Back in Beantown

Don't get any crazy on you!

2008-10-25T14:44:00.000-07:00

Weird things I have said or done lately:

1. To the taxi driver, after giving my address: "Apartment number two." What??? He is not going to drive me upstairs.
2. To a guy in my creative writing class regarding a scene in his story where he is mean to his ex-girlfriend: "That part made me want to punch you." (Class laughs nervously, I hastily scribble a disclaimer on my critique that I do not condone physical violence.)
3. On the near-silent subway, I start making up a joke to myself and accidentally burst out laughing, causing everyone sitting around me to scoot away a few inches. To be fair, it was a pretty good joke.
4. I decide to go to the school library, which is on the third floor. Although you're supposed to take the stairs to floors 2 and 3, I'm feeling lazy and nobody else is around so I head to the elevator. Before I push the button for my floor, a professor gets on with me and says "Six, please." I push it, and then hesitate for too long, causing her to say, "Oh good, we're going to the same floor. That almost never happens." So I smile and take the elevator with her to the sixth floor and then walk down the stairs to the third floor. Ridiculous.

What I Want To Be If I Grow Up

2008-10-08T19:34:00.000-07:00

Sometimes it seems like the people I go to school with came out of the womb knowing what career they want to pursue. They just popped right out with cigarettes in their mouths clutching video cameras or microphones or screenplays or makeup brushes. And here I am, in my junior year, the year where I'm supposed to be getting internships and networking with professionals and building a portfolio, and I just don't know.

It seems like I come up with a new idea every two seconds. Career paths that I've considered in the last few months include humor writer, professional blogger, graphic designer, memoir author, copyeditor, professor of literature, travel writer, book editor, career counselor (the irony is not lost on me!), hostel-worker in buenos aires, magazine founder and editor, literary critic, interior decorator, diamond appraiser, handyman, museum curator, web designer, painter, children's author. All in the last few months!

What I most like to do is learn. I love school and wish that I had the money to just keep taking class after class. I want to be proficient in all the Adobe software, I want to learn to take good photos and learn about lighting, I want to learn Spanish and French and Mandarin and Dutch and more, I want to read everything. I think the problem is that I don't really want to do anything, I just want to know, because there's no chance of judgment or criticism attached to knowing and besides, it's more fun anyway.

I will throw an avocado at you next time.

2008-09-25T16:27:00.000-07:00

To The Mean, Mean Old Man Who Works at Stop & Shop And Supervises, Nay, Hovers About The Self-Checkout Aisles With Totally Unnecessary Fervor,

Nobody is in line behind me. Stop shouting out instructions. Stop angrily bagging my groceries. I was going to bag them myself, but you didn't give me the chance, and now I'm left with the bitter aftertaste of your hateful scowl. Let me scroll through the produce menu until I find the avocado that best resembles the actual avocado I have in front of me. Don't rush me. I am in the self-checkout aisle because I don't want cranky bastards like you interfering with my shopping experience. I hate so much about the things you choose to be.

Love,
Your Friendly Neighborhood Student Who Only Patrons The Store You Work At Because It's Right Across The Street And My Feet Hurt And Dammit I Want To Eat Dinner Before The Premiere Of The Office Starts.

Get your coffee at this hidden gem!

2008-09-12T12:20:00.001-07:00

I was walking to the gym (I joined a gym!) down Harvard street when I spotted a cute little cafe. There were sofas and hipster artwork on the walls, and I wondered if this was one of Boston's secret spots, tucked away just a few blocks from my apartment. Then I looked up...AND IT WAS STARBUCKS!

What a mind fuck!

Scribbles.

2008-09-11T18:59:00.000-07:00

Fact: In Argentina, as well as many other countries, it is considered rude to eat while taking public transportation. After watching a man on the T shove cracker after cracker into his greedy maw, I think I now understand why.

