Swine Flu Victims should be allowed to stand under Canopies

Two nights ago I was completely convinced that I had the swine. I had all the symptoms save the intestinal stuff (which is optional anyway). In a panic, I was googling lists of symptoms and mortality rates. I was supposed to be studying (finals are fast approaching) but since I figured I was dying I didn't really need to study anymore. Instead I talked to people about it:

1) Me: I have swine flu. I have all the symptoms.
Emilie (my sister): You don't have swine flu.
Me: Are you sure?
Emilie: Well I can't be sure of anything. Go to bed.

2) Me: I have swine flu. I have all the symptoms.
Dave: You don't have swine flu. *statistics that made me feel better*

3) Me: I have swine flu. Stay away from me.
Olivia: OH MY GOD YOU HAVE SWINE FLU. I probably have it to. We have to go to the doctor tomorrow. *freaks out about ramen we shared earlier*


I honestly think that two nights ago was one of the worst nights of my life. I don't know how I can be this crazy, but somehow I really did convince myself that I was dying of the swine and I spent the first half of the night in this weird restless half-awake state and the second half of the night watching dvds. When I woke up in the morning and realized I felt totally better, it was still sad to realize how insane I was. I also had extremely curious dreams, first that I had to be some kind of model and second that there was a fluffy blue bird with a long tail running around somewhere and we were trying to find it.

So last night we all went out--me, Jake, his friend, Livs, Gloria, her boyfriend, Dave, Kenny and his friends and Colin (all Canadian and American law students) and it kind of sucked. I wasn't even supposed to go out but I was supposed to meet my friend Dave who is in Amsterdam (although I stupidly didn't give him my phone number and we couldn't get in touch). In the beginning it was good--good company (hilarious--at one point Jake and his friend bust out a wolf mask and bandana):




So we're having good times. But halfway through a relaxing drink at the theater-bar we go to in Leidseplein, we're informed that there is a fire and everyone has to evacuate. It's pouring. There is a large canopy in front of the theater, but for some gd reason I am not allowed to stand under there. So a bunch of us are standing under the pouring rain while a couple of us are STILL INSIDE. As soon as I saw that like half the bar was inside, I reasoned that the rationale for not letting me stand under the canopy (quick evacuation, no blocking of the exits, etc.) had vanished. But every time I tried to sneak back under the canopy for a little coverage, I get someone literally taking my arm to push me back out and a disapproving "Frau..." or "Get out."

I wanted to cut these people from ear to ear. There was NO REASON why I, arguably a recovering swine flu victim (I know), could not stand underneath the canopy when there were still tons of people in the bar itself. Further, the first time I tried to come back under the canopy was in good faith, as I was trying to put my jacket over my head in preparation for observance of their stupid rule. This, of course, was not allowed. The situation was absolutely unacceptable. Should I have caught pneumonia last night, well...I am rational enough to realize that I would have no legal case against them. Fine. But was there even a fire? Methinks no--while there were like four policemen, there was not a single fire truck to be seen. Nor a single fireman. I was pissed by this point--did NOT enjoy being manhandled by unfriendly popo. Was pissed at myself for not giving my number to my friend. Was pissed that we couldn't stay in the lovely theater. All anger went to the Dutch government. I no longer wanted to support the tourist industry as manifested in Leidseplein.

Nevertheless, I joined in going in the rain to another bar that was literally filled to the tipping point. We left. Afterwards, we went to a coffee shop to wait the rain out. The rain didn't stop. The coffeeshop was entertaining because Jake's friend is a character--kind of funny in a mean way and was talking about how he wouldn't want to date us because we aren't blond. When we left, we tried to decide where to go. Livs didn't want to go dancing (the only thing I'd be willing to stay out for) so I left my bike in Leidseplein and we went home. We ate burger king and I fell asleep in bed while we watched Le Divorce. It was wonderful and I forgot about my grudge against the Dutch popo. Until I wrote this entry.

This morning I had to go back to get my bike. All these tourists asked me for directions, which is bizarre. I didn't know what I was doing but I liked being asked for directions. My mood improved instantly. I assumed the role of seasoned resident with gusto and directed a bunch of tourists in probably the wrong direction.

There were cool boat races in the canals on Nassaukade.

Funky Mood Today

Today I met two great Dutch people.

O I noticed today that 300 people have viewed my blog! Or one person creepily continues to view my profile.

The Last Two Days in Paris

The second day in Paris was probably the most uneventful day, although there were moments of hilarity when Olivia couldn't get it up and was crazy grumpy because of it. You'll see what I mean.

