This weekend was freezing in the Netherlands. But today (of course, Monday, the day I go back to work) was just beautiful - 75 degrees and sunny with a light breeze. I got home from work and sat out on my balcony with a stack of books I've been meaning to get to (that book about the disintegration of Yugoslavia I'm supposed to be reading for work... yeah, not in the stack) a bag of speculoos cookies (basically the the best thing ever) and a cold drink, enjoying the view of the sun setting on the church down my street.
I live on a street in a very nice part of town, so I always feel pretty safe here. My street is about half native Dutch and half foreigners, mostly Turkish. The Turkish population is pretty cool. They hang pretty cloths over their windows and play music at dusk and their children all run around the street with their toys. A Turkish family also run the restaurant down the street, and even though it smells really good, I have never seen a white person go in there. Two or three older Turkish men always linger outside the door, literally blocking the door, so I feel like I would be invading their club if I went there.
Anyways, I live on the fourth floor of an apartment building, and I have a balcony that faces the street, and, because Dutch streets are very narrow, my neighbors apartments and balconies. Two youngish Turkish guys were standing on the balcony across from me holding their little terrier dog over the rail (no idea why you would do this... that would be awful to pick up if you dropped it). They weren't speaking Dutch, so I had literally no clue what they were saying, but they seemed to be looking over at my balcony a lot.
Finally, they stopped putting the sweet puppy's life in danger, and the one holding it went inside. I kept reading, but now my neighbors attention was focused soley on me. I finally looked up and made eye contact.
He smiled at first and I felt encouraged, excited to be making friends with my neighbors. I smiled back.
Then, he put his hand down by his belt and made the universal symbol for "jerking off".
I have such friendly neighbors.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Awkwardness in het Nederland
Greetings from Den Haag, lieftjes!
The Hague is a very, very international city, because NATO, the UN Justice System, all of the embassies and about ten international organizations, like EUROPOL and INTERPOL, are based here. It's home to a lot of diplomats, expats and immigrants. In fact, often the Dutch will speak English to a stranger first, assuming there's a good chance they're foreign. I've seen it a lot this week: at the grocer, two people were in front of me. The first was a woman in a hijab, and the teller spoke English to her, and then switched to Dutch when she responded in Dutch. The second was a young woman, and they carried on the entire conversation in English.
When it got to me, she started off it Dutch, which is what, I've found, most people will do to me because of how I look. I look pretty Dutch, for being Polish-Norwegian-Anglo. They tend to be tall and blonde, and that's me. It's fine because I can kind of nod and smile and say basic things like "this one please" or "good morning" or "no recipt please" or "thank you".
But sometimes, the conversation gets more in depth, and then things get really awkward, because they're chattering along to me in a language I don't speak, and I have to interrupt and say, "Oh... Ik spreek geen Nederlands," which is my catchphrase now. And then they glare at me, as if I had been fooling them all along. And then they just look really disappointed because, let's face it, it must be a drag to constantly speak other languages in your home country. I'm sorry, lovely Dutch neighbors. I wish I was Dutch. This country is my favorite place.
Speaking of Dutch and awkward, the Dutch airline KLM gave me this on my way over. I love awkwardly translated slogans. This one is awesome.
Another treasure? I was on the beach in Scheveningen after work today and a herd of about five Dutch boys, about ten, passed by. They were making fun of Justin Bieber (it sound's really funny in a Dutch accent, like, juhSTIN BEEBeur) and singing "Baby". Hilarious, until they got to the end of the chorus (you know, "Baby, baby, baby...") and on the offbeat inserted a grunt/moan/howl that sounded unmistakably sexual. I knew my suspiciouns were correct they all laughed and repeated it, and one boy started pelvic thrusting his way along the Strand, to the cheers of his peers, one of whom was shouting, "Ja baby, ja baby!"
Ah, the years when no one is homophobic.
Also, I know the Dutch apparently become sexually active earlier than any other people on earth, but come on.
The Hague is a very, very international city, because NATO, the UN Justice System, all of the embassies and about ten international organizations, like EUROPOL and INTERPOL, are based here. It's home to a lot of diplomats, expats and immigrants. In fact, often the Dutch will speak English to a stranger first, assuming there's a good chance they're foreign. I've seen it a lot this week: at the grocer, two people were in front of me. The first was a woman in a hijab, and the teller spoke English to her, and then switched to Dutch when she responded in Dutch. The second was a young woman, and they carried on the entire conversation in English.
When it got to me, she started off it Dutch, which is what, I've found, most people will do to me because of how I look. I look pretty Dutch, for being Polish-Norwegian-Anglo. They tend to be tall and blonde, and that's me. It's fine because I can kind of nod and smile and say basic things like "this one please" or "good morning" or "no recipt please" or "thank you".
