Leyna Goes to The Netherlands

More fun than Encarta, Less Fun than Porn

Current Contact Info: Email: Lkrow@ucsc.edu AIM: Armadilo92 Address: Postbus 81-076/3508 BB/Utrecht/The Netherlands News: relevant and irrelevant Turns out the capacity to rant in a comedic manner is hereditary. Who would have guessed? In this comic tale entitled “Something about Aunt Marian”, my very own father tells of his visit to his aunt’s Los Angeles nursing home and the resulting hilarious misadventures. I suggest you read it. Now. Remember, although they may be old, tired, and smelling faintly of mothballs, classic entries found in The Archives still need lovin' too! 12/18/04- The last big shebang Let me begin by saying that I was pretty drunk last night. But then, so was everyone else at this school. I know because I saw them. They were all at the campus bar. (Ah, the UCU campus bar- because sometimes you want to go where no one knows your name even though you see them everyday and the service is terrible because the bar staff is paid with free booze) The motivation behind this mass campus-wide inebriation? Why, the end of the semester, of course. Yep, that’s it. It’s over. The evening began innocently enough- a quiet get together of the Underage Dutch Crew at Wouter’s unit with beer and bitterballen (more fried Dutch food). I taught the boys how to play 10 fingers (AKA “never ever have I ever…”) and after a few rounds, things became a bit more animated. I’ll spare you the details of our proceeding hours of drunken babbling, but I do feel that the highlight of the evening came when, lamenting my upcoming departure, the entirety of the Underage Dutch Crew joined in song (in Dutch) on my behalf. It was both humorous and touching. (A group of young, Dutch men serenade me back to California) They’re pretty sad to see me go. Not because living without my friendship will be a crushing blow to their young Dutch psyches (I wish), but more importantly because I am the only female member of the group. There is one other girl who hangs out with us from time to time, but she’s got a boyfriend, which makes her infinitely less interesting to the guys. I have suggested to the boys that they ought to invest in some women’s clothing, a wig, and a fake set of tits, and take turns each being the “girl” for a week. They, however, rejected this notion on the grounds that it would be “really gay.” Of course, I was then forced to point out that a group of guys hanging out by themselves every night with no female companionship could be seen as just a tad gay as well. With that in mind, I think they are beginning to warm to the idea. I’m gonna go ahead and admit that spending my semester here with only teenage boys for friends has been kind of weird. There’s a lot of sexual tension, which makes things awkward at times. And quite a bit of teasing and verbal abuse as well. And of course, there’s also a lot of doing stupid stuff for the sake of entertainment alone…eh, come to think of it, this actually hasn’t been that different from any other group of friends I’ve had. So never mind. I am going to miss these guys though. When I woke up this morning (and by morning, I mean early afternoon), the campus was dead. Despite their intensive partying that had probably ended only a few hours earlier, the Dutch students had cleared out with frightening speed, leaving only disoriented exchange students to wander the deserted campus. The sudden silence is more than a little eerie. (UCU quad, 1:30pm- No one around but me and the shopping cart) 12/15/04- Parting glimpses of a beautiful culture I have a final for my Dutch class tomorrow. So in the spirit of procrastination, I decided to take in a little of the culture and refinement of which this college boasts so heartily. I’ve just returned from the UCU choir’s annual winter concert. It was quite the affair, with the performance of such holiday classics as “The First Nowell” (spelled as such in the program, and pronounced accordingly by the native Dutch presenter), as well as the Hebrew favorite, “Hasjwenoe” (bonus points awarded to anyone who can identify this song’s actual name). The show started off well enough, with a few nice pieces by the entirety of the choir, followed by performances by some very talented soloists. But as the evening progressed, things took an unfortunate turn. After intermission, it became abundantly clear that, with the top talent already spent, it was time for the B team to take the field. It was as if I had been transported back to Talent Night at La Tierra Elementary, but instead of the dashing and witty stylings of Bob and Art (if I do say so myself) acting as MCs to keep the show afloat, there was only an increasingly apologetic Dutch girl. It was pretty sad. But hey, it was still more fun than studying for my Dutch final, so I can’t complain. My time in Utrecht is almost up. But just when I was beginning to get complacent, thinking that in my four months here I was really staring to get the hang of things in the strange and cold country, I had another run in with Mr. Van der Grizzle- just to knock me back down to size. For those of you who don’t remember Mr. Van der Grizzle, the omnipresent, omni-grizzled Dutch customer service representative, I suggest you review the “9/5/04- You ever have those days when you really wish you spoke Dutch?” entry (conveniently located in the archives). This time good ole van der Grizzle was working at the Oliebollen street stall down the street from campus. Oliebollen are Dutch donuts- magically delicious balls of dough with raisins and apple chunks stuck in them and deep-fried (you may have noticed that many of my stories begin with me venturing out in search of fried and sugary food. So in answer to your question, yes, I have gained a few pounds in the last few months, which I’ll be taking back with me to California as souvenirs). As I walked up to the stall, I could see, standing behind piles of oh so scrumptious Oliebollen, a pleasant-looking woman. She was smiling, a good ambassador of all things sugary and doughy, proud and ready to serve. But then, just as it was my turn to order, this smiling young lady turned to take the next batch of Oliebollen out of the fryer. And in her place appeared none other than van der Grizzle himself. Not to be discouraged, I placed my order, Two Oliebollen, please, in my nicest and properest Dutch (to quote my Dutch professor). “Twee Oliebollen, Alstublieft.” From this seemingly simple request followed a mocking series of questions from the Grizzler (Translated into English for your convenience). “you want TWO oliebollen?” (emphasis on the two is an emphasis on my slight mispronunciation of the word) “Yes, two please.” (a serious attempt on my part to say it right) “Two?” “Yes.” Grizzly then proceeded to fill a bag with not two, but five Oliebollen. He then turned back to me and asked something I didn’t understand in rapid fire Dutch (Dutch people usually speak at a pace very similar to English), and handed me the bag. And instead of making a big deal out of him fucking up my order and being an asshole, I just paid him and then went home to eat a hell of a lot of Dutch donuts. 