for serious? no, for JOKE

A photo journal entry about fluffy sheep and sunny days

It might be trite to write about the weather on a blog.  That’s what weather.com is for right?  Aaannd… with that I head straight into talking about the weather.  I figure every letter I ever receive from my grandmother starts with a description of the weather, so why not my blog entry?

It’s GORGEOUS here.  This weekend was stunning.  It was all sunny and breezy and it was obviously confusing the birds, who were just about to head south for winter.  They decided to stay the weekend.

On Sunday, my mom and I were headed out the door to celebrate my uncle’s birthday.  With waffles. (hey!  I’m Belgian.  It’s how we do.)  He lives about 15 km outside of Amsterdam, so we were ready to take the bus.  But the second we stepped outside, we opted for our bikes instead.  The balmy breeze was irresistible!

Of course, I wasn’t exactly dressed for a workout.  (Though the ride was an hour and a half long, I think it’s probably a stretch to call this activity a workout.  Holland is flatter than flat, and the wind was behind us.  Only minor pedaling is required.  On the other hand, it’s the most exercise I’ve had since… *gulp*… August?)     Back to my outfit:  I was actually dressed for a party.  A party at the start of November.  In other words: a sweater, a woolen tweed skirt, and leather boots to my knees.  In other words: SWEATING.  The ride behind Central Station made me feel like I was at the Jersey Shore Boardwalk, and I was entirely overdressed. 

So I stripped down to my tank top.   You know how people jokingly refer to mullets as “business in the front, party in the back”?  That was sort of me:  winter on the bottom, summer on the top!  I think I even may have gotten a tan.

Some photos of our journey.  Remember to click on the images if you want to Super Size ‘Em.  If you want fries with that, I cant help you.   

Here’s my FABULOUS looking mom on the ferry ride that transported us across Het Ij.   

Here’s me.  I am not sure what I was thinking striking this very strange pose.  And I definitely have no idea why my hair looks like spaghetti strings.

Look at all these sheep!  Holy Cow!  (Ok, that was a bad joke).  But did I mention Holland was FLAT?

The cutest waffle maker!  You can’t buy this one at Crate and Barrel!  (my oldest guy cousin’s youngest daughter). 

My uncle (on the right, and not his birthday) is posing for all you blog readers.  He knew I was going to post this.   

Drinks Do Not Translate Well

On Tuesday night, happily out to dinner with both my parents, we decide to order cocktails before drinks.  Great!  I was already settling in for an evening of drinks, food, and above all, catch-up, wonderful, delightful conversation with my parents.

So I ordered a Dirty Martini from our server.  This is pretty much my favorite non-beer, non-wine beverage, especially when they give me extra olives.  (Anuj already knows that if we both order this drink, I will eat all of his olives.   He has agreed to this as a fundemantal part of our future marriage).  The server didn't know what a Dirty Martini was (!!!), but she says if I can describe it to her, she'll make it for me.

"Pour some good vodka over ice, but no vermouth.  Add a small pour of olive juice, you know... the liquid that the olives come in?  Just pour some out of that jar. (skeptical look from server). Now shake it, pour it in an "up" glass, spear lots of big green juicy olives on a stick, and serve."

How did you feel when reading that part?  Good?  Like you wanted to drink it?  You did?!  Well I sure as heck didn't.  Ew, did you read the part about pouring out some juice out of the jar?!  All of a sudden I had a vision of the bartender dusting off his bottle container, with a few lonely olives swimming in murky liquid that he's probably dug his nasty fingers in dozens and dozens of times, and pouring that into my drink.  NO THANK YOU.   

I ordered a Cosmopolitain instead.

Which ended up being too sweet.

But it's ok, because I drank great wine and draft beers later on in the evening. 

Drunk bicycles

This morning on my way to work, I biked through the Spiegelkwartier (I challenge all American readers to pronounce that word out loud) over one of the bridges that I love so much, when I noticed a huge barge type boat in the water, with a big mechanical arm that was dredging out muck from the bottom of the canal.  Yuck right?   So of course I step off my bike to see what sorts of interesting things were being stirred up.    

