I could write a thousand words about my new life here. And the words would be much more valuable and descriptive.

So I decided to try writing a thousand words about me in Leiden.

I live in a little house on the Groenesteeg. It’s a small bike street that leads off of the Hooigracht, one of the streets marking off the center of the city. I have four housemates, all girls, none of whom I know. I’ve met each of them once or twice, but they’re never in the kitchen at the same time as me.

My room is halfway between the ground floor and the first floor. I have a big window, and everyone’s heads can look in just at the bottom of it. I need to buy some of those privacy stickers that blur the window.

It’s a small-ish room, with a built-in table and shelves. Now that I have a bed, it’s more or less home, though I still need to hang pictures and assign everything to a specific place.

Around the corner from me, on the Hooigracht, is an organic food store. They’re hiring for part-time workers to start this month, but I can’t work there. One employee asked me, during my last transaction, if I could understand him. If they think I don’t understand simple customer-employee interaction, there’s no way they’ll ever hire me.

Keep walking, past the Belgian pub and the University housing for international students, and you come to the Lange Rijn. Turn right and walk along the canal for the equivalent of one city block, and you get to the first of three bridges. The first bridge is mainly a big street bridge, it doesn’t really feel like a bridge when you’re on it. The next bridge is a pedestrian and bicycling bridge. It’s made of wooden planks, and the metal railings are painted white and hung with flower boxes, and it is further decorated with the bikes that are locked along the railing. The third bridge is a market bridge, sort of like the bridge over the Rialto in Venice, only not as amazing.

On the right side of the canal – my side of the canal – there are some shops and bakeries, and then, after the third bridge, pubs. On the left side of the canal, there are lots of cafes – all bad or mediocre. (My brother agrees with me on that.)

On Wednesdays and Saturdays, market is held here. When I came to Leiden with Annarita last February, we walked along this canal and looked at the market, how could I have known that this would one day be my neighborhood?

I turn left at the third bridge and walk past the Stadhuis, or City Hall, to get to my classes, which are mostly held in the Lipsius Building. If I walk straight along the canal, I come to the V&D Department store (they have a department store here!). Cross back to the right side of the canal and walk up an alley, I arrive at Harlemmerstraat, the main shopping street in Leiden. (Easier to pronounce than Lange Delft, the shopping street in Middelburg.)

Last night I went for a drink at the Meneer Jan with a classmate from the Roosevelt Academy who I ran into for the first time. We meant to meet people in her literature department, but didn’t. Then we went to the Einstein, where they have international student drinks every Wednesday, but I only recognized one person and she was speaking her native language with a group of fellow countrymen so I didn’t say hello. (Man, RA really had it figured out, with the English-only rule!)

The walk to my classes is nice, a little longer than I am used to, and very busy. There are so many people here, so many more than I am used to! And still, the disenchanted students who have been here for three years already complain and go to Amsterdam and the Hague when they want to have a good time. To me, Leiden is a metropolis. Riding my bike is a scary undertaking, completed only three times.

Classes are interesting, although so far, not especially stimulating. And, when I look at the screen with the class directory, I get excited at the names of courses like, “The World According to Beowulf”, which are no longer in my field. On the other hand, things like New Media and Society will be interesting, though I think I am a traditionalist and will get annoyed/depressed about books. Digital Media and Technology will surely be a good and rather useful course, in which I get to learn about things like HTML and TEI encoding. (I’d never even heard of TEI before class on Thursday, and now I’m supposed to work on encoding 100-year-old letters [or older?] in TEI for homework.)

The grading is strange; I have to get used to the Dutch grading system (on a scale of 1-10, 6 being a pass, so actually not all that different from the American system). My courses mainly have two graded components: a paper and an exam, each worth 50% of the grade. In one class I only have a take home exam and one thousand-word paper. (I’m pretty sure I couldn’t just take a picture instead…) I wonder how the difficult the assignments and reading will be in the meantime?

So, here it is, one thousand words about my new life. It’s still not very exciting, but then, it’s only been one week. I’ll just be patient.

Pictures will come later.

The Netherlands, Take Two

2009-09-06T16:43:00.003+02:00

I've just about complete my move. I used to live in Zeeland, now I live in Zuid-Holland. I've left Middelburg for Leiden.

After graduating from the Roosevelt Academy, I was accepted to do a one-year masters in Book & Digital Media Studies. The program starts tomorrow.

The last time I posted I was still in Portland - quite a while ago. I can say that it was very, very hard to leave this time, easily the saddest goodbye since I left for six months in France when I was 15. This summer in Portland, something happened. I've always loved my hometown, but never minded leaving it before now. Now, there is no where I would rather be (that includes Leiden).

Hopefully that will change a little over the next year, because I like to be happy wherever I am!

A lot has happened since Portland. In sum, I attended, volunteered at, and presented a paper at the 2009 PALA Conference in the last week of July. My paper - on Catherine Sanderson's blog, Petite Anglaise, and her book of the same name - received a lot of interest, enthusiasm, and generally the response was very positive. The same went for the other undergraduate presenters, my friends Isabelle and Annemijn.

It was also a great experience for bonding with other classmates, older and younger, as well as teachers. I met a lot of interesting students from other schools as well, and actually lost the attitude I always had regarding Ph.D.s. You know, that I would never get one.

Now it's sort of like a very slight possibility at some point far in the future.

After the conference, I spent a week bumming around Middelburg, crashing in different rooms of different houses with different friends, and looking for a room in Leiden. I found one at the end of that week, but couldn't move in until August 31.

The following week, my brother arrived with his friend Taavi, from Estonia, and Taavi's sister Miina. They had been traveling around Europe, mainly in Germany, France, and Spain. We had a busy week, going to Brussels, Gent, and Amsterdam, and carting most of my belongings up to a garage in Voorburg, near the Hague.

Taavi and Miina left a week later, and after a few days together in Middelburg, Simon and I went to Voorburg to stay with some family friends. We went go-karting, and I spent most of the rest of the time in Leiden, attending the international student Introduction Days. Which were not extremely stimulating, though fun.

That weekend - last weekend - we went to Apeldoorn and stayed with friends, who took us to the Kroller-Muller museum. This was a really amazing experience; I think I may have been there once before, when I was nine, but that was a long time ago. Now I recognized many Fernand Leger pieces, and after my Dutch presentation last fall, I know a lot more about Piet Mondriaan and Jan Toorop - though I hadn't heard of Toorop's daughter Charley, whose work I really liked. And then, of course, there is the huge collection of van Gogh paintings, which was quite breathtaking.

Monday we moved my things into my room in Leiden, and spent the week together doing everything from carrying furniture and running boring errands, to dinner at Marius in Amsterdam and visiting friends in Utrecht.

Finally, on Friday, we went down to Middelburg to spend the night. I still had some things to gather, and Simon was flying out of Brussels on Saturday, and Middelburg is much closer than Leiden. Friday night we went out for really good fries with my housemates and had a lot of fun.

Simon and I got up at 5 on Saturday so Simon could catch the 6:21 train with time to spare. It was really sad to see him leave, he had become such a regular presence after three weeks, and it was so nice to have him here while I was making the transition from Middelburg to Leiden.

But now he's gone, just in time for me to begin my program. I start tomorrow.

Portland with a Deadline

2009-07-20T08:58:00.005+02:00

My last week in Portland started on Saturday, so my family is kicking things into overdrive. As usual, we have an end-of-visit to-do list, and it involves everything from breakfast to baseball to lunch to reading to visiting to dinner to movies to drinks...

Just your usual Portland activities.

Today began bright and early (well, if you consider 9 a.m. to be bright and early) with breakfast at Broder. (Broder is always on my end-of-visit to-do list. I go almost every time I'm here.) It's a Scandinavian restaurant, that also serves lunch, not to mention a mean Bloody Mary. I had a scramble with bacon and other goodies such as a side of potato pancakes and walnut toast, with coffee and orange juice. It doesn't get much better than that.

We had summer pudding for lunch, leftover from last night's get together for me to say goodbye to family friends (and hello to those that I hadn't seen yet!). Then we headed down to PGE Park for one last ball game. The Beavers lost to the Salt Lake Bees, 4-2, but the 2 runs were scored on a home run in the bottom of the ninth, so it was not without dramatic flair.

The Beavers don't play great ball, but they're not hopeless. I think a little more fan enthusiasm would boost team morale & will to win. And anyway, nothing beats a sunny Sunday afternoon at the ballpark.

On the way out, I picked up a cap at the souvenir store. I used to think that if I was ever going to wear a baseball cap, it would be a Red Sox cap. But they're just so handy for that windy, rainy weather that you get in fall in the Netherlands, I'm pretty sure they'll both see plenty of... well, not daylight. They'll both get plenty of exposure, anyway.

Dinner was sausages (a gift from friends) with grilled peppers, chard (some of it from the garden), and thin-baked potatoes. One of my favorite kinds of meals. We ate in the backyard, under the grape arbor.

In the evening, my parents and I met up with another parent-daughter group, the purpose being to introduce us girls to another good place to have a drink in Portland. (It's been a trend, ever since we turned 21, for our mothers and sometimes fathers as well to broaden our knowledge of the Portland drink scene whenever we come home.) Tonight it was the Secret Society, a really great little place with an old-fashioned yet hip feel. I had a green flash - white rum, chartreuse and lime juice. (There may have been something else but I've forgotten.)

Then home again, to watch "Leverage" with my mother and sister. It takes place in Boston, where we lived for a year and is a city we love, but it's filmed here in Portland, so what could be a more perfect way to end a Portland day?

Save the Beavers!

2009-07-19T12:02:00.002+02:00

Baseball, as you know, is a consuming passion of mine.

When I'm faced with the possibility of losing Portland's baseball team, the Beavers, to make room for Major League Soccer, I find it hard to think about much else, and even harder to write about it.

So, I've written about baseball again, and am directing you once more to my other blog, Baseball Without Borders.

If you're not a baseball fan, I hope you at least understand my passion and enthusiasm in terms of something that you love and enjoy - whether it be soccer or basketball, dinosaurs or photography, mysteries or thrillers. A hobby or passion that, if it was lost or taken away from you, its absence would break your heart.

If you can imagine that, then I hope you will sign this petition to keep America's National Pastime in Portland.

Posts

2009-07-14T08:46:00.001+02:00

Because it's the All-Star Break and I'm attending events for the Minor League All-Star Game, being held here in Portland this summer, I've posted over here the last couple days.

Big City

2009-06-28T20:30:00.007+02:00

View of Portland taken winter 2006-7, during a lot of growth and development.

I used to be a Big-city girl, or thought I was. Then I went to Middelburg, and now big cities... scare me a little.

My sister keeps laughing at me, for example, because I can't remember how to jaywalk. I encountered maybe .5 traffic lights on an average day in Middelburg. Actually, less, because they only time I had to cross a street that had a traffic light was on my way to the library or the train station, and I did that less than once a week last semester.I'm never used to traffic when I come home for vacation.

But it's even worse now, because Portland is bigger than ever.

I mean, really. Portland used to be a small-big city. Now that's changing, and it's becoming... a big city. According to wikipedia (not the most reliable resource, I know, but I'm too lazy to do the proper research right now), the city is closing in on 600,000 residents, and the metro area as over 2 million. It's the 23rd largest metro area in the United States. (Still wikipedia. Sorry.)

But the numbers wouldn't mean much if they weren't so apparent on the street.

Taking the interstate MAX home from Overlook Park to the Rose Quarter at 1 pm on a week day, the train was pretty full. I mean, there were places to sit, but far fewer than I would ever expect on that line.

Every time I've taken MAX downtown from NE 7th, it's been hard to find a seat. No matter if it is day or night, no matter if it's weekday or weekend, those things are packed.

Which is good. Portland is green. People take public transport.

But seriously! When I was in high school, you could take the MAX anytime outside of rush hour (and maybe weekends) and there would be plenty of free space.

And then, on Friday, my family drove out to Beaverton to meet my Dad at his work and have a picnic.

A lunch picnic, mind you. This was not Friday rush hour; this was Friday at about noon. And the freeway was already packed. It wasn't a traffic jam, but it felt like after the next corner... or the next one... it might slow to stop-and-go. It was insane.

The most concrete proof, however, of this population growth came yesterday. We drove out the Historic Columbia River Highway to Hood River, to show my second cousin Misa, visiting from the Czech Republic, the stunning natural beauty of the region. On the way back, we planned to stop at Multnomah Falls....

...and couldn't.

Because there were too many people.

As in, ZERO parking places.

A little further on, we were lucky to grab one of two available spaces at the lesser-known Wahkeena Falls instead, but really. There were only two.

Granted, it was a summer Saturday. But that never used to be a problem.

Catch-up & Conversation

2009-06-25T01:06:00.003+02:00

I have slacked off, unsurprisingly, on the blogging in the past couple of months. As is generally true, it was not completely without good reason. School finals, then short trips to Amsterdam for shopping and rugby with friends, then the parents and grandparents came to town. Graduation week came, and flew by - truly one of the most bittersweet experiences of my life so far - and before you knew it, the graduation ceremony had ended, dinner with the family was over, and it was time to try to pack up what seemed to be a whole life.

The week after graduation I took a trip through the Netherlands - mainly the northern regions, such as Drenthe, Groningen, Noord-Holland, and a little time in Overijssel, Gelderland and Utrecht. We toured pancake restaurants for an article my mother was writing and ate them until pancakes, apples, and bacon were coming out our ears.

Then the padres left and I had one week to get rid of all of my furniture, find a home for a huge number of books, strip and clean my room bare before returning to Portland.