Fact: If you stay up two hours past your intended bedtime watching funny condom commercials on YouTube, you may fall asleep with a nagging guilt that maybe you are not spending your time wisely. Especially if you'd already seen half the videos the last time you did this.

Fact (my, this is a tiresome format): I rode the T all the way from Coolidge Corner to Boylston without hearing anybody speak English once. Who needs to travel when you live in one of the world's greatest cultural nexuses? It is good to be back, people.

This is even putting ME to sleep.

2008-08-21T13:03:00.000-07:00

I was going to write another anecdote about my dental problems, about how halibut is now on my careful-don't-eat-that-or-you'll-be-tasting-it-for-a-week list. But then I thought, wow, is this really my life? Is my existance so dull that I have nothing better to write about than what's been stuck in my teeth lately? FOR THREE POSTS IN A ROW?

Yes.

Except, did I tell you about the wedgie I picked last week? Or that time I thought I was going to sneeze, but then I didn't? These are the untold stories of America.

I have jury duty next week, and I'm going to go all 12 Angry Men on the State of Alaska faster than you can say racial bigotry! Or at least faster than you can say "Shit, we shot the wrong grizzly bear!" Keep your fingers crossed that I get something more exciting than a DUI case. Maybe I will decide Ted Stevens' fate! Wait, that's not being tried in Alaska. Dammit. I was already starting to feel drunk with power.

The doctor made me get a pap smear yesterday, which was awful, but I realized that, phonetically, I really like the word "cervix." Cervix. Cervix! It's a very strong, masculine word when you seperate it from its vaginal connotations. I think if I were queen in a land that didn't speak English, I would name my son Cervix. It's very regal. Cervix Walls. Again, this doesn't work very well in English.

Well, it's becoming painfully clear that I have nothing to say, so I think I'm going to go ahead and stop writing.

Holey molar.

2008-08-14T15:29:00.000-07:00

What everyone neglected to tell me is that after you get your wisdom teeth out, there are little holes in your gums. Holes in which tiny pieces of sushi can lodge themselves and rot for half a week and make your mouth taste and smell like a tiny corpse is decaying next to your molar. It was honestly like having a mini septic tank constantly leaking into my mouth. As someone who is very meticulous about hygiene and always smells fresh and clean, this was completely unacceptable. I did everything I could: I rinsed and rinsed like a crazy person, I poured hydrogen peroxide down my throat, I drank arsenic - nothing helped. So finally the oral surgery office gave me a squirty syringe thing so that I could really clean things out, and I egregiously abused it and let my OCD get the best of me, rinsing at least 50 times. So now I no longer have a horrible tasting mouth but instead have a constant, debilitating toothache that is almost certainly a direct result of my violent syringe misuse. This is more fun than I know what to do with.

Belly full o' pills.

2008-08-06T14:23:00.000-07:00

I got my wisdom teeth out on Friday and have been pretty much useless ever since. The recovery process is taking a lot longer than I anticipated, which means I'm missing a few days of work, oh drat.

There are definitely pros and cons to this surgery thingy. One of the cons is that I can't really organize my thoughts in a more complex manner than This or That, so for my final presentation I have prepared TWO LISTS to share with the rest of the class: The Bad Things About Getting Oral Surgery and The Good Things About Getting Oral Surgery.

The Bad
1. I am so, so tired of applesauce.
2. The horrible pain. I made the mistake of sleeping in my bed the other night, which hardly keeps my head elevated, and I woke up completely disoriented and in the most pain I've ever felt. I don't know if any of you has ever fallen asleep while in terrible pain and not realized it, but it is the worst. I was having lots of stressful nightmares because I knew something was wrong but I just couldn't wake up. When I finally did, it took me about half an hour to transition from "I hurt so much I'm going to throw up" to "Oh hey, I should probably get up and take some drugs or get some ice or, you know, DO something about this."
3. Guess what kind of bowel movements you have on an irregular, liquid diet? Hint: I already gave you two of the words.
4. Having to sleep sitting up.
5. Living in a perpetual sweaty fatigue.

