Baby went to Amsterdam (and Utrecht)

The things you cannot photograph.

Some things you really cannot plan, no matter how flexible your itenerary, and this idea is no more perfectly embodied in any segment of my trip than in Holland. My agenda was meager, and therefore, I figured, flexible enough. I had planned to stay in Utrecht for two nights, and take the 20 minute train ride to Amsterdam in the mornings. There I planned to see the Secret Annex and the Van Gogh Museum. I had my agenda and figured I wouldn't get into my host's hair very much. Needless to say, neither of these things occured. Even less so did I expect to get along so famously with my host Tobias, go to Belgian bars, come home on a death wish of a bicycle ride and the following evening pull an all-nighter in a 70s punk bar off the Red Light District. But these things happen I suppose.

My only regret is that I didn't take more pictures, but all things considered, half the things that happened in Amsterdam could not be photographed, and therefore...will stay in Amsterdam. I could not photograph, for one thing, the smell of the curry dinner Tobias was in the midst of preparing when I arrived. Much less the taste of spice paired with the sweetness of coconut milk and the savouriness of fresh peppers, the oaky dryness of the accompanying wine. I must find out where he got the recipe.

After dinner, some wine, and a little shisha Tobias took me out around Utrecht, explaining some of the town's charms (such as Miffy the Bunny from the children's books) before popping into a Belgian bar that boasted an impressive selection of beer. After much French wine and Polish vodka in Paris (Julien was obsessed w/the latter) and Belgian beer in Brugge, I didn't know how much more alcohol I could take. But by Beer Number Two, I was in the middle of a fascinating conversation with Tobias about travel and books. Somehow, we both discovered a shared love of The Beach. And as he began to cite specific pages that he had liked, I knew exactly which paragraphs he was talking about. This book, after, was/is my travel bible. I couldn't help myself and burst, "THAT BOOK IS IN MY SUITCASE RIGHT NOW!!"

Over the next few hours, Tobias and I were joined by a guy he had met at work once and his girlfriend, who were at the same bar by chance. Roeland and Ana talked with us, and we got along so well they offered to show me Amsterdam the next day just like that. Soon after, we were joined by Tobias' girlfriend. When it was finally time to go home for the night, we realised it was a bit slow going since Tobias' girlfriend had a bike. Tobias did what occured naturally. He hopped on the bike himself, commanded her to hop on the handle bar and me on the back.

I gaped at him, and wondered how a girl's bike would support not just one but two girls and a giant, beardy Dutch man. "Oh no! Oh no."

Like a scene from any given comedy, not a minute later all three of us were cruising down a hill at god-knows-how-many kilometers per hour, screaming. Perhaps I was the only one screaming. In fact, it is quite probably. As I held on to Tobias' midsection with fear, I yelled, "IF YOU KILL ME I WILL WRITE YOU A VERY BAD COUCHSURFING REFERENCE!!" If you had a camera with you, and a knack for good timing you still could not have recorded more than a blur whizzing past you. Thankfully, Holland's culture of bicycling got us home safe and sound.

The next was comparatively calm, as I met up with Ana and Roeland at the bus station, and they swept me off to Amsterdam. There I saw everything but the Anne Frank House and the Van Gogh museum. But ultimately, I think I fared better that way. I ended up seeing Amsterdam as the people that live there do. When I decided to travel, I decided to stay with locals, because I was spending so little time in each place. I figured that staying with the natives would give me a better taste at how these people see the world.

Turns out it was a very good decision. Had I done otherwise, I could have seen the museums like anyone else, but not the vintage shops with overpriced teacups and other hipster kitsch that amused Ana. Nor the cafe where Roeland used to go with his father when he was small. Not the lifesize statue of David and Goliath that he remembers from his childhood. Little places and things that touch other people.

Tobias joined us in the evening to meet up with some of his friends, who had us over for dinner and then went out to some bars. The first bar of the night was fairly normal. It was a novelty that it was mostly outdoors and that I had to guzzle hot Irish coffees to stay warm, but normal enough. The last bar of the night, however, ... well. Somewhere just off the Red Light District was a punk bar that Ana suggested and we all went to. And nowhere else have I felt more out of place and so comfortable at the same time.

