Monday, November 26, 2012
On the Train
So I'm on the train from Amsterdam to Nijmegen right now and since I'm not doing my homework, I thought I might as well write a short blog post. I spent this weekend in Paris with my family. It was a great time, but I didn't enjoy it as much as I could have because I was so worried about meeting (surpassing) my family's expectations. You can't really screw up Paris too badly, but lil ole deranged me didn't realize that until right about...now. I think that we (or at least I) ruin a lot of things for ourselves. I don't know; I'll write a real travel writing piece about it some time.
Thursday, November 15, 2012
#servergirlstruggz -- Dutch Wonderland
November 12, 2012
I bet you guys all thought #servergirlstruggz were over. Well, you were...right. I am safe across the good ole Atlantic, having found refuge from the American tyrants of my former restaurant in the Dutch countryside. However, I still haven't been able to shake entirely my servergirl tendencies. Traveling costs money, so when an on-campus job working in our tiny dining hall opened up, I jumped at the opportunity. Of course, this job is a little different than my last one...
IT'S WAY BETTER. There's a reason why I titled this post "Dutch Wonderland," and it's because I currently work in one.
First of all, the people with whom I work are great. Yanto, Nellie, and Stephan are the sweetest people in the entire world. They always ask me about where I'm traveling, joke with me in English, and even explain to me the things I don't understand in Dutch. Stephan also gives me special treatment in the dining hall now, assisting me on my daily quest for the perfect apple. Even though they don't understand how my classmates and I can consume so much peanut butter (apparently we eat more than previous years), we still get along swimmingly.
Another reason why I prefer this job is that it is far less stressful than waitressing in an American restaurant. Here, I am a dining hall assistant, meaning that my main duties are bussing tables and putting away plates and glasses. Compared to the constant sprinting/fetching/computing/fake smiling/hating my life I did this summer, my autumn job has been heaven. I only have to focus on one task at a time, and I'm even allowed to talk to my friends on their way out of the dining hall.
So of course, everything about this job is perfect, except for me. Sure, I wowed Stephan by taking initiative by putting food away and cleaning counters without being asked, but that probably doesn't make up for yesterday's incident.
I broke a pepper shaker. The tables at the dining hall have been newly decorated with long vases filled with water and flowers. While I was bussing a table, I accidentally knocked one of these vases over, which, in turn, sent a pepper shaker flying. Besides the obviously audible crash, brown powder covered the floor. I was waiting for a stern look, some rolled eyes, maybe even a bit of backstabbing chatter but was greeted with good natured laughter. Nellie smiled at me, Yanto shrugged his shoulders, and Stephan assured me, "Don't worry; happen all the time." I guess they must have found my American ineptitude adorable. Even so, I felt bad for my mistake and my mess, so I quickly grabbed the brush and dustpan and got to cleaning. No scolding was had, no report was made, no suspension was given.
In fact, we're all still good friends.
I bet you guys all thought #servergirlstruggz were over. Well, you were...right. I am safe across the good ole Atlantic, having found refuge from the American tyrants of my former restaurant in the Dutch countryside. However, I still haven't been able to shake entirely my servergirl tendencies. Traveling costs money, so when an on-campus job working in our tiny dining hall opened up, I jumped at the opportunity. Of course, this job is a little different than my last one...
IT'S WAY BETTER. There's a reason why I titled this post "Dutch Wonderland," and it's because I currently work in one.
First of all, the people with whom I work are great. Yanto, Nellie, and Stephan are the sweetest people in the entire world. They always ask me about where I'm traveling, joke with me in English, and even explain to me the things I don't understand in Dutch. Stephan also gives me special treatment in the dining hall now, assisting me on my daily quest for the perfect apple. Even though they don't understand how my classmates and I can consume so much peanut butter (apparently we eat more than previous years), we still get along swimmingly.
Another reason why I prefer this job is that it is far less stressful than waitressing in an American restaurant. Here, I am a dining hall assistant, meaning that my main duties are bussing tables and putting away plates and glasses. Compared to the constant sprinting/fetching/computing/fake smiling/hating my life I did this summer, my autumn job has been heaven. I only have to focus on one task at a time, and I'm even allowed to talk to my friends on their way out of the dining hall.
So of course, everything about this job is perfect, except for me. Sure, I wowed Stephan by taking initiative by putting food away and cleaning counters without being asked, but that probably doesn't make up for yesterday's incident.