12/12/04- I'm a giant nerd who likes museums Phew, long time, no post, eh? You were probably starting to think that I had stopped loving you, or that I had been eaten by invading Belgians…But no, I’ve just been busy writing many many final papers. So not only have I not had time to update, I also have had absolutely nothing of interest to report, aside from sitting in front of my computer for hours on end and periodically attempting to close a text book on my head for the sake of feeling something beyond stress and boredom. In other news, I have developed a nervous twitch. On the plus side, in the spirit of procrastination, I have been watching a lot of TV. So I will now subject you to my carefully catalogued observations on the cultural phenomenon of Dutch television (aka the Dutch incarnation of American TV): In The Netherlands, Nickelodeon has retained wonderful classic programming such as Rocko’s Modern Life, Two Angry Beavers, and yes, even Ren and Stimpy. It’s like I’ve died and gone to cartoon heaven! They never show that stuff in the U.S. anymore! Also, European MTV actually shows music videos, and not just at 3:00am (just like back in the good ole days…and by good ole days I suppose I do mean the early 90s). And of course, since this is Europe after all, the music videos aren’t censored like they are in the U.S. Case in point, I’ll bet you didn’t know that in the video for Snoop Dogg’s “Drop it Like it’s Hot,” there is a shot of Snoop buying a massive baggie of weed. Sometimes they show Norwegian death metal too, so that’s always fun. The showing of boobies after 11:00pm is also frequent. But as of Friday, my bout of spastic paper writing has subsided and I am now free (relatively- still have final exams for Dutch) to enjoy my last week in The Netherlands to its fullest (can’t believe it’s almost over). Yesterday, in an attempt to cram in as much Dutchness as I possibly can in what little time I have left, I made my way north to the city of Groningen. At the beginning of the semester, EAP sponsored a trip to Groningen for all of the Californians in The Netherlands, but I was sick that week and didn’t go. All of the other Californians told me that Gronignen was absolutely lovely and that I had really missed out by not going. So, compelled by the rave review of my peers, I headed north. And found Groningen to be remarkably disappointing. Shows how much Californians know. I imagine that at one time Gronignen boasted a very quaint and attractive city center, but the urban vermin that is large-scale retail has long since settled in and bred. Now the city is really just a few nice looking churches and a hell of a lot of department stores. However, fortunately for the city of Gronignen, its saving grace, The Groningen Museum, is conveniently located directly across the street from the train station. This is a modern art museum housed inside of a work of modern art. The building itself was designed by a committee of architects, all working independently of one another, who then smashed their respective plans together and stuck the finished product in the middle of a canal and filled it with art. Very cool, I assure you. (I hereby award to the Groningen Museum the prestigious “Funny Looking Building” award for the year 2004. For this honor, they will receive a commemorative plaque and a fruit basket filled with a plethora of fruit, varying in degree of deliciousness.) The best exhibit (by far) to be housed in this weird-ass building, was, surprisingly enough a display of something that you would expect to be horribly boring: ceramics. Apparently, in recent years, the Gronignen Museum has acquired a vast collection of ceramics dating from the Ming Dynasty to present from various corners of the world. Then, once this collection had been assembled, someone at the museum must have had a thought along the lines of “hey, ceramics are fucking boring. We’d better liven these things up a bit by exhibiting it in the most bizarre and confusing way possible.” And this is exactly what they did. The exhibit is housed in a rotunda with the ceramics lined along the wall, and in the center of the room, a maze like weave of white curtains, revealing around each turn a piece of art which may, or, in many cases, may not have anything to do with ceramics (behind one curtain was an upside-down picture of a man hugging a pig. In front of the picture was a telescope and a wooden log. The idea was to sit on the log and look through the telescope and then the picture of the man and pig would be right side up. How this piece was related to the theme of ceramics, I couldn’t say). Ultimately, the sentiment evoked from the viewer of this display of ceramics, etc. is a deep and powerful feeling of “what the fuck?” Indeed, as I wandered through the room, I experienced this sense of what-the-fuckidute at its most profound. In the course of my exploration of the exhibit, I bumped into several other viewers who each, by way of their facial expressions and hesitant movements, were clearly embracing their own epithetic moments of oneness with the form of the “What the fuck?” as well. So completely was this notion of “what the fuck?” expressed, that I walked around the exhibit three times before I realized that I was in a rotunda and, had, in fact, been going in circles. It was really quite excellent. 12/3/04- Sinterklaas: Good, clean, racist fun for the whole Dutch family The instant I entered the dining hall, I found myself in a heavy-artillery zone. ‘So it’s finally happened,’ I thought. ‘Relations between the international students have broken down completely and in the absence of diplomacy, the food fight to end all food fights has begun.’ As a banana peal whizzed by my ear, I dove for cover behind the makeshift bunker in which a few members of the Underage Dutch Crew were hiding. “Who started this?” I demanded. “Was it the French? Was it that kid from Peru? God, I hope it wasn’t the Californians…” But as I looked around, I noticed that the instigators of this fray were, in fact, two young men, elaborately dressed in festive Christmas attire, and done up in black face, prancing around the dining hall, throwing cookies and candy. In one corner, another man in an oversized pope-hat and white beard looked on with approval. Then I remembered. It’s Sinterklaas. This weekend Dutch girls and boys of all ages will be celebrating the time-honored, traditional Dutch holiday of Sinterklaas. Sinterklaas is essentially the Dutch equivalent of the American Santa Claus, with a few minor (and in some cases disturbing) alterations. An introduction to Sinterklaas starts out pleasantly enough- the Dutch celebrate the birthday of this beloved saint on December 6th so as to effectively separate the fun, present-getting, candy-eating aspects of Christmas from the more serious, Jesus-related ones which still take place on December 25th. Sounds like a pretty smart idea, eh? So in The Netherlands they have the holiday of Sinterklaas where the beloved Sinterklaas hands out gifts and candy to all the good boys and girls. Very familiar. But