And that is where you now find me. It's already been a week and a half, and although I was really looking forward to this trip (it being two years since I experienced a hot summer), it turns out I was not entirely prepared for certain other aspects of Portland:

1. Jaywalking is not widely done in the Netherlands. It's especially not common in Middelburg, where there are hardly any streets that actually have stoplights, and if a car is coming you can't be sure it will stop for you, so I always wait. Here, however, I have been stranded on the sidewalk multiple times while my 17-year-old sister seemingly steps out into traffic on a regular basis.

2. The weather - I just said I was looking forward to the heat, but it barely hit 75 for a few days in Middelburg last July. I'm not used to this kind of heat. And it's not even 80 degrees out there.

3. Transportation - Portland is a biking city, but the cars scare me, and even though I feel like a total dork, I'm terrified of taking a bike without a helmet. The streetcars are much more crowded than I remember, and I haven't driven in about two years. It's a jungle out there.

4. Conversation - WOW, do people here like to talk. Out for coffee with a friend at a bakery: "Hey, I haven't seen your mom lately! Or you, for that matter. How are you?" In the stores: "That top is so cute, isn't it? Have you seen this one? And the solid prints are only seven dollars. I always think it makes a nice outfit with those shorts over there." At the grocery store: "It's all right, we're open till 9. I won't start rushing you till 8:55. You got it? Okay, let's see... yup, you got the right change! Turns out you can count. The scary thing is, I can't. Oh! So maybe you didn't get it right! Now we'll never know.. enjoy the rest of your day!" At the used clothes store: "Whatcha up to today? Oh? That'll be fun. Yeah, there's a lot to do down here. Have you been to _____? How about ____? You should definitely check that out." On the streetcar: "I love your skirt. It makes me want to travel again. The funny thing is, I've been to all those places... Mexico - I traveled all over Central America, Mexico, Honduras, Costa Rica... Haven't done the Sahara, though, funny that's on there". Or, also on the street car: "Beautiful weather, isn't it? Enjoy it! Enjoy your day in the sun!"

And I could go on.

But I think you get the picture: Portlanders are friendly.

I knew that. I just wasn't expecting that.

Second Sight

2009-05-09T09:16:00.019+02:00

This entry has been bouncing around in my head since mid-March. I think it's time I finally posted it.

There are two things that have made me look at Middelburg in a different way this semester.

The first is simply that it's my last semester at RA, and therefore in Middelburg. I'm pretty broken up about it. A lot of my friends just laugh about how excited they are to get away. I'm excited too, and looking forward to living in a big city again, (whichever one it might be!) but I'm really going to miss Middelburg. So I've been noticing little things, buildings and streets and such, that I never noticed in the last two and a half years.

The second reason is, in the end of February, I went to have my eyes checked, thinking I might need glasses; the people at Pearle Opticiens freaked out and told me I need to see a doctor or I could go blind.

I think what they were trying to say is that it looked like I might have glaucoma. I went to the optometrist and he said I was fine (though I did need glasses).

So, if you ever have to get your eyes checked in the Netherlands... maybe don't go to Pearle.

Two or three weeks later, they told the same thing to another RA student, and her numbers weren't even as high as mine.

Anyway, a scare like that is enough to make you look at things in a different way. So I started taking more pictures of things that I love and things that I'll miss and things that I've never noticed before. Here are some of these photos.

These trees are so pretty in late February. They have a pretty greenish tint to them and look like something from Dr Seuss.

The Lange Jan tower peeking out above the buildings

The van de Perre House, the 16th-century home of some wealthy merchants, which I pass on my way to school (and just about anywhere else) every day.

Which, coincidentally, is on one of my favorite streets, right behind my house.
I only realized how much I love this street this semester.

Looking down the other direction, the way I walk to school. This street feels somehow "French" to me. I think the "CAESUUR" sign reminds me of the town of Caen in Normandy... dunno.

I walk this way every day and never noticed all the windows.

Look how incredibly ugly this building is! One day I was walking home from class and saw this for the first time. I stood there, astounded, wondering how I could have missed it for so many years. It's so ugly it's almost beautiful, especially among all of the truly beautiful old buildings of Middelburg. The crooked shades perfect the look.

Dutch light and windmills

Funky, funky buildings in Vlissingen - and the beach

And, a series of pictures of amazing Dutch light... sorry, they're a little blurry, I was so excited I couldn't keep still.

Classic Covers

2009-05-03T21:45:00.007+02:00

Or perhaps I should title this, "Covers of Classics". Because their covers are anything but classic.

There are lots of classics of children's literature that I love, and re-read, over and over again. I know I've mentioned Betsy-Tacy multiple times already. (At the moment, I'm supposed to be preparing a presentation on the autobiographical nature of the series. Ranting about the cover designs, though, is even more fun.)

Other favorites include the Little House Series (which grow in my estimation every time a Dutch friend of mine acts bored at the slightest mention of the books - how can anybody hate them so?), Little Women, and the Lois Lenski books (although I haven't re-read many of those) among others.

When the new Betsy-Tacy editions came out in 2000, I was very disappointed with the covers. The Diane Goode ones were so cute and perfect, continuing the tradition that Lenski and Vera Neville began, with lovely, vague illustrations that allowed the reader to hold onto their unique mental image of the characters. The new covers were anything but vague, and the only possible improvement can be to the last two books, which were never done by Goode. They have that fake-photograph type of illustration that is rarely any good.

But I must admit, the fake-photograph is better than the actual photograph. I recently saw the newer Little House books and shuddered. On the cover of These Happy Golden Years, Almanzo looks like a gothic 15-year-old (he should be 27 or so), and Laura like his flirtatious girlfriend. Can you imagine her latching onto him like that on one of their evening buggy rides? I don't think so.

To whom are they marketing these editions? Is this the way the publishing houses try to catch the attention of a generation that was raised on television?

Does that mean illustrations are on the way out, too?

I'm looking forward to the new Betsy-Tacy editions, however. I don't love the idea of the last six books being released in paired bindings - Heaven to Betsy and Betsy in Spite of Herself in one volume, etc - but the covers are more old-fashioned and sweet again, and they're in affordable, long-lasting hardback, which makes it all so much nicer. And I need hardback - my copy of Betsy and Joe is about to fall to pieces.

I'm such a traditionalist. I sometimes wonder how I can ever be expected to fit in in this era...

Sense & Sensibility (No time to come up with something creative!)

2009-04-21T15:05:00.011+02:00

When I was pretty young - I would have been about 8 - my mom took me to see "Sense and Sensibility", with Emma Thompson and Alan Rickman and Kate Winslet. I think we went with Beth and Devin, another mother-daughter pair who were always and continue to be good friends.

I remember three things from that movie: Edward Ferrars helping Elinor Dashwood with her shawl in the beginning, the red military coats at the wedding at the end, and the ceiling tile that fell from the ceiling, somewhere in between.

Years later, when I graduated from high school, I read the book. It was perfect to take to work, because the short chapters each took just under ten minutes to read, so I read one chapter in each of my 10-minute breaks and three chapters on my half-hour lunch break.

It was an intense reading experience. I related some of the characters in the book to customers in the cafe. I was consumed by Elinor, who is all sense, and yet, even though she masks her feelings from the world, her pain permeates every page of the book. And poor Colonel Brandon - I sympathized with him. He was so sweet, and so far out of luck.

It was the perfect read for Portland in August, to escape into on breaks, and for the change I was experiencing - I had just graduated from high school, Torrefazione was about to close, and things would be different. Sense and Sensibility seemed to represent the possible pleasantries that could result from change.

I watched the film again and loved it. I watched it again, and again, and now I own it. (My favorite scene is definitely when Marianne is ill and Brandon says, "Give me an occupation, Miss Dashwood, or I shall run mad." Goosebumps. Every time.)

But now I'm watching the 2008 mini-series, and each episode lowers my opinion. I just finished the second episode and am very displeased with the Brandon-Willoughby relations. What is this, pitting them against each other from the beginning? Willoughby is NOT Wickham, people! Different character, different book! And why does Anne Steele have a lisp and act like a boy-crazy teenager from the 21st century? Oh, I hate it when people feel the need to over-dramatize the works of Jane Austen (don't get me started on the 2005 "Pride & Prejudice" - just thinking about it makes my blood pressure rise).

French Flashback

2009-04-16T14:24:00.007+02:00

View from the apartment in Nice

My French class is very strange this year. Strange, because it is unlike any language class I have ever taken. I have finally jumped all of the dull old grammar hurdles, and am now taking what is essentially French literature, with almost no focus on grammar.

Well, the teacher corrects any mistakes, and there was one short grammar test, but that's it.

Everything else is like the French classes I took when I was on exchange in Nice.

Oh, yeah, except that here we're high up in the tower of RA's Franklin Building, not in one of the basement rooms of the Cours Albert Camus. (Huh - interesting to think I've taken classes in both a medieval city hall and a former villa just off the Promenade des Anglais, complete with the original ceiling moldings.) And usually, there is rain beating against the windows, not hot Mediterranean sun.

But physical differences aside, I get flashbacks all the time in that class.

The first day, the teacher started lecturing on French history, and I was elated - I didn't care too much about the subject, but it was like being in Seconde again, trying to follow the teacher's dictations, and copying the notes of the girl next to me most of the time as I couldn't keep up (later, when I spoke French, I found that she was terrible at writing her own language so I have no idea what most of my early class notes are supposed to say).

My teacher here is always reminding us to pay attention to l'ortographe, which brings back memories of that fancy, complicated paper, with each line divided by four paler lines, to indicate how high the staff of a 'd' or 'l' should go ('d's, for your information, only go to the second line, while 'l's go to the third).

When we mention Baudelaire's "Le Spleen de Paris", I remember the formidable headmistress standing at the head of the 1er classroom, asking if anyone knew what a spleen was. Then I wish I had paid much more attention in my French classes, which I dismissed about as easily as I dismissed economics and history. Because - well, what about Baudelaire's "Spleen de Paris"?

The main difference, unfortunately, is that I am actually getting graded for my work in this French course.

This is a bit of a plus in the case of things like Baudelaire, because I actually have to pay attention.

More of a curse, though, when it comes to having to pay close attention to dictations and l'orthgraphe. Especially l'orthographe. Here I feel an inescapable American-ness: my hand-writing is terrible, and no one ever taught us any better in school. To be fair, we had italics books in 1st grade, but that stuff was ug-lee, and I never used that again. I learned it better when I lived in France, but the paper is thicker there, and it has those handy lines to guide you, while here the ink just sinks through to the other side and your 'd's and 'l's are all the same height.

Overall, I have mixed feelings about the class. The emphasis on neat handwriting does not apply to the rest of RA, and seems very out-of-place. The fact that it takes place in the language lab, way up in the Franklin Tower, gives it a fairy-tale aspect. Plus, we use a different language, so entering and exiting the room is a little like passing through to a different dimension.

More realistically though, it's just too much. We started with the 17th century and are going right through to the 20th. We read excerpts, excerpts, excerpts, and work on writing commentaires - highly stylized French analyses of texts. While we're supposed to read three books on our own, we don't all read and discuss any complete book, or even story, in class.

But I love the memories it revives for me.

Multi-Culti Party

2009-04-15T02:42:00.006+02:00

It's a little redundant to say it again, but: Tonight was the multi-culti party.

I wasn't really feeling it at first, but after spending 7.50 on costume stuff (just jewelry that I can and will use again), I really didn't want to back out. Plus, in the back of my head, I kept thinking, "This is your last RA party..." Of course, there will be the Graduation Gala, and the end of semester party, but most people will be gone for those. It will just be the graduating class.

I went as a Native American. The evening started at a friend's house, where we all got dressed, and did over-the-top, night-put makeup, and listened to bad music, talked and joked. My friends went in much more authentic get-ups - the Kenyan Maasai tribe, Indian saris and children's clothes actually acquired in India, etc. I felt very un-PC.

The party took place at Schutterschof, which we lovingly (not) refer to as Schutters. This was the first RA party I had been to since August (excluding the Christmas Gala, which took place in Vlissingen), and I was surprised at how different it all was. Granted, the last party had a very different atmosphere. It was in the introduction week, before the semester had begun, with a theme of "Anything But Clothes". My sister was visiting, and we had spent the day shopping for costumes (we went with clothing hampers that looked like animals) and having coffee with my friends. It was summer, and warm, and somehow that really supports the party atmosphere.

Now it's April, there's barely a month left in the semester, and people are stressed. There were very few people from our year in attendance, and I soon found myself reminiscing about my first year, and my introduction week. The party was themed, "Pimp My Style". none of my new friends knew what that meant, or what we were supposed to wear, so I went with a sequin and velour black top and my favorite kitten heels. This was back when I was good friends with people like G and S and A, who has since left RA and now studies in Florida.

Very different times.

I turned around to order a beer and suddenly... there he was. A! Standing at the bar, with two other friends who used to be closer but I don't spend as much time with them anymore. He's good, and graduates in November, and it was very nice to see him again - although of course very different from the old days.

I met an exchange student from Iowa who was wearing a Red Sox hat. Our facebook friendship is now pending.

All in all, a great last party at RA.

Oh, the memories. These last months might just kill me.

Betsy-Gracie

2009-04-04T12:44:00.011+02:00

I am a huge fan of Betsy-Tacy books.

It's a series of books based on the true life (well, childhood and coming-of-age) of the author, Maud Hart Lovelace, growing up in small-town Minnesota at the turn of the century. The first book, Betsy-Tacy, begins when almost-5-year-old Betsy (based on Maud) becomes friends with actual 5-year-old Tacy (fictional counterpart of her friend Bick). In book 2, Betsy-Tacy and Tib, the close pair of friends become a trio. There are ten books in all, the last being Betsy's Wedding, which takes place about 20 years later.

I liked these books as a kid, and I rediscovered them when I was 15-16, living in Nice, France. I was very homesick, and one day I realized I had never read the 9th book - Betsy and the Great World. When I was a kid, I started it, but I stopped reading it because Betsy was traveling through Europe, but Tacy and Tib weren't with her.

