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.

Vondelpark Sighting

Ah yoga (tai-chi, some strange combo)... so peaceful, so quiet, so tranquil...
until I disturbed them and took their picture. Honestly though, I don't know how you could stay calm and focused doing yoga while facing the main pathway in the Vondelpark.

That would be a challenge for an advanced yogi, and these poor people were obviously, painfully, new to this type of movement. They were distracted by all of us walking by who were staring and laughing. It surprises me that their teacher chose this location. Maybe they were office workers, on some kind of New Age middle-of-the-day relaxation exercise?