I've been so many places and done so many things that I can't even REMEMBER THEM. They are lost in the tin box in my brain labeled "Fun Things." This box contains many things: Skittles, snap-wrist bracelets, Beanie Babies, Bubble-yum, and the last few weeks.
So I've been to Prague, and I've (accidentally) been to Vienna. I've been to Florence and Rome (and Naples, briefly), and last weekend I was in Switzerland. This weekend is finals, and then we go to London and fly home. Here, how about I write something on each of those:
PRAGUE: Unfortunately, I did not buy any paraphernalia bearing the phrase "Czech Me Out," but I did buy a stuffed mole. Why? Oh, I will tell you why. I was passing a shop when I saw a T-shirt decorated with a strangely familiar cartoon mole. Hey, I thought. Who dat mole? Then, dear reader, I remembered. That mole was the star of a series of videos (appropriately titled "Mole") that my brother and I used to check (no pun intended) out from the library when we were little. It turns out that this was a Czech cartoon! I never would have guessed that as a little kiddo I was watching a cartoon from a country where I would one day visit and buy a stuffed replica of said cartoon star. My life has come full circle, and so soon.
Anyway, I also got a last-minute ticket to the Don Giovanni opera, which was pretty good except that I literally had the worst seat in the theatre and I eventually had to stop leaning over the railing to see because my neck had become so strained that my head actually rolled off my shoulders and plummeted into the crowd below. They had to stop the show for a few minutes so that someone could toss it back up.
A couple of nights later I went to the coolest club ever. It was so cool, man. You don't even know. First of all, the entry fee was about equivalent to 6 U.S. dollars. Second of all, the club consisted of five floors, all of which played different music. I didn't pay much attention to the first floor because it was particularly Euro-trashtastic, the second was techno (which I do not know how to dance to and I think I permanently scarred a particular German young man who witnessed my incessant karate-chopping and robot-ing). The third was some sort of classic rock floor on a terrific multicolored dance floor that reminded me of a Rubik's Cube. Fourth was hip-hop and fifth was the chillout/too drunk to function room. It was pretty great. Laura and I had the great idea of finding guys to buy us drinks, and the moment this thought occurred to us, two Serbian guys appeared before us like Genies and shook our hands. A lot of whispering transpired between the two guys, and they kept running off to go find money (classy!), but eventually Laura and I each had a shot of tequila in our hands. I asked "my" guy if he wanted to dance, and he said emotionlessly, "I don't dance," and promptly left, never to be seen again. Hey, thanks dude. Saved me the trouble of doing exactly that.
So that is Prague in a candy-coated shell. There were a few more museums and castles in there, but help me if I have to look at another altarpiece. NO DANK U WELL.
VIENNA: So, after an overnight train from Prague, we were supposed to spend a day in Venice. This did not happen, because our train was inexcusably late and we missed our connection. We couldn't get a train to Florence until 7 that night, so we decided to just explore Vienna. Vienna was very charming, but I didn't really notice because I was too busy being incredibly cold. So, while I appreciated Vienna, I did not enjoy it. I enjoyed the heated, cozy cafes in Vienna, however. But a picturesque freezer does not a fun time for Rachel make. Oh well. I'll try not to be too cranky about it.
FLORENCE: This place is small! Ashley and I walked and walked around, and refused to spend any money on museums. This means that I sadly missed seeing Michelangelo's David, but, you know, there is only so much original art that one can take. And I took a lot.
We ate our weight in gelato and then joined up with some other kiddos for a makeshift Thanksgiving dinner. It was only Wednesday but we had no plans for Thursday so it was the best we could do. We went to a delicious and cheap Italian restaurant and I had MORE MUSSELS. Oh man you guys. I love mussels. Especially over Italian pasta.
NAPLES: While I was napping, "we" decided to get up at an ungodly hour the next morning and head to Rome. After checking into our hostel, which was adorably named the Two Ducks and looked like a kindergarten classroom, we went back to the train station to go on to Naples. I don't know what we were expecting Naples to look like, but we weren't expecting it to look like a huge dumpster, which is indeed what it resembled. There was literally so much garbage in some areas that you couldn't see what was underneath. It was totally sketchy and gross and we instantly regretted coming. We got lost and finally found the train station and had our calendar-Thanksgiving dinner at a McDonalds. Ick. Also, if anyone else tries to argue with me that it wasn't a complete waste, that at least it was a different culture, I will smack them, preferably into a Naples ravine. Garbage is not culture. It is just garbage.
ROME: We spent two wonderful days in Rome. Oh Rome, I am so in love with you. The first day was clear and warm and gorgeous and we spent most of it wandering through ruins, in particular the Colloseum. We again ate our weight in gelato and ran into a zillion other Emerson kids at that one famous fountain, in which I indeed tossed coins over my shoulder.
The day after that we went to the Vatican, and unfortunately we did not get into St. Peter's Basilica because they were inducting a new cardinal, which you know really means hazing him and tying his underwear to the Pietà. Instead, then, we stood in line for a million years to get into the Sistine Chapel, which was amazing. Also confusing. It seemed like we were at the end of it because the rooms were turning into modern art displays, and we were all "Huh? Did we miss it? Where's the ceiling?" We did not miss it, though, and soon found ourselves in the extremely crowded Creation room, where guards kept screaming "SILENCIO!" and "NO PHOTO!" I got a photo, though. Pbbbblllllt.
SWITZERLAND: The next weekend, fifteen of us went to Switzerland, which was incrediblllllle. The first day a few of us went paragliding, which was terrifying and beautiful. I got to go at sunset which was particularly amazing. The day after, we headed to the mountains to go snowboarding and skiing, and while I'm as horrible at snowboarding as I remember, it was still great. We went to thermal baths after that, which was literally on the mountainside. That night, we did wine tasting, which was educational and delicious but it was also just a lot of wine. I spilled some on my hands, and, because we did not have any soap, I ended up smelling like a wino for the entire trip back. Nice. Just another day in my classy life.
It's almost time to come home, which is sad, but I am also ready to leave. I miss home and I need to get away from here so that I can really appreciate my time here. I want to come back, definitely, but I have no idea when I will be able to do that. There are so many places I still want to see: Spain, Luxemburg, Greece, Ireland, Berlin, Venice, to name a few. Maybe I will become independently wealthy sometime soon and can travel back. Or wait, I'll marry rich. That makes more sense.
Gross, a ladybug just landed on my screen. There are so many ladybugs here. I had to vacuum up about a hundred of them because they were all over my luggage. Gross, now it is on my keyboard, right on the "D." It bounces every time I type "D." Ew. Alright I better go now and get ready for our Chanuka celebration and one last night at the local bar. Bleh it's making it's way to the "R." Now it's caught between two keys and kicking its feet. Okay so long bug. And readers. Tot ziens.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Anti-Bacteriële Werking, at that.