It was like getting a Christmas or birthday present that someone had forgotten to give you. No, it was better than that. It was almost like when my friend Anne was looking through my CDs and found a Nat King Cole album that I had never opened, but put on the shelf and forgotten about. (I had bought it with two others, and in my excitement for the others, I had never even opened the Nat King Cole CD.) No, it was even better than that.

I know! It was like it would be if someone discovered a seventh complete novel by Jane Austen. That's how I felt.

Anyway, I decided to order it. What better time to read about a young woman living in Europe than when you, yourself, are a young woman living in Europe? While I was at it, I thought I might as well order the 4 high school books, which I probably hadn't read since I was 9 or so.

I waited and waited, and finally, my package came. Being the thorough person that I am, I started at the beginning, with Heaven to Betsy (the 5th book). And when I finished that one , I picked up Betsy in Spite of Herself, then Betsy Was a Junior, and then Betsy and Joe, and then, finally, Betsy and the Great World.

I read those books in a week. I read one each day. I remember, I tried to pace myself with the last one. Since I had never read it before, I managed to stretch out the reading of this particular book of juvenile fiction, appropriate for Ages 8 and up, over two days.

It must have been so hard to force myself to sleep that Friday night, and so exciting to wake up the next morning. I wonder if I reached for it the minute I opened my eyes, and stayed in my bed in the loft for however long it took to finish it. Or, maybe I stretched it out - got up, took a shower, ate breakfast... no, I probably didn't make it through breakfast!

I take Betsy and the Great World with me everywhere. I took it to the Dominican Republic, and it was the one book I couldn't, or wouldn't, leave behind for the school library. I have 6 Betsy-Tacy books here, and have read them all multiple times in the last 2.5 years.

I was thinking about them again this week because yesterday was my 22nd birthday, and I always remember the description of Betsy's 22nd birthday from The Great World:

"Since leaving Munich she had had her twenty-second birthday. A strange birthday with no cake or presents, just the wine of traveling alone... seeing strange places, meeting new people, struggling with a foreign language!" (Maud Hart Lovelace, pg. 218)

Well, my birthday wasn't alone, and I made myself a cake (yellow with chocolate frosting), and several of my friends gave me presents.

My parents gave me a present too - I got this card in the mail from the Betsy-Tacy Society.

"Dear Grace,
A gift of $100 was given in your honor by your mother. This gift will be used to pay the mortgage on Betsy's House."

There will be a plaque with my name on it in the house! It is the perfect present for someone in my situation - moving soon, far from being settled, and with little need or use for stuff. THANKS, MOM & DAD!

Oh, and if anybody else ever wants to get me a present...

Back to School, Take Two

2009-03-23T21:50:00.004+01:00

Spring break ended this morning, and with it ended the beautiful springtime weather.

Yes, gone are the days of sun, friends, and leisure, like Saturday's walk on the Vlissingen boardwalk with friends, after a three-course meal, courtesy of Eva. It's back to work at RA, and all of the unpleasantness that is a semester of subjects that are unrelated to your major.

As a nice transition back into the semester, I let myself sleep in this morning, waking up hazily after a funny dream (touring New York with my mother, then stopping at a chocolate place before heading to Paris, despite my worrying about missing yet another literature class). I might want to allow myself such special treatment every Monday morning for the rest of the semester.

The thing I really have to focus on is being done with homework by 8 pm. It is absolutely doable, and if I'm stuck working long after 8 it makes me miserable. I've been pretty good at that this semester, so the task now is to just keep that going.

One year ago today, I was in Dublin, enjoying above-average caffe lattes, savoring the big-city atmosphere, soaking up rich literary history and Irish stew. That was a good trip. I'll be thinking of that for the next few days as I make it through what is essentially a second week of midterms.

Only seven weeks until I'm done with school and nine until graduation.

Lente is Leuk

2009-03-19T13:36:00.003+01:00

Last week, someone put a sign in a window I pass on my way to school every day:

Yes, spring is nice, and fun, and pretty, and all of those things that the Dutch word "leuk" stands for. And it's coming.

Appropriately, the beginning of this week of spring break began with the first two back-to-back days of spring. The temperature has been a bit warmer, and combined with all of that sun, it feels nearly summery.

Of course, it's still chilly out, and sometimes you need a winter coat - but the sun is always there. I'm looking out for a blossoming tree that I can tie my red and white spring bracelet to, as per the Bulgarian tradition of Martenitza. And if I can find a sunny bench, out of the wind, it's almost like last summer when I sat by the canals and read.

The downside to this jittery springtime bug is that it is impossible to get any work done. Yes, it is vacation, but it feels like summer. Sunday I went for a run with a friend and then we sat in her room and watched really, really bad TV all day, ignoring the looming papers and exams that some teachers had not been nice enough to assign before the break.

But for now it feels like summer, so we are living for the moment. Or procrastinating - whichever way you prefer to see it.

Saturday

2009-03-08T17:59:00.007+01:00

It's very unoriginal, but I can't help loving Saturdays. It's an escape from the week, and anything else; you have no obligations, and you can kid yourself that it's okay not to do any homework for just one day.

Yesterday was a particularly good one, beginning as it did with a baseball game - my first baseball game of 2009! When I got up, I saw that Korea was playing Japan, so I watched a good 4 innings and rooted for Japan. (Who won, and not in a small way.)

Then I walked to the library with a housemate/friend to pick up books for my French presentation (the library is closed on Sunday and Monday, so you can't completely neglect schoolwork on Saturday.) He went to the grocery store afterward, but I went to the town center to get bread and some vegetables at market for dinner, a green bean and mushroom dish out of Madhur Jaffrey's Quick and Easy Indian Cooking.

Once back home, I asked a friend of mine if she wanted to join me for dinner and the baseball game between the Netherlands and the Dominican Republic. She's traveled in India, is Dutch, and I'm attempting to make a baseball fan out of her, so she was the perfect candidate. (Also simply because she is a nice person who is curious and interested in a lot of things - necessary when looking for someone to watch the game with in a country like the Netherlands!) She accepted, but wanted to be back home by 8.15 to watch speed-skating.

Of course, later I still had to run to the grocery store to pick up rice, but I took my camera and finally got around to filming a bike ride through Middelburg - something I've been meaning to do for a long time now.

At 6.15 I started cooking, at 6.45 the kitchen smelled really nice, and at 6.55 my friend arrived. We dished the vegetables out over rice and went to my room, where we settled in on the couch and I logged on to watch the game.

That's when I realized, with shock, that in my extreme excitement for the matchup, I had miscalculated the time, and we had missed the first two hours of the game.

On the other hand, the Netherlands were winning 3-2 - shocking! - Pedro Martinez, my favorite baseball player of all time, was pitching the middle innings for the DR, and Anne would get to see the final innings instead of only the beginners.

Pedro pitched very well, and the Dutch fielding was impressive. The score remained the same, though not without some drama, and the Dutch catcher finally revealed his secret weapon: an arm like a canon, which he loaded on an unsuspecting Willy Taveras on his way to third base in the bottom of the 9th.

And just like that, the Netherlands upset the Dominican Republic. What can I say, except "unbelievable"?

The food was good, the game was good, life was good. Afterwards, I skyped an old friend in the Dominican who I hadn't talked to in a year or two, and caught up on the people and places I knew. It sounds like when I finally make it back to La Isleta, it may look very different.

Later still, a skype with my brother and sister in Portland, and then I slipped into bed, very late. Yes, the perfect Saturday.

Too bad I had to pay for it today.

In Too Steep

2009-02-22T15:19:00.005+01:00

Before I finally get started on my homework, I always have to brew myself a big pot (or thermos) of tea. (Sometimes I also have to write a blog post, to, um, get in the mood, but that's another story...) I drink a lot of tea. Much more than water. More than coffee. I always have a pot of tea at the ready, because it's comforting, warm, and tastes nice.

But, as with most other edible products, I have a quality threshold. A threshold that is rarely passed in the Netherlands.

Due to its extensive trade history, the East India Company, its connection with Indonesia, and all of that, the Netherlands would have a rather remarkable tea tradition.

Well. It doesn't.

If you order a cup of tea at most cafes, you will get a cup of hot - but not boiling - water and a dish of tea bags. The majority of the selection is usually herbal, with one or two Early Greys or English Breakfasts. Nothing to write home about, and hardly worth the minimum 1.50 you will be charged for it.

In the nicer cafes, the sorts of places you would also trust for a cup of coffee, you can count on a better quality and selection of tea: Japanese Sencha, Earl Grey, Lady Grey, Assam, Oolong, Lapsang Souchang, etc. They are generally not tea bags, but loose tealeaves that are dosed into tea bags as ordered or served in cafetieres.

And when you go to a friend's house, you never know what to expect. Usually there's a simple black tea of some sort (always my preference), but there can be other strange options. The selection at the Albert Heijn is wide and strikes me as increasingly unusual.

Once, a friend offered to share her teabag with me in the break room: honey. I have seen melon tea at a friend's house, blueberry tea at the grocery store, and at work, strawberry tea was always very popular.

How do you make tea leaves out of a melon? With strawberry and I suppose possibly even blueberry, tea could be made with the leaves and blossoms of the plant. But with the melon? Why not just heat up some artificially flavored melon juice?

And honey - what is the point of somehow making a sort of powder that is flavored like honey, when you could just take a spoonful of honey and let it dissolve in your hot water?

And caramel tea? How does that work, exactly, because caramel is simply caramelized sugar, and the problems I have with this concept are the same as those I have with honey tea. Surely you could just stir a spoonful of caramel sauce into your cup, or let some brown sugar dissolve into your water.

Then there are those flavors that just seem so unlikely - such as banana/vanilla/pineapple tea. I can't help but be amused by these flavor options. Of course, such outlandish flavors must be available all over the U.S. and many other countries as well as the Netherlands, but I never encounter them there.

I still ask my parents to send tea from home whenever possible. I forgot to bring some back with me this time, but some day soon I hope to receive a package containing my stock of earl grey, Lapsang, darjeeling, and black currant tea. My tea canisters are looking pathetically low.

The Exchange Legacy

2009-02-21T18:42:00.015+01:00

During my senior year of high school, my family hosted an exchange student from Italy: Annarita. This is something I recommend to everybody, just as strongly as I recommend actually going on exchange - although I don't mention it as much. You get to share and learn, and of course you disagree and there are hard times but in the end everybody is usually a better person for it.

This week, Annarita came to visit me in Middelburg - the first time we had seen each other since she left Portland in June 2005.

I met her at Schiphol, and it was almost immediately clear that neither of us had actually changed all that much. Despite my exchange to the Dominican Republic and the last few years in the Netherlands, and even though Annarita has studied at universities in both Italy and England, we are both more or less the same as we were at 17. Perhaps slightly more mature.

But only very slightly.

We spent Wednesday afternoon walking around Leiden, which I hope to one day call home (although in these last months in Middelburg, I am really beginning to dread the day I catch the intercity train out of Middelburg and leave for good, never to return except as a visitor). It was a beautiful, sunny day, and Leiden, although not the most beautiful Dutch city, has some very nice views, buildings, canals, and windmills.

Thursday was spent around Middelburg - a good cup of coffee at Ko D'oooooooor, a walk to the Oostkerk, the library, and the nice used bookstore, and stopping for a tasty tosti and cup of coffee at St John's Coffee House. Then to market to buy a few things for the house dinner, a pack of the obligatory stroopwafels (if there is one thing you HAVE to eat when you come to the Netherlands, that's it - herring is a close second, but stroopwafels get top priority), and general browsing.

Thursday night found us at the student bar, enjoying Annarita's favorite beer (Heineken) and RA society.

Friday I spent in school, and then a cup of tea at Honeypie, dinner at the Pannenkoekenhuis with some of my housemates, and a night out with some friends at Schutterschof.

Today was, sadly, her last day - how quickly three days go! - and we spent it having coffee and appelgebak at Ko D'oooooooor, walking along the canal, and visiting the Abbey. We stopped for a bakje of the best frieten in Middelburg, picked up a souvenir pack of stroopwafels for Annarita to take back home, and waved goodbye from the platform of the Middelburg station and the 3 o'clock intercity train to Amsterdam.

It wasn't what we did, though, that was so nice. It was the simple fact that we did it, that we did anything. That we saw each other again.

Minutes before the train came, I had said to her, "Do you think that way back in 2005, when you left, we would ever have believed that the next time we saw each other, it would be in the Netherlands, as college students?"

It's pretty remarkable. These exchanges create extra branches on our family trees. I know members of my aunt's Dutch host family, and my French host mother was my grandparent's "French daughter". My brother recently spent a year in Ecuador. And I have to tell my sister (for the hundredth time) how lucky she is - she just found out about the host family she'll be living with next year, near Naples.

If I could do it again, I would. In a heartbeat.

A Hearty Snack

2009-02-15T12:50:00.010+01:00

My study snack of choice for the past couple of weeks has been a small handful from the sack of Necco Sweethearts that I brought from home (along with a package of High School Musical Valentines that I distributed to friends yesterday).

They're perfect because you don't eat them very fast and you get sick of them after eating only a very few. But they can also be a little distracting, especially if you are a literary-minded person.

Also if you once took a class called "Topics in Linguistics", with a lot of emphasis on cognitive metaphors.

Once I glanced down at a sweetheart before popping it in my mouth and froze. It said, "Top Chef".

I've no idea how that's romantic. It seemed to be a nice, if slightly generic, compliment. They could just fill the hearts with other little two-word niceties like, "nice hair" and "good legs".