here’s where it gets Dutch- Sinterklaas, unlike the American Santa, does not come from the far-off and magical land of the North Pole. No, instead, Sinterklaas comes from the far-off and magical land of Spain. And in perfect keeping with all the pragmatism of a maritime nation, he arrives not by sleigh pulled by flying reindeer traveling at supersonic speed, but by boat. And it takes him like three weeks to get here. Also, instead of being a jolly fat guy in a red suit, Sinterklaas is a tall, thin saint (because there are no fat people in The Netherlands) in a pope-hat. An amusing cultural difference, eh? But here’s where our story takes a disturbing turn. As we have established, Sinterklaas brings toys and treats for good Dutch boys and girls, just like Santa. But what about the bad boys and girls? A lump of coal instead of presents? Ha, they wish. No, for bad little boys and girls Sinterklaas brings no presents and no coal, but rather, a beating with a stick. In especially harsh cases, children may even be warned, “You better be good, or when Sinterklaas leaves he’ll throw you in his sack and take you back to Spain with him.” So let’s recap: good kids = presents and candy. Bad kids = severe beatings and abduction to frightening Spanish speaking lands. Uhhh…a little creepy, eh? And here’s where this holiday gets…well…fucked up. And I do mean fucked up in the Alabama, inbred, KKK sense of the term. You see, Sinterklaas has these helpers. Kind of like Santa’s elves. But instead of elves, they’re black people. Yeah, that’s right, this beloved childrens’ hero comes to town every December with black manservants to carry his bags and do his bitch work. They are affectionately nicknamed “Zwarte Piets,” literally translated to “Black Peters,” and are typically portrayed by white people in black face. Black Peters are great fun for the kids; in parades they dance around in a comical manner behind Sinterklaas, throwing candy to waiting children, who sing tradition Sinterklaas songs with lyrics such as “My name is black Peter/And I’m black as soot/but don’t be afraid/I’m nice anyway.” Eh, does anyone else see a problem with this? …Like, maybe a really big problem? (Sinterklaas and a Zwarte Piet in a bookshop window) As I huddled with my Dutch companions in the center of the UCU dining hall, pinned down by crossfire between the Californian and Israeli lunch tables, I asked the boys if maybe, just maybe, this tradition of Sinterklaas and the Black Peters might not be in some way indicative of the whole of Dutch race relations? And, if so, what were the possible implications of this for the popular notion of Dutch tolerance of which this nation is so proud? “Funny,” replied one my pals in the bunker, as he lobbed a ginger-flavored Sinterklaas cookie into no-mans-land, “I never even thought of it like that before.” 11/29/04- This is where the title goes. Thanksgiving dinner, despite having been prepared in the UCU dining hall by the same people who prepare the daily entrees of slop and sausage, did not suck. I would even go so far as to call the pumpkin pie…delicious. Although the stuffing was a bit dry…and someone probably should have told the Dutch that a sweet potato is not actually a boiled potato covered in sugar. But aside from that, quite a nice affair. Spending the weekend in Naarden with Michael was ok, too. We went for a great bike ride through a string of very pleasant little Dutch villages that I never, in a million years, would have seen if I hadn’t had a local to show them to me. (riding through the woods w/Michael) I’ve mentioned Michael before- he’s both the undisputed leader and the youngest member of the Underage Dutch Crew. He’s a fun kid... [Note: my mother wrote me a angry email about the content of the paragraph that used to be here. And since we here at “Leyna’s Weblog Inc.” try to base our product around consumer wants and needs (and since it really freaks me out when my mother chastises me from half way around the world), this offending paragraph has been removed. In place of said paragraph, which was unfriendly in nature, I would like to suggest that we all take this moment to think about happy, friendly things, such as rainbows and puppy dogs. We here at “Leyna’s Weblog Inc". sincerely apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused you. Please accept this picture of a rainbow with a flying puppy as our condolences for anything on this page that has offended you in the past, is currently offending you, or will offend you in the future.] (this puppy’s name is Pugasus and he comes from the land of chocolate sprinkles and warm hugs. Yay!) 11/25/04- NATO: boring the enemy into submission since 1949 The flier in the computer lab said: “Visit the NATO headquarters and the city of Brussels on Wed. November 24. Only 7.50 euro!” Damn, I thought, you can barely get to Rotterdam for 7.50 and I haven’t been to Brussels yet; I’d better sign up for this trip, and fast! …oh yeah, and ummm…NATO…well, I’m sure that will be interesting too. As I boarded the bus yesterday morning, I found that this line of thought was pretty much on track with what my fellow travelers (mostly 1st year Dutch students) had in mind as well. This became abundantly clear when a group of kids sitting behind me tapped me on the shoulder to ask, “Hey, what does NATO stand for anyway?” I was so glad to see that we were all in agreement about what was important on this trip. Although there was a bit of a row over which was better: Belgian waffles or Belgian beer, and where our priorities concerning these Belgian delights should lie. Fortunately, this argument was quickly put to rest when one of the more knowledgeable travelers among us pointed out that there are many establishments in Brussels where both beer and waffles can be consumed simultaneously. (Belgium is known world wide as a center for international politics) Our arrival at NATO was an unceremonious one. We pulled up to a series of ugly concrete buildings surrounded by armed guards and barbed wire that I at first mistook for a prison. We were herded off of the bus to have our passports checked by two very angry looking men with guns, then shepherded through multiple metal detectors, past guard houses and security cameras, and then, ultimately into a lobby that looked, oddly enough, very much like a small airport terminal, complete with newspaper stands, a café, ATMs, and even a gift shop. It is here at the gift shop that, were I so inclined, I was given the option to purchase all manner of official NATO merchandise, including, but not limited to: official NATO hats and scarves, official NATO golf balls and tees, and even -- wait for it -- official NATO Swiss army knives. Yeah, that’s right, you heard me. Official NATO knives. With 3 inch blades. But wait…didn’t I just have to walk through like 8 security check points to get into this room, and now that I’m here you want to sell me a big-ass knife (complete with corkscrew and nail-file)? Also available for purchase -- replica NATO peacekeeper flack vests, in your choice of desert or jungle fatigue pattern. Hmmmm. It’s so comforting to know