stars

Walking home from the Linden last night, I looked up at the sky, and there were stars everywhere, more than I'd ever seen before, so beautiful and serene that I want so hard to be able to use the world's most poetic language to describe them, but I don't know if I'll be able to.

It was as though they were suspended in the air not too far above, not pinpricks in a black blanket sky, but globes, shining white globes hanging on invisible strings. They seemed to float along with me as I walked, the same way the moon does when you drive by it in your car. They floated lazily, quietly, shining fireflies but so much more. I think what got me the most was the sheer amount of them, thrown haphazardly across the horizon, stretching farther than I could see. 

They hung over the castle, over the moat, over everything, and all I could think was how I am so, so lucky to be here.

brugge

Imagine for me, if you will, the quaintest city you can. What does it look like? Probably lots of brick, right? Maybe you've got some canals, music in the air, grey cobblestones, and old buildings that reach lazily up into the sky.

Now take that image, add french fries, waffles, and the best beer in the world (literally), and you've got Bruges, Belgium. 

That's where I spent my first weekend here in Europe.

Mornings in the Netherlands start really late. At 7:30 am in Boston, for instance, the sun is clear overhead, bringing light to anyone who wants or needs to be awake to go to work, go for a run, head to class, whatever. In Well, however, 7:30 am is nowhere near light. The moon still hangs in the sky, hazy and white, and there is still a smattering of stars on the blue velvet sky of the early morning. You can imagine, then, how disorienting it is to be standing at a bus stop, waiting for your ride to the train station, when the moon is still firmly glowing up above you.

We caught the 7:33 bus from Well to Venlo, one of the two larger cities nearby. We apparently chose the bus that all the Dutch children were taking to get to school, because at every stop we rolled up to, more and more young Dutch people clambered aboard, bringing a veritable ton of hair product along with them.

It's strange, really, to be surrounded by people younger than you, all chattering animatedly in a language you don't understand. Let the sound slip out of focus, close your eyes, and it's like you're on a schoolbus at home; listen in, hone in on the words, and they're nothing you've ever heard before. This happened on the way there, and again on the train ride home - loud, unruly Dutch adolescents acting exactly like you'd expect them to, the same hearty laughter and slightly rebellious tone of voice - in a different language. Surreal.

The train ride from Venlo to Bruges was around four hours long, with four train transfers - around one every hour. Each train we took was different - the first, from Venlo to Tilburg was what I can only call Hogwarts Express style - carts of six with sliding glass doors. Our group of ten had to split into 6 and 4 - I was in the cart with four people, and two Dutch peopled joined our cart - a young Asian girl with a worn red notebook clutched in her hand, and an older woman with tight curls of gray. They kept exchanging knowing looks and smiles - whether they meant "Oh, wonderful, we're stuck with Americans," or "Oh, how precious these Americans are," we weren't sure.

The second train was yellow, bright sunny yellow. The seats were also yellow, a deeper, more mustardy yellow, sprinkled with dots of paprika and cinnamon colored fabric. The train itself was exceptionally long, a blue and yellow snake winding its way across the Netherlands, almost from one end to the other. The train started before I really realized what was happening - we'd be at a standstill for the longest time, and then a slight jerk, and we were chugging away. Each time, it was a surprise.

We pulled into Bruges at around two, and stepped immediately onto a bus that carted us closer to our hostel. We checked in, and found not a grimy, gray place, but a bright room, with walls of yellow and green, and tall, thin bunk beds with grey metal supports.

Bruges is absolutely picturesque, with architecture that echoes every picture of a medieval town I've ever seen. We spent the majority of our first day there just walking around, taking in the sights and sounds and smells. The roofs of houses are all red tile, and about half of the buildingfronts had these perpendicular stair-shaped roofs, pointing like fingers up into the sky. The streets and sidewalks blend, all paved with deep gray cobblestone, the only separation being a thin line of cement. Cars and buses and horse-drawn carriages clatter by, the air flying past. Depending where you go, the smell of food tickles and tantalizes.

The center of Bruges seemed to be the Markt, a large open plaza with a gilt bronze statue at the center. All around the square were restaurants and shops, peddling lace and french fries. The focal point of the Markt is the Belfry, a pillar of brick rising from the ground, soaring up, up, up like a colossal game of Jenga that's been rounded off. Princess turrets rise up from landings, and even further up, the tower is capped by a chess rook magnified a thousand times. Gold numbers mark the time; they illuminate at night. Bells clink and clang, deep resonating booms that parade through the Markt for several minutes. Six different flags billow in the wind on the front of the building. We climbed up to the top of the Belfry on the second day, and all of the city spread out before us, a patchwork quilt of red and black tiles, long arching gray streets, rippling canals of blue and green, and the spires of cathedrals reaching higher and higher, never reaching the immense height of the Belfry.

Each building in Bruges is different - I can't possibly tell you what they were all for. One was a gray stone castle, accented with red. One was white like pearls, decorated with golden statues of men and women, holding swords in each hand. Trees reach for each other over canals that weave through the city, empty branches like fingers extended into the air.