The Good
1. Less bone weight to haul around!
2. I am privileged to live in a situation where this is a common, affordable procedure. At least this is what I repeated to myself so that I wouldn't scratch the doctor's face off as he brought the IV needle closer and closer and closer.
3. The last thing I saw before they put me under was a moose walking by the window. Only in Alaska, folks!
4. The drugs, oh, the drugs! The last few days I've been on something that makes me feel warm and fuzzy and like I'm floating, except that it only lasts for two hours and I can only take the pills every four hours. My mom called the doctor and explained this mathematical error and so they switched me to Vicodin. And I know that anyone out there who has ever watched House has secretly hoped to be prescribed Vicodin at some point. I like to toss those babies up in the air and catch them in my mouth like popcorn as I limp around from room to room and draw on my white board and make up clever medical metaphors and sexually harass everyone around me. It's not lupus, people!
5. My friends and family will do everything for me. I am planted in a chair, yelling out requests: "Mooom! Will you put in the next Friends disc?" "Will!! Can I have some Spongebob Mac and Cheese?" Curiously, nobody has come to visit today.

Also, I finally got fed up with my depressing, minimalist blog layout, so I've decided to go green. Haha, get it? Like the environmental conservation movement, except I'm just changing the color settings on my rarely-updated blog while hunched over my desk in a drug-induced haze! You'd be laughing harder if your vision were blurred like mine.

¡Qué lástima!

2008-07-25T09:32:00.000-07:00

Okay okay, enough whining. I'm a writer, I'm not a writer, chicken or fish, WHATEVER.

So I went to Buenos Aires for a couple weeks. And at first I really, really hated it. Loathed it. It was pouring and gloomy when I arrived at 7 in the morning, and I got a bad exchange rate when I traded in my money at the airport, and then I got ripped off by the taxi driver who drove me to my hostel even though I read approximately 400 pieces of literature before leaving on How Not To Get Ripped Off By Taxi Drivers (Rachel!!). I had an awkward exchange with the hostel front desk guy, who showed me to my bed, which was on the top bunk (dammit). So I hoisted myself into bed and went to sleep for a year. I kept waking up and checking my watch but no matter how ridiculously late it got I kept saying not yet not yet I can't face all this yet.

I am not a seasoned traveler. Kasteel Well was awesome, but for the most part, it was not traveling. I still had my own bite-sized American community and had other people to fall back on. My Eurail pass was set up by Emerson and most of the trips I took were planned by someone else. The closest I got to traveling was when I went to Belgium by myself for the weekend, and even then...that was BELGIUM, people. Just one big merry-go-round of waffels and chocolates and beaming children and Flemish primatives.

So, going into this trip I honestly didn't know whether I like to travel or if I just like to take vacations. One thing I've noticed about myself when I go places - and it is so, so frustrating and I wish I could stop doing it - is that it's always about me. How will this trip make me grow, what will I learn about myself, how will I feel, how will I change, etc etc etc. And of course I want to grow and change and learn but why can't I just sneak into a culture and be? I get so concerned with myself that I don't even see anything. I'll walk for fifteen blocks and not remember anything I passed on the way. Maybe it's because I wasn't there for very long but I feel like I hardly saw Buenos Aires at all, and I suspect it was because I was too busy being embarrassed and frustrated by my half-dozen Spanish catchphrases that I would desperately spit out before sullenly resorting to lo siento, pero no entiendo, no hablo castellano. It's all me me me and I don't look the part and I don't speak the part and I'm so foreign. And I've always been choked by that awful voice in my head hissing what will they think? but as soon as I got to Buenos Aires it began screaming and waving its arms, saying Stop, you're not doing it right, just stay in bed where you can't mess things up.

So for awhile, I did, and then I got over it and shyly shuffled into the city, and I ate great food and bought great stuff and saw great things but it was still a very guide-book trip and at no point did I just close my eyes and fall backwards into the arms of the city.

