dogs on trams

It is November in Amsterdam, which can only mean one thing (well, 2 if you get excited about the appearance of Sinterklaas in the streets) but I am focused on the bone-chilling RAIN.  Last year I kept track on a calendar of how many days it rained in November (answer: 24).  This year I have given up marking up the calendar... it is just too depressing.

I did happen to find a sliver lining to all of this in recent days.  With inclement weather comes an increase of tram use - and dogs happen to ride trams here!  Each miserable outing I have embarked on has found me sitting among several dogs.  It certainly livens things up.  Lola has become an avid tram rider as well - but we have to stick to non rush-hour journeys - as she fights for a window seat every time!

curses!!!

Today I have come to realize that I am the unlucky recipient of a 10 year curse.  Not a déjà vu, but a full on curse.  What's the spell?  I mangle Dan's passport in some sort of water related accident and then try to repair it in a hysterical frenzy.  So today, just like 10 years ago (shy a few weeks,) I spent more time than I would like with a hairdryer and an iron.


It all started 10 years ago - we had spent 6 months living in Paris and were packing our bags to return back to the states.  Me being so very me thought "why not run everything through the laundry before we pack it up?" As those closest to me know... I am obsessed with doing laundry.  My heart soars when I see all hampers empty.  Back to the origin of the curse, though:  So, it is late in the evening and we are frantically packing the purchases of life abroad (like all of the winter clothes I forgot to pack and then had to buy - clever, right?)  Pulling that last load of laundry out of the washer to dry - when then I see it - in the machine is Dan's passport, all soggy and shrunken.  Mass chaos, blah blah blah, hairdryer and iron - we got it as good as we could.  And airport security barely let Dan leave France because his passport looked so dodgy.


Flash forward to today.  Giddy me goes to pick up our passports that have been sequestered by the Russian Consulate for an upcoming trip to St. Petersburg.  Happy day!  Filling out our visa request forms was more rigorous (and thorough) than most of my college applications.  Grab the passports - run some errands - get home and unpack bags... find Dan's soggy passport at the bottom of my purse.  The entire lining of my purse was waterlogged to my surprise.  Why you ask?  I can only guess because it rains every (*^%&#%@%^! day here in fall and as a result I have taken on significant amounts of water!!!  


Well, you know the rest of the story... hysteria/ hairdryer / iron.  


Dan's passport looks pretty damn good.  The Russian visa will most definitely have to be replaced before travel (not taking any chances with our red friends).  

it's been a while

I have a confession to make... I haven't had a really good haircut in well over a year.  If I am being really honest... that goes for color, too.  This came about due to a very traumatic moment in "the chair" last spring.  My husband's company was hosting a black tie event and I was a bit nervous - we had just been here a month - so very sweetly said husband suggested I go to a salon and have it blown out - alleviate some stress on my side.  Great idea.  Bad result.

I chose an uber-tony salon on the uber-tony street (there really is just one here) and booked the highest ranking  uber-stylist on the price chart.  She was fashionable and friendly... and insisted that she absolutely could not blow dry my hair until she had given it a little trim first.  There was a standoff.  I relented.  In less than 10 minutes she had butchered my tresses into a mess of layers - the dreaded razor may have been used - I kind of blacked out.  I attended the event in a beautiful (and borrowed) gown with a modified shag on my crown.  Not a confidence booster to say the least.

I have been growing out that damn haircut ever since.  I have had help along the way.  One super wacky guy I found in London that runs a "long hair clinic" where he proceeded to pluck and measure my strands and then twisted them into fists full of knots that he ever so gingerly nipped at.  It was odd, but it seemed to do the trick.  But did I mention that he is in London???  One can only find so many excuses to get to London every few months!