I expected some things when we decided we were going to Belgium. I expected waffles and chocolate. I expected expensive food, and I expected beer. What I did not expect was that they - love - french fries. They LOVE them in Bruges - there are two competing french fry carts out in front of the Belfry that have been there since the 1800s. Let me tell you - they have every right to be crazy about fries. They are crispy, crunching just slightly in your mouth. Warmth spills out of them as soon as you take a bite, fresh and just slightly salty. It is rich-tasting, most of all, and they sell an innumerable amount of sauces to go with them. Spicy, and sweet, and mayo (!) and everything you can possibly imagine. It was delightful.

There were, of course, waffles and beer and sights involved in the weekend as well. The second day we were there was the day most chock full of food and adventure. The aforementioned climb to the tower happened that day, as did our waffle tasting. Greg will tell you that the snack waffles we got for one euro at the train station exceeded the four euro waffles we sat down for in the restaurant, but I'm still undecided. The real waffle was rich, sugary, with just the right amount of crunch. Mine was drizzled with chocolate, and dusted with powdery white sugar, all atop a checkerboard of warm yellow buttery waffle. I salivate just thinking about it.

We had something of a beer-related adventure, as well. Our first night, we went to the pub in our hostel, and chose beers at random. Katherine, like the rest of us, simply selected something from the menu in hopes that she'd like it. The rest of us received our beers without hassle, but not Katherine.

"Oh," the bartender said with a smile after hearing her order. "The best beer in the world. Hold on, I need to get permission to sell this to you."

We were all dumbfounded, jaws scraping the floor as the young blonde bartender walked off. What did she MEAN, best beer in the world? She came back, shaking her head.

"Sorry," she told Katherine, "I can't sell that to you." She asked if we had a map, and we procured one for her. The bartender took a pen and marked off a place on the map, and wrote down a word on the side of the map. It's not the name of the beer, the bartender told us, but they'll know what you mean.

"You're breaking into the Belgian Beer Underground," Greg exclaimed, and we all agreed that Katherine had to go through with this. So the next night, we made our way through the streets of Bruges, and landed ourselves in front of this bar. It was altogether unremarkable, tall glass windows tinted brown, a facade of wood and brick, with candles dancing and lights swinging from the ceiling. 

"Don't bring friends," the bartender had told Katherine, "or they definitely won't serve it to you." So alone she went, the rest of us huddled together on the sidewalk, teetering slightly from the cold, waiting in anticipation to see what would happen. This is all secondhand from Katherine, mind you, but this is what happened:

Katherine approached the bar, settled in on a stool by herself. The bartender came to take her order, and she articulated the code word she'd scrawled on her hand in black ink. 

"Oh, yes," he said, "I need to check and see if I can sell that to you." An echo of the bar at the hostel. Off went the bartender, who obtained permission and emerged from the back room of the bar with an unlabeled, unmarked, brown bottle, with absolutely nothing out of the ordinary about it. He popped the cap, poured some of it into a clear glass, and handed it to Katherine. She took a sip.

"Each sip was different," she told us after, smile stretching across her face and dancing in her eyes. Each of us, one at a time, went into the bar to take a sip. I can't account for multiple sips, but the one I took, for my part, tasted almost like honey with a light beer aftertaste. It tingled in my chest after I sipped it, reminding me of that one sip for several minutes after the fact. Katherine kept the bottle, and further research on what we found out was called the Trappist Westvleteren proved that it was, in fact, the best beer in the world.

Other images of Bruges blend in my mind: a hazy, yellow bar that played soft jazz music under the cacophony of voices. A tall, thin glass full of bright green cocktail that tasted of fruit. Laughter and inappropriateness, lying on the chain link fence beds in our hostel room. We went to the chocolate museum, and saw huge ornamental sculptures made entirely out of chocolate of all colors. 

In an out of the way cathedral, one of many in this city, lives the Madonna and Child, one of the only Michaelangelo sculptures that has been taken outside of Italy. It is an entirely surreal experience to be standing in front of an artifact like that, smooth white marble, emotion glowing from the woman sitting there looking down at her child. Voices hush as people approach it - they stand in silence, maybe taking a picture, maybe just looking, basking in the statue that keeps its sculptors memory alive forever. The entire cathedral was like that, epic windows of stained glass with colored light, and tall wooden staircases, large crosses adorning the walls. It was like a history textbook come to life, everything dusty and old becoming real, alive in everything around me. Our breath still fogged inside the church, but heat from candles distorted the air, and it was both very cold and very warm at the same time.