So when people ask me, "How was Buenos Aires?" I don't know what to tell them except that it was hard.

And that I'll go back.

"I'm a Writing and Publishing major...crisis."

2008-07-22T16:01:00.000-07:00

Every day I am less convinced that I'm a writer.

For one, I don't like to write. I put it off and put it off and only do it if I have to or if I've convinced myself that I have to. I don't write for fun and I have three journals in my room right now that are about a quarter full, having been abandoned after I got fed up with the content: too whiny, too childish, too mundane, too ordinary. I constantly buy journals, thinking this time, I will write beautiful things and perfectly capture into words what my life is right now, so that someday, years from now, I can look back and say, Ah, yes! That was me. But it isn't me, it's me trying to be what I think me is, and it's all very clumsy and poorly disguised and a bad skit.

Furthermore, I have more and more trouble putting my thoughts into words, and shouldn't that be second nature to a writer? I used to think so, and it used to be so simple and I never understood people who couldn't write - just write what you think, I would say. But now I arrange words in my head and see perfect, flowing, beautiful language and when I go to put it into print it all topples and I forget and whatever I was trying to say disappears with a shrug and I sigh and put my pen down.

And worst of all I don't know what to write. Even if this is just a phase and I really CAN write, it doesn't matter because I have nothing to say. I'm getting tired of my jokey-joke Hey'dja-ever-notice, What's-the-deal-with observative writing. Sometimes I don't want to be biting or humorous or satirical - sometimes I want to describe a thought or a feeling in such a way that it will choke your swallow and make your throat burn and your eyes water. I want to make all the air go out of your lungs and make you wait, wait, until my next sentence fills them back up again. And I can't, because all my words, if there are any at all, get trapped in my teeth and in my fingernails and stay in me and make me swell until I feel I might burst.

A girl in my hostel in Buenos Aires asked me what I was studying at school. When I told her writing, she replied, "Oh, that is such a wonderful gift to have."

Wouldn't it be, though?

Food.

2008-06-26T15:11:00.000-07:00

I obsess about food. I'm constantly fretting about whether my whole grain pasta is going to give me colon cancer or if that Caramel Macchiato I had last month is going to turn me into a diabetic.

I gave up red meat over a year ago in an attempt to micro-manage my diet. One too many people told me, hey, don't eat that meat, and I was like, yeah alright, let's give it a go. I think I kept with it because it felt good to have some control in my life. No matter what happened, I had given up red meat! Wow! Super job!

It wasn't hard, because I am not the biggest meat fan. The only time I've really craved red meat in the last year was when I watched Iron Man and when Robert Downey Jr. was like "I really want a cheeseburger," and I was like, "Me too, Robert Downey Jr. Me too."

I eat chicken sometimes because it's convenient, and I eat fish because I'm Alaskan. These foods notwithstanding, I am astonished at how unhealthily you can eat and still be vegetarian. I once heard someone say that it's virtually impossible to get fat on a vegetarian diet. What?? Put down those French fries. Hand over that Oreo McFlurry. I can attest that a vegetarian diet can be far unhealthier than an omnivore's. Just because you aren't eating bacon strips and burgers doesn't mean your diet is inherently healthy. It just means it's meat-free. Careful up on that pedestal, preachy vegetarian! It is a teetering pile of Cheez-Its and Oatmeal Cream Pies and Skittles.

I've impulsively bought several books that claim to have the answer to healthy eating and they all basically say the same thing: the only way for me to avoid dying a slow, bloated, obese death at the age of 45 is to eat vegan.

Well, shit.

You know what else they said? No gluten, no sugar, no alcohol, no caffeine.

I can give up meat. I can give up caffeine. I can give up artificial sweeteners. I could even give up alcohol, although after reading these books I really just wanted to toss one back.