Then I picked another one that said "Stir My ♥". And later, still another, that said "Melt My ♥". Hmm. Maybe these are image schemas - I didn't do too well in that class. At any rate, Necco seems to like the cuisine-related suggestions they get from people. I also get distracted by all of the hearts that have to do with contact. From "Call Me" to "Fax Me" to "IM Me", there are a lot of these. Who even uses a fax machine anymore? Okay, some people do, but they seem to have been relegated to purely business-related contact. What are they trying to do, record the history of communication means in summary? A quick visit to the Necco website tells me that VP Walter Marshall introduced "Fax Me" in the '90s when he first decided to add and dismiss sayings each year. Therefore, "From old tech, 'Fax Me' to new tech, 'Email Me', Sweethearts keep the pulse on the heartbeat of the nation".

So it looks like perhaps they are logging an overview of the history of communications. They should introduce some more old-school sayings, like, say, "Write Me". I don't think they have that one.

Anyway, I sure wish I had thought of this as a topic for my final paper in linguistics last spring. It probably would have been, well, sweeter, than whatever it was I chose to write about - I've shut that assignment out of my memory.

The View from the Counter

2009-02-13T21:24:00.006+01:00

When Torrefazione Italia closed in 2005 and I broke down crying at the end of my last shift, a coworker did her best to comfort me. "There'll be other cafes," she said. That seemed unlikely at the time, but, within months, I was frequenting Costello's Travel Caffe for an afternoon of coffee and reading, and Mio Gelato replaced my job. It wasn't the same, of course, but did I really want it to be? I loved them both, for the coffee they served and for the coffee I made, for the people I served and the customers I met.

Since then, there have been several other cafes. I remember certain cafes I have visited on trips - Kopplin's Coffee in Minneapolis, the local Insomnia Coffee chain in Dublin, the Black Medicine Coffee Co. in Edinburgh, the multiple Autogrills on the roads in Italy where Dad and I stopped for a quick shot of espresso - and each time I go back to Portland there are new places to try at my parents recommendation, and the old places to go back to (especially Northwest Coffee House for a delicious mocha and Extracto for a bowl latte and the best chocolate shortbread cookies).

But it's not just the coffee I love. It's the atmosphere.

Cafes are the most inspiring places, ever, anywhere. All I need is enough change for a cuppa, several sheets of paper, a pen with a full ink cartridge, and I'm set for hours.

The effect is even better when I'm working.

This past week, I've done some last-minute filling-in at a local cafe, one of my favorites. In the lulls between customers, I grab a scrap of paper and jot thoughts and ideas down. I sketch out characters and build up plot triangles. Clever bits of dialogue, either from a real-life customer or from some wonderful part of my mind, pop out and clamor to be recorded.

Last summer, I was working on a novel in my free time. The thing that kept me writing, all summer long, was my job. As my hands cupped a steel pitcher and I waited for the milk to hit the right temperature, the ideas hit me. I scrawled on napkins and scribbled on receipts. After work and on my days off, these scraps were grouped together and became a fictional Portland coffeehouse with character, bustle, and, of course, coffee.

The view from behind the counter is the best narrative viewpoint.

A Long Winter

2009-02-08T13:50:00.008+01:00

This afternoon, as I was curled up on my couch under the window with a book and a cup of tea, I looked out the window and saw some very ominous clouds and decided I had better go do the grocery shopping right then, rather than waiting another hour (as I had planned) and probably getting stuck outside when those clouds broke.

Outside, it was freezing, much colder than expected, and my teeth chattered as I rattled down the little alleys, able to go at breakneck speed as it's Sunday and there's hardly a soul on the streets.

I zipped through the store, getting held up only when I had to wait in line, first to get to the canned tomatoes and second, to get to the half-full organic milk. (I don't know why but the grocery store is always crowded on Sundays, contrasting with the rest of the town.)

On my way back home, I felt specks of moistness. I would get home just before the rain hit.

Inside, I ran to my room, then back to the kitchen to put things in the refrigerator when I glanced outside and saw big puffy snowflakes circling down.

This has been one long, crazy winter for me. Probably the snowiest of my life. We had a big snow day here in November, and it snowed without sticking several other times before I went home to Portland for Christmas break. There, we had a week of heavy snowfall, and after that, freezing weather more or less until I came back to Middelburg.

Here, it's been below freezing for days. This past week it warmed up a little.. but not much. It snowed on Monday, and stayed most of the day (that's when these photos were taken) - absolutely making the day for me, one I had been dreading.

It's not the snow that's so amazing, though - I've seen snow before, and I've seen it enough in Middelburg. I still think it makes everything incredibly beautiful, especially here, but I was much more surprised last Saturday when I went for a walk, on a beautiful sunny but cold day, and turned a corner to see a huge stretch of canal icing over (see picture below).

I had walked to the library with a housemate and her boyfriend, who told me that not only in Friesland were people ice skating on the canals again, but even in Zeeland, it was possible. People had skated from Middelburg to Veere - about a half hour away by bike.

Oh, how can I have missed that? What could possibly be more picturesque than ice skating on a Zeeuws canal?!?

Procrastination Deactivation

2009-02-07T19:34:00.004+01:00

This semester has started pretty much like every other semester before this one: I'm just not that into it.

My classes are all very interesting - even fascinating. In class, I enjoy the discussions. I take notes and jot down the names of books and people and events that I want to look up. Things I should find out about. Facts and figures that could be useful to me in the course.

But outside of class I really don't care. I'd much rather read a book or watch a movie and work on my knitting.

The difference between this semester and the others, though, is the effect of this disinterest. In past years, I procrastinated, avoided homework, and just tried to wait until I got back in the swing of the things.

This time, it's the opposite.

I have been so on top of my homework that I constantly have free nights. I'm usually done by 9 at the latest, leaving me plenty of time for movies or reading or friends.

The lengths I will go to to get homework out of the way is rather astounding.

Tuesday night, the party night at RA, I watched Singin' in the Rain with my housemates (who had never seen it!), and then decided to go ahead and join them to the student bar, Barrel, for a drink.

Barrel was a bust - I didn't know more than 8 of the people present, and the whole time I kept thinking, "If I went home now, I could still get something done."

So, I left. I went home and I read half of the assigned chapter of my art history book. Which didn't even have to be done until Friday.

And after that, at about 3 in the morning, I got online to talk to my brother about a music assignment. Also not due until Friday.

Thursday evening, when I was done with everything for the next day, I seriously considered doing my literature homework for Monday. In the end, though, I opted to watch another Fred and Ginger ("Carefree" - quite decent; the first movie where Ginger Rogers really stood out and I felt actually displayed something of a talent for acting).

Then I got up early on Friday and did most of my lit homework before I went to Art history at 11.

And after I was done with classes at 4, I went home, brewed a pot of coffee and took out the walnotenkoek I treated myself too, and did my music homework. Then I finished the rest of my literature. And now I have almost nothing that must be done this weekend.

It's so strange, but it's gotten to the point where the thought of doing homework tomorrow is even more disgusting than doing it today.

I don't know what has gotten into me, but it might be serious.

At least I hope it is.

Binging on Fred

2009-01-31T15:45:00.005+01:00

When I was a kid, we had a copy of the Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movie "Top Hat", which we watched together one night and which resulted in my immediate adoration of Fred Astaire. A few days later, we went down to a family get-together. My mom brought it with us. The night we planned to watch it with everyone I was extremely excited, until I saw that it wasn't "Top Hat" but a different movie with what I thought was a similar title: "Topper".

Over the years I have seen and enjoyed other Fred movies - The Gay Divorcee, which I watched with some family friends while we visited them in Birmingham, and Daddy-Long-Legs, which is based on one of my favorite books, and I can't be mad that the leading man isn't the young handsome type he is in the book - because it's Fred Astaire, and what's not to like about him?!

(I've seen "Funny Face" too, but that one's not very good, so I don't like to count it.)

I always loved musicals in general - some other favorites were "Les Demoiselles de Rochefort" (with Catherine Deneuve and Gene Kelly) and "Meet Me in St. Louis" (which I tried, unsuccessfully, to convince my choir instructor to take on for the spring musical. She didn't, but I remember singing some of the songs heartily in the car with two or three other girls on the way up to Seattle for an annual choir trip). The first time I saw "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers" was in the theater with I believe my mom and my paternal grandmother. That evening I had a sleepover with my friend and neighbor and, at the video rental, immediately convinced her that we should rent it. When the movie finished, I remember galloping up and down the length of her parents' large room with flowers doing our best to reprise the song "June Brides".

Well, it comes and goes. I love all the revivals of the genre, the remakes currently coming out of Hollywood such as "Hairspray" and "Mamma Mia". I have a huge weakness for the three High School Musical movies (and I'm no longer embarrassed to admit it).

In the days before I came back to Middelburg, I browsed the movies available for rent from iTunes and decided to get "The Gay Divorcee" for the flight. I hadn't seen it in years and was very pleasantly surprised - I even laughed out loud while sitting at the boarding gate waiting area in Chicago. These old movies all of the best sense of humor and the cleverest little jokes.

When I got back to Middelburg, I went on an internet hunt for Fred Astaire movies and was extremely successful. I had only seen those two Fred-and-Ginger movies but I'm currently working hard to up that number. The other night I watched "Top Hat". My favorite joke from that one - though there are many great ones - is when Horace says, "Are you sure you didn't forget yourself in the park?" And Fred Astaire's character Jerry says, "Positive. If I ever forgot myself with that girl, I'd remember."

Last night, I spent the evening with friends for birthday celebrations. We drank wine and ate cheese and crackers and birthday cake, and listened to pop/hip-hop/rap music on too high. That sort of ruined the image for me. Me, who has watched nearly a musical a day for the last week and a half and been listening either to musical soundtracks or Nat King Cole. It was a bit of a shock. The whole time - except when we did a sort of karaoke to the Black-Eyed-Peas' "Don't Lie" - I kept thinking how bad the music was and how if we were doing this at my place, the music would be on a much lower volume and it would probably be jazz.

Oh and how maybe I should have been born about 80, 90, 100... years ago.

For the complete inventory of my recent movie watching, consult below:

"The Gay Divorcee" (1934): a classic Astaire-Rogers mistaken identity film. Very amusing!

"Swing Time" (1936): another Astaire-Rogers, apparently Rogers' favorite of the ten they made together. If you've never seen this one, I recommend it; Fred's father-figure adds a lot of amusement. Also features the song "A Fine Romance".

"Funny Face" (1957): not worth it. Hepburn can't sing and Fred doesn't tap dance much (probably so that he doesn't look that much better than Audrey!) Put it back on the shelf and check out one of the other ones I list here.

"Seven Brides for Seven Brothers" (1954): Not a Fred Astaire movie, but a classic musical! The cast is stock full of Portlanders, the most well-known being Jane Powell. Really, really fun.

"Royal Wedding" (1951): Fred Astaire and Jane Powell! Lots of fun dance scenes (on a rocking ship, on the walls & ceiling, etc.) This film is based on/inspired by Fred's roots doing Vaudeville acts with his sister Adele.

"Top Hat" (1935): Fred 'n' Ginger, at least as good as I remember it. It lost a little sparkle for me when I read that Fred didn't like the closing number, "The Piccolino", and therefore let Ginger do almost all of the performing. But there are some really good Astaire solos, and this one is full of funny moments.

"Follow the Fleet" (1936): Another Fred and Ginger. Another cute and fun flick. This time, Fred wanted to get out of a tux and top hat to change his image a little and prevent being typecast, so he's a sailor named "Bake" Baker who always chews gum and leaves his mouth hanging open at the end of every dumb joke while he waits for the punchline to settle in - very cute. I also love the opening number, "We Saw The Sea", which is full of clever lyrics.

Up Next: "Carefree" and "Shall We Dance". Plus, I've rented "Singin' in the Rain" to watch with my housemates, who have never seen it (gasp!).

Mama Said

2009-01-22T15:45:00.007+01:00

Since I left home for college, my mom has given me a lot of advice, much of it concerning food and cooking. One of the ones that I always remember is to keep tot he perimeters of the grocery store - all of the essentials are there, and once you go in towards the center you'll find all of the gunky junk food and useless objects.

Well, today, I ignored that rule, and it came back to bite me.

I was almost done doing my re-stocking shopping trip, having returned to Middelburg only hours before, but I waited to get greens - located in the front of the store just as you enter - so I could check and see if the frozen spinach selection had improved.

It hadn't.

I did all of my other shopping in between, and got to the freezer section at the end, to find that there was still your regular assortment of chopped spinach and creamed spinach, all in cardboard, not plastic, and doubtless freezer-burned.

So I doubled back to the produce section to grab a bag of organic mixed greens for salad and - the key mistake - cut through the center aisle of the store.

"cut through" might be a little misleading, though, because I was actually lengthily distracted not halfway across the store by an enormous table with seven or eight "BONUS!" signs.

Usually, these don't get me, but today, I saw the object on bonus was books.
Books! In the Netherlands! For only 2.50!

Since I'm moving in less than six months, I KNOW I should not be adding to my already rather large library. But I can't resist a deal when it concerns books.

I shuffled through, and found a thinnish, silly, trashy-looking novel, but one that was written in Dutch. (The others were mostly translated.) That might do me some good; I'm taking advanced French this semester but I really need to work on maintaining and improving my Dutch at the same time. Just your typical chick-lit, really; two girls trying to lead decent lives in the big city, only in this case, Nicki and Petra live in Amsterdam, not New York. So I put Yoyo van Gemerde's "Sushi & Chardonnay" in my basket.

With considerable will power, I set the translated copy of The Nanny Diaries back on the stack (reminding myself that I HAD already read it, and even if I didn't remember it very well, there was probably a reason for that).

Moving on, the next part of the table caught my eyes. CDs! After another few minutes spent shuffling through these, I finally pulled myself together with the intention of bee-lining it to the produce section...