It began with a late rise, yet again. We (Pierre, Dave, Andrea, Olivia and I) headed out to a Korean Restaurant for lunch that is, lucky for me, right across from Notre Dame! We had a delicious meal--I had chop che and Korean beef. Afterwards Dave and I wandered all around Notre Dame and admired the Seine. Although we weren't actually able to go in because of the massive line of tourists--a little disappointing, since I wanted to buy my mom a rosary. Later we started shopping and that was when the shitshow happened. Pierre, a fantastic gay man, made out like a bandit--a Boss sweater, a coat from Zara, a couple other purchases. I can't remember if Andrea bought anything, but she had gotten some jeans and glasses the night before. I was satiated by my purchases the day before and still riding the guilt train. Conspicuously absent from the list of successful shoppers was one Olivia Lee, who is usually the valedictorian of shopping. We saw her waning. We saw her giving up. So we refueled by buying delicious candy from a street-side vendor and began shopping. Mango--nothing good, as per usual. It was in Zara that the grumpiness really hit, I think. I was helping Dave pick out new clothes (he got a great new coat, a beautiful brown blazer and a couple shirts). Olivia was visibly peeved and made remarks such as "that looks bad, take that off," "no not that" and "that's an ugly shirt." When we suggested that there were ways to veto a potential purchase that did not involve such bluntness or hurt feelings, we got *the look*.

Why was Olivia grumpy? Why was she taking it out on other, unsuspecting shoppers? I'll tell you why: Olivia could not get it up. Once armed with potent shopping mojo, she was now shooting blanks, wandering from store to store, trying her hardest to want things, failing, and getting pissed as fuck at anyone and everyone who made purchases. Her little fingers itched to use those credit cards, but alas, we were in Paris and Olivia couldn't buy anything.

Olivia was unable to shop, and she didn't let us forget it. Whether we were in the bathroom, at dinner, in bed at night, walking the streets of Paris, we heard the forlorn cries of one who had been foiled in her heroic attempts to buy. We heard a lot of "I swear to God guys, this never happens" and "This has never happened before" and "I don't know why this is happening to me, this is totally unprecedented." We consoled her by telling her that it happens to everyone now and then. It doesn't mean that you're less than anyone else. But I was worried. What had I gotten myself into? I was firing on all cylinders and Olivia was not delivering as a shopping partner. My mind wandered back to the weeks before we went to Paris, where Olivia would express through multiple media, in multiple locations, and at inappropriate times one single thought: "I'm going to shop sooooo much in Paris." Was it all just a tease? Was my shopping partner not going to buy a single thing in Paris?



The Grand Blank was shot at Galerie Lafayette, where we had about 50 minutes to shop before they closed. We walked around, appearing calm, but in fact frantically looking for something that Olivia could buy. A cashmere turtleneck? No. A black bowler hat? But where would she wear it. We saw her favourite designers, but the stuff was too expensive, not cute enough, there wasn't time. Finally we ended up at Louis Vuitton, where a bag was fondled and admired and seriously considered. I must admit I advised against it. The store was closing in 10 minutes. I thought it might be a goggled purchase. It was like the end of the night at a borrel. You don't take home the first thing you see of the last few pieces of meat there. You'll live to regret it. Olivia decided to think about it.



We put it all behind us and went out that night. First, we went to Olivier's apartment. A fabulous and gay tax collector.






Olivier and his friends were talking politics or some such subject that I did not understand, so I started drinking. I started in on the punch. I switched to the white wine. I switched to another kind of white wine. And a third.





Before I knew it, Olivier was dancing, then everyone was dancing, doing ridiculous poses, and wearing French wigs and shiny jackets and boas.






Before I knew it hours had rolled past and we were due at Nuit Blanche. We went to some park for Nuit Blanche. We spent the night trying to steal red umbrellas from a display. Pierre stole one while Olivia and I sang and danced for the security guard. We went over to the silver coin display. We got us one of those. We ate crepe. We went pee in sparse bushes. I went twice. We tried to take the bus home and stole the bus sign. It was a wonderful night of random and senseless thievery in Paris.

The next day, Olivia finally claimed what was hers. Over and over again. It was her moment in the sun. It was working again. First we did brunch at Kong, which was made famous by the season six episode of SATC where Carrie does brunch with Petrovsky's ex ("hideous, just hideous"). The bread was delicious, the champagne cocktail was good, but the meal itself was disappointing. I had the seared tuna, but it was cooked the way through and I like it RAW. We went to le Marais area, which is the Jewish/Gay/Fashion district. I've never seen so many intensely stylish-no-expensively dressed people rounded up in one place.