Alas, I ventured out today and relinquished my OCD hair tendencies to someone new.  A friend recommended him and she totally saved me.  I was starting to look a bit raggled and faded.  I almost called and cancelled my appointment a total of 5 times.  What a fool I would have been - I would have missed meeting the single best hairdresser I have had the pleasure to meet in over a decade!  Isn't it great when these little moments happen?

Things are amiss and I like it

Today I am reporting from a different village - Cancun, Mexico. After a brutal flight where I got well acquainted with an airplane lavatory we are now settling in nicely to a little vacation. It is close to 100 farenheit and brilliantly sunny. Jet lag (my friend and foe wrapped into one) has taken complete control of my life. Yesterday I fell asleep at 4pm only to awake at 4am today... It was the best sleep of my life. Let me tell you, getting up EARLY affords you a lot of productivity in your day! My dearest and very unfortunately departed grandparents used to rise at 3am and made homeade chili - I kid you not. As a kid I never really saw the appeal, but NOW... sign me up! It has been a banner day for sure.

I just returned from the "Luxury Palace" shopping mall down the street. Someone's deoderant ran out on day 2 and restocking in this heat was priority number one! From the prices I saw, New York's Fifth Avenue is underpricing their merchandise - Cancun prices almost double. I was tempted to opt for the generic deodorant with the straightforward name "ManManMan" but I wasn't sure my husband would find it as "FunnyFunnyFunny" as I did. So we now possess some $12 speedstick.

Yes, things are definitely different in this village, and I am loving it.

remedy for rage

I have developed nasty new little emotional tic... rage.  Nothing to be proud of for sure - but I have this new boiling point (or broiling - which one is hotter?) that rises to the surface more and more often these days.  My husband aptly named it tonight:  Dutch Madness.  Let's classify it as a verb and define it loosely for now.... say when lots of little annoyances of the village combine into one combustible moment and you start to see red.  Not to be confused with March Madness or anything remotely Shakespearean.  No, Dutch Madness whops you on the head quickly and with alarming force.  Here is how it presented itself today...

Running to the store in between torrential rain showers (first annoyance) Lola and I were almost run over by an aggressive woman on a bicycle ringing her bike bell (#2) like it was time for Sunday mass.  Apparently when you ring the bike bell all bets are off for traffic safety, because she nearly mowed us over in a crosswalk.  Not having the vocabulary to yell something offensive (and appropriate) angered me even more (#3) and since I am closer to 40 than 20 - the universal sign of the middle finger just seemed so wrong.  At the grocer an old lady cut in front of me in the bread line (#4) and that got my heart racing yet again (and I usually have a soft spot for little old ladies - not today!)  A quick stop by the butcher had me relieved to see that the rain had kept everyone away - but then when I was tying Lola up to the dog post out front another woman cruised up on her bike and ran over one of her back paws (#5) which had her yelping and me again looking for some strong Dutch profanity.  All of this in the span of 15 minutes!  Back home while unloading the groceries the neighborhood children decided to play the "ring the doorbell and run" game (BIG #6) - which put Lola into a barking frenzy (#7) and me into full on Dutch Madness.

But there is a happy ending to this story.  I took my raging butt out to the park to walk the dog (and sweat out the rage,) gave my Mom a call - and 30 minutes later I was good as new!

renting... has its advantages!

Another rainy day here in the village.  Today I am stuck at home coordinating an assault of plumbers on my water pump - it decided to stop working yesterday!  A very dear friend pointed out that this is one of those times when renting is an advantage.  Today I can hand this massive project off to a list of other people.  Which is especially good since I have absolutely no idea what any of the correct Dutch words are when it comes to such specific machinery.  * I don't have a strong vocabulary just yet.

My phone call to the maintenance man was humorous to say the least... I could only report that some buttons were red and one was flashing yellow.  In a gentle way, he told me that this information was absolutely useless.  Ahhh... the Dutch and their directness!  It never fails.  At the moment they are slowly taking apart the wall in my laundry room to access the pipes that connect to the defunct pump.  This gives me great anxiety.  Suddenly I feel like doing a dozen loads of laundry, just for the hell of it.