...only to find that the end of the table housed the DVDs.

Mostly BBC miniseries, for the low price of 5.99. But good luck keeping me away from the classics.

I skimmed over Pride and Prejudice (1980 version, not '95), Great Expectations, He Knew He Was Right (though I considered that one), and Persuasion. Then I saw The Barchester Chronicles.

Bingo.

What's not to love? I loved Anthony Trollope's The Way We Live Now, as well as the relatively recent mini-series of the book. So the Barchester Chronicles can't be bad. And second: It stars Alan Rickman. One of the best actors around. Who I especially love in period pieces (such as "Sense & Sensibility").

The fact that it's a 385 minute miniseries, not a two-hour movie, sealed the deal. Once my subtotal had ballooned to an uncomfortably high price (I had to buy phone minutes and I treated myself to the fresh-squeezed orange juice and some parmesan cheese for my pasta; that seems reasonable), I packed everything into my "Ga Rode Sokken" bag (thank you thank you Franny!), and headed home.

Now I just gotta find enough time for a lot of television-watching.

'Tis the Season... to Write Poetry

2008-12-05T00:52:00.009+01:00

Photo:
Sinterklaas receiving his honorary degree from Roosevelt Academy, November 2006

Last year, at about this time, I went to my last French class of the semester. The teacher had arranged for a little Christmas celebration, so we ate some candy, sang “Petit Papa Noel” (4 or 5 times if I remember correctly), and wrote Christmas poems. Most people wrote 2 or 3 rhymed couplets, but after four or five minutes and a few “Attendez! Attendez!”s, I finished this composition:

Venez, tout le monde, et célébrez,
Parce que le Noël est arrivée
Nous ne faisons pas les études
Nous pouvons laissez les habitudes
N’importe pas en quoi on croit
Maintenant, on pense aux trois rois.
Nous cherchons un sapin de Noël
Pendant que la niege tombe du ciel.
Après, nous chantons de belles chansons
Nous rions et nous dansons
Toute la famille est en attendance
Et, si on a de la chance
On mangera une bûche de Noël
Très délicieux, et douce comme du miel.
Ouvrez, alors, tous vos cadeaux
Et buvez de la champagne et pas de l’eau.

But this year, I take Dutch. Tomorrow is one of the last classes, so we’re having a little Sinterklaas party – Sinterklaas being the Dutch Saint Nick. We drew names and got a present for someone, and we have to write a little gedicht, a short poem, to go with it.

And I am struggling.

I get two lines to start, because the gedichten usually begin this way:

Sint en Piet zaten te bedenken
Wat ze ______ nu eens zouden schenken.

But what comes after that, I don’t know.

Making it all the more difficult is the subtle clever way you are expected to hint at the present you got.

So I think this may be the new test for fluency: if you can throw together a Christmas poem in a given language within a few minutes. I wonder if I can do it in Spanish?

Something to try over winter break.

One week till vacation!!

Winter Break Reading List

2008-12-03T11:32:00.006+01:00

What better place to keep track of it?

1. My Antonia by Willa Cather
2. Understood Betsy by Dorothy Canfield Fisher
3. Little Women, considering a Marxist perspective
4. Things Fall Apart, by Chinua Achebe
5. Lolita, by Vladimir Nabokov (in preparation for "Reading Lolita in Tehran" next semester, but then again not sure I really want to.)
6. Something wintry, i.e. A Christmas Carol
7. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, as recommended by S. Winter
8. Inevitably lots of shallow fun, such as early Betsy-Tacy books, and the ridiculous S.A.S.S series...

Yes. Vacation is a wonderful thing.

Armchair Travel

2008-11-16T14:53:00.004+01:00

I'm not a big chick-lit kind of girl. From time to time, I pick one up for a little fun. But in most cases, if I wander past Meg Cabot, I get annoyed. The writing is artificial and the plot is Disney with a bit of "Adult content" thrown in. Everything is contrived and overworked and unrealistic.
Every once in a while, though, I come across a more bearable one. I think the thing that makes these books more enjoyable is when the offer some little multi-cultural twist. Frangipani succeeded because it's a study of cultural and generational differences. (Though some would argue that this belongs in the group of books unpleasantly labeled "mum-lit", not chick.)

Coffee and Kung Fu made it only because of this. In most ways, it's your typical young-woman-in-the-big-city-with-a-boring-dead-end-job. Her grandpa is the only one who understands her. And she's dating a guy who's obviously a jerk.

But she's a missionary kid and she grew up in the Phillipines, and despite the books title, she's really more of a perfectly-prepared-jasmine-tea-served-ceremonially kind of girl.

And the ending - I trust none of you are really going to run out and read the book - is satisfying, because the girl dumps her stuff on her parents, buys two plane tickets with the money her grandpa leaves her, and jets off to Hong Kong, expecting the barista guy she hardly knows to follow her in a few days. Which we all know he will.

But that's not the point. The point is, she goes somewhere to be happy. So despite the love lesson that is necessary in every chick-lit novel, I find this one to be a bit more realistic. I guess it's just closer to home for this reader.

I finished the book, finished my tea, and rushed off to school to finish the draft of the analysis section of my IRP. As you can probably guess, it isn't going that well. No one really wants to read about people stopping caring about consequences and rushing off to do something exciting and gutsy when they have to put on their coat, walk across a common room with gluey floors from last night's birthday party, and sit in a computer lab that is hospital-like in its whiteness.

I'd much rather fly to Hong Kong.

And then you'd all be reading about something more interesting than my ventures into chick-lit reading.

Elections, Expat-style

2008-11-05T17:20:00.007+01:00

A lot of people around here are sick of hearing about the U.S. elections. But more of them aren't. Since RA specializes in social sciences, and Middelburg is home not only to RA but also to the Roosevelt Study Center, an unrelated research center, and the new Middelburg Center for Transatlantic Studies, news about the election has been a pretty big deal here.

So RA and the Study Center got together to organize an All-Night American Election Party, complete with pub quiz, youtube spoof videos, CNN coverage on a big screen, live music, DJs, and let's not forget, Hertog Jan beer for only 1.80/glass.

It was a happening event, to say the least, but we went two hours late and missed the fun pub quizzes, etc. Instead, we caught my housemate, Romy Uitdehaag of 4y-d, performing Pink's "Dear Mr. President"; an RA band featuring a saxophone solo by Dr. Her man Lelieveldt, and entertaining MC work by an exchange student from Nebraska.

Unsurprisingly, Obama won the mock vote. I was a little surprised that McCain actually received as many as 4 votes, considering the audience.

The place was overwhelmingly Obama-y. Everyone had hats, pins, posters, shirts, you name it. My friend told me I had to put on my pins, like the ones my mother sent to my friend Joy, and I had to explain that my mom didn't love me enough to send me a "My mama loves Obama" pin.

But my mama did send me an "Obama chick" t-shirt, so I wore that, and paired it with a PDX pin. I figure a Portland pin, aka "Little Beirut", is more or less synonymous with "Obama supporter". No one knew what it was, but a bartender asked about it and liked it.

Joy and I realized that, since I'm American and she's Kenyan, put together we make Obama.

At 2, the crowd decided they would rather listen to music than CNN, so they muted the television and the DJ spun some retro stuff, and my friends and I decided to head back to Liana's place and watch there. We ate popcorn and I knit and everyone was in a different state of semi-sleep, waking up to talk about the silly holograms and the new percentages and statistics pouring in. At about five, we were confident enough to go home and sleep, knowing we'd wake up smiling.

The next day, I'm looking over post-election coverage. I remember the morning after the 2004 elections. Everything was gray, like Portland had put on a black veil of mourning. My mom and I went out for coffee and the barista said, "I feel like blacks are still sitting on the back of the bus." I'm never going to forget that.

In English class that day I wrote a poem about it, but today, I'm blogging. That, and regularly checking the news to find out about the Oregon results, and scrolling through facebook to look at people's post-election statuses. A high school friend "is on the streets of Chicago celebrating". Two people are waking up knowing that it's not a dream. I'm watching footage of the celebrations in the streets and semi-wishing I was there.

But on the other hand, I'm even more happy to be here. Pretty soon, I might stop emphasizing the half-Czech part of me so much. I have more reason to be proud of being American than I ever have since leaving the states.

Trained

2008-10-31T02:23:00.003+01:00

Time for one of those procrastinatory updates.

I got back from Edinburgh on Wednesday. My flight arrived at about 6 and I felt very relaxed and rejuvenated, although I had a little anxiety for the return to school without any vacation until the semester ends. It is going to be high-stress.

But the funny thing was taking the train back to Middelburg. I noticed, after a few stops, that I wasn't exactly happy or excited to see the familiar NS yellow and blue or take the train again, but I felt a strange variety of comfort.

It was the realization that I am so completely comfortable with using the NS trains that hit me then. I move effortlessly from ticket machines to timetables to platform to train. I can't even remember when I last asked a conductor for something - probably not since I went to Haarlem last summer.

It's getting more and more homey here. Which is going to make things more and more tricky.

Scottish Blend

2008-10-25T19:37:00.007+02:00

One thing I love about traveling is discovering new tea & coffee traditions. At the moment I'm in Edinburgh, Scotland, visiting a dear old friend and neighbor who's studying here for the semester.

My flight arrived at about 12.30 today and it's been a rush of excitement and fun, without pause. It's strange to travel somewhere and have someone to meet me; that usually only happens at home. But she met me at the airport and we haven't been able to shut up since.

Which meant that instead of spending a lot of time out exploring the city, we spent a lot of it inside cafes.

We planned to take a coffee to go to the park, but the weather was exactly the kind that is best appreciated from indoors, with a warm drink. So we took our coffee to stay at Elephant House Cafe - the cafe where J.K. Rowling apparently wrote large segments of Harry Potter. So it was only appropriate that I see it, as a budding writer (I hope).

We shared a table with a friendly man, who we had a short conversation with before returning to our unending stream of catch-up.

Then we walked to the park, taking a couple of pictures and till talking, finally stopping again at a Swedish-style place. We shared a giant pot of Daybreak tea, a nice blend of Darjeeling and Ceylon and something else, until the leaves had sat in too long and turned the tea a little dark. Also, a cardamom bun for me, and more chitter-chatter.

It's so strange to be somewhere the speak English. I open my mouth and catch myself just before my customary "mag ik een..." comes out, then manage to switch to English.

I don't know why I was so down on the UK (does Ireland count as the UK? I'm very unclear about that...). I love it. I loved Dublin and so far Edinburgh is great. The most remarkable thing to me is the overwhelming friendliness of the people, like the man in the Elephant House Cafe this afternoon and the guard at the National Gallery in Dublin in March.

I have a fun idea, though; I think I'll try to hit Wales and Northern Ireland before ever setting foot in England. Wouldn't that be funny?

Woody Guthrie

2008-10-21T23:08:00.003+02:00

Last week I received a friendly email from a former teacher. He somehow remembered that I like Woody Guthrie - something I never remember mentioning but no matter - and thought I might be interested in a lecture-like presentation that would be given on October 20th at RA.

Woody Guthrie's music is the kind I used to always take for granted. I was just used to hearing it. I listened to his songs as a kid and we sang classics like "Roll On Columbia" and "This Land is Your Land" in school. Last summer I came across a CD of his music and sort of rediscovered him.

So last night I went to see Will Kaufman put Guthrie's music in context. There was a lot of information I knew, but also a lot of things I hadn't quite put together, as well as facts that were completely new to me. I did not know that "This Land is Your Land" had been written as a direct response to "God Bless America", cranked out by the pop song writers on what Guthrie referred to as Tin Can Alley - a song which fostered political inactivity.

The lecture was fascinating because of its relativity to current events that are going on stateside, but the most interesting part was the performance itself. It wasn't a lecture. Kaufman periodically performed songs not only by Guthrie but by some of his contemporaries and other politically active singers who had influenced him.

Even when he wasn't singing, Kaufman was not reduced to dry, factual speech. There was a theatrical element, as he spoke with a twang and recited quotes of Guthrie and his son Arlo, or adapted an authoritative voice to convey Franklin Roosevelt, and so on.

It was a very lively and interesting performance, enhanced by the strong academic approach to the subject of Woody Guthrie. There was something very strange and almost ironic to listen to Woody Guthrie classics and hear about events in American history while surrounded by the historic Dutch artifacts in the Burgerzaal...

It ain't over til it's over, but it's over

2008-10-20T07:26:00.002+02:00

Well, that's it then.

No more setting two different alarms for 2 or 3 or 4 in the morning to make sure I don't miss anything.

No more plodding into the dark common room for toast or cereal or to bake apples.

No more baseball-induced naps mid-class.

Now I can focus on my IRP and my creative writing, and work on getting my grades up, or at least keeping them from falling any lower.

Now I can finally get around to blogging about some of those topics I've had bouncing around in my head for weeks, if not months.

Now I can finally focus on finishing Atonement. Catching up my journal. Watching some of those movies I've been wanting to see.

I might even find the time to get my hair cut before my trip to Scotland next week.

But I don't want any of that. All I want, is to see the Red Sox in the World Series.

They may have changed their name, but they'll always be the Devil Rays to me.

Falling

2008-10-19T17:58:00.005+02:00

Fall break is just coming to an end, and the weather has turned appropriately autumnal since we last had classes.

I am much more in awe of the colors and light than I remember ever being in the past. Maybe it is the bus rides I periodically take across the Zeeuwse countryside on my way to and from work. Maybe it is the incredible weather we're having, with the sun shining every day and highlighting the oranges and reds. It's the perfect light, still warding off winter grays, and it contrasts strangely with the new chills in the air.

The winter coat has made its first (and second, and third) appearance, my friends and I have made use of three-euro scarf sales on the market square, and I've begun knitting a sweater for myself.