The seal broke, I believe, on the way from the Kong to le Marais with O's purchase of a beautiful pair of Chloe glasses. After that we sailed through Le Marais like a dream, going into everywhere, taking it all in, and wanting it all. We went into beautiful boutiques with names I can't remember that had wearable clothes in gorgeous fabrics. I may have destroyed a pair of soft, yellow, leather kid gloves but let's not talk about that right now. We also went thrifting, which was the best part--I bought all those vintage bags I talked about in my "pockets" post. The vintage stores were buzzing and filled to bursting with crazy shopaholic women and their grabby hands. You had to act fast, act strong, and get out of there. Right after the thrift shopping, I bought my Longchamps bag. That was a rush. Olivia bought a beautiful, soft gray scarf from a great store that sells bath and body stuff. We went into this gourmet boutique where the owner could speak Japanese. I bought rosemary honey and Livs some tomato sauces. When we went to pay, the owner was at the cash register and singing along like a ridiculous human being to the music that was on while trying to impress us with shoddy Mandarin. He also drew Olivia "moonlight" in Chinese characters on the tissue paper he used to wrap up her purchases. We went into a shoe store and both bought ballet flats--her in patent black and I in camel. It was a wonderful day. Satisfaction was in the air. Olivia was beaming. We dropped our purchases off and stared lovingly at the rows of bags. Now how the fuck were we going to 1) get this on the train; 2) move this on our bikes.

No matter, we needed to get dinner. We headed for a Chinese restaurant, which is one of the coolest Chinese restaurants ever. It was beautiful and Frenchified, yet still in the Chinese style. It was just off of Champs Elysees. Me and Olivia had "Thai fondue", which turned out to be spicy hot pot! It was really good. We had dinner with some old friends of Olivia's--they are French, but I guess they met Olivia while studying in California on some sort of exchange. Afterwards, Olivia, Andrea and I browsed Virgin Megastore and picked out a British comedy to watch that night. When we got home, we watched the movie and snacked and packed and went to bed.

A couple more things-- near Andrea's flat is a street called Rue Montorgueil, a trendy street in the 2nd arrondissement (in the Châtelet-Les Halles district). It is all trendy young couples and food stores--butchers and vegetable and fruit stores and patisseries.




Always busy and always fabulous.



Also, when we were in the subway once, there was an Asian man busking there, playing a Chinese instrument called the "yi wu". Well halfway into his playing he stops and starts to sing a Chinese song in Mandarin. Me and Olivia just started laughing because his voice was kind of funny and the abrupt and random singing was just comical. THEN, he immediately stops singing and starts playing some kind of flute instrument. Me and Olivia are laughing even harder now, making jokes about how Asian people have to over-achieve even in the field of busking. Then a group of a guy and two girls who are Caucasian also begin visibly making fun of this man and his Asian music. Me and Olivia immediately stop laughing. Here's what happened:

Me and Olivia: *arguably racist laughter*
Olivia: *stops laughing and with a stony face* "Oh my God, are they laughing at him?"
Me: *with an even stonier face* "They better not be making fun of him, fucking racists..."
Olivia: "Oh my God, they are making fun of him...bitches...he's just trying to make a living."
Me: "I'm offended"
Olivia: "I'm completely offended. Racists."
Andrea: "I'm offended too. And I'm not Asian."

Don't worry, I know. A prime illustration of the double standard and lovin' it.


The train ride home the next morning was kind of horrific for me. As predicted, I had a hard time fitting all my new stuff into the tiny backpack I brought, so I had a huge Zara bag with me while trying to catch the train. Both Olivia and me were saddled down with all our new purchases. It was raining. My bag fell apart. My ticket fell on the train platform because of this. I didn't realize that until we were already moving. I searched high and low for my ticket and freaked out. I barreled through the train and spoke to the train conductor who was so nice to me but was basically like you idiot we have your train ticket. But the scare made me grumpy the rest of the trip and I wrote sullenly in my journal for the remainder of the trip. At least some angsty writing came out of the funky mood.

All in all I really loved Paris. I couldn't keep living the way we were or we'd be broke, I'd have lung cancer, liver failure, and probably heart disease from the way we were eating. However, it was a wonderful time and it really is a magical city. My favorite hour of the day (as everywhere) was dusk. At dusk, the light would hit whatever magnificent building we were near--Notre Dame, the Louvre, the Opera, and colour it golden. When I think back on the Paris trip, I'll think of that golden light on the most beautiful buildings in the world.




I'll think of pink and green macarons, soft leather bags, beautifully fashionable people, and the elegance of a city that makes you so grateful to be young.