Surrounded by very pushy Sid Vicious wannabes of all ages smoking joints and playing pool, I put myself in the middle of Tobias and his circle of manly friends to keep from getting knocked over. Whereas outside this ring of 6 to 8 Dutch men I felt out of place due to my lack of a mohawk, a joint, and a leather jacket, inside I realised how short I was in comparison. In Spain, I stuck out like a sore thumb because of my blonde hair, and in Amsterdam I got lost in crowds for bieng easily a foot shorter than any of these fun, fine men. As enormous as these men were in size, they were bigger in spirit as I found them to be some of the most open and easy to relate to folk I had ever met. We talked about politics, music, and of course, touched on cultural differences between Holland and...all the places I had ever lived.

Naturally, we spent the whole night in that bar. We left at closing and had to run to the station to make the last train home. We barely made it, but 40 minutes later we made it back to Utrecht. Again, home in one piece. Barely, but safe. Tobias and I had our last chat in the kitchen over a post-drinking breakfast of grilled cheese. At this time it was 6:30 and I had a train to Amsterdam in an hour, where I had to catch a plane to Copenhagen. I said my final goodbye to Tobias, we hugged and said we hoped our paths would cross someday soon.

My suitcase was packed, so I had nothing to do before walking to the train station (literally) next door. So I sat down and opened my copy of The Beach to kill time. Now remember how I said in my first spring break post that--upon packing the book--I didn't know I'd soon say goodbye to my beloved copy? Well, this is that time. As I homed in on one of the last chapters, I looked at the clock and saw it was time to go. With Tobias sleeping upstairs, I left the book on the kitchen table with a note and quietly left.

I can't help but show a little gratitude to someone if they open up so much of their lives to me. And I was lost for ideas in Amsterdam. But I thought that maybe he could get something out of the book I had gotten every time I had read it. Besides which, since I planned to catch up with my best friend in Copenhagen, I wouldn't have time for reading. So I left my book, and within an hour, I left Amsterdam.

I nodded off at the airport terminal waiting for my plane to Copenhagen. I've learned a valuable lesson that punk bars are probably the worst way to pull an all-nighter. But there could be worse near-death experience than I had in Amsterdam, be they break the sound barrier on a bicycle, raise my beer constitution to new heights, or lose my bible. In exchange I think I gained a lot more, cliched as that sounds, even if I can't record the sight or smell but only hope to write it down and remember.

Meanwhile back at the ranch...

Back in Espain, when I'm not busy travelling or writing about travelling I've done ages before (cough), I'm busy learning the culture. Early on, it became obvious to me that doing an immersion program in small Burgos with a tiny group was a much better way of learning the language and culture than if I had gone to Madrid with a larger group. The Burgos immersion program includes taking all classes in Spanish with Spanish students, living in a dorm with Spaniards, using a small monthly allowance to explore Spanish cuisine, educational trips sponsored by Boston University; learning the art of the calimocho (1pt cheap red wine 1 pt coke), drinking said calimocho in inordinate amounts, coming home at ungodly hours, drinking in public, gorging oneself on paella, finding new and exciting ways to utilize the word joder (fuck), and of course, making some great friends who teach you curse words, open their hearts and homes to you, and of course find it perfectly normal you enjoy dressing up as Salvador Dali.

Here I am as Dalí, with my chum Pablo Picasso on my right. Our friends Bea, left, and Isabel above.

Over the past few weeks, I've gradually bonded with my project group in my Film Class. Consisting of myself, my program(and sometimes room) mate Sima, and three Spaniards (Juan Carlos, Juan and Isabel) have to write and shoot a short film for our semester project. When we're not hunkering down over wine and smokes during the creative process, we've had a few weekends of educational, muy interesante debauchery.