But I'm still curious as to why I'm taking such notice of it this year - it can't simply be the sun. Perhaps it is because of the bus rides. Maybe it is because I am relatively certain that this is the last fall I will ever spend in Zeeland.

Maybe it's because of the Red Sox and the playoffs, taking me back to fall of 1999 in Massachusetts, when all of our friends and family wanted to visit to see the colors. In Portland, you don't have the reds and yellows and oranges in the same intensity - it is the land of the evergreen.

Here, though, the colors are reminiscent of those in New England. There are more than brightening memories as a result of the trees, as I am increasingly curious to know where I will be the next time fall rolls around. Though no way near as vibrant as the Massachusetts trees, these ones certainly send me back - as well as forward.

Baseball Prejudice

2008-10-07T20:17:00.009+02:00

Tuesdays are creative writing days - the class, I mean; I'm not disciplined enough to do it mid-week on my own unless I'm on vacation.

After trading computers and doing some peer editing for each other, we told the class what the author had done to depict character. The girl who read mine began, "Well, it's about an exchange student... I think?" She looked at me for confirmation.

Instructor took this chance to tease, "He's not a baseball fan, is he?!"

Of course I knew he was only joking. But really! I mentioned Willie Mays in one assignment and used the memory of my brother and I playing catch to describe my street for the "Setting" assignment. That's all.

Try telling a diehard baseball fan not to write about baseball in October. That's like asking her not to think about baseball in October. Now, say it to a sleep-deprived diehard Oregonian Red Sox fan less than 12 hours after she's watched fellow Oregonian Jed Lowrie drive in the game-winning, walk-off, series-clinching run in Game 4 of the ALDS.

But I just blushed the color of the letters on my "El Guapo" T-shirt, semi-laughed, and told Instructor not to worry, I've been trying really hard to stay away from such an USA-centric topic.

Now I'm thinking about how Instructor assures us that we can write science fiction or fantasy if we want and encourages us not to be afraid to swear or write about sex. Apparently, baseball is the only taboo subject here.

Yet, aside from that, I love both the course and the teacher. The assignments are all great because they really force you to think about how you can most use language to your advantage. We read two short stories per week and spend time writing and editing and revising and discussing. I know I am going to gain so much from it.

I just wish it was offered in the spring semester.

Baseball Playoffs, Amsterdam Time

2008-10-06T10:50:00.007+02:00

Photo by my father

Every so often, my perfect baseball planning backfires on me horrendously.

Sort of like it did last night.

I went to bed at 9, so I could get up at 1.30, watch the game, and go back to bed around 5 for another 2-3 hours of sleep before school and work. I wasn't going to miss Game 3, and the Red Sox advancing, and all of that good stuff.

So I did just that.

Silly Gracie. She knows better, really she does. She knows that Red Sox playoff games so rarely last the traditional 3 hours of regular season games.

The game finished at about 7 a.m. my time, so I showered, got my stuff together, and at 8 headed out for a cup of coffee before class.

At 8.40, some acquaintances came in, and we shared our stories about mid-term week. Marty, a Canadian, did not seem as surprised as his two German friends when I said I had been up since 1.30. "I know, I do that sometimes for hockey, when you gotta get up at 2 or 3 for a game... it's tough."

I have found a like soul.

But then I remembered, hockey. What's the time limit for that?

I couldn't resist pointing out how rarely a hockey game ends up lasting more than five hours.

Not that I would change what I did. I mean, it would have been better if the Sox had won and I wouldn't have to figure out how to do the same thing tomorrow, with a midterm thrown into the mix. But it was a great game. Sox got robbed in some places, blew it in others, and Josh Beckett wasn't at the top of his game. But he wasn't at his worst either, Jacoby made more playoff history, and we weren't as defeatist as we could have been.

Here's hoping tomorrow goes better - for both me, and the Red Sox.

October...

2008-10-02T05:30:00.001+02:00

I always say April and October are my favorite months, and there's a few simple reasons for that. For one, my birthday is in April. It's springtime, usually just beginning to get warm. There are flowers, things are pretty. And baseball season begins.

And October I love because it's the beginning of winter - when you still like the sound of winter, when you can begin to wear layers and warm socks and corduroy pants again. The trees turn pretty colors. And then there's the baseball playoffs.

This year is a little uncomfortable, though, as the Red Sox are officially one of baseball's most hated teams. It's been growing for a while now, but now that the Yankees haven't made the postseason, the Red Sox seem to have taken their place as Team Undesirable.

I don't really like being hated. And I disagree with what some people say about the Sox having some of the most obnoxious fans in baseball, though I suppose I wouldn't know since I didn't see any Sox games since they won their 2nd championship - but I've always thought Mariner's fans more obnoxious than those of Boston: at least we aren't of the fair-weather variety.

Well, obnoxious or no, we're in, and I'm up at 4 a.m. to follow Game 1 of the Boston - Los Angeles ALDS. A plus of the playoffs is that I become so much more organized with my studies when I know I have 3-4 hours to devote to baseball every day or two, often at inconvenient times. Last night, I did some homework, then went to bed at 9. When the game ends around 7.30, I'll shower, then study until it's time for class.

For Game 2, which is on Friday in the US, but Saturday morning here, I'll probably get up at 3.30, then go back to sleep after the game for a couple of hours before heading to work.

I'm just hoping the Sox go all the way - not only for the obvious reasons, but because my grades just might improve as a result. And I'll get a lot of knitting done in the meantime.

Masterminded

2008-10-01T16:38:00.000+02:00

A picturesque view of a Leiden canal

I can't believe it, but this is my third and final year at RA. I'll be graduating this coming June.

It really doesn't seem like it's been that long since I finished high school, so it's kind of annoying to realize that I need to start thinking and planning for next year. Didn't I just finish applying for colleges and exchange programs and the like?

Until recently, I wasn't even considering doing a masters, at least not immediately after finishing my bachelors degree. I like taking breaks in between school (middle school, my gap year, etc.)

Less than a year ago, though, I did some internet surfing and came across the Book and Digital Media Studies masters program at Leiden University, and suddenly began considering further education as an option. Here was a program perfect for my situation: one year, so not a big commitment; still in the Netherlands, so I would have a little more time to explore and learn the language (I couldn't stand to leave, having lived here for three years, without being at least fairly proficient in Dutch); and not too focused for my diversified interests, but really suited to several of them. The program leads to careers in library science, publishing, or positions as antiquarians or curators in special collections.

That got me thinking. Whereas previously I had only dimly considered applying for an internship with the Portland Beavers or teaching English as a foreign language in the Czech Republic, I suddenly find myself spending free time - or procrastination time - searching high and low for similarly appealing programs.

So far, no luck. I tend to choose schools largely by location, and after looking thoroughly in Portland, the Czech Republic, and the Boston area, as well as minimally in Italy and Central America, I have found nothing as appealing as the Leiden program. Emerson College has an interesting combination masters in children's literature and writing, but it is two years, long, and not any where near as handy and broad as the Leiden program.

Besides, I already love Leiden. I am also a fan of Haarlem, which is only twenty minutes from Leiden by train, and I am not at all displeased at the idea of living in either of these cities for a year. "Excited" and "thrilled" might be better ways to describe my feelings on the possibility.

Picture: a cute - and fragrant - house in Leiden

Tilburg Tour of Portland

2008-09-27T22:06:00.001+02:00

Over a week ago, I went to Tilburg for a day to go on the Tilburg Tour of Portland, a tour of Portland that actually takes place in Tilburg, the Netherlands.

I thought the best way to show you all the experience would be by posting several pictures with captions, but I'll leave a few comments at the bottom as well.

On the banks of the Willamette River, you can see the Burnside Bridge down thataways.

Saturday Market

Food Cart Row

The Big Pink of Tilburg, and Broadway... rather different than the Portland versions!

The Benson fountains, Tilburg-style

Here are all the strip clubs! That's Mary's on the right!

Burnside

Probably my favorite Portland place: Powell's City of Books!

This is the Virginia Cafe, in its new location

The Fox building, which definitely has some similar qualities

If I told you this was really Pioneer Place, you might believe me. But it isn't, not really!

Our guide shows off the watermark from Portland floods

A few remarks:
It was definitely a fun tour. I was the only American on the trip, and the only person who had ever been to Portland, besides the guide. It was a lot of fun, though. HE thought he even remembered seeing my parents/grandparents on the Portland Tour of Tilburg. "I remember some people saying, 'oh, yeah, we should tell her to go...' but I assumed that wouldn't happen," he said.

I was pretty surprised to see how similar the two cities were. Even though there were some drastic differences, it was interesting to see how you could pick out the similarities. Once or twice, I didn't know what building he was talking about, but it definitely looked like a building you might see in Portland. And I loved the trash can as a water fountain and all of the bikes parked at the central station as the zoobomb bike pile by Powell's.

After the tour, which I can really only say was fun and interesting and a little bit surreal, I was interviewed by a couple of people who were excited to find out that I was a real true Portlander. This is one of the articles - in Dutch, though, sorry!

When the group broke up, I stopped for coffee at a place thrillingly similar to a Portland cafe. Order at the counter, have a chocolate muffin, spread out at a table, read and write a bit... they even had a couch. I think that is the first time I have seen a couch in a cafe in the Netherlands.

I went back to Middelburg just a little sad to go back to reality - wishing we had a cafe like that one where I could study, missing some parts of Portland, and thinking about a good wander through Powell's. But also, the tour made me pretty happy to be here in the Netherlands right now. I was even nicely resigned to traveling alone - because the truth is, no matter how much complain, I am a bit selfish and it's always nice to be able to do exactly what I want, no compromises.

BoSox Birthday

2008-09-23T12:14:00.000+02:00

Last night I set my alarm for 5, planning to get up and watch most of the Sox game on the archive option. Yeah, well, try getting a 21-year old university student out of bed at 5. I slept until 7, rudely awakened by the snooze every so often. I got up with enough time to spare to "skim" yesterday's games (which had ended only a few hours before).

A heartbreaking loss, let me say. Still no berth! It's getting a little worrisome. Nevertheless, I was into it enough that I could not consider wearing anything that did not have some BoSox representation (I went with the shirt I'm wearing enthusiastically in the photo above). With my Boston shirt AND commuter mug (Thanks Mom!) it wasn't too hard to accept the loss and go to Dutch class.

Sitting at the table, I got out a pen and paper. "Dutch, Week 5(a)," I wrote. Let's see... yesterday was... the 22nd? So: "Tuesday 23 September 2008".

An uncontrollable grin spread across my face. It figures that today began so baseball-y. It's been 9 years since I first went to Fenway Park and fell in love with the Boston Red Sox.

The Walk

2008-09-21T22:16:00.001+02:00

Just a note to let you all know that the Tilburg Tour of Portland post is coming!

The main reason it is not already up on the screen for you to read is because on my way home from the train station, I was intercepted by some friends on their way to Vlissingen to see the film War Child. One of my best friends was the organizer of the event and was holding a discussion with the director and a representative of War Child Netherlands after the film. Anyway, it wasn't that hard for me to convince me.

The film is very good and I think worth seeing, if you are interested.

The Tilburg Tour of Portland was also very interesting and worth doing. But more on that later.

Update

2008-09-16T14:53:00.000+02:00

Tomorrow I'll be going to Tilburg to take the Tilburg Tour of Portland, alone.

Again.

All of my attempts at friend (and even very slight acquaintances) convincing failed miserably. The two people who seemed like they might actually be interested had class and other school-related things, so I'm on my own. Again.

I'm getting sick of it, to be honest.

I'm just hoping this is no Harlemse Honkbalweek Repeat. I don't think it will be though; the tour itself will probably be a pretty small intimate affair and I'm sure I will talk to some of my fellow guidees. I hope.

Then I can report back to you guys - where have you gone? At least my family used to read this blog, but now I'm wondering who does...

The Sox beat the Rays and are finally back in the lead in the AL East - although the Rays are also in that spot. I guess we can share for 24 hours or so, but we'll want it to ourselves soon.

That's a happy thought for while I'm wandering around Tilburg ALONE post-tour.

Dreaming

2008-09-06T12:46:00.000+02:00

I'm not much of a dreamer.

Well, I am a dreamer, but of the day variety more than the nighttime kind.

I very rarely have dreams that I remember the next day. Not when I was homeschooled, not during my gap year, not when I was exchange in France, and not here, in the Netherlands. I don't know that I have ever actually dreamed in a foreign language, at least not until well after I spoke it. And everyone says that that is when you realize you speak the language.

So when my creative writing instructor told us that we would have to buy three different notebooks - the aforementioned jotter, and a field journal to take out and make observations - I was a little worried about the dream journal we were supposed to keep.

He assured us that he would not read our dreams. I almost wish he would, because I won't have many and I know that when he flips through the journal to see that there is some content, he will find that there is very little.

But the first few mornings after that class, I woke up every morning having had dreams.

Mostly about cookies.

Also, very vague, and the descriptions very short and boring. "People came to work and discussed how the cookies at the ijsvogel are so much better than the individual packaged cookies you get other places". Who cares? Not much of a story embedded there, if you ask me.

But since that first week, the dreams have died. I can't remember them. I try to give myself time in the morning - hit snooze, and let the dream come back to you... wake up by writing about your dream... what's the first thing that pops into your mind...

And I have nothing.

I fear my instructor will skim through my dream journal at the midterm checkup and see only two pages and maybe glimpses of words like "Christmas", "licorice", and "fleece and fleece zippers workshop". (The latter would work into a story quite well, but I've reserved it for my novel.) My participation grade might be quite low on this count.

Making Marks

2008-09-05T23:10:00.000+02:00

Today in Creative Writing, we got off-topic. Let's just say my instructor can get caught up in a discussion/argument as easily as any of us, and thought it important to try to convince us to write in our books.