This will be short because I have nothing interesting to say.
I leave for Prague tomorrow morning. Wake-up call is at 5 AM, which means I'll be up around 4 for a shower. I've done everything I can to pack light, but it's impossible. I am going to Italy after Prague, so I have to pack for both climates. Also I'm bringing my laptop with me, in hopes that it will motivate me to work on the (ridiculous, unreasonable) 15-page final paper that's due the week we get back. Wow, that's so interesting. Tell us more, Rachel. What brand of toothpaste are you bringing? (Yes, I finally broke down and bought my very own.) Please spell out every meticulous detail of your packing regimen.
Apparently it is going to be, like, -3 degrees in Prague. And we're to expect snow. WHAT?! I didn't sign up for this! If I wanted to stomp around the snow in the bitter cold while hauling around a 50-pound backpack, I would have saved myself the plane ride and just hiked around Anchorage. Ha, ha, ha! Because it's cold there? Anything? No? Alright.
So I gotta confess that I totally busted open a box of those Belgian chocolates. They're so good! Not that you guys will ever know. Just kidding, there are plenty of boxes where that one came from. I won't eat them all. I think.
Well, I gotta go pack some more! I need to find room for my hairdryer and 28 toiletry items. Can't explore Europe without those! Catch ya'll on the flip side of this excursion. Oh and P.S., my toothpaste is Aquafresh. Word.
I leave for Prague tomorrow morning. Wake-up call is at 5 AM, which means I'll be up around 4 for a shower. I've done everything I can to pack light, but it's impossible. I am going to Italy after Prague, so I have to pack for both climates. Also I'm bringing my laptop with me, in hopes that it will motivate me to work on the (ridiculous, unreasonable) 15-page final paper that's due the week we get back. Wow, that's so interesting. Tell us more, Rachel. What brand of toothpaste are you bringing? (Yes, I finally broke down and bought my very own.) Please spell out every meticulous detail of your packing regimen.
Apparently it is going to be, like, -3 degrees in Prague. And we're to expect snow. WHAT?! I didn't sign up for this! If I wanted to stomp around the snow in the bitter cold while hauling around a 50-pound backpack, I would have saved myself the plane ride and just hiked around Anchorage. Ha, ha, ha! Because it's cold there? Anything? No? Alright.
So I gotta confess that I totally busted open a box of those Belgian chocolates. They're so good! Not that you guys will ever know. Just kidding, there are plenty of boxes where that one came from. I won't eat them all. I think.
Well, I gotta go pack some more! I need to find room for my hairdryer and 28 toiletry items. Can't explore Europe without those! Catch ya'll on the flip side of this excursion. Oh and P.S., my toothpaste is Aquafresh. Word.
Friday, November 09, 2007
Millions of little (lego) pieces.
It's true that I am getting pretty bad at updating this thing regularly. It is also true that the old man in the Copenhagen train station was sleeping in a puddle of his own urine. So the lesson here is: the truth isn't always pleasant. Think about it.
So the quick ketchup is that I spent a weekend in Copenhagen and Billund, both of which are in Denmark, the latter of which contains LEGOLAND. And an airport, and a bus stop. And hundreds of happy children. And, for one special day, me. LEGOLAND is clearly designed for children much younger than myself, but that didn't stop me from cramming my butt into every single one of those rides. I rode the Lego Train, the Lego Boat, the Lego Trolley, the Lego Mine Car, basically every sort of Lego-tranportation device. I also rode (one) rollercoaster and then went on this one weird ride where they strap you into a machine that tosses you around until your ears are bleeding and you want to vomit. I whipped out the ibiprofen after that one. So that was about it. Denmark. Weeee!
I’m staying in Belgium this weekend: one night in Brussels, one night in Bruges. I am here by myself, which means I get to do what I want to do and it is AWESOME. On the other hand, my hostels are charging me a lot because apparently they hate solo travelers. My hostel in Bruges is actually charging me for two people because the bed I will be sleeping in is a big bed, and could fit another guest. Gross. Not cool, Bruges. Not cool.
I see this weekend as my weekend of self-discovery. I think you learn a lot about yourself when you go somewhere new and crazy all on your own. What have I discovered about myself so far? I have discovered that I am really awesome at figuring out trains and telling old ladies to move their giant purses off that empty seat in a crowded car so that I can sit the heck down. Does your foul, shiny pleather purse have a Eurail pass, ma’am? Then cradle it in your lap like an ugly baby. I have also discovered that I am bad at remembering what season it is, as I forgot my umbrella, gloves, scarf, and raincoat. And of course the sky decides to rain, snow, AND hail today. Whenever the weather gets really bad, I jump into a chocolate shop for shelter.
Speaking of chocolate shops, guess where I spent my money today? I bought two boxes of fresh, assorted chocolates from two different shops. One of those shops employs a young man who, before, while, and after I bought my chocolate, asked me to meet him outside the shop at 8 for a beer. Guess who’s going to be disappointed at 8? Hint: Not me, as I will be watching Minority Report.
I sometimes wonder if I should give the weirdos who hit on me a chance. But then I think of the painful awkwardness that would inevitably ensue, the million ways I’d have to say Hey Thanks For Your Time But I’m Not Interested, the possibility that these guys could go from weird to crazy to murderous, and I end up deciding that I’m pretty cool with my first instincts. Yeah, I know that this is the time to do that kind of thing, to meet up with a local for a beer and have a “cultural” experience, but you know what? I just wouldn’t enjoy it. And I’m not gonna do it. SO BACK OFF, OKAY?!
Hm, I got sidetracked. Ah, yes, chocolate. So I bought these boxes to take home, right? For my family and stuff. But then I got to thinking, these chocolates are not shrink-wrapped or sealed or anything. They are just in a paper box tied with ribbon. How long are those things gonna last? I don’t go home for over a month. I guess I will get some plastic bags and seal them up really tight. I’m pretty worried about this, though. I mean, I really don’t want to have to waste them by eating them myself, but I also don’t want to bring them to my family in December and be like “Merry Christmas! Here’s some expensive, disgusting rot! Don’t hog, there’s plenty of food poisoning for everyone!”
I went to the museum of comic strips or something like that, because the Smurfs and Tintin were born here or whatever. Too bad they are not really relevant to my generation. Tintin, you say? Yes, I think I remember my dad mentioning him when I was like, a fetus.
I also went to a mussels place for dinner, because apparently the national dish of Belgium is mussels and fries. You are so weird, Belgium. They were pretty good, but they were served in what looked and tasted like warm seawater and seaweed. I kind of felt like I was catching them myself. Also, the bottom of the menu said: "Remember: Only a few hours before you are eating these mussels, they were swimming in the ocean." I realize that that’s supposed to be a reminder of how great and fresh their food is, but it struck me as a little grim. These poor mussels. They didn’t even see it coming. This morning they were floating around the sea. Now they are in my bowl.