But sometimes, the conversation gets more in depth, and then things get really awkward, because they're chattering along to me in a language I don't speak, and I have to interrupt and say, "Oh... Ik spreek geen Nederlands," which is my catchphrase now. And then they glare at me, as if I had been fooling them all along. And then they just look really disappointed because, let's face it, it must be a drag to constantly speak other languages in your home country. I'm sorry, lovely Dutch neighbors. I wish I was Dutch. This country is my favorite place.
Speaking of Dutch and awkward, the Dutch airline KLM gave me this on my way over. I love awkwardly translated slogans. This one is awesome.
Another treasure? I was on the beach in Scheveningen after work today and a herd of about five Dutch boys, about ten, passed by. They were making fun of Justin Bieber (it sound's really funny in a Dutch accent, like, juhSTIN BEEBeur) and singing "Baby". Hilarious, until they got to the end of the chorus (you know, "Baby, baby, baby...") and on the offbeat inserted a grunt/moan/howl that sounded unmistakably sexual. I knew my suspiciouns were correct they all laughed and repeated it, and one boy started pelvic thrusting his way along the Strand, to the cheers of his peers, one of whom was shouting, "Ja baby, ja baby!"
Ah, the years when no one is homophobic.
Also, I know the Dutch apparently become sexually active earlier than any other people on earth, but come on.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Ik ben in Nederland
Things that are great about an 8-hour plane trip with KLM:
1. It ends with me being in the Netherlands
2. The stewardesses on KLM are Dutch, so they have these soothing accents and they tend to be quite tall, so you kind of size them up and think yeah, she could take a terrorist down.
3. The food is not half bad.
4. You can catch up on your reading
Now, things that are not so great:
1. I was in literally the last row of the plane
2. I was in economy and the seats were so small I basically had to give the person next to me a lap dance just to use the bathroom.
3. My seatmate.
Let me explain about this guy. He was a huge Nigerian man who just sort of spilled over into my seat. And for 8 hours, we were basically best buddies. He slept leaning on my shoulder. He snored. His breath smelled in the morning. He drank five beers before he had to use the restroom (bladder of steel, he had). He itched his junk in his sleep. He did strange exercises to keep his circulation flowing, knocking me with his elbows in the process.
Miserable.
Also, when we were sitting in the terminal waiting for the flight, I was - I'll admit - looking for Most Likely To Blow Up A Plane Person. I had identified the only person who didn't look incredible happy and decided it was definitely him. He was frowning and clenching his fists and rocking back and forth a little, wearing black and a scary scowl. But then, he stood up and went to the bathroom. And he was wearing tight, sparkly gold wash jeans. Terrorists do not, I assure you, bedazzle their jeans.
But otherwise, the flight went smoothly, although I didn't sleep a wink and it's now 7:00 pm Dutch time. I haven't slept in upwards of thirty hours. I got settled into my apartment at around 10:30 and hit the streets looking for a coffee shop and exploring, but most importantly, desperately seeking coffee.
When I lived in the Netherlands, I was too young to know what a "brown cafe" was, or to drink coffee. Let's just say I went into three coffee shops, all of which were on main streets and looked very upscale and classy (seriously, they didn't even having leaves painted on their doors, and all of the names included the word "coffee" and not the words "weed" or "herb"), before I gave up looking for caffeine, discouraged by the heady wafts of marijuana smoke in each establishment.
I went instead to a grocer and bought tea and am trying to stay ah- ah- awa....zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
1. It ends with me being in the Netherlands
2. The stewardesses on KLM are Dutch, so they have these soothing accents and they tend to be quite tall, so you kind of size them up and think yeah, she could take a terrorist down.
3. The food is not half bad.
4. You can catch up on your reading
Now, things that are not so great:
1. I was in literally the last row of the plane
2. I was in economy and the seats were so small I basically had to give the person next to me a lap dance just to use the bathroom.
3. My seatmate.
Let me explain about this guy. He was a huge Nigerian man who just sort of spilled over into my seat. And for 8 hours, we were basically best buddies. He slept leaning on my shoulder. He snored. His breath smelled in the morning. He drank five beers before he had to use the restroom (bladder of steel, he had). He itched his junk in his sleep. He did strange exercises to keep his circulation flowing, knocking me with his elbows in the process.
Miserable.