that most of the necessary items for a violent take-over of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization can be bought at the facility’s own gift shop. I sure hope prospective terrorists appreciate the thoughtfulness of the NATO staff on their behalf. After being given ample time to sample the fineries of the NATO lobby, our group was ushered into a moderately impressive press-briefing room where we were treated to/subjected to (depending on you perspective) a series of lectures from various Dutch delegated (thankfully in English) on the history, function, and, ultimately, the changing face of NATO. And this was interesting, it really was…for the first hour. It was the second and third hours that become, well, just a tad tedious. After 3 hours of a lecture series which I believe could be benevolently titled “Everything you never wanted to know about NATO,” my beer and waffle seeking traveling companions had almost all but passed out on the oh so comfy large leather chairs of the press briefing room. How embarrassing, I thought, these kind NATO folks have taken so much time out of their day to tell us about their organization, and how do we repay them? We fall asleep. But apparently not so, for when the lectures ended and the delegates asked if there were any questions, the waffles-seekers suddenly all sat up very straight and began to ask a series of extremely insightful and well informed questions about NATO policies and procedures. Needless to say, I was both impressed and baffled…but maybe it’s just one of those things to be chalked up to "cultural differences." Maybe the way Dutch people show that they are concentrating intently is by slouching down in their chairs and snoring. I just don’t know, but I suspect that this may be clear empirical evidence in support of my thesis that Europeans are, by in large, smarter than me. Finally, when all that could possibly ever be said about NATO had been exhausted, we departed for the city center of Brussels, where dreams of cherry flavored Belgian beer and waffles smothered in whipped cream and nutella where acted out in excess. Mmmmm…Belgium. Oh yeah, they have chocolate too. (Does this fountain of chocolate look unreasonably phallic to anyone else?) In other, unBelgium related news, today is Thanksgiving. Ah, a grand holiday in which we, the benevolent white settlers of the North American continent celebrate our first encounters with the indigenous population of said continent that would ultimately lead to a great and noble friendship from which both sides would benefit equally and ultimately live in uninterrupted harmony for generations to come…oh wait, uh, never mind. Not being in America, I was totally willing to let this holiday slide, but it turns out EAP had other ideas. Yes, tonight in Utrecht, we will be dining in the traditional American style, with stuffing, pumpkin pie, and turkeys flown in from…somewhere where there are turkeys, all to be prepared by the UCU dining hall. I’ll let you know how it turns out. This weekend promises more adventures of teenage Dutch boy proportions, as I have been invited to visit Michael’s hometown of Naarden. Stories and pictures inevitably to come. 11/21/02- A hazy shade of almost winter: Out and about with John and Arnab I haven’t been to class since Tuesday. My clothes smell like pot. My room smells like pot. There are empty stroopwafel packages all over the place. Arnab and John and been here. John and his Australian pal, Arnab, arrived Wednesday night. They had come with the express intention to soak up the rich array of magnificent architecture, famous artwork, and world-class hydrological engineering that the Netherlands is so famous for. They would drink deep from the cultural well of a nation seeped in history and blessed with timeless beauty…no wait, I must be thinking of someone else. John and Arnab came to The Netherlands to get high -- and maybe see some windmills and the Van Gogh museum, if time allowed. And from this quest, they emerged unquestionably victorious. Here are the (at times perhaps seemingly random) highlights and weather conditions (written in the present tense for your disorienting pleasure): Thursday- it rains. The guys are sleeping soundly on my spacious tile floor. At 11:00, I wake John up by poking at him repeatedly with my big toe (I couldn't find a good poking-stick). Arnab suggests that I just kick him the ribs. Things to know about Arnab: Australian accent. Australian hat. Officer in Australian army. Medical student. Proficient knowledge of various dead languages. Smarter than you are. Once sufficiently roused from my floor, John proclaims the first order of business for the day- get high. Commence wandering around the city center of Utrecht, frequently ducking into cafes and snack bars to escape the inclement weather (and by that I do mean torrential rain)…and of course, a few stops at Utrecht’s finest coffeshops should not be overlooked. (John and Arnab play chess at Coffeeshop Rood) But the rain, which just won’t quit, keeps us from getting to much farther than that and after a few hours we are forced back to campus to seek refuge; eat stoopwafels, and watch movies on Dutch TV in a spacey sort of haze/hazy sort of space. Friday- it snows. Arnab and I stand at my window. Neither of us has ever watched snow fall before. John, who boasts an intimate knowledge of all weather conditions, is unimpressed. Searching for something more traditionally Dutch than the inside of numerous coffeeshops, we embark for the small city of Gouda- famous home of the cheese which bares its name. But upon arrival at Gouda, I, armed with a confident knowledge of the geographic layout of all Dutch cities, boldly lead us out of the wrong door of the train station. After half and hour of wandering through the bland suburbs of Gouda, we stop to ask for directions to find that we would be very close to the historic city center…if only I weren’t holding the map upside down. Another half an hour and we're back where we started. As we walk through the train station for the second time, I proclaim, “now let us never speak of this again.” 