I broke a pepper shaker. The tables at the dining hall have been newly decorated with long vases filled with water and flowers. While I was bussing a table, I accidentally knocked one of these vases over, which, in turn, sent a pepper shaker flying. Besides the obviously audible crash, brown powder covered the floor. I was waiting for a stern look, some rolled eyes, maybe even a bit of backstabbing chatter but was greeted with good natured laughter. Nellie smiled at me, Yanto shrugged his shoulders, and Stephan assured me, "Don't worry; happen all the time." I guess they must have found my American ineptitude adorable. Even so, I felt bad for my mistake and my mess, so I quickly grabbed the brush and dustpan and got to cleaning. No scolding was had, no report was made, no suspension was given.
In fact, we're all still good friends.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
A Vegan In the Land of Temptation
(Originally Written for iEatGrass.com)
Chocolate and waffles and fries, oh
my! Sorry for the corny intro, but that was my first reaction when I
went to Bruges, Belgium this weekend. While the scenery was as
beautiful as the land of Oz, vegan food was almost as elusive as the
Wizard himself. Luckily, I found my Emerald City in Royal Frituur &
Veggie Eetboetiek. This was a tiny, but amazing, vegan restaurant
with a hazelnut burger that was heel-click worthy. Topped with apple
slices, lettuce, and tomato, this burger was the foodie highlight of
the trip.
Even as it was delicious, the hazelnut
burger was obviously processed, as is most Belgian food. For some
reason, the Belgians have an ongoing love affair with the deep fryer.
So Belgium may not be the best country for traveling vegans, but I'm
determined that you can replicate all of its delicacies in a healthy
and vegan way. The hazelnut burger can easily be made much healthier with this recipe.
Of course, another Belgian staple, the
waffle, can be made vegan and healthy as well. This recipe is packed
with whole grains and natural sweetness.
I always thought that french fries,
although unhealthy, were at least vegan. However, in Belgium, most
are made with animal fat. I humbly offer a healthier and happier alternative.
(And if you're lucky enough to live in California and still have
access to avocados, avocado fries are a must.)
Finally, if Belgium is known for
anything, it's chocolate. Obviously, because of chocolate's milk
content, we vegans need to find another way to get our fix. As with
many cocoa related recipes, it's Chocolate Covered Katie to the
rescue. If you're not into baking, there are tons of vegan chocolate suppliers and
products.
Although my trip to Belgium was
amazing, when it comes to vegan food—sometimes there really is no
place like home.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Free Write #2 -- Aushwitz is not a Day Trip
So, seeing as my last free write went over pretty well with you guys, I'd thought I'd start sharing them. (Daring, I know.) But on a practical note, my free writes are usually about my travels, and since I don't have any time to write actual quality travel posts, these might just suffice. (I know that in a few years I'm going to be kicking myself for putting this unedited shit on the internet, but, at the moment, I find these pieces kind of darling so...)
For the next one, the only prompt was that it had to begin with the line: "Sometimes what you get is not what you thought you wanted."
Sometimes what you get is not what you thought you wanted. I thought I wanted to explore my family's heritage, and what I got was a ten hour train ride that I didn't know how it was going to end. I've said it once and I'll say it again-- Auschwitz is not a day trip. Warsaw to Krakow, no problem. Krakow to Oświęcim, fair enough. Oświęcim back to Krakow, fuck you guys. That was what I imagined the ticket machine had said to my best friend and I as we were trying to select our return journey. The machine said that there weren't any available trains back. Still, having faith in things working out, we got on the train to Oświęcim, hoping to find a way back once we arrived.
If I could sum the day up into one Yittish phrase, it would be "oy vey." That was how my feet and ass were feeling by the end of the night, when we were finally back in our Warsaw hostel. Considering the idea of sleeping on a park bench had been a very real possibility only hours before, I was more than thankful falling into my hostel bed.
Still, we got to go to Auschwitz, and even though we didn't have enough time to do a proper tour, it left its mark. I'm still haunted by the giant pile of hair that looked exactly like mine. I could have been realted to anyone to whom that hair belonged, and I probably was. There's this joke among Jews about how every Jewish woman hates her hair, and I'm no exception. But on that day, I loved my kinky, frizzy, brown hair because it was mine and so many others, and because no one could take it away.
For the next one, the only prompt was that it had to begin with the line: "Sometimes what you get is not what you thought you wanted."