But gluten? And dairy? Why, horrible book authors, why do you want my bread and cheese? The food staples of Western society? Is my PB&J really that deadly? Is that string cheese really going to climb down my throat and grab onto my arteries and hold a bake sale to raise funds for the Devil's traveling soccer team?

Yes, they replied.

So yesterday, I decided to go on a fruit and vegetable fast. I did one last year and I remember feeling great about it. I think I may have some seriously distorted memories.

I made it until about noon today when I just wanted to murder anyone eating anything. I just want a granola bar, I told myself. No no no, said the little health gurus in my head. That granola bar has oats and honey in it. Bad!

Then I felt guilty for even thinking about eating a granola bar. That lasted for about 30 seconds when suddenly I realized, hey, what the hell, this is so totally beyond fucked up!

I had a revelation, as those with revelations say. I was completely miserable on my deprivation diet. Sure, those authors can feed me some bullshit about how my body is getting used to being healthy and the toxins are leaving my body, but I think I just felt sick because I hadn't eaten nearly enough.

The time in my life when I felt most healthy was last semester, when my roommate and I began eating healthily and working out every day. I was still eating dairy and gluten and, on occasion, chicken and fish. I still ate "unhealthy" foods once in awhile, as a treat. But mostly I just ate smart and not too often. My energy levels and mood soared, and eventually I just didn't think about food that much. I naturally made healthy decisions because that's what I craved. I felt sick if I over-ate, so I didn't. Pretty cut and dry, whatever that means.

But this, this obsessing over avoiding specific foods is just as destructive as emotional binging. It's all about focusing my energy towards food, instead of what's really bothering me, like feeling unprepared for my upcoming trip to Argentina, or my fear that I will never be able to hold a job because office life depresses me so much, or my overwhelming terror that I am in the wrong major and it is too late and I will never be qualified to do what I really want to do, whatever that is. These are real problems that can't be solved by picking the bacon bits off my salad or switching to soy milk. And I think, after two years since I gained 20 pounds before college and began my obsession with food, I have finally realized that.

So I marched down to the vending machine and stuck a weirdo dollar coin I got in Oregon in the machine. It didn't like my James Monroe blood money, so I traded it in for quarters. And then, THEN, at last, I had my granola bar.

Indulgence never tasted so crunchy.

The first number could be called "I've Got a Bucket (It's Tied To My Leg)"

2008-04-10T15:03:00.000-07:00

The same man at Au Bon Pain has crashed into me with his daughter's stroller almost every day this week. She doesn't actually ride in it, and they always plow through the narrow exit instead of the wide entrance. He talks to other people through her: "Say 'excuse me'!'" and they have those loud parent-child conversations that we all have to listen to ("DO YOU WANT THE GREEN APPLE OR THE RED APPLE?").

The other day I walked through the intersection I cross every day on my way to class, and everyone was looking up into the sky at these big construction cranes.* It was very puzzling, because those cranes have been there for two weeks, but this time they inspired ominous staring. I looked, because that kind of thing is contagious, but I didn't see anything out of the ordinary. What's going on? Is someone going to be hanged? Let me know.

*Sidenote: these cranes are really suspicious because they are taller than all of the surrounding buildings, yet the ongoing construction is at ground-level. Were these the only cranes available at the crane-renting store? Is April a hot month for cranes? It looks really awkward, like when you have a tiny drink and a big slurpee straw. Well, more like when you eat soup with a shovel.

It's window-washing week, which means that I am more paranoid than usual of somebody falling off a building and landing on me. I look crazy, walking down the street with my head angled straight up and going out of my way to not walk directly under any window-washers. They drop to the ground in their little harnesses out of nowhere and it is both terrifying and strangely theatrical, and I half expect them to break out into song. If anybody wants to write a musical on window-washers, come talk to me, because I now have some great choreography ideas.

Better here than the trash can, maybe.