Paris

The train ride to Paris was relaxing—Dave, Olivia, and I talked, ate, and listened to music. Olivia and I listened to Dave’s ipod while he djed for us. Most of the time, dead on. We got to Paris-Noord pretty late—I’d say 11 or 11:30 and we walked to Olivia friend’s Andrea’s place. I was so ecstatic to be in Paris. Even when the train was delayed, I felt no annoyance because in my head, I still couldn’t believe that we were going to be in PARIS. When we got off, I was inappropriately starry-eyed and exclaiming about everything like an idiot, even though Paris-Noord is in a pretty shitty part of town and by no means the beautiful Paris that everyone knows. Even though I've been there before. “Look at these beautiful cobblestone roads,” “look at that gorgeous balcony,” “mmm, those falafels smell like Paris” and you get the idea. Annoying, moi. Olivia was in her element and of course wearing her Mongolian sheep skin vest. She speaks perfect French, so was able to navigate us around that night while we tried to figure out where Dave was staying and then where we were meant to be. Andrea lives in the troisieme arrondissement and there are a lot of little not-quite-fashion clothing stores around her, so we had a good time walking towards her place. Her apartment is on the sixth floor of a building with gorgeous, big blue doors and it is incredible.



It is the apartment of her friend, who either is an artist or knows an artist well. The living room is red with this great, larger-than-life portrait of a really funky, hipster girl on the wall.





The kitchen is clean and small and chic—the fridge is made of mirrors.




There are painted wooden beams in the apartment. Her roommate has his rooms on one side of the apartment. Then on the other side of the apartment, there is a fairly large room with a closet, shoes, movies, etc. and what is usually a futon/sofa, but now it is O and my bed. Connected to the room is a gorgeous bathroom, all small, shiny black tiles and clean. To the left of the bathroom are stairs leading to a small loft, just big enough for a bed and a few extras.






That’s where Andrea sleeps and she has it made up really nice with fairy lights all around her bed. In short, the apartment is gorgeous. One thing I’ve noticed though, (this is true of Alykhan’s apartment at the Hague as well) is that the “shower room” doesn’t have a toilet, which is so bizarre to me. I suppose it makes sense—those two functions are totally separate, but it’s such a routine thing to go to the bathroom before one showers, isn’t it? Maybe not in Europe.

That night, Andrea’s roommate wasn’t home yet, so we hung out on stools in Andrea’s kitchen, smoking and drinking delicious red wine and talking about everything—school, men, partying, old boyfriends, jobs, where we are all from. It was enchanting to hear Olivia and Andrea speak French. I could understand most of it, although I can’t speak too well. We drank and smoked till about two. Andrea had early class in the morning, so we all went to bed. I really like Andrea—she is a super-stylish, kind of rock and roll chic, half Argentinian and half Spanish. She has a beautiful face and gorgeous hair golden-brown-dark brown curly hair and light brown eyes. She’s warm and open.

In the morning, we slept till around 11 because we were tired. It was freezing, so me and Livs ended up cuddling for body warmth in the morning. We got dressed and ventured out—we were going to St. Germaine to go shopping, but we ended up doing quite a lot—first we went to Le Procope, which is the oldest café in Paris and used to be frequented by George Washington. We had pate (which was like no pate I had ever tasted),





foie gras, which came with this delicious warm fruit bread and fruit compote, and escargot. Then we had fish and steak tartar. We drank kir royals and wine. Olivia at one point said: “I feel like I’m on the Titanic” and it was totally justified. The surroundings were so classic and French and luxurious, we were surrounded by old rich French people. The service was impeccable, meaning the waiters would stand in the doorway at all time with their hawk-like, unswerving gazes fixed on each table they were responsible for. The perfect first meal. There was a French couple near us who were eating and drinking slowly. They were impeccably dressed, the man in a suit and the woman in a sharp green pantsuit. What was weird was that she had thrown her shoes off during the meal. Is that OK?








We stumbled out of there into the daylight, tipsy and full to the brim with rich, delicious French food. We saw the St. Sulpice, which is being renovated. Then we wandered over to where Olivia used to live, which is right by the Luxembourg gardens. We wandered around the Luxembourg gardens as well, which we crossed through to get to the Sorbonne. The gardens were not as beautiful as I had expected—more concrete than my taste, though to be fair we didn't see all of it. I think that the best part about it were the old French men playing chess. I was immediately transported back to Au Bon Pain in Harvard Square. We went to the law school at the Pantheon-Sorbonne to look around and I must say, I have never felt more ashamed of U of T’s basement classrooms. These French law students go to school next to the Pantheon, for the love of God. Their building is aged and majestic with old and musty hallways. There is must there. We have no such must. There is history there that you can feel it in the air. We have vending machines.