Most of us were shocked; I was unsure. Some books I do mark in, without feeling. I avoid highlighting textbooks, do so when it is just too hard to follow without highlighting, which makes me pay more attention, or when it is too interesting to read without getting distracted, in which case I highlight so that I will come back and find it again later.

I suppose the latter is why my instructor wants us to do the same. "You will never be great writers if you don't mark up your books!" he says, enthusiastically, while my neighbors shudder with horror. "I know why you don't want to mark them, it's because you want to SELL it later on!" he barks, but good-humoredly.

"No! It's the principle of the thing," says one. "It's sacrilege!" says another. "I might as well burn my books!" "Don't you think it's distracting when you want to re-read it?!"

"NO! No, no, no, no, no, no no no no no no no no NO!" he says.

I'm not sure why I feel so uncomfortable. I am, after all, the one who wrote in the school paper: "My sister and I shared a copy of Harry Potter 7 this summer, and instead of calmly taking turns, my sister ripped each chapter from the book as she finished it and passed it directly to me, so that I was only one chapter behind."

But Dad always said, never leave a book on the ground! Take care of your books! Treat them with respect! Books are important! Never harm a book!

I'm not sure, but I think "Don't write/draw in your books" was included with those as well.

I don't really see the connection between great writers and making marks in books, I must confess. Usually, when a sentence or phrase or passage is especially interesting or moving or affects me in some way, I set down the book for a moment, and think. Sometimes all I think is "wow", over and over in my head. Other times I actually say the "wow" out loud. And other times I reflect on the words, or the metaphor or the personification or the unusual use of anaphora.

If I'm really touched, I jot it down in the little notebook I carry with me at all times - or the 'jotter', as my instructor calls it. (We are all required to have one and I was thrilled when he announced this, because I have carried a 'jotter' around with me for pretty much ever.)

Surely that is nearly as effective as marking? It won't be there when I reread the book, years later, but I don't think that's the part that he thinks is valuable to a budding writer - rather, the part where you stop and think and reflect.

So I am still undecided on the marking bit. (Oof, all of this British I'm reading is getting to my English. I write like an Englishman and speak like a Canadian. What is happening to me?) Part of me thinks my European classmates just take greater care with their books because they are so expensive here; another part thinks, for some reason, that I should not write in the margins of great published works. It's very tricky.

Kind of like writing three startling opening sentences. When I try for startling, I end up with strange. Like, "The night that Elizabeth Arrow saw a ghost was the night that she quit eating ice cream after dinner."

Is it strange? Yes. Does it draw the reader in? Perhaps. But is it startling? Meh... Not really.

Rained in

2008-09-02T19:30:00.000+02:00

It is raining. Outside, the sky is drippy and gray and the cobblestones are glistening and the cars are beady. The light is kind of pretty, on the other hand... but I still don't want to leave my room.

Nice contrast to the picture above, right?

Often, when it rains, I think of other places I've lived. I think about Portland, and I think about the Dominican Republic, and I think about what the weather is like in those places. Then my thoughts stretch and I remember other things from these homes.

Today, I'm thinking about Portland and how incredible it is, the same way I have been thinking about Portland over the past few weeks. I've come across a few quotes that especially bring this home. For example, Anthony Bourdain, who says in the introduction of the Pacific Northwest episode of his show, "No Reservations": "I know what the Pacific Northwest is about. It’s about… OBSESSION."

When I heard that, I thought... Ah. Yes. I then told my friend Joy, who looked at me and ticked off her fingers as she listed, "food, coffee, baseball, books, languages... yes."

Which links in nicely with what my friend Anand said about some Portlanders he has met at his new school, Full Sail, in Florida. According to him, we Portlanders are all the same, and all we think/talk about is "Coffee... food... coffee... tea.... food... Bob Schneider... food..."

Rain is, of course, a well-known Portland characteristic. I should be more used to it. I am more used to it, I think then some of the other people I know here... like the ones from Florida and Kenya and such. But I deal with it.

Although lately, it reminds me of Haarlemse Honkbalweek, and a thought I had during one of the numerous rainouts.

I was watching the pathetically small grounds crew attempting to prepare the field after a 5 minute shower led to a 40-minute postponement because the field was so thoroughly soaked, and remembering the way I had once become quiet interested in the job baseball groundskeepers do. I think it started in Seattle, where the grounds crew dropped their rakes and hoses halfway through tidying up the field in-between innings and performed an entire, elaborate dance routine for the entertainment of the crowd.

That's when I realized that actually, a career in baseball groundskeeping might not be such a bad way to go. I could work at Fenway Park, and see every home game for free. I could probably even get to know a lot of the players. I was looking for a career option that could in some way include baseball.

And so, when it came time to begin looking at colleges, I adapted a baseball strategy. I began by looking through a college book at every college in the state of Massachusetts. I highlighted the schools that had a wide range of majors including cultural studies, particularly of the Latin American or Slavic varieties, literature and comparative literature, linguistics, French, Spanish, Czech, or Creative Writing and English.

I went a step further and also earmarked the schools that offered programs in soil technology and agriculture.

Unsurprisingly, few schools actually had some combination of the Humanities courses I listed first and the science courses I mentioned second. So I shed the grounds keeping dream (which wasn't too hard to part with) and ended up studying literature and linguistics at the Roosevelt Academy in the Netherlands (with a detour through the Dominican Republic).

Surprisingly, this has only furthered my baseball education. I've seen baseball all over the world: in the U.S., I've seen everything from A-ball to the big leagues in California, the Midwest, Boston, and the Pacific Northwest (I've seen the only major and most minor league teams from my home region). In the Dominican Republic, I saw pick-up games, warm-ups at the Chicago White Sox Dominican facility (pictured), and watched the Dominican team from the Dominican Republic in the inaugural baseball classic. I saw Las Grandes Ligas from an entirely different perspective - teams favored due to the number of Dominicans on the roster rather than any geographical affiliation. And now, in Nederland, I've seen a bit of honkbal.

Which brings me back to Honkbalweek.

To be a groundskeeper in the Netherlands! The awful weather of Honkbalweek 2008 brought back those groundskeeping aspirations. What a challenge to "keep ground" here! Imagine attempting to shorten rain postponements in a country as wet as this one. Here, where baseball is so obscure compared to other major sports, where fields don't have tarps that cover the entire infield, but only the basepaths... what room for improvement!

I am definitely re-adding "groundskeeper" to an ongoing list I have, entitled "Jobs & Activities & Callings that I Am Interested In."

Tea Time

2008-09-01T23:58:00.000+02:00

School has started, and I have many more important things to do than write a blog entry.

But with school comes procrastination, and blogs are the perfect tool for that.

I am sitting here with a pot of lapsang tea to help me through this possibly late night. I love tea. My parents, especially my father, practically force fed it to me once I was in high school. When I was up late doing homework (whether it was a history essay I had waited until the last minute to start or the regular, unmerited punishment that was daily chemistry homework), Dad brought me a cup of tea. When I got up in the morning, Dad set a cup of tea at my place at the breakfast table. When the family watched a movie on a weekend, Dad brought out the teapot and cups for everyone.

Often, he would ask, "Grace, do you want a cup of tea?" I would usually say no, because I didn't like to drink a lot of liquid before the 45-minute bus ride to school. But, 5 minutes later, a cup of tea inevitably appeared in front of my place at the table.

In the morning, Dad put the tea on to boil first thing when he got up. He puttered around a bit, before the water came to a boil, then poured it into the teapot to steep. He usually set the timer, but not always, before he got in the shower.

Which usually meant I had to come running downstairs or Mom had to jump up and get to the teapot, unless we wanted overbrewed tea that morning.

Another funny tea habit of my fathers: boiling water appears to be his comfort habit. As soon as one pot's boiled and poured into the pot, he refills the kettle and starts another pot boiling.

Coffee Culture Comparison

2008-07-26T19:22:00.000+02:00

Working in a cafe in the Netherlands has led me to several observations about the differences between cafes and coffee culture in Europe and the U.S. - specifically differences between the Pacific Northwest's dedicated coffee diehards and the Netherlands more simple (it seems) maintenance of tradition.

One of the most notable differences between coffee consumption in the Netherlands and Stumptown is the way it's taken.

In Portland, there are few codes of conduct. People drink coffee in groups, alone, with friends, with children, with whoever. They drink at counters or at tables, on couches or on the go. Each cafe or coffeehouse has a different approach to coffee drinking.

These different approaches can be annoying, for example when you don't know if you should claim a seat first and THEN order your drink, or if you should wait to sit until you have ordered - is one polite and the other pushy? Are you waited on or do you order at the bar? (Usually it is the latter, but not always.)

In the Netherlands - or at least in Middelburg - coffee is traditionally a social activity. You don't see many people sitting by themselves. The exception to this is old men and women taking their morning coffee and reading the paper, but even this usually turns into a social event when they see friends and talk with the waiters, other customers, etc. Also, they only drink alone in the morning - you never see them in the afternoon.

I have never seen a couch in a cafe in the Netherlands, and very few people get coffee to go. This would defeat the social aspect of a cup of coffee!

Luckily, I have been able to find a few cafes where I do not feel impolite or asocial when I sit alone with my journal or a book for an hour or so. Globalization at work, I guess. It's another one of those tricky things, where you like things the way you like them... but should you continue to like them that way at the expense of other cultures?

One Dutch coffee tradition that I am very happy to adopt: the cookie. Every time you order a cup of coffee - a gewoon koffie (also known as a lungo), a koffie verkeerd (a "wrong coffee", similar to our caffe latte), a cappucino, or some froofy drink with whipped cream, flavored syrup and decorative sprinkles - it comes with a little tea cookie on the saucer, at no extra cost. As my mother says, how civilized!

The Dairy Diet

2008-07-25T12:06:00.001+02:00

Working at an ice cream salon or gelateria usually results in a strange and somewhat unhealthy - though delicious - diet: one based largely on dairy products.

Two and a half years ago, I was employed at a gelateria where the owner actively encouraged all of us barista/scoopers to constantly taste the ice cream. He wanted to be sure we could advise customers on every aspect of his main product. Even my mom got in on the deal, happy to have a chance at one of her great job ideas: flavor consultant.

I don't remember which flavors she most liked (Mom? comment here!), but some of my favorites were cassis sorbetto with fior di latte gelato, lampone (raspberry) sorbetto with pistacchio gelato, and zabaglione gelato with just about any stone fruit sorbetto - peach, apricot, plum.

Of course, I only discovered these combinations by constantly eating the gelato.

In addition to the ice cream products, we were a cafe and sold a lot of coffee. We also drank a lot of coffee. In the 5 or so months that I worked there, I averaged 3-4 small lattes each day. That's 4 shots of espresso and 32-40 ounces of milk.

However, I actually lost weight at this job: I often had coffee and ice cream for lunch or dinner, and gelato, made from milk (as opposed to cream) is much less fatty than ice cream.

However, my current employer sells honest-to-goodness ice cream, made in Belgium, and in a huge array of tantalizingly tempting flavors such as French coffee (with coffee grounds and grand marnier), dark chocolate, caramel pecan, luikse siroop, peperkoek, and cinnamon. It is hard to remember that it is much, much more fattening than gelato, and as such... I am not losing so much weight at this job!

Living on the dairy diet is an extremely enjoyable - if slightly unhealthy - lifestyle. However, as long as you have some dairy-free sorbetto to get some fruit, and maybe eat a few vegetables when you aren't working, I have a hard time believing that it can really be all THAT bad.

I'm no expert, though, so don't trust me on that.

Expat Patriotism

2008-07-15T12:14:00.000+02:00

This morning I went out for coffee with a friend of mine, who graduated in June and is periodically back in Middelburg for a day or two while moving her things between her mother's home, her boyfriend's place, and her new place in Utrecht. After coffee, we did some wandering and shopping, as is usually the case with our meetings.

Van Leeuw, the multimedia store, was having a 3-for-15 sale of CDs, and miraculously, there were a lot of good choices - which is so rarely the case with such things. I had a hard time choosing from Wilson Pickett, Otis Redding, Woody Guthrie, Chris Isaak, and the Counting Crows, but in the end I settled on Wilson Pickett and Woody Guthrie, since they were both two-disc albums, and Chris Isaak, because I simply love him.

During our other wanderings, such as into the HEMA and the H&M to look at fun things like swimsuits (despite the overcast weather on a day I had been planning to go to the beach), we somehow got to talking about the 4th of July. She asked how I had celebrated.

Celebrate the 4th of July? Now that's something I would never have thought to do. I have had a little Thanksgiving celebration the last two years, but the 4th of July?

I shook my head. The 4th of July isn't very much fun now, I said. Especially since September 11th... to me, it's associated with the brand of Patriotism that supports President Bush and the war and the Patriot Act and those types of things. Basically, all it is, is fireworks and a barbecue - that is, if it isn't raining.

I just got home and put on my new Woody Guthrie CD. A few minutes later, I heard the familiar lyrics of "This Land is Your Land," and sang along. Now this is my kind of patriotism.

In very different news: The Gemeente Middelburg as chosen today to re-lay the cobblestones on my tree-lined street. There are jackhammers buzzing and bulldozers bulling (because I guess they aren't dozing) and men in bright orange vests walking back and forth in front of my window. Of all of the weekdays they could have chosen to do this, why did it have to be the weekday I didn't have to work?

Going Dutch

2008-07-14T13:45:00.001+02:00

Now, how's that for an original title?

But it's the truth: Since Thursday, I have more or less gone Dutch. At least as far as language goes.

Since realizing on Wednesday just how much Dutch I can speak, I have been using it increasingly at work. Every day I learn two or three words to add to the vocabulary. I am also amazed at my grammar, which seems to be much better than I expected. The confusing word order of the Dutch language flows pretty easily for me now.