Also, when we were sitting in the terminal waiting for the flight, I was - I'll admit - looking for Most Likely To Blow Up A Plane Person. I had identified the only person who didn't look incredible happy and decided it was definitely him. He was frowning and clenching his fists and rocking back and forth a little, wearing black and a scary scowl. But then, he stood up and went to the bathroom. And he was wearing tight, sparkly gold wash jeans. Terrorists do not, I assure you, bedazzle their jeans.
But otherwise, the flight went smoothly, although I didn't sleep a wink and it's now 7:00 pm Dutch time. I haven't slept in upwards of thirty hours. I got settled into my apartment at around 10:30 and hit the streets looking for a coffee shop and exploring, but most importantly, desperately seeking coffee.
When I lived in the Netherlands, I was too young to know what a "brown cafe" was, or to drink coffee. Let's just say I went into three coffee shops, all of which were on main streets and looked very upscale and classy (seriously, they didn't even having leaves painted on their doors, and all of the names included the word "coffee" and not the words "weed" or "herb"), before I gave up looking for caffeine, discouraged by the heady wafts of marijuana smoke in each establishment.
I went instead to a grocer and bought tea and am trying to stay ah- ah- awa....zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Why my government professor is awesome.
I’m sorry it’s been so long. It’s been difficult for me to be funny lately, for several reasons. Between a dear friends cancer diagnosis, five finals , two music juries, one composition project, four research papers, and sickness… it’s been a tough couple of weeks. The worst part is my habit of trying to keep a happy face on and trying to keep up my energy. I know everyone is stressed this time of year, and doesn’t need to hear about my problems, and I know my friend needs my strength and optimism right now, not to be burdened with my anxiety and sadness. Plus, my phone was stolen, so I don’t have the option of calling a friend or my parents just to vent when I feel like I’m going to lose it. I’ve been keeping it together pretty well, but yesterday, everything came to a head.
I had to go to a professor’s house to turn in my final research paper for her class. She had invited us all over (there are only about fifteen students) to have dinner and turn in our assignments. My ride and I missed each other at our meeting spot, so, panicking when it hit 4:05, five minutes after the assignment was due, I jumped in a cab. My phone was stolen, so I had no way of communicating with anyone. I knew the professors street, so I asked the cabby to drive me in the right direction.
When we got there, I confessed that I didn’t know her house number or what the house looked like, and he advised me to get out of the cab so that he could go back to campus and ferry people to and from the airport. I did, and suddenly, I found myself stranded on a street about five miles from campus, with no phone, and no idea which house I had to get in. I ran up and down the entire street in the heat for about twenty minutes, getting increasingly more panicked, the stress from the last few weeks compounding with my fear of not getting my paper turned in on time and missing work that night – and not being able to call my boss to explain, worse.
I finally chose a house that had a lot of cars out front and knocked. Nothing. Disheartened, I slowly walked away from the house, officially giving up.
The door swung open behind me, and I heard my professor’s voice. I swear, in that moment, it was like the voice of an angel. I turned around, and, seeing a familiar face wearing a sympathetic expression, I burst into tears. I must have looked like a refugee or victim of some heinous crime, hot, sweaty, crying, clutching my essay and standing in the middle of the road, because my professor shut her front door, walked out onto the porch, and sat down on her front porch, patting the step beside her.
That’s how I ended up sitting on my professor’s front steps pouring my heart out to her – a fearsome federal judge, by the way, who normally scares the pants off me. The most intimidating woman I know rubbed my back and listened to me, hiccupping, explaining how I got to her house and why my paper was late. When I finished my story, she said, calmly, “Well, I certainly won’t penalize you. Just take a deep breath.”
I tried, and ended up coughing up a lung.
“Now, tell me what’s really wrong.”
“What?” I sniffed, wiping my cheeks.
“You’re a very capable and level-headed young lady; there must be something else you’re upset about to be in this awful state.”
To her credit, she sat and listened to me tell her about everything – and there’s a lot – which has gone wrong in the last two weeks, making sympathetic clucking noises and patting my hand occasionally. When I was done, she said, firmly, “Well, you’ve had a very rough time. I can see that. I think I know what you need. You need to come inside and have some dinner, and have a drink, take the afternoon off, and pretend you don’t have any responsibilities or worries.”
With that, she ushered me into her house and proceeded to serve me free food and pour me a glass of wine. When I protested, saying I had to go to work and that I was underage (she’s a federal judge, mind you), she said, in her most intimidating judge voice, “Sweetheart. I insist. You really, really need it."