I was amazed.  What emerged from the water was... bicylces!  Many, many bicycles!  Small ones, broken ones, clunky ones, twisted ones, new-ish ones... they were all covered in a uniform layer of slimy black filth.  Disgusted and amazed, I was.  Who is throwing all those bicycles into the water?  Crikey, if you need to get rid of a bicycle so badly just park it unlocked on the street somewhere.  I promise you will make some pedestrian AmsterDAMNer really happy.   Even if you stole it, who cares?  Just leave it leaning against a gate somewhere.   Someone needs that bike.  And here was this boat, and every grab this mechanical arm was making resulted in the lifting out of 2-3 bikes a go, with a whole pike of 'em in the loading bed of the barge. 

My mom, I like the way she thinks.  I asked her who she thought was dumping out all those bikes in the canals.  Her thought was maybe drunk people were just biking straight in.  She wanted to know, did I see any dead bodies?

* * *

Soooo.  It's ridiculously gorgeous out today.  Beautiful, sunny, downright balmy.  But the past week has been a mess!  Rain, rain, rain.   I have found out what it's like to bike when buckets of water are pouring on my head.  My dad, who was here for just the day yesterday, asked how I managed that exactly.   Well, I have this huge neon orange water repelling poncho, that drapes over my head, my upper body, and my bike handle bars so that my legs are protected from the rain as well.  Needless to say this looks absolutely ridiculous.  You know those bath tub toys you had as a kid?  The ones with a big butt-boat-bottom to keep it afloat amongst the suds, and then a little bobble head with a frozen expression on its face sticking out of the middle of the top of it?  That's what I look like in the streets, bobbing my way down the streets of Amsterdam. 

Bompa

My sister Ruthie asked me when the heck I was going to update my blog again, since it’s been pointing you towards the www.postsecret website for seemingly ever. 

I explained to her my mental block here.  Our grandfather, “Bompa”, passed away at 1 am on Thursday, October 13th 2005.   I wanted to write about him, about the experience of being in Belgium last week, but then somehow I couldn’t really.  And then it didn’t seem appropriate to write about anything else, and I just couldn’t get over this hurdle.  I didn’t know how to write about how I felt without it sounding strange published on the internet, but I couldn’t bring myself to write about any other topic.  Ruthie shook me out of it, by saying I should write about Bompa, but then move on, which is simple enough really.  So I will.

When Bompa was rushed to the hospital (a few days before he died) the whole family was on high alert, and Bompa was under constant watch by his children and grand children.  I had to go to Vienna for work, as you all know (and saw for about ten days on my last post!) but was thinking about him.  By the time I had landed in Schiphol/Amsterdam airport Wednesday evening, the situation had become critical.  I came home to drop off my suitcases, rebook my flight to New York City (I had been planning to visit Anuj starting the next morning) and repacked my bags with my mom.  One of the reasons I was so excited to move to Amsterdam was because I knew I would be closer to family.  Delaying my trip to New York City, no matter how badly I wanted to see Anuj, was not even a question.   We drove down to Antwerp the next morning; but when my uncle picked us up we found we are already “too late”.   

Well, we were “too late” I suppose, in the sense that I didn’t get to kiss Bompa goodbye during his final hours.  But we weren’t too late to be with family, and to help arrange the funeral, and to comfort my grandmother, and to go through real grieving  myself.  This was my first experience with losing someone close to me and it was strange to be a part of a grieving,.. well, community (my family).  I went to the hospital with my aunts and uncles, and my parents, to see my grandfather.   I can only describe this experience as being extremely intense.  I kept expecting to see his chest rise and fall with breath, but it didn’t of course.  He was so utterly without life, and yet so familiar to me!  What really got me were his hands – they still had dirt underneath his finger nails, just like he always has had, as long as I can ever remember.  Being in the room with him I was able to actually really say goodbye, and I was grateful for that. 

At my aunt’s house, people were walking around with watery eyes and runny red noses.  Coffee and bread magically appeared and talk turned to the funeral, but also to stories of Bompa when he ran his laundromat, how he raised his children, lots of laughing at old stories, and then sprays of tears when moments were remembered.  Mourning is so strange isn’t it?  Lots of crying, but also lots of laughing.  Bompa would have turned 93 in November, and I think he would have been pleased to see all his kids and grandkids (and great grand kids!) gathered around, remembering him.

I didn’t stay for the funeral, which was held six days later.  I had said my goodbyes, and I have a relationship (one I am committing to for the rest of my life) to sustain as well, so I flew home and had my last cry on Anuj’s shoulder. 