I talk to friends and bartenders at the club in Dutch (even with all of that loud music in the background). I regularly translate for friends. Serving ice cream to Dutch customers is an absolute cinch. Don't ask about the German ones, though, I can't even count past 5.

The beach behind my current place of employment

Out with the old, in with the new?

Not being able to count past 5 in German is not a big deal. This morning, however, I came the realization that I can't count to eleven in Spanish. I get to ten, and... blank.

In fact, most of my Spanish is slipping away. My brother, newly returned from Ecuador, tries to talk to me on the phone in Spanish and I have trouble understanding. My cousin messages me in Spanish and I reply in English. When I try to talk, or even write, in Spanish, almost every other word comes out in Dutch.

And yet, my French is not failing me the way that my Spanish is. Why is that?

I can think of two reasons for this.

The first is that I still use French a fair amount in the Netherlands. Instruction booklets often come in Dutch and French, not English. The international train to Belgium makes announcements first in Dutch, then in French (followed by German, then English). Less than a year ago, I was studying second-year French. I made a trip to Liege about 6 months ago and spoke French for 24 hours. I was temporarily promoted to waiter one day at work because we had French-speaking customers.

Could it just be all of the little refreshers and small opportunities I have to use French?

Or could it be the second reason, which I think is more interesting, if less likely: I began learning French long before I was 11, or whenever the threshold age for learning a second language is. I learned to count to ten in Spanish before then, too. I spent a little time in France and had been significantly exposed to the language by the time I started formal lessons in high school. Maybe it is just easier for me to differentiate French from other languages because I started learning it earlier.

After all, I spent all of last summer speaking fluent, rapid Spanish daily with my coworkers at the bakery where I worked, as well as with a visiting Mexican friend who lived across the street the whole summer.

Onze? Once? Any of you readers who currently has a lower language retrieval threshold for Spanish than I do, please tell me how to say 11...

HHW Videos

2008-07-11T03:31:00.001+02:00

Be sure to check out my video clips form Haarlemse Honkbalweek. Most of them are available in the "My videos" section at the bottom of the column at right.

But just in case, here are the links so you can click straight through to youtube:

The Stadium Scene, pre-rainout
Between-inning Entertainment at Pim Mulierstadion
Ryoji Nakata, Fan Favorite

Pictures are available on my facebook. Maybe one day I will get around to posting them here...

Haarlemse Honkbalweek (Haarlem Baseball Week)

2008-07-10T12:32:00.002+02:00

The Glass is Half Empty

Haarlemse Honkbalweek began with a tenth-inning loss to the Yankees at 5 a.m. my time. But I was going to Haarlem to see some real baseball, live. Including the national teams from both Cuba and Japan.

Things kept going wrong, though. I bought a ticket to Leiden instead of Haarlem. No biggie, but I missed my connection, and was late to meet my couchsurfing host. I asked a train employee where the bathroom was and she couldn’t tell that I was a girl.

I arrived at Pim Mulier Stadium, excited. A family was speaking Spanish; a Caribbean variety, I thought, but heard no Dominicanisms. Cuban? I wanted to ask where they were from but Dutch got in the way.

Gray clouds crowded overhead as the usher scanned me in. What was up with all of the Yankee merchandise? I only saw 2 Red Sox logos.

I watched as Japan and the Dutch Caribbean Team warmed up. The DCT apparently spoke some form of Dutch, but shouted “Arriba! Arriba!” for popups. The Japanese players surprised me with their small size. They crouched and squatted like Ichiro always does in right field at Safeco.

It started sprinkling. I thought how it would have been better if it had rained when I was in Dublin, or in Amsterdam, or on vacation in Italy with Dad, instead of during baseball week.

Wait a minute… I realized. It did rain on those trips: frequent showers countered the sunbreaks in Dublin, it drizzled constantly in Amsterdam, and in Italy, Dad and I were frequently caught in downpours. That’s not fair.

I pulled out a scorecard and tried to keep dry. I was wet, miserable, lonely. A rain delay lasted 20 minutes. I envied the Dutch and their ponchos, as well as their companions. I don’t mind being alone, but sometimes it seems so unfair that I have to do it so often, and have had to for so long.

Japan led 12-0, then 12-5, and then the rains came, driving the viewers below the scaffolding that supported the stands. While the others countered the storm with jokes, friends and conversation, I huddled up with Petite Anglaise. Little comfort compared to the warmth of company.

They called the game. Some fries provided temporary comfort. I waited, cold, wet, and alone, hoping it would clear before the Cuba-Chinese Taipei. but at 8 it was still raining. People were leaving, including the Spanish-speaking family; the game was canceled. I left.

The Glass is Half Full

On the other hand, I got to go to a home, have a cup of tea, and talk to someone. Couch surfing has more to offer than free accomodation.

I felt better after sleeping. I got up the next day determined to make it a good one.

I found a Vlaamsch Broodhuys, which cheered me up. I ate breakfast there, speaking only Dutch. It was raining, but who cared? Let it get it out of its system.

I cleverly bought a poncho and a small towel at HEMA. I went to the Grote Kerk. Big, white walls, and simple windows made me feel happy, peaceful, and relaxed.

At the stadium, I grabbed seats on the third base side, near home plate. Seeing the U.S. team warm up warmed me – nothing like good baseball to make me happy.

During the national anthems we felt raindrops. Then it poured. Only for three or four minutes, but it took the grounds crew half an hour to get the infield ready for play again.

Finally, “PLAY BALL!”

The USA beat the DCT 11-0 in 7 innings (because of a mercy rule). The game ended at 6, delaying the start of the Netherlands-Japan game to 7.30. It was sunny until game time, but suddenly I didn’t mind the weather.

Because the crowd was really into it. Fans were leading cheers on the dugout. Dutch music played between innings. It rained briefly, but not enough to stop the game. The sun came out again.

They announced that the Cuba-Chinese Taipei game would be replayed the next morning at 9.30. I could see it before going home!

The girl next to me asked where I was from, and we talked a little throughout the game. She asked why they had intentionally walked a player, making me thrilled to have someone to talk baseball with. I asked her if she rooted for a Dutch team, but she shook her head and said, “Only for Honkbalweek.”

The game was incredible. Percy Isenia, 1^st baseman (or Eerste Honkman), scored in the second after hitting a double – the first extra-base hit I had seen, excepting a home run on Monday. The game was fast, not drawn-out like a T-ball game. The fastest pitch I noticed clocked in at 93 mph (thrown by Japan’s Hisashi Takeushi).

The Dutch scored on a solo home run by Roel Koolen in the 5^th. In the 7^th, they even turned a double play. In the 8^th inning, I looked down to mark a hit by Takahirio Iwamoto and was shocked to see it was Japan’s first hit of the game. I had seen 7 innings of no-hit baseball! David Bergman had given up a walk, hit two, and committed an error, but no hits.

Iwamoto scored on another single, a sacrifice bunt, and a groundout. Talk about small ball.

The Dutch led 2-1 in the bottom of the ninth. Number 8, the first baseman Ryoji Nakata, led off to thunderous applause. For some reason, Nakata was a huge favorite with the Dutch crowd. I found their cheers annoying; it seemed they were poking fun of his size. Nakata is short and round and makes Mo Vaughn and David Ortiz look slim in comparison.

You won’t like him so much when he hits a home run to tie the game… I barely had time to finish the thought, however, before Nakata drilled the ball down the right field line. It was only fair by three or four feet, but it was a home run by much, much more.

And then I saw that I was wrong: They still liked him! They were all standing and cheering and clapping for him!

That’s classy.

Either that, or they don’t care who wins.

Japan scored another run in the bottom of the ninth to win. I felt bad for the Dutch team but was happy. What a great game! And the next day I would come back to see Cuba! Gosh that would be awesome!

There’s No Half About It: The Glass is Completely Empty

On the way out, the players were milling around, some signing autographs. I wanted one! Then I remembered that I hadn’t brought my baseball. Maybe tomorrow…? But there would be no Dutch team then.

At the information booth, I asked if I could use my Monday ticket to go to the Cuba-Chinese Taipei makeup game. The lady shook her head. Okay, I said, and thought, no big deal. I’ll buy another ticket.

Then I thought to ask, “Are there still tickets available?” and for some cruel reason, the lady actually laughed as she shook her head no.

“I paid 13.50 for 6 innings of rained out baseball?” I stammered, panic clutching at me. She nodded, looking genuinely amused. “Even though I bought a ticket for Monday, I can’t go to the rainout…?”

“No,” she said, as if it was obvious, “You have to buy a ticket for Wednesday.”

“Yeah but… usually you get a coupon or something… you get to come to the make-up game…” She shook her head. “There’s nothing I can do?” I asked desperately. “No jobs… no work… I can’t volunteer, or anything…” I gasped, flailing about for any possible means of entry to the ballpark. The lady shook her head, again.

“Dank je wel,” I said, not meaning it. I went back outside and what little happiness remained within me dissolved into the crowd. No Cuba! They were the team I had most wanted to see!

Maybe I could come early tomorrow and ask the Cuban players to let me carry their bags or something… No way would Cubans let some girl be their porter. I would just be wasting money on train tickets. But… CUBA!!! When would I get the chance to see Cuba play again?

I called my host to find she was still not back from her concert. The blue skies had become black; lightning flashed. I tripped into the city center and found a restaurant/bar. I told the bartender, in Dutch, that I just wanted a drink, a cup of tea or such. He repeated my question back to me, correcting my improper pronunciation of “drink”. Another waiter said, in dismissive English , “A cup of tea? You can sit at the bar.” The bartender was nicer. I felt sort of comforted in his presence.

Still miserable, though.

They kicked me out at midnight. I wandered until a phone call informed me I could go to the house and get some sleep.

Wednesday morning was tauntingly, teasingly, cruelly clear and blue. It wasn’t fair! Why hadn’t I planned to come on Wednesday in the first place? Why did it have to rain on Monday? Why? Why? WHY?

The Glass is Refilled (with rain?)

I went back to the Vlaamsch Broodhuys and took some comfort in the friendly woman working there. She was amused at my indecision. “It’s harder to choose when you’re really hungry, isn’t it?” she said. I agreed, though hunger wasn’t the only problem, it was the tantalizing choices. I haven’t seen bread that good in ages.

The English-speaker who was working the morning before came in and I took some comfort in his accent. I thought he was American but couldn’t be sure. He spoke on and off in Dutch, pretty good Dutch. An Anglophone who tries. I like that.

I walked slowly up the shopping streets, no longer hungry, lugging two kilos of bread in a bag (half sliced, so I could freeze it, the other half unsliced to be eaten over the next few days/weeks). I saw cute shoes that I wanted and thought to save up for and buy in Middelburg (only 30 euros). I found a store with Tintin memorabilia in the window and thought to step in and look for a birthday present for my brother.

The clerk asked if I was looking for anything in particular, and led me to the Simpsons products. I explained that since The Simpsons, my brother, and myself all came from Portland… it wasn’t very original.

In the end, I bought a “I Y Captain Haddock” mug and a cute Thompson & Thomson bowl, mariner-themed with a thin blue line circling below the rim. The clerk informed me that those old styles were being discontinued, replaced with the cheaper (and less original, less cute, etc.) “I Y ___” products. Now I couldn’t feel guilty about buying an 11 euro bowl. I told her how we had these bowls when I was little, and it was sad they weren’t making them anymore.

Later I realized that neither would be very good presents for Simon. Oh well, I’ll take good care of them so I can have them when I finally move out of Bagijnhof.

Only after I left did I really recognize the fact that I had done every last bit of that conversation in Dutch.

Also the conversation in the bakery.

Oh my God.

I can speak Dutch.

Really?

I caught the train back to Middelburg, thinking if I couldn’t see some baseball I might as well get home and write, read, and maybe listen to the game in Dutch on internet radio.

Middelburg was wet and rainy. If the Netherlands wants to keep playing baseball, (and I want them to,) they should really consider investing in some domed stadiums.

Late night bike rides

2008-07-04T00:06:00.000+02:00

Usually, on days I close at work, I ride home with a colleague who also lives in Middelburg. He's a nice guy and we have fun conversations, sometimes random but usually just talk about our (extremely different) backgrounds and varying interests (he's the outdoorsy type, while I'm the bookish type). Tonight I talked about how Americans embarrass me.

They come into the workplace from time to time, or I run into them somewhere, and while ocassionally it is nice to hear an American accent, most of the time it is unexciting or even annoying.

And it is such a hypocritical sentiment! Their accents sound twangy.... so I guess mine does, too. They talk to so loud. But then, so do I. What is it that makes me sometimes feel so, well... superior?

Maybe it's my decent knowledge of world - not to mention U.S. - geography. I'm happy to break the stereotype that Americans don't know geography, but unfortunately, that stereotype is there for a reason.

Totally different direction here: I'm learning Dutch. Every once in a while, something reminds me; tonight, it was a conversation some of my colleagues had as we were chatting over wine and other drinks after closing. They were talking about the good wine at this pub and the bad service at that one, and towards the end I realized that, yeah, I actually understood the majority of what they were saying.

And another, really different direction: I've been reading the Petite Anglaise blog, the topic of my thesis (as I will refer to it here; it is just so much more universally understood than "IRP"), and it's really very well written. I can actually see why she got a book deal.

Which is quite a relief, since I have to read 3-4 years' worth of daily blog entries, as well as a book that is based on/taken from/inspired by the blog itself. I printed out the first three months and read them on paper, and now I really understand just how interactive blogs are by the amount that I couldn't do when reading one on paper. All of the links - even the link that exposes the comments is disabled on a printout!

I'm excited to get the book and see what carries over from the blog to the book and what is totally missing.