You may be wondering where the awkwardness begins. Well, I did go to work after this. I had worn myself out with a combination of stress, tears and no sleep. I don’t think I’ve really slept more than five hours in two weeks, and never soundly. Result? I promptly fell asleep on the couch of the academic center where I work, and woke up to find my students and coworkers standing around me laughing because I was drooling all over the burnt orange throw pillows. Apparently I’d been sleeping hard for fifty minutes, mouth open, still as a corpse, during my walk-in tutoring hours. A supervisor told me on my way out of the office that he’d walked by, seen me, and hadn’t known whether to “laugh out loud or pity you, because you looked like a worn-out little lost puppy.”
Moral of the story. Don’t let yourself get so stressed out and tired that you have a breakdown in front of your professors. Also, don’t hate on your professors. They can be some of the coolest people in the world. And finally, close your mouth before you fall asleep in public.
On a bright ending note, classes are over. And compared to the hell this past week was in terms of due dates, finals are going to be a breeze. Plus, I am taking my professors advice again and taking today and tomorrow. Absolutely no studying. None.
Oh wait... I really should catch up on that music history. Never mind. Time to hit the books again!
I had to go to a professor’s house to turn in my final research paper for her class. She had invited us all over (there are only about fifteen students) to have dinner and turn in our assignments. My ride and I missed each other at our meeting spot, so, panicking when it hit 4:05, five minutes after the assignment was due, I jumped in a cab. My phone was stolen, so I had no way of communicating with anyone. I knew the professors street, so I asked the cabby to drive me in the right direction.
When we got there, I confessed that I didn’t know her house number or what the house looked like, and he advised me to get out of the cab so that he could go back to campus and ferry people to and from the airport. I did, and suddenly, I found myself stranded on a street about five miles from campus, with no phone, and no idea which house I had to get in. I ran up and down the entire street in the heat for about twenty minutes, getting increasingly more panicked, the stress from the last few weeks compounding with my fear of not getting my paper turned in on time and missing work that night – and not being able to call my boss to explain, worse.
I finally chose a house that had a lot of cars out front and knocked. Nothing. Disheartened, I slowly walked away from the house, officially giving up.
The door swung open behind me, and I heard my professor’s voice. I swear, in that moment, it was like the voice of an angel. I turned around, and, seeing a familiar face wearing a sympathetic expression, I burst into tears. I must have looked like a refugee or victim of some heinous crime, hot, sweaty, crying, clutching my essay and standing in the middle of the road, because my professor shut her front door, walked out onto the porch, and sat down on her front porch, patting the step beside her.
That’s how I ended up sitting on my professor’s front steps pouring my heart out to her – a fearsome federal judge, by the way, who normally scares the pants off me. The most intimidating woman I know rubbed my back and listened to me, hiccupping, explaining how I got to her house and why my paper was late. When I finished my story, she said, calmly, “Well, I certainly won’t penalize you. Just take a deep breath.”
I tried, and ended up coughing up a lung.
“Now, tell me what’s really wrong.”
“What?” I sniffed, wiping my cheeks.
“You’re a very capable and level-headed young lady; there must be something else you’re upset about to be in this awful state.”
To her credit, she sat and listened to me tell her about everything – and there’s a lot – which has gone wrong in the last two weeks, making sympathetic clucking noises and patting my hand occasionally. When I was done, she said, firmly, “Well, you’ve had a very rough time. I can see that. I think I know what you need. You need to come inside and have some dinner, and have a drink, take the afternoon off, and pretend you don’t have any responsibilities or worries.”
With that, she ushered me into her house and proceeded to serve me free food and pour me a glass of wine. When I protested, saying I had to go to work and that I was underage (she’s a federal judge, mind you), she said, in her most intimidating judge voice, “Sweetheart. I insist. You really, really need it."
You may be wondering where the awkwardness begins. Well, I did go to work after this. I had worn myself out with a combination of stress, tears and no sleep. I don’t think I’ve really slept more than five hours in two weeks, and never soundly. Result? I promptly fell asleep on the couch of the academic center where I work, and woke up to find my students and coworkers standing around me laughing because I was drooling all over the burnt orange throw pillows. Apparently I’d been sleeping hard for fifty minutes, mouth open, still as a corpse, during my walk-in tutoring hours. A supervisor told me on my way out of the office that he’d walked by, seen me, and hadn’t known whether to “laugh out loud or pity you, because you looked like a worn-out little lost puppy.”
Moral of the story. Don’t let yourself get so stressed out and tired that you have a breakdown in front of your professors. Also, don’t hate on your professors. They can be some of the coolest people in the world. And finally, close your mouth before you fall asleep in public.
On a bright ending note, classes are over. And compared to the hell this past week was in terms of due dates, finals are going to be a breeze. Plus, I am taking my professors advice again and taking today and tomorrow. Absolutely no studying. None.
Oh wait... I really should catch up on that music history. Never mind. Time to hit the books again!
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