We then walked all around little streets near St. Germaine and went into boutiques with unexpected corners and expensive treasures. The weather was perfect: cool and crisp and sunny. Devastatingly, Olivia’s camera ran out of batteries so we were camera-less. The people around St. Germaine were stylish (nothing like Le Mariais, which comes later)—not necessarily my style (a little more bohemian and artsy and layered than I prefer), but it is Paris so everyone automatically looks great. The girls in the law school looked stylish and minimalist though. Then we went to Pierre Herme, which is famous for delectable pastries, in particular, their macarons. Surprisingly, it was almost all Asian people working there and there were probably 3-4 Asian customers during the time we were there (and the shop is small). Coincidence, but really interesting. I got something called “Desire”, which is a kind of fruity mousse with a lemony crust and strawberries. I also got macarons. We took our delicious desserts to Les Deux Magots, which is a café that Hemingway used to frequent. Since I am obsessed, obsessed with “A Moveable Feast”, it was perfect. We ate our desserts and ordered a bottle of champagne and drank and ate and smoked. The two French women next to us kept telling us how pretty and gracious we all were. It was delightful, though I’m not sure how pretty and gracious we were, considering Livs and I were all red from the champagne and stuffing our faces with dessert and guzzling champagne…When we left, Olivia and I were pretty much shit-faced, but her friend (who can evidently hold her alcohol better than two, glowing Asian girls) was fine. The people near the exit had a beautiful chow chow that we got in a cell phone picture. We stumbled over to the Louvre to go to the bathroom. I was pretty drunk but I do remember that we ended up paying a euro to go to the bathroom in some kind of bathroom boutique with like toilet trinkets and patterned toilet paper. But first we walked around the Louvre, which we caught in the perfect light—it was around 6 pm so the dusky light illuminated golden the creamy buildings and made them even more magnificent. Of course, then we stumbled over to Zara and I spent way too much money. Drunk shopping = not the best idea. Then we went to Mono-prix, where we did groceries and were, as usual, way too extravagant: rablechon and proscuitto, smoked salmon and blinis, tomatoes and yummy bread and custards and candy. Decadence.

We then came back to Andrea’s apartment. Her roommate Pierre was home (he is from Nice and also in law) and we all sat around (the three of us dead tired) smoking and talking about law and school and jobs. Livs and Andrea slept while Pierre and I watched tv. Then Pierre and I took a nap and by the time Andrea, Olivia, and I woke up, Pierre didn't want to go out so instead we just raided the fridge, ate, and slept. At the time, it felt right but it turns out that we missed our chance to go out and club in Paris. :( I suppose I will have to go back one day just for that.

If it sounds like this trip to Paris was frilly and and decadent and ridiculous, it totally was. Just the way I had hoped it would be. Days two and three to follow.

You know you've lived in Saudi as an Expat for too long List

Because I am wasting a lot of time today. Here's a consolidation of the better ones I've seen. Wonderfully accurate.