Seriously, I am really itching to do some laundry right now...

* My Dutch language strengths are identifying all the meats at the butcher and saying hello and goodbye to everyone I cross paths with, as I aim to be polite in the village 24/7.  Secretly,  I think they expect this of me as an American - and I am surely not going to disappoint - my ultimate aspiration is harmonious cultural relations... and tap water at restaurants.

terrible movie has profound effect on my closet

How many of you have seen the movie Chloe?  I realize that I am a bit behind the times with popular culture... but I am in different country than most of you - and I rely mostly on what Apple TV throws me as far as entertainment goes.  So... Chloe - I think it was released last year?  Starring the lovely Julianne Moore and some other people that didn't really catch my attention.  Instead of focusing on the supposed erotic thriller aspect of this movie (oh Julianne, what were you thinking?) I found myself absolutely fixated on the protagonist's clothes (no, not the hooker, the other protagonist).

I would recommend watching it just to see how good a gynecologist can look in the office.  All of the pencil skirts, sumptuous blouses and stacked heels... No doctor of mine dresses remotely close to this, but a big thumbs up to the wardrobe designer.  Inspiring!  I want to dress up to get my groceries after watching this dud of a movie!

But the most memorable thing, the tipping point that forced me to haul out the iron and remove the entire contents of my closet to press "the good stuff" resulted from one cinematic pan of Ms. Moore's closet in the film.  Such perfection!  I have been thinking about it for 2 days now.  I am sure the director had other ideas, but for me personally, this was the big climax of the movie.  This woman's closet took my breath away.

So, since it is pouring rain here today, I am doing my best to meagerly replicate a little Tinseltown magic.

the hunt

Today I spent the better part of an hour biking through the city in search of the September issue of Vogue (aka the fashion bible).  I never paid much attention to the magazine (or this coveted fall issue) until I lived in Amsterdam back in 2005.  A very dear friend schlepped the brick over with her when visiting me and I so relished having something from back home that I spent 3 months devouring every single page.  Seriously, I even studied the advertisements!

Now I have a strange attachment to the magazine (September issue) and even more so - the convoluted process that inevitably goes along with procuring a copy here in Amsterdam.  I liken it to an easter egg hunt... in May.  In Amsterdam, you can get any version of the UK periodicals at just about any newsstand - and let me tell you that they are super entertaining!  But... not so good for fashion (sorry UK friends).  For that, I trust my dear U.S.A.

That being said, I wear some form of a "white t-shirt" uniform on a daily basis.  Seeing that I work from home, this is purely self inflicted.  But I love the white t-shirt in all forms, and own several dozen for different occasions.  I am the person that even has "dressy" white t-shirts.  However, only Vogue can inspire me to wear said t-shirts with supreme panache!

a total hollywood village moment

I am back!  Honestly, I haven't felt very chatty lately... so bare with me while I get back into this.

One of the pleasures of living in this village of mine is having everything I need (okay, rephrase:  everything I am going to get) just down the street from where we live.  I love our neighborhood.  And I love our neighbors.  Sadly, our fantastic Italian neighbors are moving today... I hope they are replaced by equally fabulous tenants.  But, back to my village moment.

I was at the store picking up a few essentials, Lola right beside me (that's right, you can actually take your dog along with you to most grocers ) when I realized at the checkout line that I had left my bank debit card at home.  This is a strange and scary experience for me - I have an aversion to paying for things with cash/euros - maybe it is all of the coins that you have to drag out over here to get things done.  If you don't have exact change - don't bother!  You might even get scolded.  Ahhhh, right, this is why I love my magical plastic card so much... now I remember.