That is all I have for right now. Although I would like to note that I have no toothpaste. I have been stealing everyone else's all year, and now that I am on my own? No toothpaste. I am still brushing my teeth, though. I just want everyone to know that. Still, I'm kind of sad that I don't get to fight tartar all weekend. Bummer.
So the quick ketchup is that I spent a weekend in Copenhagen and Billund, both of which are in Denmark, the latter of which contains LEGOLAND. And an airport, and a bus stop. And hundreds of happy children. And, for one special day, me. LEGOLAND is clearly designed for children much younger than myself, but that didn't stop me from cramming my butt into every single one of those rides. I rode the Lego Train, the Lego Boat, the Lego Trolley, the Lego Mine Car, basically every sort of Lego-tranportation device. I also rode (one) rollercoaster and then went on this one weird ride where they strap you into a machine that tosses you around until your ears are bleeding and you want to vomit. I whipped out the ibiprofen after that one. So that was about it. Denmark. Weeee!
I’m staying in Belgium this weekend: one night in Brussels, one night in Bruges. I am here by myself, which means I get to do what I want to do and it is AWESOME. On the other hand, my hostels are charging me a lot because apparently they hate solo travelers. My hostel in Bruges is actually charging me for two people because the bed I will be sleeping in is a big bed, and could fit another guest. Gross. Not cool, Bruges. Not cool.
I see this weekend as my weekend of self-discovery. I think you learn a lot about yourself when you go somewhere new and crazy all on your own. What have I discovered about myself so far? I have discovered that I am really awesome at figuring out trains and telling old ladies to move their giant purses off that empty seat in a crowded car so that I can sit the heck down. Does your foul, shiny pleather purse have a Eurail pass, ma’am? Then cradle it in your lap like an ugly baby. I have also discovered that I am bad at remembering what season it is, as I forgot my umbrella, gloves, scarf, and raincoat. And of course the sky decides to rain, snow, AND hail today. Whenever the weather gets really bad, I jump into a chocolate shop for shelter.
Speaking of chocolate shops, guess where I spent my money today? I bought two boxes of fresh, assorted chocolates from two different shops. One of those shops employs a young man who, before, while, and after I bought my chocolate, asked me to meet him outside the shop at 8 for a beer. Guess who’s going to be disappointed at 8? Hint: Not me, as I will be watching Minority Report.
I sometimes wonder if I should give the weirdos who hit on me a chance. But then I think of the painful awkwardness that would inevitably ensue, the million ways I’d have to say Hey Thanks For Your Time But I’m Not Interested, the possibility that these guys could go from weird to crazy to murderous, and I end up deciding that I’m pretty cool with my first instincts. Yeah, I know that this is the time to do that kind of thing, to meet up with a local for a beer and have a “cultural” experience, but you know what? I just wouldn’t enjoy it. And I’m not gonna do it. SO BACK OFF, OKAY?!
Hm, I got sidetracked. Ah, yes, chocolate. So I bought these boxes to take home, right? For my family and stuff. But then I got to thinking, these chocolates are not shrink-wrapped or sealed or anything. They are just in a paper box tied with ribbon. How long are those things gonna last? I don’t go home for over a month. I guess I will get some plastic bags and seal them up really tight. I’m pretty worried about this, though. I mean, I really don’t want to have to waste them by eating them myself, but I also don’t want to bring them to my family in December and be like “Merry Christmas! Here’s some expensive, disgusting rot! Don’t hog, there’s plenty of food poisoning for everyone!”
I went to the museum of comic strips or something like that, because the Smurfs and Tintin were born here or whatever. Too bad they are not really relevant to my generation. Tintin, you say? Yes, I think I remember my dad mentioning him when I was like, a fetus.
I also went to a mussels place for dinner, because apparently the national dish of Belgium is mussels and fries. You are so weird, Belgium. They were pretty good, but they were served in what looked and tasted like warm seawater and seaweed. I kind of felt like I was catching them myself. Also, the bottom of the menu said: "Remember: Only a few hours before you are eating these mussels, they were swimming in the ocean." I realize that that’s supposed to be a reminder of how great and fresh their food is, but it struck me as a little grim. These poor mussels. They didn’t even see it coming. This morning they were floating around the sea. Now they are in my bowl.
That is all I have for right now. Although I would like to note that I have no toothpaste. I have been stealing everyone else's all year, and now that I am on my own? No toothpaste. I am still brushing my teeth, though. I just want everyone to know that. Still, I'm kind of sad that I don't get to fight tartar all weekend. Bummer.
Monday, October 22, 2007
I saw London, I saw France.
Midterms started today, so I had to cancel my Italy trip (that I had planned without really thinking) so that I could stay here at the castle and watch Desperate Housewives study. Sure, it set me back 70 euro due to the flights I couldn't cancel, but hey, that's the price of education. Well, that and my $13,440 tuition bill. Wait, what was I talking about? My head is spinning.
Oh, so, I went to London a couple of weeks ago, and then Paris and Nice. Whew, London. You are a dirty, smelly city. London smells like a careful mixture of beer, B.O., and cheap laundry detergent. The best thing about London, though, is the way everybody stands to the right on escalators, so that those who are in a hurry (read: me, always) can sprint through on the left. VERY EFFICIENT, LONDON. WELL DONE. Now let's hose ya down, stinky.
I spent a lot of money going to shows, too much, probably, but I saw Wicked and Rent and Avenue Q and Spamalot. I literally saw a show every night, except for Sunday night, because that is the night of rest. So I went out drinkin' with my Art professor and the resident life staff. Naturally.
Have I mentioned that the resident life dudes are hot? Because they are hot. They also both have girlfriends, which I am convinced was a prerequisite to their getting hired. If either of them ever break up with their significant others, I am sure that they will be immediately fired for liability reasons.
I also spent a lot of money on food, because I found a great fresh sandwich shop called Pret A Manger and proceeded to eat there at least once every day. It wasn't that expensive for London, but it sure was expensive for my wimpy little American dollar, as is everything in Europe.
I'm trying to get this posted so I'll just sum up London by saying, we did a lot of walking, saw a lot of stuff, and it didn't rain until the last day, which unfortunately was the day I climbed to the tip-top of St. Paul's Cathedral. My pictures up there are...muggy.
After London our independent travel break began, and Ashley, Caitlin and I went to France. We first paid one zillion dollars to cross the Chunnel, which was a confusing ride. Our conversation for that entire trip basically went like this:
"Are we underwater yet?"
"I don't know. I don't think so. Look, a house."
"Okay I think this tunnel is the Chunn- whoop, nope, we're in another neighborhood."
"It should be coming up soon. Oh, here's our stop."