Juan Carlos and Isabel

The following photos are from Juan Carlos' recent birthday barbeque, at which Sima and I decided to dress up as famous Spanish artists. Because we're just that ingrained in the culture.

The thing is, one learns so much when partying with Spaniards. Whether it´s the company or the drinks that do the trick, the end result is that one´s vocabulary becomes rapidly amazing and fluent under the influence of...one of those two factors. If not both.

And lesson #1 is: It's both.

Lesson #2: the Spaniards are masters of peer pressure. There is no such thing as saying "no" to your fourteenth drink, it's simply out of the question.
Lesson #3: There is no such thing as coming home before four o'clock in the morning. The siesta (known as hora de comer here) is a basic need of survival, just behind food & water.

Lesson #4: Spaniards don't just love company. They crave and need the contact of loved ones, which explains how meals can go on for hours, the excessive public displays of affection between supposedly straight men, and the abundance of pets. A walk down any street will convince you that at least 80 percent of Spaniards must have a terrier or poodle as a companion. Thus, you meet a diverse group of friends.

a payaso friend

a lumberjack friend

Which apparently includes hillbilly clowns and beardy people.

A very appropriate photo to cap off the essence

of Espain: friendship, laughter, and empty glasses

Biking in Belgium

As wonderful as Brugge itself was, I would not have as fond memories as I do if I hadn't decided to get a bicycle and ride through the countryside on my last day.

One of the best decisions of my life, and exactly one month later I still have the scabs and scars to prove it. As I tucked my bike map which Erika had loaned me into my bag, I put one leg over the body of the bike. Which is when I realised the bike was much too tall for me. But I was stubborn about biking to the sea or through the countryside and I estimated that once I got on the seat, the peddles would still be reachable. So I decided to try and literally jump onto the seat of the bike.

I kicked with one foot and held my other on one of the peddles. Then I jumped. And how. As I swung my leg over the bike, I had a split-second of time to realise I had no idea what I was doing and I fell off the OTHER SIDE OF THE BIKE. When I visualised myself jumping onto one side of a bicycle and falling off the other, I started to laugh. Laugh enough that my skinned legs stopped burning as I lay on my side on the sidewalk cracking up.

After this incident, though, things went smoothly and I had one of the most beautiful days I can remember. I biked approx. 5 kilometers to a little village called Damme and tried to get lost in the countryside. It is one of the most beautiful and tranquil places I have ever seen and I think the pictures show it. awful picture of me, but here I am excited about some cows.

Ha ha.

Fuckin' Bruges, man

After 3 days and nights of non-stop sightseeing, cheese and crepe eating, jam sessions and a bitchfight with a ticket taker at Gare du Nord, I managed to find my way out of Paris and on a train bound for Bruges/Brugge, Belgium. My first moments in town were a little bit stressful because I still had no phone. My first two hours in town were spent looking for a free phone to use, getting a little bit lost, and--considering my short attention span--stopping to take pictures.

Really, one look at this idyllic town convinces a traveller why Colin Farell and Ralph Fiennes signed up to shoot a film about it. Granted, I had heard about Brugge ages before, described as the Venice of the North. On the other hand, I had also loved the film and seeing moving pictures of the town motivated me to make a trip during my semester in Spain.

The tower where THAT scene occurs in In Bruges

Belgium itself looks like a fairy tale. Green meadows, fat baby animals skipping, brown brick houses that look like giant bars of chocolate. And let's not forget the chocolate. And the Belgian fries. And the beer. And of course, my wonderful host family.

I stayed in Brugge with a wonderful woman called Erika, and her two sons Samuel and Elias. My days in Brugge with their family left me with a sense of home I had never felt. Every morning, I would leave the house to explore town and come back around 7 or 8 for dinner. I helped set the table, and then sat down with the family for some of Erika's wonderful vegetarian cooking. After we all helped to clean up, we'd sit around the table and talk while Erika fed us chocolate. And I would tell them about my day. My days in Belgium looked like this:

Wake up in the mornin' feelin' like having chocolate.