2 minutes later, Arnab speaks of the previously designated unspeakable. I respond by delivering a blow to the back of his head that even his extensive Australian military training had not prepared him to deflect. I then repeat this for good measure. In Gouda we do the thing to do in Gouda- browse cheese shops, sample cheese, buy cheese. Say things like, “this Gouda from Gouda is gouda!” From Gouda, we head to Leiden (stopping for a quick detour to The Hague), a university town rumored to have a good nightlife. In Leiden we find a coffeeshop flanked on either side by a pizza place and a bar. We are set for the evening. Things to know about coffeeshops: In The Netherlands, marijuana has been decriminalized To encourage safe use, many cities allow its sale (of up to 5g per person) by stores called ‘coffeeshops’ Coffeeshops are usually cozy, hole-in-the wall style affairs, selling varieties of pot and hash in various forms (you can smoke it, eat it, drink it…) From Leiden, we return to UCU, where it is determined to be time to smoke another joint. And eat cheese and stroopwafels. At some point during the course of the evening, John decides that Dillon, my stuffed armadillo, is trans-species, and actually identifies as an aardvark, despite his biological armadilloness. I am shocked and refuse to believe this is true. I tell Dillon that I bought a stuffed armadillo and not an aardvark and that’s what he’s going to be, goddamnit. I say that he is just going through a phase and that he’ll feel more like a real armadillo once he gets a little older. But after I’ve had some time to think the situation over more rationally, I inform Dillon that I love him no matter what species he is, that I support him in how ever he chooses to live his life, and that I will from now on refer to him as an aardvark if that is his wish. (My aardvark experiments with mind-altering substances) Saturday- Freezing rain and hail. A visit to Amsterdam in inevitably the capstone of any trip to The Netherlands. I take the guys to The Pancake Bakery (the best pancake restaurant in Amsterdam) and then to the Van Gogh museum and for a quick walk through the red light district for the sake of the typical Amsterdam experience. Off the red light district we find a warm-looking Dim Sum restaurant with a menu available in both Dutch and Chinese for our convenience. John orders chicken feet, despite the waitress’s warning that what he will be served are, in fact, chicken feet. John insists, and is then quite dismayed when his chicken feet turn out to actually resemble chicken feet. Fed and cultured, it must be time to get high again. The coffeeshop we select is a top-quality establishment selling space cakes, space shakes, space hot chocolate, ect. as well as the usual assortment of pre-rolled joints and baggies of hash. The guys, following a thought process along the line of, “We can still remember our own names…we need to solve that problem,” opt for a space cake each and two joints. (breakfast of champions) …And a good time is had by all. Things to know about John when he’s high: He likes to touch stuff. A lot. (John, while petting my checkered scarf: “you have no idea how good an orgasm would be right now”) And then, an unexplainable need for fried chicken. Good thing Amsterdam has been sufficiently inundated with the influence of American capitalism. A KFC was quickly located. (Devouring fried chicken with intent concentration) Saturday night. Skies clearing, stars visible for the first time in weeks. Snow predicted for early morning. Prepare for another tense shift. When I left John and Arnab last night on platform 2 of the Amsterdam train station, they were blazed out of their skulls. They were going to spend the night at a youth hostel in the city, but I was headed back home to Utrecht, so I cannot confirm or deny whether they actually made it that far. Considering the state I left them in, I can only assume that they spent last night not in funky hostel beds, but rather, face down in an Amsterdam gutter, reeking of fried chicken and covered in a fine layer of snow. At least, I hope this what happened. It will have been the most fitting end to their trip that they could hope for. 11/13/04- It rains on me Yesterday was Domino Day. A bunch of students in the northern province of Friesland set up over 4 million dominos. Then they knocked them all down. This event was broadcast with much fanfare on Dutch TV, as it was a new world record for dominos (the previous record holders being…the Dutch. And the record holders before them? Also the Dutch). They even brought in Shania Twain as a special guest to tip over the first domino. It was actually quite something to watch. It took well over an hour for all of the dominos to fall. Amidst the course, there were domino pictures, domino buildings, domino mountains and domino waterfalls (there was even a domino volcano that erupted in dominos) as well as all manner of technologically impressive contraptions to help knock over the dominos, including swinging pendulums and yoyos that would drop from the ceiling. Actually, I would have to say that the highlight (for me) of the event came when one of yoyos failed to drop all the way, and one of the dominoists was forced to set off the next chain of dominos by tipping the end stone with a large, metal rod. That’s right- he poked it with a stick. See folks, you can’t always trust technology, but when all else fails, you can always get the job done by poking something with a stick. Mmmm satisfying. Today is fall preview day here at UCU. There are prospective freshmen and their parents roaming all over the place, intently looking at maps, trying to figure out which of our 5 buildings on campus is the dinning hall. And what a lovely preview day it is. When I woke up this morning, it was actually sunny. Seriously sunny, like not a cloud in the sky. At first I was actually a little disoriented by this new meteorological development, especially considering that just last night my pals and I were caught in a hail storm promptly after exiting Falafel City (a snack bar selling exactly what you might imagine). But when I opened my curtains this morning, there is was, sun. Excited by this prospect, I hopped on Lucky and headed out, intending to hit up the Saturday market in the city center (there’s a stall there that sells warm stroopwafels as big as you head!). But as soon as I passed the campus’ front gate, I noticed that, in the 30 seconds since I had exited my building, some dark clouds had gather just overhead in a very ominous manner. And wouldn’t you know it, I hadn’t gone three blocks before I felt the first raindrops. Sensing what was coming, I quickly aborted Operation Giant Stoopwafel and turned around to head back to campus. And within a matter of seconds found myself riding into the deluge. Of freezing fucking rain. I peddled back to UCU as fast as Lucky’s defective chain and leaking front tire would allow, but in the three minutes it took me to get back to campus, I had been thoroughly drenched. But, just as I passed under the front gate, the rain stopped. And by the time I reached the door of my building, the clouds had cleared and there was happy, ole Mr. Sun again. And then, just as I was muttering something to the tune of, “Well how the fuck do you fucking like that fuckity fuck fuck?!” the door of my building opened. And I, drenched, shivering, and swearing like a sailor with the clap, came face to face with a group of about 20 prospective students and parents who had clearly been inside for the last 10 minutes, and were, therefore, completely oblivious to sudden weather change, and now could not possibly fathom where on Earth this very wet and very angry American could have come from on a such lovely Dutch day. 11/9/04- In search of such Dutchness Went to Den Bosch (about half an hour south of Utrecht by train) on Sunday with my friends Wouter, Bart, and Michael (proud members of the Underage Dutch Crew). Den Bosch is a moderately sized city of about 120,000 people and is Wouter’s hometown. The boys decided to take me there in a continued effort to introduce