1. You can't answer the question, "Where are you from?" (And when you do, you get into an elaborate conversation that gets everyone confused and/or makes you sound very spoiled)
2. You flew before you could walk.
3. You have a passport, but no driver's license.
4. You think California is cold.
5. You watch National Geographic specials and recognize someone.
6. You run into someone you know at every airport.
7. Conversations with friends take place at 6:00 in the morning or 10:00 at night.
8. Your life story uses the phrase "Then we went to..." five times.
9. You can speak with authority about the quality of various international airlines.
10. You feel self conscious around all white people.
11. You get offended when someone turns down an offer for food.
12. You live at school and go home for vacation.
13. You treasure pork and rootbeer as highly-valued commodities.
14. You have ever had to wait for prayer call to be over to finish shopping
15. You are fascinated by any wildlife bigger than a gecko.
16. You know the true meaning of "football"
17. You know that it's a small world.
18. You have ever gone to the "hammam" or endured a "shamal"
19. You get all the jokes in Aladdin.
20. Rain is still one of the most wonderful sounds in the world.
21. You haggle with the checkout clerk for a lower price.
22. Your wardrobe can only handle two seasons: hot and warm.
23. Your school memories include duck-and-cover drills.
24. You are used to being stared at.
25. You think VISA is a document stamped in your passport, and not a plastic card you carry in your wallet.
26. You call a chicken burrito a "shwarma." You know what end of the shwarma to unwrap first.
27. Your dorm room/apartment/living room looks a little like a museum with all the "exotic" things you have around.
28. You've heard of "hubbly bubbly."
29. You've woken up in the middle of the night to watch the Superbowl on cable
30. You have sat in a "men's" or "women's" section in an airport, hospital, or restaurant.
31. You know the geography of the rest of the world, but you don't know the geography of your own country. (Isn't Philadelphia it's own state?)
32. Your best friends are from 5 different countries.
34. You ask your roommate when the houseboy is scheduled to come clean
35. You think the uncut version of "Little House on the Prairie" is sexual and provocative.
36. You're not surprised when you look over to the car next to you and there is a goat in the passenger seat.
37. You think SR500 is a good price
38. You enjoy channel 2
39. You think that the further you inch into an intersection the faster the
light will turn green
40. You have more carpets than floor space
41. You expect gold for every birthday
42. You expect to pay more for water than for petrol
43. You remember not eating in public in the daytime during the holy month of
Ramadan.
44. You know someone is referring to Pepsi when they say “BEBSI”.
45. You think anyone with a cane is out to get you.
46. You don’t think it is ostentatious to own more than one Rolex.
47. Your school closes early because of sandstorms
48. You are not surprised to see an 8 year old driving the car next to you.
49. You think cars only come in white.
50. You consider it normal for the same section of the road to be dug up three times by contractors in the space of a few weeks
51. You understand that the true definition of a nanosecond is the time interval between the light turning green and the guy behind you honking his horn
52. You think that all gas stations are made of marble
53. You can receive every TV station crystal clear except the local one
54. You get used to using the cold water tap to get hot water during the summer
55. You make left turns from the far right lane without a second thought

Missing pockets, acquiring pockets

I will post on Paris soon--I'd like to do it while it's still in my memory. So, soon. I woke up this morning in a funk and I opened my gmail to find all these messages from people I love. My parents, my sister (who is cleaning up on med school interviews *fingers crossed*), my best friends from around the world! I miss and love them all. Oh how delightful to be called a "pocket rocket" and a "TINGS"! I haven't heard those names for too long. The other day we were in class booking Vienna tickets and someone called me "Suk-Ting" after I sent him my booking confirmation. It was so out of place in friggin the U-ROPE-ean Union class and instantly made me homesick! People call me "Tchan" here which reminds of Wordsworth, Keats, A Sand County Almanac, apple cider at the Marchants, and general Hotchkiss fall. (aside: I've been thinking Keats lately because I think there is a movie coming out about his life? "Evening Star?" I'd be interested to see it) I suppose one day the name "TChan" will remind me of Amsterdam too!

Anyways, thought: I need to work at staying in touch, especially with my parents. It's hard to talk to those you miss too much. It jars with the reality of the space between you.

Another thought: Wonderful new friends! I love all my new friends here and I feel especially lucky to have Olivia living so nearby and being such a fast and solid friend to me.




Third and most superficial thought: Wonderful new bags. When in Paris we went to a vintage store and I went crazy--the bags were 5-10 euros and delightful. I bought: a leather, black, softened passport holder; a beautiful cream colored leather bag-let with a gold chain; a brown leather purse. All for 20 euro! I also...bought...a...Longchamps bag! i LOVE it. It was more than 20 euro, but still cheaper than it would be in Canada. It is a soft, olive-green. Today, I went with Olivia to fax something on Spuistraat when I had no business going to the printerzoetbittenfaxenhein (I have no idea what it is called, OK) SPECIFICALLY to test out my Longchamps bag. It looks wonderful on my yellow bicycle. Ok, and I must also add that I bought a fourth thing at the vintage shop--a new wallet! It is just gorgeous (it has a lock), and it has a separate zipper for a pocket that will fit all my change. Hopefully the days of the flying change phenomenon have passed.

Final thought: I'm lucky to have family, old friends, new friends, and wonderful French bags with extra pockets.

Various whingings

The first thing I want to do is comment on the people of Amsterdam and the “Dutch” culture I’ve experienced during my time here. I in no way suggest that the Dutch people I have met so far comprise a collective Antichrist. I make no moral judgments on them whatever—I am sure many are good-hearted, kind people. Deep down. Just kidding. I have run across many Dutch people who are helpful in a functional, no-nonsense, sarcastically-joking-to-the-point-of-utter-discomfort kind of way. But I have had positive interactions with at least five Dutch people. Two of them were my beautiful ISN coaches, who were always helpful and kind and generous with themselves.