Sometimes what you get is not what you thought you wanted. I thought I wanted to explore my family's heritage, and what I got was a ten hour train ride that I didn't know how it was going to end. I've said it once and I'll say it again-- Auschwitz is not a day trip. Warsaw to Krakow, no problem. Krakow to Oświęcim, fair enough. Oświęcim back to Krakow, fuck you guys. That was what I imagined the ticket machine had said to my best friend and I as we were trying to select our return journey. The machine said that there weren't any available trains back. Still, having faith in things working out, we got on the train to Oświęcim, hoping to find a way back once we arrived.
If I could sum the day up into one Yittish phrase, it would be "oy vey." That was how my feet and ass were feeling by the end of the night, when we were finally back in our Warsaw hostel. Considering the idea of sleeping on a park bench had been a very real possibility only hours before, I was more than thankful falling into my hostel bed.
Still, we got to go to Auschwitz, and even though we didn't have enough time to do a proper tour, it left its mark. I'm still haunted by the giant pile of hair that looked exactly like mine. I could have been realted to anyone to whom that hair belonged, and I probably was. There's this joke among Jews about how every Jewish woman hates her hair, and I'm no exception. But on that day, I loved my kinky, frizzy, brown hair because it was mine and so many others, and because no one could take it away.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
#LINVASION European Edition -- I Did Something Good?
September 27, 2012
So, the following is a fifteen minute free write describing Amsterdam's red light district. (This is totally un-edited, raw Lindsay writing so...be gentle.)
I don't remember Barbie looking like this. The box is too big, the outside edge is too dark or too bright, and the girl inside is too unhappy. Probably because she is too alive. The Barbie boxes are lined up; the collection twists and turns so that one is never sure where is the beginning or the end. Even though the Barbies are in good company, each one seems lonely in her encasement.
Their collector must have been very persistent and dedicated because their diversity is unparalleled. There is Sailor Barbie, Beach Body Barbie, Nurse Barbie, Texting Barbie, Healthy Eating Barbie, etc. There are even a few Kens dressed as Barbie, which were probably limited edition or something.
I used to think that Barbies were just for little girls, but these dolls are much more appealing to boys. Perhaps they like that they are more bendable, movable, and changeable than their plastic counterparts. The boys are drawn in by the clear glass and the bright red box. They want to rip open the packaging that separates them from ripping open another kind of packaging. The Barbies encourage the boys' curiosity, inviting them in to play. Some girls take part in the Barbies' games too. The Barbies are flexible, so they don't mind.
Even though the children are allowed to play with the Barbies, they must not disturb the collection. They close the package when they are done, walk away, and let someone else have a turn.
So, the following is a fifteen minute free write describing Amsterdam's red light district. (This is totally un-edited, raw Lindsay writing so...be gentle.)
I don't remember Barbie looking like this. The box is too big, the outside edge is too dark or too bright, and the girl inside is too unhappy. Probably because she is too alive. The Barbie boxes are lined up; the collection twists and turns so that one is never sure where is the beginning or the end. Even though the Barbies are in good company, each one seems lonely in her encasement.
Their collector must have been very persistent and dedicated because their diversity is unparalleled. There is Sailor Barbie, Beach Body Barbie, Nurse Barbie, Texting Barbie, Healthy Eating Barbie, etc. There are even a few Kens dressed as Barbie, which were probably limited edition or something.
I used to think that Barbies were just for little girls, but these dolls are much more appealing to boys. Perhaps they like that they are more bendable, movable, and changeable than their plastic counterparts. The boys are drawn in by the clear glass and the bright red box. They want to rip open the packaging that separates them from ripping open another kind of packaging. The Barbies encourage the boys' curiosity, inviting them in to play. Some girls take part in the Barbies' games too. The Barbies are flexible, so they don't mind.
Even though the children are allowed to play with the Barbies, they must not disturb the collection. They close the package when they are done, walk away, and let someone else have a turn.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
#LINVASION European Edition -- iamsterdam
September 23, 2012
On a scale of one to Sleeping Beauty, I'm actually too tired to think of something clever to finish this sentence. After a weekend in Amsterdam, "exhaustion" is the word of the evening, and sweater pants is the style of the moment. (Tales of my latest and greatest fashion selection are in my next blog post.) I spent 72 hours in Amsterdam and came out the other end smelling like...well, not like roses, that's for sure.