So, who knows where the Chunnel really is. Not between England and France, I don't think! Though my map would like to tell me otherwise.
We got to Lille and activated our Eurail passes and made it to Paris fairly late. We ran around in circles until we finally, finally found our hostel. Let me sum up our Paris experiences with this fun list:
Fun Things To Do In Paris
1. Arrive late at night in the pouring rain. Make sure not to have an umbrella handy, and that you have a backpack that smells like a dead 'possum when it gets wet.
2. Stay at a hostel so far out of Paris that it is not even on your no-longer-so-handy map. If possible, have with you an internet printout containing vague directions (e.g. "It's next to the McDonalds"), with important street names misspelled.
3. Get lost on the Metro. Do this often.
4. Wait for an RER train that may or may not come in the freezing cold whilst eating terrible pizza because God help you if you have one more baguette.
5. Eat cheese with every meal.
6. Plan to go up on the Eiffel Tower after it is closed.
7. Know absolutely no French. If the opportunity arises, accidentally speak in Spanish.
8. Have bread with every meal. Get those intestines feeling like they're full of glue!
Oh, and actual fun thing to do in Paris? Check your bank account and remember how awesome it sometimes is to be Alaskan, as you gaze lustfully at that $1600 figure.
We did finally make it to the Eiffel Tower, which was a lot of standing in line. Oh, speaking of lines? The French are huge line-cutters. It was so prevalent that Ashley looked it up after we got back and discovered that we're not the only ones who have noticed. They've got a bad rap. Whole families were cutting us in line. Usually people will just point ahead of them as they pass you and mumble something in French. I think what they are saying is "Heh. Heh heh."
We went to the Louvre also, and unfortunately I was suffering from museum fatigue and didn't enjoy it as much as I thought I would. I was rocking the French painting section by myself and was having a grand old time until I tried to enter the 18th and 19th century wings. Turns out, hey! It's closed today. So, no Impressionism for me. Sniff.
This put me in a sour mood but I made my way over to the Italian painting. This is what everyone was doing, however, because obviously this was where the Mona Lisa is located. If I may say, the Louvre really needs to calm down about the Mona Lisa. There were cheap computer-printed flyers up everywhere saying This Way! To the Mona Lisa! What is this, a junior high pool party? I'm sure I'll make my way.
And make my way I did. And it was anticlimactic, because it is behind bulletproof glass that glares horribly and a wooden railing, so you can't get close. Also, everyone was taking pictures with flash, which really grilled my cheese. Louvre security may as well have been asleep. People were touching statues and licking paintings and punching ancient artifacts. Oh well. See ya later Louvre, if you have any art still left in tact.
The next morning we went straight to the train station to make our way to Nice. Long story short, we got confused about which station we were leaving from, my RER card failed and I ended up getting my backpack cartoonishly stuck in the automated doors, aaaand we ultimately missed our train. As in, made it to the platform in time to see the doors close and halfheartedly run alongside it as it pulled away. So we got our tickets changed to the next train and basically didn't speak to each other for two hours.
We made it to Nice and paid in cash in our sketchy, smelly hostel. The porter guy was incredibly creepy. He looked like Enrico Colantoni. Our room smelled like a mixture of roach spray and baby poop, and got worse when we flushed the toilet or turned on the water.
We spent the next day just walking around and lying on the beach, trying not to think about what an awful day we were going to have trying to get home. I got a subtle tan and saw some topless ladies, so all in all it was a productive day. We did have a stressful time getting home, but made it back barely in time for the last bus back to Kasteel, which was our ultimate goal. I crawled into bed and slept for forever, except that wait, no, I didn't, because I had class the next morning. I may sound negative, but rest assured that I had a great time and made lots of memories, which I'm sure I'll fondly recall just as soon as my back muscles untangle themselves and my digestive system becomes regular.
Oh, so, I went to London a couple of weeks ago, and then Paris and Nice. Whew, London. You are a dirty, smelly city. London smells like a careful mixture of beer, B.O., and cheap laundry detergent. The best thing about London, though, is the way everybody stands to the right on escalators, so that those who are in a hurry (read: me, always) can sprint through on the left. VERY EFFICIENT, LONDON. WELL DONE. Now let's hose ya down, stinky.
I spent a lot of money going to shows, too much, probably, but I saw Wicked and Rent and Avenue Q and Spamalot. I literally saw a show every night, except for Sunday night, because that is the night of rest. So I went out drinkin' with my Art professor and the resident life staff. Naturally.
Have I mentioned that the resident life dudes are hot? Because they are hot. They also both have girlfriends, which I am convinced was a prerequisite to their getting hired. If either of them ever break up with their significant others, I am sure that they will be immediately fired for liability reasons.
I also spent a lot of money on food, because I found a great fresh sandwich shop called Pret A Manger and proceeded to eat there at least once every day. It wasn't that expensive for London, but it sure was expensive for my wimpy little American dollar, as is everything in Europe.
I'm trying to get this posted so I'll just sum up London by saying, we did a lot of walking, saw a lot of stuff, and it didn't rain until the last day, which unfortunately was the day I climbed to the tip-top of St. Paul's Cathedral. My pictures up there are...muggy.
After London our independent travel break began, and Ashley, Caitlin and I went to France. We first paid one zillion dollars to cross the Chunnel, which was a confusing ride. Our conversation for that entire trip basically went like this:
"Are we underwater yet?"
"I don't know. I don't think so. Look, a house."
"Okay I think this tunnel is the Chunn- whoop, nope, we're in another neighborhood."
"It should be coming up soon. Oh, here's our stop."
So, who knows where the Chunnel really is. Not between England and France, I don't think! Though my map would like to tell me otherwise.
We got to Lille and activated our Eurail passes and made it to Paris fairly late. We ran around in circles until we finally, finally found our hostel. Let me sum up our Paris experiences with this fun list:
Fun Things To Do In Paris
1. Arrive late at night in the pouring rain. Make sure not to have an umbrella handy, and that you have a backpack that smells like a dead 'possum when it gets wet.
2. Stay at a hostel so far out of Paris that it is not even on your no-longer-so-handy map. If possible, have with you an internet printout containing vague directions (e.g. "It's next to the McDonalds"), with important street names misspelled.
3. Get lost on the Metro. Do this often.
4. Wait for an RER train that may or may not come in the freezing cold whilst eating terrible pizza because God help you if you have one more baguette.
5. Eat cheese with every meal.
6. Plan to go up on the Eiffel Tower after it is closed.
7. Know absolutely no French. If the opportunity arises, accidentally speak in Spanish.
8. Have bread with every meal. Get those intestines feeling like they're full of glue!
Oh, and actual fun thing to do in Paris? Check your bank account and remember how awesome it sometimes is to be Alaskan, as you gaze lustfully at that $1600 figure.
