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
Saturday, September 29, 2007
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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