Farewell, my love(?)

Beste Nederland,

I remember the moment I first graced your sunny shores, in 2004, riding (hanging on for my dear life) from Germany across the plattelandschaap, gazing with lust at your perfectly proportioned body with its rectanglular patches of cows, greenhouses, historical city centres from midevil times, polderland that has existed less than 50 years, and narrow little straatjes that have been tread for maybe 500 years. At that moment, I did not fully appreciate what you had to offer. In fact, I must admit -- I found your so-called best feature of Amsterdam a bit vies. It was after all gay pride weekend and so trash was everywhere, and the outdoor men's peeing places really got to me...

When I next came to you, in Amsterdam, you were not my first choice, which you knew. Yet you took me anyway after China chewed me up and spit me out. Our reunion was not ideal, however, as I walked all over the city in the rain (which reminds me of a video in Dutch class about praten over het weer... "wat weer, he? regent, regent, regent"... little did I know why they chose that conversation...) to find my new apartment. That day I ended up donating a few hundred euros, the cutest purse I've ever owned, my credit card, my loan checks, my hello kitty wallet, and my passport, to a junkie. Yet that experience was one of growth and opportunity. Firstly, I was able to do a good deed, educating a poor, ignorant Dutch police officer about Kitty. That was my formal introduction to the unending bureacracy of your government. I filled out an epic form, detailing every item that I lost, even drawing them for the young (they make the rookies deal with the foreigners), compassionate, patient officer, only to then ask what they do with the information. "We file it." The end. I also met two of the best friends possible on that day... B., who comforted me as her new French roommate and parents gawked, and gave me her phone to call daddy (not many people out there will trust 20-dollar charges to someone they just met); and I., my new next-door neighbor, who accompanied innocent little me to the police station and made me eat (falafel... my first time!) when I wanted to starve in despair.

So it took awhile for me to fall in love with you, dearest. Actually I could not say I am enamored with you as of late due to your bad moods this past MONTH of rain, monsoons, gloom, clouds, doom. You certainly do have your mood swings, love, such as last summer when it felt like L.A. (as in Lower Alabama) in July and my belgian chocolates all melted together on the unairconditioned train which broke down; those storms where the wind uproots your few trees; days when the sun never emerges from the grey; summer weeks when when the sun hardly sets and a bike light is hardly necessary. You have some of the most beautiful canal houses, tulips, and cafes (and where else can you find a shop just for the knop?), and then you show your gritty side in the red lights, seedy bars, and squatters' houses. Your people also have their quirks, changing with the weather -- being grumpy and trying to take people down in the streets and the grocery store, running into them and not apologizing, offering unsollicited opinions to strangers; and then, when the sun shines, radically altering and actually smiling at passers-by and gaining a grin in return. It took me a long time to become accustomed to your ways. I wanted to smile at everyone on the street but soon realized that this is not advisable, unless one wants the horny 18-year-old (or 40-year-old) boys who come out of their cocoons in spring to prey upon oneself, or if one enjoys being threatened by the street people in the winter because one looks happy.

Basically, our two-year relationship has been one of ups and downs, but I love you all the more for your idiosyncrasy. Why? Perhaps because I also hail from a contrary land, in which gazebos can be found on sacred indian mounds and beautiful hills are dotted with kapot automobiles and otherwise random objects.


When we began our relationship, I shirked idiosyncrasy. I tried to mesh with your flesh like young Korean couples wearing matching outfits, considering myself successful when the airport security guards thought I was Dutch. I hiked up my heavy coat collar and abandoned my shorts, smile (that "american smile", according to an Estonian friend back in 2003), and the tendency to gaze aimlessly around in wonder. However, even though there were moments in which I felt at one with your body -- especially when riding my bike across your bridges in the Jordaan -- I finally have acknowledged that I am not meant to be your leg, or your arm, or your heart. Lovers merge at points, but in the end we are separate people because I will never, never eat patat frites with mayonnaise. Period.

Here we are at the point of separation, and I have no regrets. You have given me so many things to hold in memory: amazing friends, a new language that I (halfway) studied, amandelmelk in Riaz, people who ask why I'm not fat since I'm a Unitedstadian, tea times, potluck dinners with people from all over the world, O'Lacy's fruit & flakes cereal, a drug dealer roomie, neighbors across the street to spy on, late night philosophical conversations on your public benches, 50-cent bags of vegetables and fruit in the markt, my favorite personal game of "guess the nationality before hearing the voice", a university computer lab that is easily mistaken for an H&M fashion show ... And what else have you given me? A backbone. One must be thick-skinned, independent, and confident to last two years with you, sweetie pie.

So ... Sterkte! Don't sink in the water and have only Limburg left after global warming, because I would like to be with you again someday, kind of like how it happens in love in the time of cholera. Fifty-one years, nine months, and four days...

Groetjes,

Katherine

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.