We did finally make it to the Eiffel Tower, which was a lot of standing in line. Oh, speaking of lines? The French are huge line-cutters. It was so prevalent that Ashley looked it up after we got back and discovered that we're not the only ones who have noticed. They've got a bad rap. Whole families were cutting us in line. Usually people will just point ahead of them as they pass you and mumble something in French. I think what they are saying is "Heh. Heh heh."
We went to the Louvre also, and unfortunately I was suffering from museum fatigue and didn't enjoy it as much as I thought I would. I was rocking the French painting section by myself and was having a grand old time until I tried to enter the 18th and 19th century wings. Turns out, hey! It's closed today. So, no Impressionism for me. Sniff.
This put me in a sour mood but I made my way over to the Italian painting. This is what everyone was doing, however, because obviously this was where the Mona Lisa is located. If I may say, the Louvre really needs to calm down about the Mona Lisa. There were cheap computer-printed flyers up everywhere saying This Way! To the Mona Lisa! What is this, a junior high pool party? I'm sure I'll make my way.
And make my way I did. And it was anticlimactic, because it is behind bulletproof glass that glares horribly and a wooden railing, so you can't get close. Also, everyone was taking pictures with flash, which really grilled my cheese. Louvre security may as well have been asleep. People were touching statues and licking paintings and punching ancient artifacts. Oh well. See ya later Louvre, if you have any art still left in tact.
The next morning we went straight to the train station to make our way to Nice. Long story short, we got confused about which station we were leaving from, my RER card failed and I ended up getting my backpack cartoonishly stuck in the automated doors, aaaand we ultimately missed our train. As in, made it to the platform in time to see the doors close and halfheartedly run alongside it as it pulled away. So we got our tickets changed to the next train and basically didn't speak to each other for two hours.
We made it to Nice and paid in cash in our sketchy, smelly hostel. The porter guy was incredibly creepy. He looked like Enrico Colantoni. Our room smelled like a mixture of roach spray and baby poop, and got worse when we flushed the toilet or turned on the water.
We spent the next day just walking around and lying on the beach, trying not to think about what an awful day we were going to have trying to get home. I got a subtle tan and saw some topless ladies, so all in all it was a productive day. We did have a stressful time getting home, but made it back barely in time for the last bus back to Kasteel, which was our ultimate goal. I crawled into bed and slept for forever, except that wait, no, I didn't, because I had class the next morning. I may sound negative, but rest assured that I had a great time and made lots of memories, which I'm sure I'll fondly recall just as soon as my back muscles untangle themselves and my digestive system becomes regular.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
She made me do an in-class write about a piece of bark.
So, I think that I will write about my classes, because I am sticking around the castle this weekend with not much to do besides stare at my laundry, and nothing to eat besides the local bakery food. My stomach feels like one big loaf of bread.
My first class every week is History of Renaissance and Baroque Art. This class worries me because I am under the impression that I don’t really have to do anything. Two chapters of reading due? No worries, we’ll summarize it in class. Taking notes on the PowerPoint presentations, are you? Forget about it- everyone gets a copy of the slides before midterms.
I still do take notes and do the reading and try to speak up in class, because years upon years of being a straight-A student (yes, thank you, thank you) has rendered me incapable of just sitting through a class without putting in any effort, regardless of what the focus of that effort may be. Maybe I should just bring Play-Doh to class. Or do ab workouts in the back. Anything will do, really.
My second class is my Honors class, which I have been dreading since last spring because it is a science class focusing on…DUN dun duuuunnn…EVOLUTION! Grace Christian School was pretty hush-hush on evolution, so I was terrified that going in I would be at a complete disadvantage and that everyone would point and laugh and throw rocks at me. This, however, has turned out to be not at all the case. Although I was able to get a pretty great reaction when I told the class that all I had really been taught about evolution was that supposedly the only people who believe in it hate God, the professor and students have been patient with and tolerant of my Doubting Thomas approach to the class, and I have learned quickly that I am not the only one who hasn’t studied the subject before.
I am really not too concerned that this class is going to rip the metaphorical religious rug out from under my feet and turn me into an atheist. If, by the end of this class, I am faced with the fact that, okay, evolution is probably true, dude, whatever. It is not going to “shake my faith” or turn me into some kind of heathen. I mean, please, even the Pope believes in evolution. The main thing I am trying to avoid is a blind acceptance of evolution, just as I avoid blind acceptance of organized religious doctrine. Evolutionists are as guilty as anyone else at seeing what they want to see, as we have learned in the first couple of weeks. So, I have no qualms with being the obnoxious student who demands that everything be explained and nothing be glossed over, because although many evolutionists are purely interested in the science of it, there are many who hold on to it desperately because it supports their vehemently atheistic views (I’m looking at you, Richard Dawkins), and this is just as dangerous and leads to just as many huge errors in judgment as vehemently religious views do.
Whew, that wore me out. Basically this class is going okay. I got a “good” on my first paper, which was the highest “grade” that the professor gave out this round, and she brought up my paper in class and said that I made a very important point, blah blah blah. The class structure itself makes me fidgety, because there is very little class discussion time unlike last year’s Honors classes, which were fueled by and dependent on class discussion. Different strokes for different professorial folks, I suppose.
Oh, and also, why did Grace tell me that atheists are bitter and angry and mean and resentful towards religious people? Umm, not true. My roommate, who is in this class with me, is an atheistic existentialist, and we have conversations about this class every day, and find ourselves agreeing on points almost all the time. Anyway, just thought I’d throw that out there. Grace.
Aaack enough about Honors. Good grief. My next class is my creative writing nonfiction class, Advanced Travel Writing or something like that. And…uggggh. So far, I want to spit at this class. I want to throw my feces at it, like a monkey. Like an ANGRY, SILLY MONKEY. It is a block class, which means I have it for 3 and a half hours once a week. Our professor has us meditate for about 15 minutes before every writing exercise, telling us to write from our “orange Chakra, located right above our pubic bone.” I wish I could just relax and think of this class as “cool,” but this teacher’s approach to writing makes me want to bash my indigo Chakra, located right between my eyebrows, into the wall. My cynical side (and lo, what a large side that is) is convinced that she is not Hindu to any extent, but is trying to be trendy with this touchy-feely crap, and while I am fine with meditation and mysticism when it is in its proper place, I am irritated and resentful when it is in an improper place such as my pubic bone. Let’s leave my pubic bone out of my writing career, yes?
Also, she is a photographer, which is fine and lovely but WHY must it be brought up every ten seconds? Every analogy she uses in class relates to photography, and she even asked me to explain to the class what “camera angles” were being used in a certain part of a story we read. What??? I know she and many people in the class will disagree with me here, but unless we are reading a screenplay, there are no such things as camera angles in literature. Not in the way I read, at least. The beauty of the written word is that, when you see it in your mind’s eye, you aren’t limited to seeing it in such mundane forms as “camera angles.” Your mind can overlap things and see images in ways it would be impossible to capture through film. Why on earth would I want to limit my imagination in this way and turn every piece of writing into a feature film? It is a travesty, I say. A TRAVESTY!