their American pal to all things authentically Dutch. And I must say, I greatly appreciate their efforts. But the thing about traveling with teenage boys is that you inevitably wind up doing teenage boy things, including eating like a teenage boy. As soon as we arrived, Wouter took us to his house, where we met his Mom, sister, brother, grandparents, dog, houseplants, etc. His Mom greeted us with hot chocolate and stroopwaffels (truly excellent Dutch cookies). This amazingly wholesome family scene felt like walking into an episode of The Brady Bunch, except in Dutch. I think it would be called De van der Brady Bundel and the kids would argue about things like who gets to wear the good pair of wooden shoes until Alice would offer them big slices of cheese and then they’d make up and all go play ring-around- the –windmill. After soaking up all the warm, chocolatey goodness of Dutch family life, the guys and I headed out for an afternoon on the town. We wandered through the city center of Den Bosch, with Wouter pointing out all the historic sights, and Michael chastising him for taking us on the exact same tour he had taken Michael on just two weeks earlier when he had visited during the semester break. It was only when Bart punched Michael in the arm and told him to shut the hell up that he stowed his criticism and let Wouter conduct his tour without further interruption. Aren’t teenage boys fun? (Attempting to push one of the city’s historic cannons into the canal. From the left: Wouter, Bart, Michael) Eventually, Wouter’s tour led us into the main city square, where, as is to be found in the center of any good Dutch town, was a fish stall. A fish stall is where they sell herring. A herring is a fish that Dutch people eat. Dutch people eat herring raw, minus the head, bones, and scales. They salt the herring, then cover it with onions and serve it on a sheet of butcher paper with a little Dutch flag stuck in it. (Fish stall. Ordering up some herring) So naturally it was decided by my pals that eating this Dutch delicacy from the sea was an essential experience for their American in tow. How to eat a herring: Look at herring. Note that it is raw and covered in onions. Suppress instinct to vomit. Poke at herring with tip of index finger. Ask Dutch companions, “Is this fish supposed to be raw and covered in onions?” When they respond in the affirmative, suppress instinct to vomit. Pick up herring by its tail. Note sliminess. Suppress instinct to vomit. Lower herring into mouth. Suppress instinct to vomit. Consume herring in as few bites as possible, swallow quickly. Suppress instinct to vomit. Continue suppressing instinct to vomit. (I do the unthinkable...) We then washed the herring down with a sampling of a local Den Bosch specialty- boschenbollen (I’m sure I misspelled that, but it doesn’t matter because you have no idea). Pastry balls cover in chocolate and filled to capacity with whipped cream. Who ever came up with these things is a freakin’ genius and should have statues erected in his likeness. And elementary schools named after him. And maybe even his own national holiday. Then we climbed a tree and rode a self-propelled ferry just for the heck of it. Aren’t teenage boys fun? On the way back to Wouter’s house we stopped at snack bar for some fries with mayonnaise because Den Bosch is supposed to have better fries than Utrecht. They tasted about the same to me, but by that point my fingers smelled overwhelmingly of chocolate-covered herring, so my palate may have been a bit conflicted. Then back to Wouter’s house where Mom was waiting with apple pie and tea to read Dutch comic books until it was time to catch our train. Good times indeed. 11/5/04- Sugar-coated cheese It has occurred to me that Wednesday’s post was probably deeply unsatisfying to Linda and other apolitical humor-whores. And for this I apologize. But I have a plan to make it up to you. Here’s my plan. I will placate your lust for the funny with…Angry Polish Kid stories and Belgian jokes! And you will laugh. And you will be happy. Let us begin: Angry Polish Kid told me that once in high school he went on a class trip to Berlin. In the middle of the night he and a friend snuck out of their hotel to go get drunk. Then, drunk and bored in the early hours of the morning, they stumbled upon the famous Berlin zoo. Here’s how it went down: “We didn’t have anything to fuckin’ to do, and the zoo was closed, but we could see there were like these pigs near the gate, you know? So we hopped over the fence and like started trying to ride the pigs. I jumped on the back of one and started smacking that shit saying “Go piggy!” and it ran a little bit, but then it couldn’t hold me up, so I got off. But my friend, he was smacking his pig so hard that it kept going until I think it passed out. Then some security guard came and started shouting at us on German or some shit like that so we left. Hehe, it was pretty fucked up, man.” Angry Polish Kid tells of the time he visited Delft and had to urinate, but was unable to locate a restroom. “So I went into the darkest alley I could find and then stood behind some like milk crate things to be sure no one would see me. And I started pissing on the wall, you know? Then, all of a sudden, I felt this hand on my shoulder. And I though, ‘oh fuck, it’s a faggot’, you know? So I turned around and it was a cop. So I was like, ‘oh, shit.’ And he goes, ‘put it away and give me 25 euro.’ Every time you get fined for something in the country it’s 25 euro. If you don’t have a light on your bike- 25 euro. You could probably stab someone and it would be 25 euro. So I zipped up and I paid him. Then I made sure to shake his hand with the hand I had been holding my dick with. Hehe, he wasn’t too happy about that.” High quality stuff, eh? Now for a Belgian joke. For reasons I’m not entirely clear on, the Dutch really like to make fun of Belgians. They kind of think of them the way Americans think of Canadians, but with just a hint more animosity. The result: a collection of delightful jokes highlighting the stupidity of The Netherlands’ neighbors to the south. A Belgian is walking through the Dutch countryside when he comes across a sheep farm. He looks at the sheep and thinks, ‘those look like nice animals. I sure wish I had one of those.’ So he thinks about it for a while and comes up with a plan to trick the farmer into giving him one of the sheep. The Belgian takes his time and very carefully counts up all of the sheep in the field. Then, he goes to find the farmer. When he finds the farmer, the Belgian says, in his weird Belgian Dutch, “I’ll make you a bet- if I can guess how many sheep you have in your flock you have to give me any one I want for keeps.” The farmer, not knowing that the Belgian has already counted his sheep, agrees to the bet. So the Belgian looks out on the flock and says, “You have 46 sheep.” The farmer, duly impressed, concedes that he is right, and, good to his word, allows the Belgian to go out into the field to pick out his sheep. The Belgian takes his time, scrutinizing each animal, and finally picks out the one he likes the best. But before he can leave the field, the farmer stops him. “I’ll make you a new bet,” says the farmer. “I’ll bet I can guess your nationality, and if I’m right, you have to give back what you’ve won from me.” The Belgian agrees and the farmer says, “You’re Belgian, aren’t you.” The Belgian is amazed. “How did you know that?” He demands. To which the farmer replies, “Put my dog down, then we’ll talk.” Funny, eh? You like? Good, now quit yer bitchin’. Plans for this evening include playing German board games with the Underage Dutch Crew. Sunday I am going my friends Michael, Bart, and Wouter to Den Bosch (Wouter's home town) to hang out and see the sights (whatever they may be). 