Well, I just happened to have a lump of euros in my coat pocket, because I am that crazy person that squirrels money away EVERYWHERE - just in case of an emergency.  My husband could tell you some stories about stumbling upon my stashes, but I trust he loves me enough to keep it in the family.  So... grocer / no debit card / adrenaline to pay with cash - we are caught up now - wouldn't you know that I am ONE euro short when my bill is tallied?  Big panic.  And just when I open my mouth to explain that I am short - my most wonderful (yes, I have favorites) upstairs neighbor sidled up beside me and plopped a euro in my hand!  It was a truly magical moment.  Movie quality.

To top it off, we walked home together and gossiped about who our new neighbors might turn out to be.  Yep, it is getting a little Melrose Place around here.  Fun!

rainy day

I love rainy days - I don't know why - but I always have, and it just so happens that today is a rainy day.  I ventured out for lunch in the neighborhood with an amazing book on the history of the village (Geert Mak's fantastic Amsterdam:  a brief life of the city).  Sitting outside under the canopy, with the heaters blazing and the rain pouring down, the restaurant was buzzing.  It just so happens in this neighborhood that lunch is a serious outing... Louboutins come out of their boxes, as well as the "good" jewelry.  It is such a site!  I absolutely love it!

I have to give it to the Dutch... when they get dressed up, they don't mess around.  None of that deconstructed chicness of the French, or understated American, or even haphazardness of the Brits.  No, the Dutch bring IT - and strong.  So today I found myself more focused on my fellow diners than my book.  The first thing of note:  I was the only person without a glass of wine or champagne.  These people are fabulous!  If it is noon on a Friday and you have nowhere else to be... start pouring.  Second observation:  Instead of the traditional 3 kisses rule when saying hello and goodbye here, apparently if you know someone really well you revert to one kiss.  I love this efficiency and resolve to make deeper friendships if just to enjoy this exception.  And lastly, which comes as no surprise, lunch can last several hours if you wish.

Usually, I have a very hard time slowing down and stretching my meals out for hours (I am American after all!)  But today I had a nice, long, leisurely lunch of tomato soup and a grilled cheese (aka "tosti" if you are native).  It was the best 12 euros spent in a very long time.

to your health

I am just coming out of a fluke 48 hour flu bug.  These things seem to strike me down with a vengeance since moving to Amsterdam.  Funny, it could be argued that I left one of the most germ-ridden places in the world for a cleaner-living environment... but my immune system would disagree.  My husband jokes that I am allergic to our new city.  I always laugh politely, though secretly I think the guy is onto something.

This is why I have procured an arsenal of over-the-counter medications from the US (along with some nifty new finds in the UK).  When I say arsenal, I mean nuclear fallout shelter level of stockpiled pharmaceuticals.  Like, I could run a black market drugstore and clear 6 figures easy kind of arsenal.  Which, I am beginning to realize, gives me great comfort knowing that I am just a room away from all sorts of synthetic remedies, but once you are sick, they really don't do much good.

That being said... Theraflu has really gotten me through some dark times.  When I ended up in the emergency room last fall with bronchitis, and came home without a prescription for anything (* see below note) it was Theraflu in its many forms - powder / thin strip / liquid syrup that consoled me.  I have a deep respect for this product.  What I failed to stock up on are your average run-of-the mill cough drops.  They are at the top of my list for upcoming travels.  Halls especially - something with some bite to it.  Here the pharmacist gives you something that tastes like black licorice when you have a sore throat.  Oddly, the same little drops are sold in most grocery stores in the candy aisle... hmmmm.

When I had a sinus infection last spring, my doctor proscribed what we in the states call Afrin (a nasal spray).  When I gently pressed him for something more aggressive, he warned me of a dangerous drug called Benadryl used in the USA and suggested that I let the body heal itself with a little more time.  (Little did he know that I was packing a jumbo bottle of the stuff in my bathroom around the corner!)  The one time I got my doctor to write me an actual prescription it turned out to be for penicillin.  I am deathly allergic to penicillin - he knows this - I got the hint.  I have a new doctor, BTW!

