sister winter

Oh my thoughts I
return to summertime

i like to ride my bicyclee i like to ride mah bikeeeee

 

A typical scene: Dennis, with his lanky figure perched upon his bike seat ahead of me, clutched a bottle of wine in one hand and took a drag of a cigarette with the other. The ultimate badass expression of 'look ma, no hands,' I thought.

The biking abilities of these Dutch folk are nothing short of acrobatic. The amount of babies strapped into bikes, dogs yipping from bike baskets, hand-holding on bikes, people standing on the backs of bikes and even household furniture being transported on said bikes really does make you cock your head and go, “…huh,” and question the laws of physics. Basically, I’m convinced there is nothing short of cooking a three course meal they can’t do while in motion.  When Kristen and I attempted such shenanigans in Florence, we were carrying a liter of soda and an obnoxiously large watermelon in our basket. We were berated with a bunch of (deserved) vaffanculo!s  spat out passing car windows (accompanied by stereotypical hand waving and chin-flipping in proper Italian style) as we punched in and out of traffic. Maggie and I tried our hand at mad bicycle skillz the other day and thankfully avoided all catastrophe... So, they say practice makes perfect right?

Securing our wheels to any immovable object

It makes it so enjoyable to ride here because you can just coast. Forever. The city is so incredibly flat; my quads are getting spoiled. I’m getting better at navigating too... In getting lost, the trick is to find one of the main canals (they run parallel to each other) and move from there. You’ll hit one eventually. And, in the event that you’re STILL lost: get some Maoz falafel and try, try again.  We’re all getting pretty good though. However — Kevin, our fearless leader and program director, has the habit of taking us out on excursion and getting us lost. And by lost, I mean he speeds onward with his 6’3+ frame and long, rapidly pedaling legs until someone inevitably gets caught in traffic and takes a wrong turn. Riding with him is akin to a sick game of Frogger. But we’re learning.

Santy and I outside Crea

The best part: cruising at night. We all have front and back lights (without those, you can be pulled over and ticketed!) that don’t do much in terms of illumination but hopefully will keep us from getting smushed by bigger things on wheels. Though I live near the centrum, my neighborhood and surrounding area is so peaceful. Lately, we’ve been having late-night meet ups at one of the UvA cafés to do homework and exchange crazy host-parents stories (topics have included living room Buddhist meetings, fleshlights, and perpetual fears of cell-phone radiation). I love the ride there — cutting through some side streets, I wind up on a long stretch of canal just past the tourist strip. From there, I can hear a slight rumble of revelry, but around me all is quiet. My lock and chain occasionally give a quick rattle as I change pace. The canals are illuminated by the streetlamps; the slight humps of the bridges make the landscape a bit more dynamic. We lock our bikes to anything we can find, often to each other, joking that if they can steal these three hunks of metal all chained up that they probably deserve too.  That has definitely been a highlight here: the solo night rides followed by the cups of coffee and good company.

I can't wait until it starts warming up around these here parts, and I wouldn't hateeee it if it didn't rain until May 17th. As fun and cute as scarves and mittens and that whole shebang is... I'm stoked for the day when I can ride around the canals in some stunna shades and t-shirt and jeans and...no hands

(ba da chhhh  — sorry, had to say it. ;)

"...tell me,

what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?"

a history lesson

'Ghost of Amsterdam' photo series

I keep thinking about this link that Casey sent me a few months back.

We had to do a little research last week about our neighborhoods — I hadn’t thought a whole lot about my immediate area (it’s an inconspicuous residential street that connects to a drag of vintage shops, late night snack joints and coffeeshops) because it seemed so quiet and quaint. In my searching, I found out that the vicinity of my abode is home to such a sad story —

The Gassan Diamond Factory

Though my building was built in the 1920s, the row of houses across from us was erected in the 1600s. They acted as warehouses and tenement houses back in the day when this was the bustling Jewish quarter. On the same street was the Waterlooplein market, the center of commerce for the neighborhood’s population (it has since moved a few streets down). A few houses down stands a former diamond factory, a huge source of economy for the people who lived in the area. Interestingly, my street is technically on an island, cut off on the sides and ends by canals (former swamp land, I was told). It was here during WWII that the Nazi’s cut off bridge access on both sides, trapping a large portion of the Jewish population before taking them away. A few blocks away, a statue called De Dokwerker stands to commemorate the February Strike, the first action taken by non-Jews to protest the Nazi treatment of the Jewish population in all of occupied Europe (the strike was quickly squashed). The neighborhood was pillaged and, after the war, the Jews who returned relocated to a different part of the city.  We visited the Dutch Resistance Museum this afternoon and located my street on a map in the exhibit — it had one of the highest population densities of Jewish inhabitants who, literally, vanished in a night.

The small bridge as you step out my front door.

It’s chilling to have those images in the back of my mind as I ride my bike home in after dark. I pass the diamond factory on my right, now open for tours — and a building or so away are photographic murals of the Waterlooplein market taken before the war.  I can’t help but to reflect on how quiet it always is as I roll along… and I can’t help but to go back to that old adage, “if walls could talk…”

when it's over, so they say, it'll rain a sunny day

It's the rainy season around these parts — here's  to our trench butts, foggy glasses, soggy notebooks and temporary vitamin D deficiencies. Cheers!

