Of grandmas, $20 bills, and Hello Kitty stationary...three fundamental pieces of my life

This is kind of a random (read: dorky) post, but I was SO happy to get a letter from my 86-year-old grandma! Headed "Dearest Katherine," it was written in cursive (getting pretty rare, isn't it?) and came complete with a $20 bill. Man. No one can do a better love letter than grandmas, can they? My favorite part is where she writes at the top of page 3, "You're probably getting tired by now", before continuing for four more pages.

My other grandmother and I used to send letters back and forth also, always making up stories about these owl magnets on her fridge that I particularly liked. When I was at her house, I moved them in different arrangements everyday (hey, this was in rural Arkansas...not like there was that much entertainment), and so we would exchange jokes about their covert movements when I was not there. Well...it was pretty fun at age 11!

Aside from grandmas, I have tried to send nice love packages to my b.f. out there in the subconty, but unfortunately my attempts get partly or wholly sabatoged. The first package made it there but not without some items being stolen. Even the letter in my Hello Kitty stationary was opened; they were obviously looking for one of grandma's $20's, not considering that grandma probably isn't into Kitty.

The second package that I tried to send is sadly MIA. I hope the folks at the Hyderabad (or somewhere-ville) postal service are satisfied with my chocolate oatmeal cookies, Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse 5, and MAD Magazine's issue with the grinning flower child on the cover. I wonder if they recited my letter aloud while sitting around, dipping the cookies in milk? Hopefully they got some good laughs out of my letter, if nothing else. I mean, somebody may as well enjoy the love...grumble, grumble.

So the point of this pointless post would be....I value letters and packages. Um, that's it. On that note, I'm signing out...cambio y fuera.

The Future of "art"

I attended a student art exposition on the Raamgracht this past weekend, and I'm not sure how I feel about those whose work will be filling the museums in a couple of years.

One wall read in black duck tape "FEED ME", under which a mechanized robot with an upside-down Barbie for a head convulsed disturbingly. On the wall across from it were some lovely human specimens: hair trimmings, nail clippings, and what I will dub "body dust" out of lack of knowledge due to lack of ability to continue examination because my stomach was turning. hmmm. Who is hungry, and for what are they hungry? It certainly did get my brain activated (along with my gag reflex). Could this be a parody on the "starving artist" stereotype? The exposition did at least come with some peanuts, chips, and Dutch drop, though judging by the "Pieces of Me" on the wall, I don't know if normal food will suffice . . .

Yet seriously, I wonder if time is currently being devalued somewhat in the art world. I know this makes me sound preservationistic, but Michelangelo spent so long on the Sistine Chapel and, dangit, I admire him for it! How can these young whippersnappers put their bodily excess in little baggies for their art school project?!

(Please ignore me. I'm just jealous since I chose an education in theory. I have to work long and hard for my grades. My mistake!)

"Smoker number 11, your tray is now ready"

I have to say I'm surprised about this one. The Dutch government has decided to ban smoking in restaurants and cafes (Dutch article here), a decision which will go into effect next July. Establishments will be allowed to have designated smoking rooms, but the employees won't serve people in smoking areas so that their health is not endangered. I kinda wonder about the logistics of that situation. So at a nice restaurant smokers would have to leave their seats, go up to a counter, and pick up a tray of food, like at McDonalds? Well I guess that beats the non-aesthetic appeal of servers wearing gas masks and coming to them.

This new regulation applies to coffee shops, but I highly doubt that it can (or will) be enforced by the folks behind the counter. What would they do -- ask people to please take their halfway-smoked joints apart so they can check for tobacco? Please.

For me, this decision came a couple of years too late. I hate smoking, especially when trying to down a meal, and here (perhaps yet another spin on the Dutch "tolerance"?) it is not common to complain about it. In fact, the only people I know in A'dam who have feigned choking when accosted by smoke are those from the States, Canada, and Australia. I enjoy going out with them because we sympathize with one another's "suffering". Yes, we are whiners and perhaps a bit health-paranoid.

I think that the general lack of complaining about smoking here reflects a different smoking culture. Where I grew up in the States, you were either with 'em, or you were against 'em, to quote Jesus and Bush. I actually never had one good friend who smoked, whereas here I have had several. Also, this is the first place I have been introduced to the "social smoking" phenomenon, as in those who are seemingly not addicted (is that possible? how DARE they challenge my D.A.R.E. education!); they just smoke occasionally when having a drink around others who smoke. In general, it also seems to me that more young people smoke here than in Georgia, especially teen girls. The fifteen-year-old girls I see puffing away outside their schools could just as well be in Kentucky, where I spent my childhood (I have never fully recovered from a car trip with a friend's smoking mother, during which I alternated taking big gulps of air with my mouth and small sips through my nose). However, smoking appears to be slowly declining in Kentucky as opposed to the Netherlands, where people are starting to smoke at younger ages.

I wonder how the younger generation here will take the ban on smoking. To me, the government's decision is very much needed, especially during those cold winter months when you get stuck with smoke and no open windows (less dry cleaning needed! woo hoo!). Unfortunately, I won't be here to see it applied, but it is a good reason to come back.

Dream Amsterdam ... photos to show my grandchildren someday, haha

I couldn't help but think of the Holocaust as we were told to disrobe, herded into a claustrophobia-inducing parking garage, and separated by gender as "headman" Spencer Tunick came by to inspect our bodies. Except - oh, wait - this was voluntary. Around two thousand of us participated in the Dream Amsterdam photoshoot from 3:30 - 9:00 AM today, all for art, and I would do it again in a heartbeat (as long as it wasn't too cold or raining, ahem, ahem).

I hadn't expected our posing to involve so much acrobatics, though. For the first shot, we stood on chairs in a Marnixstraat parking garage, with just a short ledge keeping us from falling. At one point we were asked to reach our arms out behind us and grab the edge of the ceiling. There were, needless to say, a few scares, with some people falling off their chairs, thankfully forward and not backward over the edge. Then on bicycles the women had to put one foot on the pedal, sitting on the bike, and keep the other on the ground as we leaned back as far as we could looking up into the sky. The most challenging position was the floating bridge shot on the Leliegracht, where we stood right over the canal on small metal squares. We couldn't hold onto anything and just had to try not to look at our feet while Tunick took a LONG time snapping our picture.

Well it sounds like I am complaining, but actually I enjoyed this experience. It was amazing to be involved in a communal, naked, photograph session by a famous photographer, in beloved Amsterdam. People were much more friendly than they normally are in A'dam while we were naked together. Seriously - there must be something about communal nakedness that makes people feel more confident in striking up a conversation. The atmosphere was simply a bit giddy, with giggles erupting among our shared frigidness in the five-'o-clock fog. The feeling of a vague "freedom" in nakedness was contagious, and I am so glad that I caught it. Now when I walk past the Marnixstraat parking garage and the Leliegracht, I can chuckle to myself and remember fondly that I was naked there while the city slept, clueless of its defamation.