Don’t worry, only one class to go. That class is The World Since 1914, aka Rachel’s Second Attempt to Fulfill Her Historical Perspectives Requirement: Let’s Hope She Doesn’t Fail This One, Too. Part of what makes this class difficult for me is the professor’s quiet, fairly monotonous German voice. And although his attempts to needlessly assure us that he does not support Hitler are nothing short of hilarious (“What a small, ugly man! And a terrible painter!”), his lectures are mainly of the Charlie Brown “wah-wah-wah” variety. Maybe it’s a little ADHD of me, but I can’t pay attention if there are no fluctuations in the professor’s voice. I’ve talked to my classmates about this and it sounds like I am the only one with this problem. Oh, well, guess I’ll be relying on study groups come mid-term time.
So, essentially, I am pretty lukewarm towards my classes (except for Travel Writing, clearly). However, it should be noted that I have basically no homework ever, and that homework that I do have is basically along the lines of journal entries. I have spent much more time on these three blog posts than all of my homework combined. I appreciate it, though, because I have much more important things to do than silly busy work, and I think all of our professors understand this.
Hey, what do you know! This entry’s length-to-interestingness ratio is way lopsided, so I’ll cut it off here. More exciting posts in the future, I promise!
Verbosely,
Rachem
My first class every week is History of Renaissance and Baroque Art. This class worries me because I am under the impression that I don’t really have to do anything. Two chapters of reading due? No worries, we’ll summarize it in class. Taking notes on the PowerPoint presentations, are you? Forget about it- everyone gets a copy of the slides before midterms.
I still do take notes and do the reading and try to speak up in class, because years upon years of being a straight-A student (yes, thank you, thank you) has rendered me incapable of just sitting through a class without putting in any effort, regardless of what the focus of that effort may be. Maybe I should just bring Play-Doh to class. Or do ab workouts in the back. Anything will do, really.
My second class is my Honors class, which I have been dreading since last spring because it is a science class focusing on…DUN dun duuuunnn…EVOLUTION! Grace Christian School was pretty hush-hush on evolution, so I was terrified that going in I would be at a complete disadvantage and that everyone would point and laugh and throw rocks at me. This, however, has turned out to be not at all the case. Although I was able to get a pretty great reaction when I told the class that all I had really been taught about evolution was that supposedly the only people who believe in it hate God, the professor and students have been patient with and tolerant of my Doubting Thomas approach to the class, and I have learned quickly that I am not the only one who hasn’t studied the subject before.
I am really not too concerned that this class is going to rip the metaphorical religious rug out from under my feet and turn me into an atheist. If, by the end of this class, I am faced with the fact that, okay, evolution is probably true, dude, whatever. It is not going to “shake my faith” or turn me into some kind of heathen. I mean, please, even the Pope believes in evolution. The main thing I am trying to avoid is a blind acceptance of evolution, just as I avoid blind acceptance of organized religious doctrine. Evolutionists are as guilty as anyone else at seeing what they want to see, as we have learned in the first couple of weeks. So, I have no qualms with being the obnoxious student who demands that everything be explained and nothing be glossed over, because although many evolutionists are purely interested in the science of it, there are many who hold on to it desperately because it supports their vehemently atheistic views (I’m looking at you, Richard Dawkins), and this is just as dangerous and leads to just as many huge errors in judgment as vehemently religious views do.
Whew, that wore me out. Basically this class is going okay. I got a “good” on my first paper, which was the highest “grade” that the professor gave out this round, and she brought up my paper in class and said that I made a very important point, blah blah blah. The class structure itself makes me fidgety, because there is very little class discussion time unlike last year’s Honors classes, which were fueled by and dependent on class discussion. Different strokes for different professorial folks, I suppose.
Oh, and also, why did Grace tell me that atheists are bitter and angry and mean and resentful towards religious people? Umm, not true. My roommate, who is in this class with me, is an atheistic existentialist, and we have conversations about this class every day, and find ourselves agreeing on points almost all the time. Anyway, just thought I’d throw that out there. Grace.
Aaack enough about Honors. Good grief. My next class is my creative writing nonfiction class, Advanced Travel Writing or something like that. And…uggggh. So far, I want to spit at this class. I want to throw my feces at it, like a monkey. Like an ANGRY, SILLY MONKEY. It is a block class, which means I have it for 3 and a half hours once a week. Our professor has us meditate for about 15 minutes before every writing exercise, telling us to write from our “orange Chakra, located right above our pubic bone.” I wish I could just relax and think of this class as “cool,” but this teacher’s approach to writing makes me want to bash my indigo Chakra, located right between my eyebrows, into the wall. My cynical side (and lo, what a large side that is) is convinced that she is not Hindu to any extent, but is trying to be trendy with this touchy-feely crap, and while I am fine with meditation and mysticism when it is in its proper place, I am irritated and resentful when it is in an improper place such as my pubic bone. Let’s leave my pubic bone out of my writing career, yes?
Also, she is a photographer, which is fine and lovely but WHY must it be brought up every ten seconds? Every analogy she uses in class relates to photography, and she even asked me to explain to the class what “camera angles” were being used in a certain part of a story we read. What??? I know she and many people in the class will disagree with me here, but unless we are reading a screenplay, there are no such things as camera angles in literature. Not in the way I read, at least. The beauty of the written word is that, when you see it in your mind’s eye, you aren’t limited to seeing it in such mundane forms as “camera angles.” Your mind can overlap things and see images in ways it would be impossible to capture through film. Why on earth would I want to limit my imagination in this way and turn every piece of writing into a feature film? It is a travesty, I say. A TRAVESTY!
Don’t worry, only one class to go. That class is The World Since 1914, aka Rachel’s Second Attempt to Fulfill Her Historical Perspectives Requirement: Let’s Hope She Doesn’t Fail This One, Too. Part of what makes this class difficult for me is the professor’s quiet, fairly monotonous German voice. And although his attempts to needlessly assure us that he does not support Hitler are nothing short of hilarious (“What a small, ugly man! And a terrible painter!”), his lectures are mainly of the Charlie Brown “wah-wah-wah” variety. Maybe it’s a little ADHD of me, but I can’t pay attention if there are no fluctuations in the professor’s voice. I’ve talked to my classmates about this and it sounds like I am the only one with this problem. Oh, well, guess I’ll be relying on study groups come mid-term time.