Job requirements: write, photograph… mop up blood?

“These are gezellig, no?”  asked one of the girls. Using the beloved Dutch term to describe something that's cozy, amiable, or simply that warm fuzzy feeling, she flicked a pair of crusty cut socks across the table.  “Without putting those on before you bout,” said Jen — the president of the Amsterdam Derby Dames — grabbing at the limpy, makeshift skate-toe covers, “you’ll go through a pair of skates reallllllly fast.” 

These Dutch are a funny bunch — mostly of a nationally conservative, straight-laced mindset and no bullshit mentality, they still do enjoy their fun, namely of the gezellig variety: i.e. small cafes, warm pubs and a quiet evening with friends. I had to laugh. Something tells me that a hoard of screaming women on skates — especially in stinky socks — would not typically be defined as gezellig by the average tight-lipped Dutch man. 

___________________________

I hopped on tram 14 last Thursday night, armed with a map big enough to wrap my soggy bod in and an address of an elementary school gym. Somewhere at the end of the line waited the Amsterdam Derby Dames; between us, 16 stops and the woman next to me that reeked of wet dog. 

Earlier in the day I had received an e-mail back from Jen, their Dutch-born team president with a Texas twang (seriously, talk about them apples), inviting me to come to their practice for a chitchat. We were going to talk details about my practicum, my internship component of this semester. Because I’m focusing on sport sociology, I thought what better way than to kill two birds with one stone: a) get a head start on my independent research and b) live vicariously through them and my love of all things bloody, bruised and bedazzled?

After hopping off the tram and splaying this ridiculous map across the sidewalk (how I didn’t laughed at or mugged is beyond me), I meandered past a few swing sets and behind a building where Jen met me at the door. Inside were about 10 other girls getting booted up — expats of all kinds — all equally clad in stripes, tattoos and sass and greeting me with, “ohh hallooo!”s and “where are you from?”s and more importantly, “are you here to skate?!” I was bear-hugged by two other American gals (another of the Texan variety, and one from New Hampshire who lives in spitting distance from me at home) and then gave them my schpeel about why I was there, soaking wet in a pink rain jacket and sans wheels.

My project topic isn't totally nailed down yet — there is still a lot of discussion to be done with my advisors and such... but going off of my capping project, I'm aiming for photo component in conjunction with the required 50ish page paper. My interest is in 'doing gender,' in the derby world but I haven't nailed down in which way I want to look at it yet. But, now that I've been given the green-light and can entrench myself within their ranks, it'll give me a better feel of the make up of this crazy roller derby world and how these women function in it.

And they were AWESOME. On the sidelines we talked music and shared stories of war wounds and discussed the Amsterdam life. A year ago, they were the first team in Holland; now, there are seven or eight others. They told me how their first skates were made out of army boots with wheels attached because the skate shops didn't carry what they needed, and how they now have a waiting list to join the Fresh Meat — the rookie — group. A reporter came to talk to them a little bit after I had arrived. Though they seemed to have these larger-than-life personalities, they were humble and spoke passionately to her about the derby sport. "We're a bunch of misfits," one girl mentioned. It was cool to see: that these kids from around the world somehow all ended up in this tiny school auditorium, dressed in tutus and loving the fact that they had found their perfect niche. I hoping I've found one too.

 

i should probably take some canal pictures

Protesting in Dam Square

a quickie

I can see the bell tower from my three attic windows. It chimes on the hour, with the number of tolls denoting the time. This morning the first chime woke me up. The second chime jarred my consciousness a bit more; by the third, I was counting them with dread. The fourth, I could swore it HAD to be the last one; then the fifth — no way could it be past 5:00 a.m — at six, I flipped over and started cursing and on toll seven, I growled myself awake and kicked the covers off. With chunks of reading to do and a few hours to do it, I threw on some deceptively unsensible shoes (little did I know that later, one of the laces would get caught in my pedal while going full-speed, nearly turning me into a blonde-kamikaze) hopped on my bike (!)  and rolled through the streets to Bagels & Beans, a canal-side café a few blocks from school. Amazingly, the sun finally came out in blinding fashion. I’m thankful for that, and the fact that the trams have outstanding brakes…

The past few days have been steady flow of getting settled, getting oriented, and getting fed (literally, carbocide. And I’ve never ingested so much cheese in my life). My host moeder, Yvonne, is a lovely lady who’s been whipping up curries and veggies for our nightly dinner dates and spinning tales with no definite middles or ends. We drank tea and watched the news together earlier, with her translating news on Egypt and criticizing the coifs of the featured political figures. School-wise, my group had a scavenger hunt day last weekend, with my two of my mystery addresses to locate ended up being a quaint Buddhist tea-house and a hardcore leather shop (the task came complete with directions to “bring something back for the group.” Alas, my lunch budget couldn’t cover 10 pairs of leather chaps). We’ve been roaming about, starting the first few classes, attending lectures, embracing the “gezellig” and struggling to differentiate my “v’s” from our “w’s” — I’m pretty sure that mine come out somewhere between a lisp and a spit. I do enjoy the Dutch language though. It’s kind of like a funny, bastardized form of English with a hearty, gutteral chutzpah deserving of a outfit complete with a top-hat and monacle. Basically.