So tonight, when I have a thimble of wine with my dinner to celebrate triumph over the bug, I will toast to health.  May I have it for another month or so... please.

* I did however end up with a nifty face mask, as the nurse at emergency in-take thought that since I was coughing excessively, I might have SARS.  It was a long night, but Dan was there to make me laugh.

vespa - oh thy dreaded sound

Amsterdam is jam packed with scooters these days.  They have even made their way onto the bicycle paths - which is a complete annoyance.   More annoying are the teenagers who roam in packs on their vespas and terrorize my neighborhood between the hours or 2-5 AM.  Last night they were cruising our street again.

When we moved here last year I went and bought myself a vespa.  I had one in NYC and it was a terrific way to zip around the neighborhoods quickly and not be beholden to taxis in traffic or subway delays.  But as I am figuring out every day - the city and the village are very different places.  Here vespas are considered a nuisance - and the bicycle reigns king supreme.  So I put my vespa on the market shortly after purchasing it.  However, in typical "American style" I had just about every option included on it - which has made it near to impossible to sell.  But such a target for theft!

My poor vespa has been vandalized 3 times in the last 3 months.  Every time one thing gets replaced, another goes missing.  The fact that it is parked directly under a street lamp and is on permanent display hasn't done the least to stop this.  My vespa has become the easy target.  It is currently in the shop having 4 things replaced - all in hopes of selling it at some point - oh the pain.  Oh the euros.

So last night I awoke to the sounds of a vespa gang (how ridiculous does that sound?) outside on the street.  I got up to peek from our upstairs window - prime viewing spot!  There they were - all circled around where my vespa is usually bolted down.  Obviously, they were back for some more shopping.  Watching them all down there - congregated and vulnerable - I had a strong urge to retaliate for all of their mischief.  I really wished that I had a paint gun (and knew how to use it).  I mentioned this to my husband later and he quickly replied that although it sounded like a good idea to him - it was probably something that could land me in jail here.

the first and not to be last post about jogging

I hate jogging.  I always have and I am pretty sure that I always will.  I have dabbled with it through the years - always searching for that "runner's high" - so elusive and coveted.  My thought is that if I can train myself to like it (or just tolerate it) that I will magically age with the grace of Cindy Crawford (and can't we all agree that she is lookin' mighty good?)  But once my feet start moving my mind says "when can we stop this nonsense?" and I don't last long.

So I have enlisted a running partner - Lola.  On a good day, she inspires me.  On a bad day, she stops and lays down on the running path.  She isn't the most consistent... but then again, in dog years she is around 47 (so the online conversion chart just told me).  I hope at this point you aren't worried that poor Lola is being run to death.  My version of jogging pretty much allows her to walk full stride next to me - we aren't breaking any records here.

But I digress.  I need to get this jogging thing figured out.  Over margaritas back in NYC a few weeks ago my husband and my sister had me pledge my allegiance to run a 1/2 marathon with them this fall.  The fact that it is in Italy certainly helped sell it, but I am blaming the tequila for pushing me over the edge to agree.  At this point, I am thinking that it might take another cursed margarita to get me through the actual race.

My running partner

 

the cleaning bug

Today I got the urge to do a little cleaning - which anyone who knows me well understands the humor when I say "a little cleaning" - as I tend to go "a little crazy" with the size and scope of my projects.  On the agenda:  the garden.

I have been putting off the task of tackling the garden for some time now.  First off, I really hate spiders, I hate to say it because they have never done anything personally to me, but they really jeeb me out.  I knew the probability of running into a few spiders was high.  Second, my grandmother was a tremendous gardner... really top notch, and I have always hoped that I would fall in love with it once I had some space and kind of reconnect with her while pulling my own weeds.  But my husband nick-named me the Black Thumb many years ago (for good reason) - so I knew that the probability of this happening was low.  Not a lot on the plus side to hopping in the garden!