11/3/04- Unavoidable election commentary Yesterday Linda sent me this note via AIM: BLcKMaGiC9: We, the readers of Leyna's weblog, are here to file a complaint. The past 2 entries have not been entertaining enough to our liking. We have not laughed out loud. We have not fallen off of our chairs rolling with excitement and laughter. We, the readers of Leyna's weblog demand funnier entries in the future. We, the readers of Leyna's weblog also demand a new entry. It is now November, and the last entry was in October - It's a totally new month and nothing... Nothing to read... Thank you, The readers of Leyna's weblog. So you people want something funnier do ya? Ok, how about this. George W. Bush gets re-elected president of the United States of America. How’s that for funny. I think that’s pretty funny. Don’t you think that’s funny? But no, I’ve made my anti-Bush statements. You know how I feel and there’s no need for me to rant at you any further from my leftward-leaning podium. Stayed up until 6am this morning watching the results come in at the campus bar. Needless to say, pretty much everyone on this campus is disappointed by the election’s outcome. I’ve mentioned before how interested the Dutch students are in politics, so I’ve been answering a lot of questions the last few days about the electoral college system, absentee ballots, provisional ballots, etc. as my Dutch pals attempt to make sense of our electoral system. Yesterday I went into college hall (the main administrative building on campus) to deal with something bureaucratic and the woman working in the office asked me whether or not I thought there would be a decision by the end of the day. I told her that I didn’t think so, and when I explained to her what I thought would cause delays in a winner being decided she replied, “My God, it’s like a third word country over there.” And yeah, it is tempting to think like that. It’s tempting to think that our system is fucked up and that apparently 51% of the eligible American voters are raging morons who have doomed America to 4 more years of violence, international alienation, destructive environmental policy, and increasing social intolerance. But of course, it’s just not that simple… I actually had kind of a sobering experience this afternoon. I was sitting with an eclectic group of students at lunch, and an other Californian and myself were ranting about our frustration over the possibility of a Bush victory (Kerry had not yet announced his concession). Then, the topic of discussion turned to comparative government as we searched for a better democratic alternative to a system where someone like Bush could possibly be elected not once, but twice. We were sitting with a few Dutch kids who told us about the Dutch electoral process and a girl from Canada who gladly added the Canadian POV. Then my friend, Trung, from Vietnam sat down with us. It’s an interesting thing about Trung- his English is pretty good, but not great, and I feel like whenever I try to talk to him about what it’s like where he’s from, his English gets worse. Sometimes I feel like he uses the language barrier to intentionally dodge my questions about Vietnam. But today when he joined in our lunch-time conversation, his English was just fine. Talking to Trung about politics definitely put my frustration about the election into perspective. I mean, how can I possibly feel bad about my democratically elected leader who was chosen fairly by a majority of the people, and who, no matter how bad I think he may be, will, at the end of the day, continue to uphold my constitutional rights and allow me to live pretty much the life I want to (unless I ever want to marry another woman…) when the kid sitting across the lunch table from me has grown up under and oppressive government that he is not even allowed to publicly criticize? Seriously. Trung said that whenever he says that he disagrees with the government in the presence of his family, his parents always say something to the affect of, “Don’t you dare say that sort of thing outside of this house!” I can’t even imagine… So Kerry lost the election. And Bush is inevitably going to continue with four more years of policies that I will disagree with. But the fact remains that today on this page I can freely say, “I oppose President Bush.” And tomorrow I will be able to say, “I oppose President Bush.” And four years from now I will still be able to say, “I oppose President Bush.” So at least that’s something. 10/29/04- Some work and a moderate amount of play makes Jack very Dutch Back in Utrecht for less than a week and already I’m swamped with schoolwork. It feels as if I’m the victim of a plane crash in which my aircraft collided with the University Utrecht humanities library and now I’m flailing through texts of Foucault and Anscombe in the desperate search for other survivors- I know I’ll be alright in the end, but many paper-cuts will be suffered. I turned in a history paper- a critical analysis of the primary text we’ve been using for the class- this afternoon, and I have a philosophy paper on the authority of the moral witness (don’t feel bad if you don’t know what a moral witness is) due on Tuesday. I also have a clog-load of Dutch homework to do for Monday and I was supposed to have finished reading The Heart of Darkness by today. But that didn’t happen. My anal-retentive unit-mate is bugging me to clean our so-not-dirty bathroom. Lucky has a flat tire. Well…I guess that’s all I can possibly think to bitch about, so I suppose it’s safe to move on. Plans for this rockin’ Friday night include watching Death to Smoochy with my underage Dutch pals…well, not all of them are underage, but they are all Freshmen and the leader of this group of lanky, blond youths is a lanky, blond child prodigy of only 16. He’s very excited because he thinks he might need to start shaving soon. So because his young age drives down the mean of the entire group, I tend to refer to them all as “my underage Dutch pals” (even though included with in the group is a 20 year-old Vietnamese boy and a 19-year-old German, so whatever). Weekends here at UCU are inevitably quiet. There are only 600 of us here to begin with, so the campus is never all that wild. But on weekends the vast majority of the Dutch student population goes home to visit their lanky, blond mommies and daddies, leaving only internationals and those with poor family lives left on campus. Seriously, with completeness that this campus is evacuated by Saturday morning, you’d think that a bomb threat had been in announced in Dutch, leaving only the poor, foreign students to stand around and contemplate the appearance of that sudden and strange ticking sound… Eh, I suppose I shouldn’t complain about the emptiness of the campus on weekends- it gives me plenty of time to finish my veritable windmill-full of homework in peace and quiet. 