There’s so much more to write, so many stories that have been bubbling up in my mind since Oct 13th, stories about Bompa, about impressions he made and things he said, and how happy I am I spent that last afternoon with him in August, and that he met Anuj last November… but really I wanted to keep this post short and sweet, and keep those stories private, or share them quietly with my sisters and parents, to remember him always.

For you, internet, I’ll leave you with the last photograph I have that was taken of just me and Bompa.

Off to Vienna!

I'm off to Vienna in about forty minutes.  I have a lengthy post in draft form about my weekend that I am working on but I haven't been able to spend much time on it yet. I'll work on it in my hotel room tonight, and post it tomorrow.

If you're looking for something to read, I will re-direct you to www.postsecret.com.  My favorite this month is "When my brother makes me mad..."  and the one about fake cell phone conversations because I?  totally do that. 

Busy Bee

Next week promises to be a busy one.  What with the more flying around Europe thing (Austria this time), and then jumping on my Continental Pond Hopper to NYC to see my honey.  My legally-mine honey in about seven months two weeks and six days but hey! who’s counting?

I do feel bad though, since my roommate and I (i.e. my mom) will be missing each other for TEN DAYS due to a scheduling mishap – we both needed to be away for a few days and they just happen to only overlap by one day.  This is definitely more my fault than my mother’s since by “a few days” I mean three for my mom, seven for me.  Guilt – it’s a crusher isn’t it?  Mom says she doesn’t mind, but I know we’re both bummed.    What once looked like a vast expanse of six plus weeks of maternal roommateness now seems like a crush of just a few weekends to do some things.  Bummers, as my dad would say.

Romance in Amsterdam

It's like pea soup outside!  You can see the fog rolling in waves through the streets, and people appear rather suddenly in front of you.

On my bike commute this morning, I saw a Couple emerge through the haze.  They were biking together, perfectly in sync, holding onto their handle bars with one hand while using the other to hold their partner's hand.   I was struck by how romantic that was because these were not teenagers, but people my age!  I loved that they were biking so sweetly next to each other.   

However, as I was reveling in the romance, I also marveled at how perfectly coordinated they were on their bikes.  I mean, this coming from the girl who completely inelegantly spilled everything she had on her all over an intersection in Amsterdam just a mere two weeks ago.  I get nervous when I bike on slippery pavement, or have to cross over a couple bumps, how do they take sharp turns while their pumping pedals are mere inches from the other person's spokes?  In fact, even when I was contemplating their coordination, my front wheel caught in a chink of the pavement and I swerved and did the knee-jerk reaction "ACK!" to pull myself straight again.

God, when will biking become a non-life-threatening exercise?

Terrible Smells!

To my distress I have to report on a TERRIBLE SMELL at (just inside) my front door.  You all know I have complained previously about my apartment smelling bad.  Well, now my apartment smells great, all home-y and clean, and lately often like a delicious dinner when I come home from work (thanks mom!)

But the entrance hallway?   Terrible.  Terrible!  A rat has died under the steps and is slowly decomposing and frightening away anyone who might possibly want to visit me.  Including my mother.  Including myself.  Ugh, I can feel the bile rise in my throat even as I write this.

We ran into our House Chair Person the other night and I tried to find a delicate way to tell him that THE HOUSE SMELLS LIKE ASS.  I was struck dumb with inability to articulate this nicely, so my mom took care of things for me by pulling a Disgusted Face.   You don’t want to mess with my mom’s Disgusted Face.  House Chair Person was sort of indifferent about it though, and about the smell.  Attitude: “Yeah, it happens from time to time.  Can’t reach the Dead Thing.  Will leave it there until we are all smoked out of the house, burn it down and rebuild.  Till then suck it up.”   Okaayyyy.  And: ewwwww!

Ground Hog Day

My life the past few weeks has been a bit like Ground Hog Day.   You know, the movie where Bill Murray wakes up and relives the Same. Day. Over. And. Over. Again.  Bleah, right?   (but funny, amusing)

Well, these work-related presentations and introductions I have been doing to various groups the past few weeks have been kind of repetitive.  It’s the same spiel over and over again.  Don’t get me wrong, I love doing it actually, but almost every morning I pack my bag in my hotel room, do a series of 4-5 meetings where I do my thirty minute presentation, and my fellow travelers do their twenty minute presentation, and we accept questions (about 99% of the time these questions are ones we have heard dozens of times before).    Then we pack up our stuff, drive to the airport, and go to the next stop.   