One was a Houthaven RA who stayed with me for thirty minutes to make sure my internet worked. One of them was a boy in law school who I have had good conversations with and who has helped interpret some administrative letters. One was a superintendent at Stavangerweg who was sympathetic and helpful. However, there are also negative aspects about the culture as I have experienced it here:



a. "Live and let live": Many of the white Dutch people in Amsterdam I have met or who have talked to us (during “cultural training,” class, or what-have-you) consider themselves liberal, left-wing and specifically non-racist (see point “c”) It is supposedly a “live and let live” kind of culture. Meaning, I suppose, that the Dutch will let us be free to be you and me. But I have talked to an American who has lived and worked for a year in Amsterdam and I have observed and spoken to Dutch people on this topic myself. I conclude (and I realize it has only been a month)that it seems very hard to integrate and very hard to make good Dutch friends. While they will tolerate your friendship in a compulsory setting (the workplace, school, etc.), on the weekends, they will hang out with the Dutch friends they have known since high school. I wonder—while the Dutch may let you live and be yourself, in your Chinese-North-American-Saudi-Arabian glory, maybe it’s only OK if you live and be yourself somewhere apart from them, somewhere over there. Live and let live, but don’t do it within my inner circle? We will tolerate, but we will not accept, never mind embrace? I don’t know. The coldness and quiet reserve I’ve seen in many Dutch tilts me towards that conclusion too. Too early to tell, perhaps.
b. Further, the Dutch attitude towards helping people who clearly need help is very strange and, frankly, chilling. Now, if you ask for help (granted completion of any necessary administrative steps, see below at point "e"), you will probably get it. This is especially true if it is the direct and immediate job of the person you have asked to perform the specific, discrete function you have asked of them. In other cases, it is less clear. I’ve really yet to see Good Samaritans. There have been times where I have been a hot mess, close to tears, in need of help. At my dorms, at the train station, at the trams. And my heart absolutely sinks when I see that apologetic shrug of the shoulders that is becoming really familiar to me. That shrug means that the person really is not willing to go out of his/her way to help you. That shrug means that the person has some sort of heart and is pitying you if not sympathizing with you if not empathizing with you, but that he/she is not willing to anything much to help besides the sarcomere and joint action that goes into shrugging his/her shoulders. I was disgusted when my friend Olivia fell off her bike in front of five people and none of them offered to help her up or ask her if she was OK. People have really not been willing to go that one extra step to help another. I come from a place where you always do everything to help others, for the simple reason that those others are human beings in need of aid. It is important to me to do as much as I can to help someone else. It is not like that here. For example, if you ask where a particular tram is (and you are wrong), the person will say that there is no such tram (with a racial slur thrown in for good measure). The person will leave you. The person will not notice that you are close to tears and ask you where you are trying to go and attempt to put you on the right tram. That would be too helpful. That would be too kind. That would be helping someone else who needs help. Apparently, if you fall off your bicycle in broad daylight and are simply too concussed to ask a nearby Dutch stranger for help, said stranger will not help you. I really hope to God that if you said “Please, I am concussed and cannot move. Will you help me off the ground?” the Dutch stranger would help you off the ground. But I really don’t know if they would stop being disgusted at you and remember that you are a human being who is injured.
c. Manifestations of ignorance with respect to racial diversity, specifically those directed towards East Asians: This comes mainly from the non-white Dutch/immigrant population. Ne’er a day goes by when I’m biking to or from school that I don’t get “ni haued” or “ching chong chowed” or “maybe in Chinaed.” It happens at the bars, clubs, on the street, in the supermarket, in Chinatown, even on trams by the tram-conductor for the love of Pete. I wonder why. I wonder also what kind of pressures the immigrant populations face here and whether there is rooted and subtle racism seeded within the Dutch “live and left live” culture. What makes one visible minority here ignorant or oppressive of another? Ignorance? Or is it part of a larger power struggle where oppresee seizes an opportunity to become oppressor? I don’t know what it is. Perhaps I’ve read too much into it. And perhaps I’ve been in liberal places like Harvard and Toronto law for too long, because I’ve forgotten about this kind of ignorance. Luckily, since being here for a month, I am not quick to take offence to this kind of stuff (anymore), and I have learned to chalk it up to pure ignorance. In part, I’ve switched back to Saudi-mode to help me distinguish between two types of racial ignorance that I experienced there in abundance. One type was a malicious, mean-spirited ignorance that came from a couple boys at school. Saudi attracts a lot of Southerners, of which many were not the most enlightened individuals. Further, there were no other Chinese people in my grade. There was this kid Ben who would harass me by softly whispering “chink” in my ear every chance he got. There was also this kid David who used to do the slanty-eyed gesture immortalized by that soccer club recently (I’ve seen that slanty-eyed gesture since being in Amsterdam, unfortunately). Scarring. Now, another type of ignorance was a kind of presumptive and inappropriate curiosity that would come from the Saudis themselves and South Asian shopkeepers, the “where are you from, Japan?” type of ignorance. The majority of my experiences here have been of the latter variety I think. Certainly they have been exasperating, presumptive, and inappropriate, but not necessarily mean spirited. I’ve had to re-learn to deal with it and think of it this way.