So, essentially, I am pretty lukewarm towards my classes (except for Travel Writing, clearly). However, it should be noted that I have basically no homework ever, and that homework that I do have is basically along the lines of journal entries. I have spent much more time on these three blog posts than all of my homework combined. I appreciate it, though, because I have much more important things to do than silly busy work, and I think all of our professors understand this.
Hey, what do you know! This entry’s length-to-interestingness ratio is way lopsided, so I’ll cut it off here. More exciting posts in the future, I promise!
Verbosely,
Rachem
Monday, September 24, 2007
Amster to the dam, son.
Well, I made it back alive from Amsterdam. What a city! I enjoyed it thoroughly, and about a zillion times more than Rotterdam. I'm sure a lot of this had to do with the fact that I went with a big group (eight), and that I was with people who knew where they were going. Have I mentioned that I have no sense of direction? Because I don't. I absolutely could never travel alone. I don't remember where anything was in Amsterdam, and I couldn't even tell you which way we turned onto the street out of our hostel, but it doesn't matter because everyone else could and I had a great time following them around on an imaginary leash.
We were sure not to do anything too scholarly or morally commendable on our first day. We walked around the city for a very long time, toured a sex museum (I only took one picture, and no I am not posting it), and made our way through the Red Light district while it was still afternoon. It is very strange to walk past a window and see a woman in lingerie peer at you through the glass, a red ambiance hovering above. It is even stranger to make eye contact with said woman and give her a nod and a smile, as though she is your next-door neighbor that you're passing on your morning walk. Which of course is what I did.
Later that Friday we hit a coffeeshop, and here is where my recollection of the night's events gets a little hazy. Amsterdam's coffeeshops, of course, do not sell coffee, but instead sell pot, in lots and lots of different forms. One of those forms is called a space cake. I helped myself to this little treasure. Now, here I am going to give you some free advice: If you have no experience with pot, make sure you ask someone how much 1 gram is BEFORE you consume it. Because when you ask later, when you've already finished? And it turns out that 1 gram is a whole effing lot? There is nothing you can do to prevent the world of TOTALLY BAKED that you will soon be facing. And then you will spend hours upon hours in a zombie trance, being guided from bar to bar by a certain wonderful R.A., until you somehow make it back to your hostel, take off your pants, and fall asleep to self-as-broken-robot visions.
So, uh, no more pot for me for a while, thanks.
Saturday morning we all got up and attempted to make up for our sins by paying penance at the Van Gogh museum. I am a Van Gogh fan and it was pretty awesome to see, up close, several of the works we studied in art class last year. However, I have very little museum-stamina, and after about half and hour I was getting pretty restless: Yup, here's another Van Gogh. Wow, look at the impasto. Look at the wheatfield. When's lunch?
Side note: Why do people who stand behind me in lines insist on RIDING MY ASS? Can't we have a little space between us? Do we really have to spoon through this entire exhibit? I tried to evade this one lady by skipping a few paintings in order to put some distance between us, but wouldn't you know, she would catch up with me and go right on rubbing her fanny pack all over my butt. Thanks for that.
Later we went on a canal cruise, which made me sleepy, and then to a bar, which made me drunk. Alcohol does magical things to me: primarily, it transforms me into an attention-whoring extrovert. I think I made a memorable impression on everyone in our group. Of course, in my head, that impression is, "Wow, Rachel is so funny and great when she loosens up. I hope we can be best friends forever and ever;" and in reality it is probably, "Wow, Rachel is kinda obnoxious when she opens her mouth. Uh oh, she's gonna jump in the fountain. Oh good someone stopped her."
Sunday morning we packed our junk and got in the massive line for the Anne Frank house. We finally got in, and, meh. I'm glad I went, and it was moving being in the house that I have imagined so many times, but I guess I just didn't expect it to be so museum-ized. I was looking for something a little more raw, and instead I got huge crowds and quotes on the walls and glass displays. Oh well. It left me wanting but I'm still glad I went.
Side note: Is it bad to be so selfish in these museums? I feel a little guilty about my complaining, but isn't it really about the individual experience? Ugh, who knows. It is getting a little late for this kind of contemplation.
We headed to the train station, leaving two of our potheads behind so they could hit one last coffeeshop. After a two hour ride we got on the bus, and after another hour of travel finally made it to Well. But, our bus driver was kind enough to miss our stop and refuse to pull over until the next one, so we were treated to a free long-ass walk back to the castle. We made it, eventually, and were heartily welcomed by the church bells and the rabid geese and the toxic-waste moat. Ah, Kasteel Well. What would I do without you. Probably get a decent night's sleep, at the very least.
Exhaustedly,
Rachem
We were sure not to do anything too scholarly or morally commendable on our first day. We walked around the city for a very long time, toured a sex museum (I only took one picture, and no I am not posting it), and made our way through the Red Light district while it was still afternoon. It is very strange to walk past a window and see a woman in lingerie peer at you through the glass, a red ambiance hovering above. It is even stranger to make eye contact with said woman and give her a nod and a smile, as though she is your next-door neighbor that you're passing on your morning walk. Which of course is what I did.
Later that Friday we hit a coffeeshop, and here is where my recollection of the night's events gets a little hazy. Amsterdam's coffeeshops, of course, do not sell coffee, but instead sell pot, in lots and lots of different forms. One of those forms is called a space cake. I helped myself to this little treasure. Now, here I am going to give you some free advice: If you have no experience with pot, make sure you ask someone how much 1 gram is BEFORE you consume it. Because when you ask later, when you've already finished? And it turns out that 1 gram is a whole effing lot? There is nothing you can do to prevent the world of TOTALLY BAKED that you will soon be facing. And then you will spend hours upon hours in a zombie trance, being guided from bar to bar by a certain wonderful R.A., until you somehow make it back to your hostel, take off your pants, and fall asleep to self-as-broken-robot visions.
So, uh, no more pot for me for a while, thanks.
Saturday morning we all got up and attempted to make up for our sins by paying penance at the Van Gogh museum. I am a Van Gogh fan and it was pretty awesome to see, up close, several of the works we studied in art class last year. However, I have very little museum-stamina, and after about half and hour I was getting pretty restless: Yup, here's another Van Gogh. Wow, look at the impasto. Look at the wheatfield. When's lunch?
Side note: Why do people who stand behind me in lines insist on RIDING MY ASS? Can't we have a little space between us? Do we really have to spoon through this entire exhibit? I tried to evade this one lady by skipping a few paintings in order to put some distance between us, but wouldn't you know, she would catch up with me and go right on rubbing her fanny pack all over my butt. Thanks for that.
Later we went on a canal cruise, which made me sleepy, and then to a bar, which made me drunk. Alcohol does magical things to me: primarily, it transforms me into an attention-whoring extrovert. I think I made a memorable impression on everyone in our group. Of course, in my head, that impression is, "Wow, Rachel is so funny and great when she loosens up. I hope we can be best friends forever and ever;" and in reality it is probably, "Wow, Rachel is kinda obnoxious when she opens her mouth. Uh oh, she's gonna jump in the fountain. Oh good someone stopped her."