I’m just complaining here, because as I said, I love the presentations/answering questions part of my job (slight phobia of public speaking not-withstanding).  But you know what really gets my Ground Hog Day going?  I only have two really professional outfits.  Three if I am really creative.  So basically, besides waking up in anonymous hotel rooms and giving the same spiel to different NGOs who have the same questions every day, I also wear the same outfit every day.   

This would drive any normal girl crazy.   So I chose to rectify the situation.

It’s hard for me to buy clothes here- I’m not used to the styles, the stores, and oh, the fact that my dollar means nothing here in the world of euros.  (Yes, yes, I know. I am working on the banking thing, ok?).  But I finally bit the bullet.  And boy, did I!

I burned a severe hole in my credit card this weekend; bought a brown pin-striped Esprit suit, three work shirts, and a pair of shoes.  Then I went online and took advantage of every “Fall Sale/Free Shipping deal!” on every website I could think of.   I can’t ship things internationally, so I told Anuj to prepare for a deluge of packages arriving at the NYC apartment.  I can’t wait!

I’ll be in New York at noon on Thursday, October 13th.  I know, I know, contain yourselves!

On a side note, I discovered a great Dutch food restaurant last night, and an out-of-the-way Belgian beer with only a kadzillion beers on the menu.  Come see!

This Weekend in Amsterdam

Seen this weekend in Amsterdam...   Bud from Married With Children.  He’s SHORT people.  And man, he looked like he’d had a rough night…  HUGE bags under his eyes. 

…

I booked my ticket “home” yesterday.  Though home is becoming a word I can’t entirely place anymore.  “I’m going home” seems to mean something different depending on where I am and who I am speaking to.  In the office I say “I was home this weekend” and people say “New York?”.  No, no, Amsterdam!   But when I tell you I booked my ticket home, I mean New York, but that’s not right either, because my home is here now.  But Anuj is still in NYC, and they say home is where the heart is.  To trump the cheesiness of cheese, my heart and home are therefore still in NYC. 

Same with “my apartment”.  I say “my” and “our” apartment and it just means two different places, even though “our” apartment in A’dam probably doesn’t feel to Anuj like “his” apartment in the slightest yet.

Confused yet?  I am!  So I’ll just drop the subject – just highlighting that I? am confused.  And "homeless"?

…

A public thank-you to my sister Ruthie who accompanied my future in-laws to Baltimore this Saturday to attend some catering tastings.  (Thank you Roofie!)  Ah, wedding planning from afar; it’s so much less stressful!   At least I don’t get too caught up in decision making, like during my decision making frenzy in August.   

…

I saw a gorgeous movie this weekend:  Pride and Prejudice.  I am not a huge Keira Knightley fan but this movie was just sweepingly beautiful and I was truly sad when the closing credits ran because I wanted it to keep going, going, going.  Everyone walk, don’t run, to the theatre and watch this movie!   I love love loved the romance, the dialogue, the tension! 

…

Also seen this weekend – Anne Frank’s Secret Annexe hiding place on the Prinsengracht in Amsterdam.  I have wanted to see this place since I was thirteen years old and read her journal for the first time.   This was a really really great museum.  Powerful, informative, mind-boggling, and moving. 

There was one photograph displayed, a quick photo taken secretively through a curtained window, of a canal street in Amsterdam where a dozen or so Jews are being led away by three German officers.   It’s frightening and oh so real – the streets here still look exactly the same, and the image of those people clutching some bags and hurrying hunched over down the street, herded by the officers, is too real.  (I looked everywhere on the internet for this particular photograph, but alas!   You'll just have to come here and see.)

You can also walk into Anne’s room in the Annexe, and see the photos she glued to the walls there, see the stripes penciled on the walls to mark physical growth.  You can step up through the doorway behind the swinging bookcase that leads to the Annexe.  Anne was a good writer, because it was all as I had always imagined it would be, but it was tangible for the first time and I liked that.

I’d be willing to accompany any of my future visitors to this museum again!