d. I call this “Hey, Dutch person, is that your small, bareheaded child sitting on your handlebars while you speed across an intersection?” Or "You careless bastard, put some protection on that child's head for the love of God". No one wears a helmet here. I’ve never once seen a bike rider with a helmet. I’ve never once seen a store that sells helmets. I’ve seen like a thousand sex shops and coffeeshops here but no helmet store. It’s certainly not socially acceptable to wear a helmet unless you ride a scooter or motorcycle. The Dutch are very cavalier about their helmetlessness and we are expected to adopt a similar attitude. However, the many accidents the American and Canadian students have been in here do not bode well for our remaining non-concussed. One guy has had to get his bicycle repaired three times. Olivia actually got a concussion the other day after falling and biked home dazedly, which resulted in 1) almost running into a tram and 2) (although this is just inexplicable) getting trampled by a stationary bicycle which fell smack on her as she passed by. Dave got hit by a scooter the other day. I’ve wiped out twice—once in a busy intersection in front of a café full of people and once in front of an albert hein, flat on my face. That time, my brakes broke and I had to get them repaired at this tire-pirate bike store near my dorm. I have asked Dutch people about the lack of helmets and what it all means. I can’t help myself, because it seems the simplest measure to protect yourself and your children from irreparable brain damage should something happen while you haul your children from location to location on hazardous, narrow streets. Dutch people are practical, right? Surely a Dutch mother could see that one tumble for young Aalbert or Hadewig could mean bye-bye med school, hello insane asylum. Well, Dutch people may be practical but they are also very confident (some might say arrogant) with respect to their biking capabilities. Dutch people have told me that the reason they don’t wear helmets is that they are excellent bikers. This is followed by the snarky hint that you and your American friends, on the other hand, are crap bike drivers who probably do need helmets. Another snarky hint follows that “well you probably do need a helmet” is the worst insult one could possible issue.
e. Bureaucratic inefficiency: Do you need something done that relates to school, your visa, your living accommodation, cell phone, ticket, or any other important and administrative aspect of your life? Get ready to:
1) Try to speak with the person you have reasoned is the most appropriate contact, given the situation;
2) Get re-directed to someone completely different;
3) It is possible that number 2 will be repeated multiple times;
4) Bike a long time through streets whose names you cannot hope to pronounce;
5) Wait for a really long time;
6) Realize (and be told condescendingly) that you forgot to take a number (T Mobile, train station);
7) After you take the number, get scolded for talking on your cell phone. You can’t talk on that in here and you should have known that;
8) Be told that you took the wrong “kind” of number and you’re waiting in the “wrong line” because that line is for credit card only by an idiot with some kind of hat.
9) When it’s your turn, be out of luck because the person you have to talk to
a) is going on lunch break;
b) is going on coffee break;
c) is going to, instead of doing her real job, escort someone to the book shop near the flower market, a task which is well outside her prescribed duties (even if said duties are granted a liberal interpretation);
10) When you finally talk to someone, be ridiculed (in a “friendly” way of course) and asked to repeat your question 10 times because it apparently makes no sense;
11) When you ask if you can ask someone a question, be told that “you can always ask” in a very snarky way;
12) Be told that you have done everything wrong up until that point;
13) Be told that you must check the website;
14) Be told that you must complete a process that involves many emails and communications to people or administrators that in the end will not be organized in any centralized way;
15) Be told that your request cannot go through because you missed important steps and are essentially an idiot, but maybe this one time only they will make an exception and aren’t you lucky.
f. Food: the staples here are cheese and bread, but the cheese is kind of gross. It is one of those things that tastes pretty good in the moment but makes you feel ill 10 minutes afterwards. Luckily, there have been delicious grapes and chinois buns and cherry tomatoes and gummies and tangerines.
g. Lack of places that take credit card: We were told during orientation that the Dutch are a practical minded and frugal people who do not like to owe anything or be owed anything. Might this be why NOWHERE TAKES CREDIT CARD. I can’t use my credit card if I am buying groceries, buying household items, buying printers, buying my school readers.


That's all for now. Will post more soon.