Between the millions of similar looking canals, conspicuously placed street signs, elusive night buses, and rampant bikers, I'm actually quite surprised and proud that we made it out alive. The obnoxious Americans survived Amsterdam, or perhaps Amsterdam survived us? Jury's still out on that one, but boy did we have fun.
Our first day began with a walking tour of the city. Taking the scenic route, we meandered through the red light district. The prostitutes were kind enough to teach us some valuable lessons:
1. The attractive prostitutes do not work the day shift.
2. Don't take pictures of prostitutes unless you are prepared to buy them.
3. Even though the Netherlands is a super progressive country, some prostitutes are not fond of the idea of lesbian encounters and will express their distaste by hurling a half-full can of red bull at unsuspecting and stupid college kids.
(In case anyone is wondering, it wasn't me who took a picture of the prostitute. I was just behind the person who took a picture of the prostitute and got the shit scared out of me when she was almost hit by the red bull can. Along with the shot of energy, the prostitute had some other parting advice for us, which is too inappropriate to repeat, even on this blog.)
As a lover of walking tours, I was totally into the entire experience. However, even as I enjoyed and took in everything we were seeing and learning, I don't know how much of it I actually retained. Here's the thing about Amsterdam: it all kind of looks the same. There are dozens of canals and hundreds of bridges over these canals, which after a while just gave me the feeling of being on a really long, really dry ride at a water park.
Luckily, there were two large squares that we used as landmarks. One was Dam Square and the other was Rembrandt Square. Dam Square was the big tourist center of the city, probably because of its giant palace and access to the red light district.
Because we were in a huge ass school group of more than eighty people, Dam Square became our default meeting place. It was here that we were later separated into smaller groups to visit the Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam's largest (and only?) art museum.
At the Rijksmuseum, we were guided by one of Emerson's professors who highlighted various pieces of art. She
explained their techniques, content, and history, which I found to be very interesting. A lot of people do not like to be guided around art museums, but, when it comes to classical art, I don't know how to appreciate it unless I know the biblical backstory and the artistic technique. I'm one of those people who judges art based on its amount of original content. In conventional art, there isn't a whole lot of this, except in technique. However, I am a painting ignoramus; so I really appreciated learning about the specific techniques of different artists.
Even with all the classical art, my favorite one was a piece of modern art that doubled as a lobby decoration. Called "Grandfather Clock," this piece was a literal clock with a man's face for the face. Well, technically, it was a video of a man's face, and the face itself was blurred behind the frosted glass. The artist, who I'm guessing is also the man "in the clock," would change the time by drawing a new arrow for the minute hand every minute (duh) and a new arrow for the hour hand every hour (also duh). I was taken in by the innovation, execution, and total concept of this piece. I kinda sorta fell in love with it. And when I thought about the time and dedication it must have taken to film those original twelve hours of drawing and erasing, my appreciation doubled. Eat your heart out, Rembrandt. (Of course, this is the one thing I didn't take a picture of, because I'm an idiot.)
Anyway, I'd like to tell you more about my trip but you've read a lot already...and this is the internet. Some stories are not meant for the internet. Whatever happened to the oral tradition? I make a formal motion to bring it back. If you're also in favor, you know how to reach me. And maybe, after a long discussion about the importance of rhetoric, we can initiate our new practice with a couple of stories...
On a scale of one to Sleeping Beauty, I'm actually too tired to think of something clever to finish this sentence. After a weekend in Amsterdam, "exhaustion" is the word of the evening, and sweater pants is the style of the moment. (Tales of my latest and greatest fashion selection are in my next blog post.) I spent 72 hours in Amsterdam and came out the other end smelling like...well, not like roses, that's for sure.
 |
 |
| So. Many. Bikes. |
1. The attractive prostitutes do not work the day shift.
2. Don't take pictures of prostitutes unless you are prepared to buy them.
3. Even though the Netherlands is a super progressive country, some prostitutes are not fond of the idea of lesbian encounters and will express their distaste by hurling a half-full can of red bull at unsuspecting and stupid college kids.
(In case anyone is wondering, it wasn't me who took a picture of the prostitute. I was just behind the person who took a picture of the prostitute and got the shit scared out of me when she was almost hit by the red bull can. Along with the shot of energy, the prostitute had some other parting advice for us, which is too inappropriate to repeat, even on this blog.)