Went to the Belfry. Looked for Voldemort. No cigar.

Get tired. Have some more chocolate. What is this strange rock I am holding?

Just a pebble full of marzipan. No big deal.

Explore town before heading back to the Center for lunch.

The best combination of sauces for Belgian fries: the traditional Flemish

recipes of Hannibal and Samurai (sweet and spicy respectively).

Time for more chocolate!!

Paris, je t'aime

It takes me a while to get attached to people. To develop enough trust to invest a deeper plane of myself into a relationship. But places I have no trouble. I become fond of a place very quickly. I may not settle down and be monogamous to one location, but I develop an easy and intense affection for the majority of new places I lay my head for a little while. And Paris is not a difficult place to call home for a few days.

I went to Versailles and explored the gardens as it rained. Slightly miserable experience but ultimately more than worthwhile.

I went to the Louvre. And solved the Da Vinci Code.

I met some really great people. Here is the group of us that all slept in the same room (with about 4 others) and went to the Louvre together. Please ignore also my stoned-looking face.

I spent sometime with one of my best friends in the whole wide world, my brother from another mother Jason George.

This is my host, on the left, Julien, talking with fellow traveller Mats (from Sweden) over some Polish vodka and bread and cheese. Julien was one of the most gracious and hilarious people I've ever met. Few others can pump you expensive wine and fill you up with inordinate amounts of French cheese while delivering making fun of you with an unexpected one-liner.

My last night in Paris, four of our guests were musicians from Amsterdam who were passing by. Julien did not hesitate to invite a few more of his guitar-owning friends and the twenty of us settled down in the basement with cups of tea or wine for a great party. Below is a video of the Dutch travellers playing a song from the film Once. It's really something and my favourite memory from Paris.

Oh Shit!!: Spring Break Part II

Breakfast? Pain au chocola-ya-ya-ya-yait!!

I may have mentioned that, when travelling alone, your instincts of resourcefulness kick in very quickly. It happens because the second you leave home, your familiar elements fade from memory and all you can think about is what's happening right now. And that's the first thing you learn when you travel alone: you can't help but think on your feet. The second thing you learn: you have more balls than you previously thought.

Well, thank god it works that way, because the second I landed in Paris I needed those reflexes. All passengers on my flight had to turn off their mobile phones before take-off; so I turned off mine to comply with regulations and mentally prepared myself to leave Spain for the first time since arriving. Granted, I had only been living in Spain for 2 months, but I felt so at home that I craved my trip badly. The excitement of leaving Spain wore off within minutes, as I fell asleep on the 100 minute flight. I never fail to fall asleep on any mode of public transportation, and this moment was no exception no matter how highly anticipated.

When I woke up, the captain was in the middle of announcing that we were ten minutes away from our landing at BVA, 80 minutes outside Paris. As we landed, I took my phone out of my pocket to text my parents and let them know I was safe and sound in Frenchland. But my message wouldn't send. And when I tried again, it wouldn't. Again. And that's when I realized my phone was SIM locked.

That is to say, I was fucked.

With no working cellphone I had no way of contacting my parents, and worse, no way of contacting my lodgings for the night. Upon realising the possibility of having to sleep in the park that night, and that it was supposed to rain, anyone would have panicked. Not I. And I wish I knew why, but I was cool as a cucumber. Mayhaps I figured the local prostitutes would take me under their fishnet wings, or my limitted knowledge of French (read: Je voudrais du pain s'il vous plait) would protect me. I surprised myself, but I had this inner sense that things were going to work out. Because...they had to. I realised that getting robbed, sleeping in the rain, and trying my hand at sex work were not viable options at the moment. After all, I had very little cash and no umbrella. And I had neither enough pleather nor knowledge of product elasticity to break into a foreign financial sector.

Not sleeping in the park: Me greeting the rain at Versailles

So, I pondered my state of jodida (fucked) on the shuttle, as I chatted with a Spaniard sitting next to me. He was a student like me, very affable, and when he found out how stranded I was at the moment, he chuckled. The way you chuckle when you're surprised and awkward, and have no response more creative than to laugh.