I will keep it short.  It didn't go well.  Let's just say that pruning is not my strong suit.  I kind of chop.  I lopped off a whole lot of greenery today.  What can I say, I like the minimalist aesthetic.  Still, I didn't get that sense of satisfaction that I was looking for.  So I turned my attention to a greater challenge.  Something impressive.  Something I have never done.  Something that could possibly kill me.  I decided to clean the 20 foot windows that look out into the garden - all by myself.  It took a little creativity, an enormous ladder, and a lot of pluck.  I am now on a high that must be similar to when you reach the summit of Everest - or something like that.

driving for the first time in the village

Today was a momentous one!  I drove our car for the very first time through the streets of Amsterdam.  Funny, I had no problem zipping around NYC in an SUV when we were there, but here I have refused to get behind the wheel.  I just figured my odds at killing someone (or myself) were exponential with all of the bicycles, tourists, taxis, buses... and let's not forget the "silent killer" a.k.a. the tram.  This morning I took the hint from my husband and hit the streets solo.

In a word... TERRIFYING!  We happen to have a rather large car and the streets here are extremely narrow.  Plus, navigating is kind of like solving a maze, as there are so many one way streets you end up driving in circles.  I had the excitement of having a police car behind me half of my journey - that always gets the blood pumping!   I also managed to maintain my composure when faced with an oncoming tram - you share the road with them here - isn't that quaint and charming?  NO!  It is more like a near death experience.  In Amsterdam this is common.  Where I come from, it really feels like you are playing chicken with dire odds.

altercation with the alteration guy

In my 6 years in NYC I can't remember ever getting a single item of clothing altered - ever.  And here I am 18 months into Amsterdam and I have probably had a dozen things re-sized.  Thankfully they are being taken in / not let out (I attribute this to my extreme discipline with the pervasive eating of cheese here - meaning - I don't look at the cheese, smell the cheese, and certainly don't touch the cheese!)  So, I had to find a tailor to keep me in my clothes.  A very stylish friend helped me out...

I don't know his name, only how to get to his shop, and that I think he is Turkish.  There is an extreme language barrier between myself and my new tailor.  He is very good at what he does - but I find it incredibly daunting to have your clothes hacked up when the only common language you share is basically Pictionary.  But that's just me.

Regardless, it never fails that this "conversation" takes place when I am at the register waiting to pay.  In hand gestures, random English words and sometimes scribbles - the same conversation ensues - every single time:

Tailor:  how old are you?
Charlie:  36
Tailor: no this is not true
*to which I act flattered b/c I think he is suggesting I look younger - but in all honesty he could be suggesting the opposite at this point - I never push for clarification.

Tailor:  babies?
Charlie:  no
*the tailor now gives me a look of sorrow and stares at me in disbelief... I feel very awkward and say:

Charlie:  babies are great!
*the tailor smiles and takes out pictures of his 4 young children - he is very proud - I smile - and then without fail he draws a heart in the air with his finger - universal symbol for love, no?

Charlie:  (absolute silence)
Tailor:  you will have babies!
Charlie:  (absolute silence)

Tailor:  (stare down)
Charlie: (stare down)

Tailor:  38 euros
Charlie:  Dank u / tot ziens / fine dag (thanks / see ya / have a great day!)

I kind of think I need to borrow someone's baby soon...

this could be good...

So, it is official - cocktail maven Amy Sacco has opened an outpost of Bungalow 8 here in Amsterdam.  The rumors were true, and the buzz has already started.  Finally, a place to get a martini that isn't just straight up martini bianco vermouth.  Sadly, this often constitutes a martini in these parts - there isn't a huge cocktail culture here.

Back to the Bungalow, though.  I never made it to the NYC branch.  Or London's for that matter.  See, I love a good cocktail but I absolutely hate any velvet rope scene.  Or the private club scene.  Or the "we are so cool we don't let you know how to actually get in" scene.  I support cocktails for the people!  That is why I often sling them in my living room for my friends.  But it is nice to get out every once in awhile.