As a lover of walking tours, I was totally into the entire experience. However, even as I enjoyed and took in everything we were seeing and learning, I don't know how much of it I actually retained. Here's the thing about Amsterdam: it all kind of looks the same. There are dozens of canals and hundreds of bridges over these canals, which after a while just gave me the feeling of being on a really long, really dry ride at a water park.
 |
| You see what I mean? Beautiful, but similar... |
Luckily, there were two large squares that we used as landmarks. One was Dam Square and the other was Rembrandt Square. Dam Square was the big tourist center of the city, probably because of its giant palace and access to the red light district.
 |
| This is the palace. I don't know how to take straight pictures, apparently. |
 |
| This is either the backside of the palace, or a completely different palace altogether. I'm really bad at this. |
Because we were in a huge ass school group of more than eighty people, Dam Square became our default meeting place. It was here that we were later separated into smaller groups to visit the Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam's largest (and only?) art museum.
 |
| A self-portrait of Rembrandt |
 |
| I honestly don't remember the historical event portrayed in this painting or the identity of the artist responsible for it. |
At the Rijksmuseum, we were guided by one of Emerson's professors who highlighted various pieces of art. She
explained their techniques, content, and history, which I found to be very interesting. A lot of people do not like to be guided around art museums, but, when it comes to classical art, I don't know how to appreciate it unless I know the biblical backstory and the artistic technique. I'm one of those people who judges art based on its amount of original content. In conventional art, there isn't a whole lot of this, except in technique. However, I am a painting ignoramus; so I really appreciated learning about the specific techniques of different artists.
Even with all the classical art, my favorite one was a piece of modern art that doubled as a lobby decoration. Called "Grandfather Clock," this piece was a literal clock with a man's face for the face. Well, technically, it was a video of a man's face, and the face itself was blurred behind the frosted glass. The artist, who I'm guessing is also the man "in the clock," would change the time by drawing a new arrow for the minute hand every minute (duh) and a new arrow for the hour hand every hour (also duh). I was taken in by the innovation, execution, and total concept of this piece. I kinda sorta fell in love with it. And when I thought about the time and dedication it must have taken to film those original twelve hours of drawing and erasing, my appreciation doubled. Eat your heart out, Rembrandt. (Of course, this is the one thing I didn't take a picture of, because I'm an idiot.)
Anyway, I'd like to tell you more about my trip but you've read a lot already...and this is the internet. Some stories are not meant for the internet. Whatever happened to the oral tradition? I make a formal motion to bring it back. If you're also in favor, you know how to reach me. And maybe, after a long discussion about the importance of rhetoric, we can initiate our new practice with a couple of stories...
Friday, September 14, 2012
#LINVASION European Edition -- Checking In
September 14, 2012
Today, I arrived in the Netherlands and moved into the castle. (See how I slipped that in there, so nonchalantly?)
I also wrote my parents an e-mail to let them know that I was alive. I wanted to express how much I loved my room (IN THE TOWER OF THE CASTLE), so I began the letter in the vein of one of my family's favorite musicals. Then, I realized that once I finished my e-mail I would have to do real work, so it evolved into this:
Dearest darlingest Momsie and Popsicle,
Today, I arrived in the Netherlands and moved into the castle. (See how I slipped that in there, so nonchalantly?)
I also wrote my parents an e-mail to let them know that I was alive. I wanted to express how much I loved my room (IN THE TOWER OF THE CASTLE), so I began the letter in the vein of one of my family's favorite musicals. Then, I realized that once I finished my e-mail I would have to do real work, so it evolved into this:
Dearest darlingest Momsie and Popsicle,
There's been no confusion over rooming here at Well
But of course, I'll care for my health
But of course, I already love it
For I know that's how you'd want me to respond, yes
There's been no confusion
For you see, my room is an
Unusually and exceedingly beautiful
And altogether quite impossible to describe
QUAD.
What is this feeling?
So sudden and new
I felt the moment
I opened the door
My floor is wooden
My bed is lofted
They gave me flatware
What is this feeling?
Fervid as a flame
Does it have a name?
Yessssss
LOVING
UNADULTERATED LOVING
For the walls
The floor
The windows
Let's just say-- I love it all
Every little trait however small
Makes my very eyes begin to bawl (with tears of joy)
With simple utter loving
There's a strange exhilaration
In such fulfilled expectation
It's so pure, so strong!
Though I do admit it came on fast,
Still I do believe that it can last
And I will be loving
Loving my room
The whole semester long!
Love,
Lindsay
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