I'll get better at updating this baby — I e-mailed my practicum contact, so hopefully good news will be coming on that front soon. :) For now, I need sleep so I can get up and do the dreaded bell-tolling ritual all over again. But tomorrow: I will properly tie my shoes. And wear sunglasses. And avoid trams, pedestrians, bikers, cars and all other non-padded obstacles.

Perfect.

another reason to learn dutch

We finally arrived at the SIT headquarters today, a beautiful flat in the city center over-looking the Herengracht, one of the main canals. After storing some luggage, Hannie, one of our directors, approached me with this morning’s paper that she had saved for me: a spread featuring the Dutch national women’s rugby sevens team! I’ll admit it: I squealed, probably to everyone's alarm. From the gist of the article, they got their start in 2009 and are hoping to make the 2016 Olympic bid… And, according to Hannie, something about how a lot of the women seem to be veterinarians (I’m wondering if the term ‘veteran’ got lost in translation?).

Further proof that women's rugby is taking over the world, one day at a time

It got the gears turning — if this is a fledgling team looking for support and exposure, I wonder how accessible they are? And if indeed they are, and they are as local as they seem to be — can I go work with them for my ISP? Slash get all of their rugby secrets and smuggle them home back home to America. Bwahah.

In terms of a daily round-up, this morning we hung out in a little village full of windmills and ate some ballin’ cheeses today. After trooping to the city, we went to photo exhibit at the Melkweg gallery that featured portraits of transgendered folk and then proceeded to the hostel where I hit my bed like a ton of bricks. Woke up thinking it was tomorrow, and when I realized it was indeed not, reveled in the fact that I seemingly got 12 or so hours of my life back...  love when that happens.

I'll hopefully be getting solid internet access in a few days so I will be more Skypeable... hope to see some pretty faces soon. :) Until then, xo

safe and sound

Amsterdan - The Dresden Dolls

What do you get when you combine 11 overly caffeinated college kids in a vacant hostel, mustard soup on the stove and a continuous string of round-table sex talk? SIT Orientation week!

We’re here in Egmond, a bit north of Amsterdam right on the North Sea. From here, it’s two days in the city before heading to our host family. My pseudo-mama (apparently a doctor specializing in wound repair — clearly a match made in heaven) is on vaca, so for Friday night I’ll be staying the night at the residence of a vegan with a severe cat allergy. That’s all I know. I dig it.

I can tell that this semester is going to be a pivotal one — allow me to nerd-out for a hot sec, but I can’t wait to dive in. Part of our curriculum involves a practicum, equivalent to an internship of sorts, which we can then use to fuel our independent research component. Astrid, our coordinator, told me she could hook me up with the Amsterdam roller deby team (…there is a purpose to that endeavor, I promise) to see if I can get on the inside/PERHAPS PLAY!? Though that would easily be the icing on my semester cake… my better judgment says that my body may not be down for the beating. As of Friday, Jim, my ortho and favorite bearer of bad news, told me that I have to wait a few more months until I can start running again. If I were at home I‘d probably be a fetal position, crying/drinking heavily in the corner of Fulton 1B about how my body is in a constant state of wreck.  Butttt… I’m not. Though get plump I may, I’m confident that I can still find productivity — and happiness — here.

After doing little introductions about our interests, areas of research, etc. our Oral History professor told me about a local gender identity organization that she could also set me up with that just had a photo exhibit on female Moroccan immigrant boxers. Students in the past have done EVERYTHING for their ISP’s: worked with a gay documentary film festival, created an oral history of the lives of sex-workers here, paddled a bathtub down the canal for 30 hours and even directed (and starred in) a trans-empowering porn flick (sooo if roller derby and boxing don’t work out maybe I’ll… JUST KIDDING.)

It’s just so…stimulating? And encouraging! To be in an environment where we all have similar interests and all sorts of agendas. My favorite classes at Marist were gender related, but few and far between they fell so I was never really satisfied… I’m in awe because some of these kids are pros — from Foucault to fetishes, it’s been covered at some point in our classroom or over the dinner table in the past two days.

My comrades all seem fantastic as well — they all come from different backgrounds, different parts of the country and are all involved in really cool organizations and such back home. Everyone speaks to their expertise: whether working as an activist with the transgender community in Washington DC, navigating the queer bubbles in Chicago or… existing on the rugby pitch at Marist College (obvs got that covered), everyone has really interesting contributions and experiences that they bring to the table. Tomorrow, we’re getting a bike-riding lesson through the dunes before heading to the city center. From there — no one knows. They are kind of just herding us around like cattle.

It’s about 2 a.m. here — if I head to bed now I can get a few solid hours of snooze…

Until next time — miss you friends. Much amore. xo