So, yes, this could be good.  Or it could be the most frustrating thing to come my way in some time.  I have sent my email reservation request for a table next weekend (there isn't an address or phone number listed - strike one!)   I didn't try to be witty with my prose - name / date / time - if that isn't cool enough - I don't think I am destined to Bungalow it anytime soon.

However, if I do get in... I plan to drink my weight in vodka!

a visit from the electric company turns into mass confusion all around

Every 6 months or so we are graced with a visit from the electric company - it turns out that several apartments in our neighborhood have their electricity meters housed in the closet of our foyer.  Lucky us!  This was explained to us the last time the meters were read and I have come to understand the neccessity of letting the meter reader in without protesting the inconvenience of this situation.  No winning this one.  But today's visit proved most interesting...

I let the meter reader into the foyer this morning and explain that all of the meters are housed behind the closet door.  I point to the door, tell him to help himself, and excuse myself to quiet our dog - who usually pulls her super-cute Cujo routine when strangers enter our house.  I close the glass door that partitions our home from the foyer, round up the dog, and head downstairs to make coffee.  Once I make coffee, I decide to make some toast... then check my email... then write a few emails.  Maybe 10 minutes have gone by.  Then I head upstairs to grab the newspaper out of the foyer - and who do I run into but the meter reader!  Now in all of my past encounters with various electric company representatives, they have gotten their data and boogied out the door.  It is a 2 minute visit - tops - and never are there any long farewells or goodbyes.  But this guy was still in the foyer.  So I pop in and ask if everything is okay... and after a jumbled dutch/english conversation I realize that he has been waiting this whole time for me to come back from dealing with the dog to open the closet door that houses the meters.  Ooops!  I obviously open the door.

But it gets better.  Apparently there are more meters he needs to read and he would like to access the other closets in the house to get his data.  Believe me, I tried to explain that this was the only electric hub in the house... but language/ culture / whatever was against this reasoning.  So off we go to peek into the closets - ALL of the closets.  Resembling a bloodhound - the meter reader seemed to catch some sort of scent coming from our master closet.  I opened the door and he began to search in vain for the missing meters.  He moved my dresses to one side, he moved some of my husband's shoes off their racks.  He even moved the curtains and tapped on the walls.  Speechless, all I could do was shake my head and start walking back to the front door.

6 more months or so until the next visit!

from the apple back to the village

I am back from a fabulous visit to NYC.  I won't bore you with all of the differences b/w my two fair cities... but I feel revived and refreshed.  Probably due to all of the nourishment I must have consumed eating my way through most of downtown - or maybe cocktails do in fact have  rejuvenating side effects!  The good news is:  I was happy while I was there AND I find myself happy to be back.  Now then, will this newfound harmony last?

Back in the village... there have been changes while I was away.  I had forgotten about the dead zone that most of Europe experiences come the end of July through the majority of August - summer holiday time for everyone - and I mean e-v-e-r-y-o-n-e.  Up bright and early due to jet lag (and my how I hope to keep this schedule) I headed out to knock about a dozen things off of a list of "to do" items that have been nagging me for months.  Today I vowed to kick off a new start - hit things head on - and enjoy my quaint surroundings - now knowing that the apple will be there waiting for me when the time is right.  So I head to the jeweler to repair my favorite earrings, only to see the dreaded sign "op vakantie" which translates to "on holiday" but really means "I will be back sometime before September, but there is no telling when."  As I walked my neighborhood I saw these signs everywhere.  My vandalized Vespa that needs some desperate TLC - going to have to wait a bit.  My favorite fruit stand just down the street - time to rekindle my love of grocery store bananas!