2008-03-03T15:52:00.001-08:00

So a few weeks ago I wrote an article for my magazine writing class. I was pretty geeked about it and handed in that sucker in high spirits. One week later I got it back, and whoo-boy. The only comment I got back from my teacher that vaguely danced around positive was, "I get that this is supposed to be funny, but..." Basically, she hated it, didn't understand why I wrote it, and told me that I could rewrite it all I wanted but if I turned in that article for my final she could not give me anything close to a good grade. She could have saved herself a lot of writing and just given it back to me with a big poop stain in the middle and the message would have been the same.

The final is due tomorrow, so I am in Starbucks writing a whole new article. However, I think that the original is pretty damn good, especially if you've ever worked at a restaurant (I haven't, but it's okay because I am a genius). It's a first draft, but it's good. Unfortunately, there is nothing more I can do with it. I can't market it anywhere (sadly there is no "Restaurant Servers' Digest") and I'm not going to rewrite it. So, I'm going to retire it here, for all of you (all 2 of you or however many people read this) to enjoy. I've cut out the intro and the conclusion because they are admittedly bad. Here it is! Enjoy it! Or leave comments like, "Why would I want to read this?" and "I don't get this," and "When I read this, I am like, what???" (Actual things my professor said about it in class.) READY? GO!

5 Ways To Annoy Your Restaurant Server

1. Make Your Problems Your Server’s Problems. Did your dog pee on the sofa last week? Your son failed his drug test? Sounds like reason enough to get snappy with the waiter. Did the kitchen forget to take the basil out of your tomato basil pasta? Cut Julietta’s tip in half. Do your best to complain about things your server can’t change: the economy, your favorite team’s losing season, your marriage. Is your job frustrating and unrewarding? Make your server’s more so. Remember, if you’ve had a bad day, your server should, too.

2. Demand More Service Than You Intend To Pay For. Get really fussy about how you want that $3.00 hoagie prepared. Ask for as many samples as you can get away with, then order a garden salad. Send food back to the kitchen for unclear reasons, and then decide you’re not actually hungry, after all. Carl at the downtown diner is making $2.70 an hour, and thanks to you, he’s going to work for it.

3. Come With A Huge Group. This is key, but it takes a team effort. Have your group trickle in slowly, but make the server wait until everyone is present to take orders. That’s your way of saying, hey buddy, we’re going to be here awhile. When everyone does arrive, ask for separate checks. If this isn’t possible, ensure that nobody covers the tip. After the server takes your orders and walks away, change seats. Get audibly upset when he mixes up your dishes. You’ve got to keep him guessing! After you’ve paid the bill, sit around and visit for a while. That table is your living room.

4. Turn Your Server Into Your Pet Monkey. Seize any opportunity to entertain your party at your server’s expense. Force her to passively interact with you with phrases like, “I’m sure Katie here can’t tell it’s a toupee, Bob,” or “You’re rooting for the Broncos tomorrow, aren’t you, honey? That’s right.” Make passes at her and throw in a sexist comment now and then. If your server is male, assume he is the manservant you never had. Demand service constantly and steal his time from other tables. As far as you are concerned, this is a monogamous relationship. Your table is the only one in the restaurant.

5. Bring A Child. This trick is so simple, yet so often overlooked. Don’t underestimate the effectiveness of an unruly brat. If you don’t have your own kids, borrow one or four from a friend. As soon as you’re seated, forget you brought any children and let them roam the restaurant and crawl under the tables. Teach them to bite if they don’t already know how. Remember you brought kids long enough to demand that little Timmy have a green crayon. Not blue, but green – and just forget about red. If those rambunctious little tykes feel at all inclined to sit down for one minute, use this time to train them to spill their drinks when the server is present. Why clean it up yourself when you can guilt someone else into doing it? Lastly, if all else fails, remember that nothing induces a headache faster than a screamer.

SO THAT'S IT. That's the bag of crap I left burning on my professor's doorstep. I hope it made you cry and wring your hands in confusion. WHATEVER, COLLEGE. I'll give you the money, and you'll give me the degree, and we'll both back away slowly.