"And you're not freaking out?" he asked.

"No."

He laughed again in shock. "Tu eres cojonuda."

"Cojonuda?" I asked him. "Like cojones?!"

"Exactly."

The man says I've got cojones. I was previously unaware of these balls I apparently had, but I'll take it. It was after all, thanks to said balls and some help from this kind stranger that I was eventually able to find my way. After an 80 minute bus ride, I was on the Paris metro on my way to my home for the next three nights.

There and Back Again: Donostia the Sequel

We interrupt this program to briefly update about my spontaneous trip to San Sebastian this past weekend.

I must say, I am quite proud of myself. The first time I went to San Sebastian (Donostia in Basque), I fell in love with it and immediately knew it was my favourite place in Spain. I explored the pubs, had my first tequila shot after several years, met some great people from my hostel, and pic-nicked on the beach. My last afternoon there, as I took my last look at the sea, I realised two things.
1. That peculiar shade of blue would be imprinted on my brain and
2. I had to come back.

Nearly two months later, I was having a bad time at school this past week (which is also why I haven't updated about my spring break). On Tuesday, as I stared blankly at my History of Spain notes in preparation for an exam about the second republic, I thought about how much I wish I could have been enjoying the sunshine that had finally hit northern Spain. And I thought: Fuck it, I'm going to San Sebastian. Just like that.

It amazes me how easy it has become for me over the past 3 months to just...leave things behind and go somewhere. It's something I don't get a lot of in America. I'm less restless here, because when I get that restlessness I can quench it so easily. I can literally run away from my problems and go sleep on the beach instead. Which is exactly what I did. The morning, I had a ticket and a bag packed.

Two days after that, I was sleeping on the bus. I woke up three quarters into the three hour bus ride, just in time for my favourite part. One of the many reasons Basque Country is my favourite part of Spain is the unexpected view. Contary to stereotypes of Spanish topography, northern Spain is emerald green and full of mountains and valleys. The last time I'd see something similar was southern Poland. The last few villages one drives by on the way to Donostia are plopped in the bottoms of the valleys, or scattered over river canals. If I could have taken clear pictures from the bus, I would have. The view is stunning.

But of course, it was not as good as being back in San Seb. The second I stepped off the bus, I got that "I'm on vacation" feeling again, except this time I knew my way around quite well. I knew where to buy the best fruit, where to get dinner, where outside to eat it. After it got dark, I didn't want to spend much time in my room because it had no windows. So I met up with friends, the very same people I met the first time.

It's another reason for my affection for San Sebastian: being one of the first places this semester to re-awaken my travelling itch, it was also the place where I learned the interesting mentality of people who like it as much as I do. People who live in hostels, couchsurf, or take off for the sake of taking off have such a weird and different way of relating, and I must say it agrees with me. They open up to you much more easily than in ordinary circumstances--even if or perhaps because they are aware you will not know eachother for very long. Your lives are only intersecting for a limitted time and everyone's so new to you that you don't stop appreciating them after a time, because...well, you don't have that time.

In any case, between seeing a few really great people I had genuinely missed, meeting a few others that made an impression, and the following day on the beach, I could not have been more satisfied. My Saturday was what I needed to take out the stress of the past week: a book, the beach, and that blue water in front of me. As I napped and listened to music, I would hear the tide coming and going between songs. And I could feel a slight sunburn and, I daresay, a nice tan developing.

As last time, I was sad to get on the bus back to Burgos. Perhaps this time, a little sadder. (this face is appropriate ;D) But as I sat in my classes all morning, I was certainly glad that I had such nice things to daydream about instead of listening to my professor.

Spring Break 2010

Like most college students, at the thought of spring break, I had pictured at least one trip to Mexico, some sunshine and adventures best not remembered. Like a word association. You say "peanutbutter", I say "jelly". You say "spring break", I say "Cancun, anyone?" Or at least I would have any other time. But this year, when school let out for two weeks, I was in Spain. And I was itching to leave.