10/25/04- I went to Ireland and all I got was this lousy tonsillitis It’s cold and gray in The Netherlands, but in Ireland (although I refused to admit this to John while I was there), it’s colder and grayer. And sometime during the evening on Friday, this cold and gray crept into my throat and established residence in my tonsils, which then proceeded to swell up and grow a festive off-white mucus coating as if in preparation for some sort of off-kilter Irish winter holiday. Thus, upon my return to Utrecht last night, it became abundantly clear that some of that world-class Dutch medical care I’m always hearing so much about was going to be necessary. As this school is far to small to warrant a student health center and walk-in clinics are non-existent in this country, I was at a bit of a loss as to where one might locate this world-class medical care. So I did what Californian students are supposed to do when they are confused in a foreign country- I went to the EAP office (conveniently located on the first floor of the building in which I live). But, when I requested of the woman working in the office (not the study-center director, but one of her Dutch lackies) that I needed to see a doctor and could she possibly help me to get an appointment? She replied, “There are the names of local doctors listed in your orientation packet.” (yeah, I think I lost that packet months ago) “Oh, ok,” I said, and continued to stand in front of her desk, looking as pitiful as possible. It was only when it finally became clear to her that I was not going to leave until she actually did her job and helped me that she agreed to make me an appointment, which then only took her a sum total of two and a half minutes to accomplish. Once inside the doctor’s office, which was actually a house converted into an office with the waiting room where a kitchen might have been and examining rooms in the upstairs bedrooms, I was seated at a desk across from a slight, but professional-looking physician who quickly began asking me questions in Dutch. When I replied, “I don’t speak Dutch,” he laughed and said something to the affect of “I can’t help you with that.” This leads me to believe that the question he had asked me was probably, “What’s wrong with you”/ “What’s the matter,” to which I had answered…well, yeah, I trust you get why that’s funny. Once we got that sorted out, and I explained about my tonsils, he had only to look into my mouth for about ½ a second before announcing, “Oh wow, that’s really terrible!” He then quickly wrote me a prescription for an excessive amount of antibiotics and instructed me to take a few days off from classes (which gives me time to write exceedingly lengthy blog entries!). Although, unfortunately he was not able to offer any suggestion as to what could be done about my crippling inability to speak Dutch. But enough about me, here’s more about me: Aside from the part where my tonsils turned into mucus factories operating with wartime efficiency, I actually had a really excellent time in Ireland. I arrived in Dublin on Tuesday morning (after spending three very pleasant days in Amsterdam with Mom and Dad, who, incidentally, were not actually eaten by Belgians) and met John and his housemate, Spencer, at the University College Dublin (UCD) campus. John showed me around his campus, which, with 20,000 students and a lot of concrete buildings feels a bit like an Irish version of UCI, and then introduced me to his friends. I must say, I’m more than a tad jealous of John for having made friends with such an interesting and eclectic group of people. They are a hodgepodge of international students, including a German nicknamed “The Good Bavarian” with a talent for making French girls cry (thus the title “Good Bavarian” in intended to be an ironic one), a guy from Japan named Sean O’Donovan (go ahead and laugh, I know I did), a flannel-wearing part-time lumberjack from Maine, and a gaggle of amiable Australians (the most entertaining of them being Arnab, a pre-med student who announced one night that studying medicine is a lot like watching pornography, “because you’re getting off on watching someone else do what you wish you could be doing”). So my first night in Dublin, John arranged this cast of characters as well as a few others in the living room of his flat and encouraged them to consume approximately fifty cans of the cheapest beer to be had in the city of Dublin: a substance called “Hollandia” which claims to be brewed in The Netherlands and would probably cause many a Dutchman to vomit, where they to find out that their homeland is associated with such a thing. Good times indeed. (The Axis Powers Reunite in Dublin? The highlight of the evening came when, as if from a bad joke, the Japanese boy turned to the German and said, “Next time, we won’t bring the Italians.”) The next day, John took me on a walking tour of Dublin’s highlights, culminating with a trip to the Guinness Storehouse. Within the storehouse in the most fascinating museum dedicated to a subject about which I have absolutely no interest. The museum is a winding, intricate tour through the process by which Guinness (truly the pride of Ireland…well, that, and James Joyce) is produced. I really don’t care, but I did appreciate the creativity with which the exhibit was put together. (me, drinking a Guinness at the pub on top of the storehouse- affords a great view of the city). Thursday, John and I made our way by train to Cork, Ireland’s second largest city (which really isn’t very large at all). Cork had a kind of gritty charm to it that is rarely seen in the neatly polished Dutch cities I’ve become accustomed to, and I found the change quite refreshing. (Cork also has hills. So that’s something different too) Followed Cork up with a trip to the nearby Blarney castle…you know, home of the Blarney stone, gift of gab and all that. Apparently, the specifics regarding the stone are as such: kissing the Blarney Stone (which is actually just a seemingly random rock at the top of the castle) endows the kisser with the art of bullshit for 7 years…so yeah, I kissed the rock, but don’t worry, the information you get on this page will not see any diminish in its veracity, as the line between truth and falsity was already a little gray for me to begin with. (John, with two American girls we met on the way to Blarney, at the castle) (I find this sign comical) Then, Friday night we went back to Dublin, I got sick, and that’s pretty much where the excitement ends. But all in all, it was a good time, especially since I didn’t have to pay for a place to stay in Dublin, and thus, the circle of mooch gets a new member- welcome to the club, John.