Mexico was there, too, but I won't say where.

2008-03-01T21:34:00.000-08:00

I've been having very vivid dreams the last couple of weeks. Let's recount them.

1. I decide to get a map of the United States tattooed on my stomach, with the states filled in with either red or blue, representing the results of the 2008 election. Sorry, I didn't have time to count, so I don't know who wins. Interestingly, Alaska is nowhere to be found.

2. I babysit Britney Spears, who thinks she is at her birthday party. She is strangely emaciated and we take pictures together.

3. I go to a Jimmy Eat World concert that is being held in a small room of a church. I get really excited and declare that I can't wait to see them in Boston. This dream is kind of boringly literal.

4. I party really hard the morning I'm supposed to leave for Mexico and miss my flight. This one is kinda lame because it proves that I worry about everything, even vacation.

5. My brother teases me until I'm so frustrated that I scream into a pillow. This one woke me up in a sweat.

More to come! The apple cider vinegar I've been drinking has the curious side effect of wacky dreams. Maybe I'll start having prophetic ones soon.

Some thoughtful tips.

2008-02-25T16:09:00.000-08:00

1. Watch Britney Spears' new music video.

2. Don't cut me in line, you rotten old man.

Follow these simple rules and you will have a great day.

Everyone's a crack whore in my eyes.

2008-02-20T13:34:00.000-08:00

Well, I meant to quit, but I've been drawn back to this whole blog thing. I think it's because I've been trying to keep a journal regularly and I keep asking myself, "Why am I forcing myself to write the funny things that happen to me in a private diary when I really just want to shout it to the world?" What a great question, I answered myself. So here I am.

I'm gonna switch up the format of this baby and primarily post short entries because I am not doing enough to warrant those super-sized essay-length posts any more. Out with the old world, in with the new. More is less. Etcetera.

So I am walking down Tremont to my hotel (let's hear it for living on-campus at a school with housing space issues!) with a big ole mesh bag of groceries from Trader Joes. I get stopped at an intersection and I hear some lady saying, "Excuse me, ma'am?" I ignore her, partly because "ma'am" is just not specific enough to get a response from me, but mostly because a year and a half of living in Boston and Europe has turned my heart hard and callous to street crazies. She continues to "ma'am" me in an increasingly nagging voice, so finally I break down and make eye contact. "Ma'am, I'm really hungry, could you help me out?" My bag of groceries consists of some avocados, apple cider vinegar, organic cereal and some bananas. Not the most appealing variety. I offer her the bananas and she immediately refuses, and gets bizarrely snappy with me about how she wants a meal. I reply, "Okay, well I can't help you, sorry," and walk away.

Look, lady. Clearly you wanted money, but don't feed me some story about how you're hungry and then reject my banana bunch. I make a point of refusing to give people money any more, because I have let people take advantage of how nice I am too many times. I know it's not very Jesus of me, but you know, Jesus never lived in Boston.

Probably the last of these on this side of the pond.

2007-12-05T11:37:00.001-08:00

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Originally uploaded by Lady Rachem

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.

Anti-Bacteriële Werking, at that.

2007-11-13T10:22:00.000-08:00

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.

Millions of little (lego) pieces.

2007-11-09T19:38:00.001-08:00

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Originally uploaded by Lady Rachem

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.

I saw London, I saw France.

2007-10-22T12:01:00.001-07:00

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Originally uploaded by Lady Rachem

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.

She made me do an in-class write about a piece of bark.

2007-09-29T05:10:00.001-07:00

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Originally uploaded by Lady Rachem

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

Amster to the dam, son.

2007-09-24T12:06:00.001-07:00

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Originally uploaded by Lady Rachem

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

my life is one big stroopwafel

2007-09-18T11:11:00.001-07:00

DSC00253
Originally uploaded by Lady Rachem

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