I might still be sleep deprived, but for the moment, I am happily rolling with the village.

duck ladies

About a month ago I got into the habit of taking our dog, Lola, for a walk in the nearby Vondelpark (think mini Central Park) around 6PM every night.  Of course, it didn't take long for her to commit this to memory and rouse me from whatever I am doing to keep with this schedule.  Well, on these walks I always feed the ducks.  I used to feed them from time to time, and now I feed them every night.  We are pretty friendly now.  Along the way I have "adopted" a few families - and I guess I have become a little possessive as a result.  Because...

Tonight while making the usual rounds I was shocked to find someone else feeding MY birds.  Nile Geese to be exact.  Having lugged 2 loaves of bread to the park, I decided to sit on a nearby bench and wait until the nice, older woman had exhausted all of her seed.  But then I got impatient... this woman had bags and bags of bird seed.  She was pulling it out of every pocket of her Chicos ensemble!  I'm not sure how public park bird feeding etiquette goes, but I am pretty sure that I crossed a line next.  I sidled on over to the excitement and started throwing my bread out in the midst of her crumbs.  I was back with my birds and I was happy (though I couldn't actually make eye contact with the woman).  And then, the greatest thing happened... she smiled at me, and I smiled back, and the most fantastic conversation took place.

It turns out that we both feed the birds every night.  It also turns out that we have mutual favorites!  We traded information about "who" had how many babies this spring, approximately how many loaves of bread we go through each week on our walks, and pondered what could have happened to some of the ducks that we no longer see anymore.  She told me the species names in Dutch, and I filled in some gaps in English.  And instead of feeling some petty jealousy about sharing the ducks - we both turned out surprised and relieved that there is someone else in the Vondelpark - sharing the same obsession.

sticking with the water theme

Dining out in Amsterdam is always a mixed bag.  Sometimes it is brilliant, the food is inspiring, the service surprising!  Often times it falls flat.  However, every single time you go out to eat here (breakfast, lunch or dinner) you are guaranteed to hit one obstacle.  Every.  Single.  Time.  The issue of ordering water.

It sounds simple enough, right?  Kind of a basic request.  Well, there is nothing simple or basic about it.  In fact many an argument have transpired all due to ordering water.  For starters, tap water (aka "water uit de kraan") is frowned upon by all wait staff.  That isn't to say that they don't drink it - the water here is perfectly fine - it is only that they don't serve it.  Instead, when you order a glass of water they correct you and ask if you would like either Spa Blauw (still) or Spa Rood (sparkling).  These are the only options, and the company Spa has the market.  Oh, and a small bottle of either will set you back close to 3 euros a pop!

So, usually the routine is that you then correct them and re-order your tap water.  This rarely works, but when it does you applaud yourself and look smug to the rest of your fellow diners that most likely didn't opt for the second try attack.  However, chances are you are instead told that the restaurant has a no tap water policy, and you are again instructed to choose from... you guessed it, Spa.  I have been with friends who have challenged the legality of this doctrine (and then I go hungry, because who is really going to risk eating their food after upsetting the establishment like this?)  The best I have seen is a half full glass of tap water after this argument, so really, there is no winning this one.

With beer and wine typically priced the same as good ole' Spa, it is no wonder why I often wake up with a headache here.

getting my toes wet

A new friend suggested that I jump on the blog bandwagon to get my brain back up and running... so here it goes.  I am beyond a novice - and am a pretty private person - so this will certainly be something to behold!  However, I have a feeling that deep down inside, I have a lot to say.

I relocated from New York City to Amsterdam with my husband (and our lovely dog) a year ago, and it has been such an experience.  Everyday I am met with something that makes me smile, something that makes me cry, and about 10 things that make me want to scream.  Emotional roller coaster?  You bet.  

Selfishly, I am writing this in an attempt to keep my sanity in check, as well as attempting to force myself to sit down at the computer and start writing... anything for now.  I used to be an art historian who wrote about objects.  Now I am a corporate wife in a village, just trying to survive what each day brings me.