As much as I love living here, Burgos can get a little too Spanish for me sometimes. It's a small city and it's not nearly as diverse as Boston or New York, for example. It can--and does--get a little monotonous sometimes. So when the itch to get out hit me, it hit hard. And I didn't want to go just one place, everywhere appealed to me.

So one late night, the following itenerary laid itself out:

April 2nd to 5th: Paris, France

April 5th to 8th: Brugge, Belgium

April 8th to 10th: Amsterdam, Holland

April 10th to 13th: Copenhagen, Denmark

I bought airplane and train tickets, I made a couchsurfing account, and I began a slapdash quest for housing, tourist attractions, and the kind of adventure any jaded university student loves watching indie films about. April 1st came round and I had my suitcase packed with acceptably clean clothes, my camera, and my bible:

The Beach by Alex Garland

My copy of The Beach is five years old, stained and dog-eared becuase I bought it at a garage sale when I was 15 or so. I remember being overjoyed to pay a quarter for it, because it had affected my 14 year old self so much the first time I had read it. It told me that there were things out there for people as bored and sarcastic as I was back then. And since the moment I purchased my own copy, I have never left home without it. From university to family trips to the Caribbean and Europe, The Beach has always had its own pocket in my suitcase. And I fondly re-read it every time and find something that I hadn't noticed the last time. I've always liked how the story seemed to grow up with me.

So at 20, the one thing I knew I had to pack and read on my own trip was this book. And how god damn fitting it seemed to be reading it on my first time travelling alone. Alone and farther than the 4-hour bus ride from Boston to New York. Little did I know I would very soon say goodbye to my copy, but that's another story and shall be told another time. But then, there were a lot of things about my trip that surprised me.

And the first of those things was you get a little funny in the head the second your airplane leaves the ground. You very quickly learn that things will never go remotely as planned or pictured, and you have to stay cool and think on your feet. At 4 a.m. on the 2nd I took a bus to Barajas Airport in Madrid. I arrive at 7 a.m. and promptly got myself lost within its large complex. Great, I thought. My flight's at 10 and I'm going to miss check-in. I looked at my cellphone for the time: almost 8.

Mierda.

I had taken a shuttle from the bus station to one of the terminals, and of course, it was the wrong one. Now I needed to figure out how to get to Terminal 3. After some running around with my suitcase strapped on my back and my scarf choking me, I found the bus stop and waited. And waited. And waited for another shuttle, silently cursing this country's inability to ever do anything at the appointed hour. Finally, the right bus came and as I rode it to the right terminal, I silently willed it to go faster.

I found the Terminal and made a beeline for the check-in desk only to find I was the only one there.

Where the hell is everyone? Have they all checked in?

I turned left and right, looking for someone who looked like they worked there and zeroed in on a young man in a suit. He was giving someone directions. Since he looked like he knew what he was saying, I approached him. At worst, I figured, he was Spanish and I could wave my blonde hair in his face and beg him to let me on the plane. Faced with the possibility of being stranded in Barajas, I was desperate and silly things were ocurring to me.

"Has check in occured?" I wheezed, panting from running at him.

"No," he said, looking at his watch. "It doesn't start for 30 minutes."

I gaped at him.

That's when this think-on-your-feet talent kicked in for the first time. As I gaped at my little Spanish bullfighter, it came to me: Time for a drink. I hadn't had breakfast yet, and suddenly coffee with Bailey's (or vice versa) seemed a brilliant decision.

Twenty minutes, two drinks and about 10 Euro later, it was. With my body feeling slightly like jell-o, I swaggered back to the check-in to find I was one of the first in line. I picked up my boarding pass, found a quiet corner, and sat down. With time to spare, I pulled out my book. I opened its crumbling paperback cover. And as the narrator Richard began talking about the pros and cons of travelling alone, his words more than the Bailey's Creamy had a tranquilizing effect.

Spain stopped existing. I was calm, collected, and on vacation.