Sunday morning we packed our junk and got in the massive line for the Anne Frank house. We finally got in, and, meh. I'm glad I went, and it was moving being in the house that I have imagined so many times, but I guess I just didn't expect it to be so museum-ized. I was looking for something a little more raw, and instead I got huge crowds and quotes on the walls and glass displays. Oh well. It left me wanting but I'm still glad I went.
Side note: Is it bad to be so selfish in these museums? I feel a little guilty about my complaining, but isn't it really about the individual experience? Ugh, who knows. It is getting a little late for this kind of contemplation.
We headed to the train station, leaving two of our potheads behind so they could hit one last coffeeshop. After a two hour ride we got on the bus, and after another hour of travel finally made it to Well. But, our bus driver was kind enough to miss our stop and refuse to pull over until the next one, so we were treated to a free long-ass walk back to the castle. We made it, eventually, and were heartily welcomed by the church bells and the rabid geese and the toxic-waste moat. Ah, Kasteel Well. What would I do without you. Probably get a decent night's sleep, at the very least.
Exhaustedly,
Rachem
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
my life is one big stroopwafel
Alright alright alright alright. I have been in the Netherlands for well over a week, so no more excuses. Let's get down to business.
First of all, I live in the highest tower with two giant windows, and the moat circles below. You know what else circles below? Geese. Very rambunctious, horny geese. Every moment of every day I hear "AFLACK! AFLACK!" or whatever the hell geese say. I also hear church bells. So very many church bells. They sound every hour, at least, and then also at crazy times, like 15 past. Anh says that the crazy-bells mean that someone has died. If this is true, the bodies must really be piling up in Well.
So anyway, our room. It is circular, and it is the only one on the floor, which means we have our own bathroom and phone. Most people think it was the servants' quarters, and if this is true, I think the servants had it pretty good. Better than I do, maybe, because I have a feeling that none of the servants had to sleep on bunk beds. Specifically, the top bunk. I will do my best not to be a complainer, so I will just say that sleeping on the top bunk is not so bad, except for every morning, when I slip on the railings and crash to the floor and wake Ashley up and bruise my shins. Otherwise it is great.
The money here is so crazy. It is different colors and sizes, and it kinda resembles Monopoly money. I am a little confounded by the fact that the smallest paper bill is 5 euros, which is approximately 7 U.S. dollars, and then all smaller amounts are coins. Due to being in this "godless country" (to quote a certain friend's conservative mother), my first question was, well what about the strip clubs? How do you tip the uh, performers? 7 dollars is way to big a tip. What are these patrons to do? I don't think you can just start tossing coins into the girl's cleavage. She is not a vending machine. Naturally, I have come up with a terrific solution: all strip clubs need to have wishing wells next to the stage. Plunk plunk! Great job sweetie! Ploop! Looking good!
Speaking of strip clubs, Megan and I went to Rotterdam last weekend. Rotterdam, you are so sleazy! You make us a little sad, but we still love you, like a slutty older sister. But please keep your creepy old men away from me, and clean that spit off of your sidewalks.
I didn't take any pictures in Rotterdam, whoops. I just can't walk around with a camera. It is too embarrassing, and also I would probably trip and fall on my face. Into the spit. I am going to Amsterdam this weekend, so maybe I will force myself to take some pictures already. My pictures are so juvenile, though. When I browse through them, I get confused and wonder if a six-year-old stole my camera and took a bunch of unfocused pictures of ducks. But then I remember, oh yeah, that was me. Oh well, at least I will never regret not going into photography.
So, that is all for now. I don't feel like writing about my classes because I am not sure how I feel about them yet. And I don't feel like writing about my drunk-scapades because my grandma reads this. But rest assured I am being generally good. And that I have felt the financial sting of having to pay for my own alcohol. To keep from burning through my savings, though, I've decided to save drinking for very special occasions. Such as "evenings." Ha ha ha! Okay okay, I'm going.
Ridiculously,
Rachem
First of all, I live in the highest tower with two giant windows, and the moat circles below. You know what else circles below? Geese. Very rambunctious, horny geese. Every moment of every day I hear "AFLACK! AFLACK!" or whatever the hell geese say. I also hear church bells. So very many church bells. They sound every hour, at least, and then also at crazy times, like 15 past. Anh says that the crazy-bells mean that someone has died. If this is true, the bodies must really be piling up in Well.
So anyway, our room. It is circular, and it is the only one on the floor, which means we have our own bathroom and phone. Most people think it was the servants' quarters, and if this is true, I think the servants had it pretty good. Better than I do, maybe, because I have a feeling that none of the servants had to sleep on bunk beds. Specifically, the top bunk. I will do my best not to be a complainer, so I will just say that sleeping on the top bunk is not so bad, except for every morning, when I slip on the railings and crash to the floor and wake Ashley up and bruise my shins. Otherwise it is great.
The money here is so crazy. It is different colors and sizes, and it kinda resembles Monopoly money. I am a little confounded by the fact that the smallest paper bill is 5 euros, which is approximately 7 U.S. dollars, and then all smaller amounts are coins. Due to being in this "godless country" (to quote a certain friend's conservative mother), my first question was, well what about the strip clubs? How do you tip the uh, performers? 7 dollars is way to big a tip. What are these patrons to do? I don't think you can just start tossing coins into the girl's cleavage. She is not a vending machine. Naturally, I have come up with a terrific solution: all strip clubs need to have wishing wells next to the stage. Plunk plunk! Great job sweetie! Ploop! Looking good!
Speaking of strip clubs, Megan and I went to Rotterdam last weekend. Rotterdam, you are so sleazy! You make us a little sad, but we still love you, like a slutty older sister. But please keep your creepy old men away from me, and clean that spit off of your sidewalks.
I didn't take any pictures in Rotterdam, whoops. I just can't walk around with a camera. It is too embarrassing, and also I would probably trip and fall on my face. Into the spit. I am going to Amsterdam this weekend, so maybe I will force myself to take some pictures already. My pictures are so juvenile, though. When I browse through them, I get confused and wonder if a six-year-old stole my camera and took a bunch of unfocused pictures of ducks. But then I remember, oh yeah, that was me. Oh well, at least I will never regret not going into photography.
So, that is all for now. I don't feel like writing about my classes because I am not sure how I feel about them yet. And I don't feel like writing about my drunk-scapades because my grandma reads this. But rest assured I am being generally good. And that I have felt the financial sting of having to pay for my own alcohol. To keep from burning through my savings, though, I've decided to save drinking for very special occasions. Such as "evenings." Ha ha ha! Okay okay, I'm going.
Ridiculously,
Rachem
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