National Identity Post number One

I have been thinking alot about national identity for the past few weeks. This is for various reasons, one of which is that the Netherlands is an interesting place to ponder the subject. Even with the Koninginnedag fever just witnessed on April 30, I would not consider many of the Dutch people I know to be very nationalistic. There is at this time, however, an interest in defining "Dutchness."


There are many art and music projects lately that address the complicated subject of Dutch identity. One that struck me particularly was a series of photographs that were in the Stedelijk Museum last year by Rineke Dijkstra. She photographs a (now) young woman who immigrated from Bosnia to the Netherlands every two years; in the various pictures a gradual change in the girl toward "Dutch assimilation" is very noticable. (Three of the pictures are shown here.). Also, presently there is the Be(com)ing Dutch exhibition in the Van Abbemuseum, with which one of my friends is involved.



What I find potentially troubling in all of this identity discussion is that I wonder if the championing of "samenleving" (communality) is used in some cases as a prettily-packaged substitute for "integration." The statement "samenwonen = samenleven" (living together = cohabiting) I find suspect: Does it mean that people who live in the same area really must have the same life? How far does this go? Must they share the same religion, lifestyle, food, desires? It is difficult to know in some cases, but it is certain that some groups in the Netherlands definitely think integration = assimilation. As I am writing my thesis on asylum-seeking children here, I was horrified to see that Vluchtelingenwerk, an organization to help asylum-seekers in the Netherlands, measures the integration of people with a barometer. Sure, you need guidelines to help people feel at home in the Netherlands, but a barometer???

(On another "foreigner" note, the international population of students in the Netherlands is sadly going to diminish in the coming year. Or at least the international student population will change to a bunch of rich brats, or starving students on major loans. This is because the Dutch government has decided to no longer subsidize the tuition fees of international students, like myself. The tuition is more than doubling. Thankfully I came when I did!)

Markers of the Nederlands spirit

With the hopscotch posting and now this one, maybe it seems I'm looking at the ground excessively, but Koninginnedag is coming, which means that sidewalk space is where it's at. While most people just write "BEZET" ("taken") on the ground with chalk to claim the spots where they will sell random articles on the 30th of April, others get fancy with their place markers. This one here, seen along Leidsestraat, I find humorously creative. Done with white tape, it says "Hier woon ik! . . . Mark, 16 jaar" (literally, "I live here ! . . . Mark, age 16"). That says it all.

Aside from these sidewalk occurences, orange items are multiplying everywhere. I was surprised to see that there are even special, orange-packaged Nederland Pringles for a limited time. My favorite orange spirit-shower so far, though, was in the market today. At the stand where I always buy vegetables, there were orange bell peppers being sold as "30th April" peppers. These people definitely are in the spirit!

A Tribute to my Stolen Loves

I never thought I'd be so desperate.

I am actually toying with the prospect of buying a bike from (GASP) a junkie. After a string of four bikes in 20 months, and with just a few months left here, I refuse to pay the 57-plus Euro to repair the piece of junk that is my current bike. And yet I need two wheels to get me around this city -- walking is great, but not if you end up having to huff and puff running late everywhere, and riding the tram gets expensive. A bike is simply a requirement in this city of more bikes than people, and I'm craving that luxurious ride.
I miss my second bike, which was sadly stolen at Central Station, the most (pictured here, romantically lounging its beautiful self amidst the snow). I bought it from a Portuguese guy here who recycles bikes. The other bikes had their quirks:

Bike number One: though it had a bell to warn tourists, it was a little too high -- it made me look elegant, but I couldn't really maneuver myself so well. It was stolen.

Bike number Three: this one was too low and so I looked like an ogre trying to ride a kiddie bike. Also, at this low angle, it was a bit too revealing to wear miniskirts without incredible indecency. At least it had great tires. It was stolen.

Bike number Four: it was missing a brake, shook, and had a bout of three flats in nine days (for which I still suspect shoddy repairmanship).

Since three of my bikes have been stolen, I think I deserve a cheap one from a junkie, but I'm still hesitant. I'm not sure if I am worried more about getting in trouble (if the cops catch you buying a bike on the street it's not such a good thing) or contributing to the circle of bike thievery. Either way, I will continue to halfway-commitedly scope out the streets near the University for scratchy looking people peddling slowly by, mumbling under their breath, "fiets?"

Hopscotch Olympics

If there were such a thing, the champion might come from my neighborhood. This particular hopscotch course went on for almost two blocks, ending with 610.

Since I've never seen the kids actually hopping, I don't know if they are professional hoppers or just math whizzes.

Amsterdam Species

Way to go you, um, water fowl! (What is this creature called? It's not a duck.) Bravo for making use of your natural resources. It's not even trash-producing Queen's Day yet and there's still as much garbage in the water as sticks to make your nest. At least it is being put to good use.