In the church, in front of several statues, were altars of burning candles that visitors could light themselves for just one euro. I saw a family of three, a mother, father and child, standing in front of one of the statues - the father was explaining something in a language I couldn't identify. The parents walked off, moving to the next artifact, but the little boy paused. He couldn't have been more than seven, cropped dark hair and green sweater with sleeves just slightly too long, fringes tickling at his fingers. He lingered there for just a minute longer, still in front of the rows and rows of candles. The candlelight was reflected in his eyes, and he didn't smile, but there was something content, some deep wonder sparking inside him, lit like all the tall, white candles that melted away before his eyes. His father called to him. He wavered in place for a second, that look of curiosity still on his face, before he turned and ran to catch up to his family.

It was, without a doubt, entirely magical. 

I want to finish with something I scrawled down in my notebook at around 9 pm on our first night there:

"The only home I've ever known is miles across an ocean. Pavement of gray stone in arches, a waterfall of twinkling lights, and the streets of an unfamiliar city at night. I couldn't be happier."

thank goodness for today.

tour

I'm sitting here in the windowsill of my room, looking out at the castle. The clouds hanging over the Netherlands like an umbrella have parted today, and for the first time since we've been here, the sun is shining down on us. It's still on the cooler side - I can breathe out my window and have my breath billow back at me like steam - but the sun is out and the sky is a cloudless blue.

Kasteel Well is a fully restored castle dating back to the twelfth century - it's brick, not stone, and doesn't really look like the epic grey stone castle of children's imaginations. It's quieter, really, more welcoming and less imposing. It's not a Sleeping Beauty castle, turrets and walkways; it's more low-key than that, a relaxed sort of castle, with wooden saircases, brick paths and trees everywhere.

Surrounding the entire castle is a garden, populated by a smattering of birds - geese and swans and white birds with black markings that cackle and caw in the early morning, before the sun has even thought about yawning and getting up. Around the perimeter of the garden is the first moat, wide and strong - about half of it is covered by a thick mucusy film of green algae that hides the water underneath. There are trees in the garden, forest green and deep yellow, and those that haven't sprouted with leaves just yet. Once they do, I imagine an explosion of green, crackling up and down branches, spring spreading like wildfire. There is an old, crumbling ruined tower towards the back of the garden that hints at what the castle was like all those years ago. 

There's a bridge you have to cross, with arms of brick, and you reach the castle proper. The castle itself is divided into two main buildings - approaching it over the bridge leads you to to the Voorburcht first, which is where Greg and I live. The VB is shaped like a squared-off letter U, with the bottom facing the road from which you approach it. It frames a large courtyard of grass and brick paths - there are benches, and small stone walls to lean over and look artsy. You can enter the VB through a door within the entrance archway, which will lead you to mostly dorms - on the left side of the VB, in one of the two smaller sides, is the laundry room and computer lab. The blue flatscreen Dell computers stick out and look entirely out of place on the wooden tables, especially considering the two flights of creaking wooden stairs you have to climb to get to them.

There's also an entrance to the VB at the tip of the opposite side - the other side of the U. Walking through that presents you with another wooden staircase - you climb it, each stair groaning beneath your foot, and reach one of the castle's two towers. On the second and third floors are more dorms - including mine. Take a right upon entering that door leads to a lounge populated with a pool table, a television, and earthtones leather couches. At the far end of the lounge is another staircase that leads to the castle's two classrooms - one is long and white, adorned with colorful maps of the Netherlands, and the other is more stout, more sparse, with long tables instead of desks.

Standing in the VB courtyard, directly in front of you is the Main Castle; it's surrounded by the second moat, which flows around and around. The brick building rises straight out of the water - three floors of stairs and glass windows. It, too, is shaped like a square, with a small stone courtyard at the center. You cross a bridge over the moat and walk through another rounded archway into the courtyard, and there are glass doors in front of you and to your right. 

Turn to the right, you can walk through the doors and down stairs of brick to reach our cavelike dining hall. It is, for all intents and purposes, in the basement - peering out the windows brings you almost level with the surface of the inner moat. Everything in the dining hall is white - the walls, ceiling, tables, chairs. It is far more intimate that the Boston DH, with tall chairs and round tables for four and five people. At one end of the hall is a spread of bread of all kinds - sliced and in roll form, as cookies and crackers. Large glass pitchers of water and juice litter the table, and condiments like a thick chocolate spread and ground cinnamon live in a little wicker basket.

If you choose to walk straight through the MC courtyard, you are presented with - that's right, more stairs. Up a narrow staircase to the left leads to the second tower, more dorms, and the castle resource center, a library with bookshelves against every wall. Up a wider staircase to the right are the rest of the dorms, as well as Sophie's Lounge, a bright blue room with these vivid cherry-red couches. Along the walls of the staircase and the hallways outside Sophie's are group pictures of every group of students to come to the castle. At the top is a crisp picture of last semester's familiar faces, spiralling down, down, all the way to spring 1985, a picture of students whose bright, colorful smiles have faded, the photo worn down by twenty three years of wear and tear. You can climb the stairs and watch clothing change, watch haircuts come in and out of style. The students at the bottom look like miniature adults in slacks and sweatervests - the students at the top are in bright sweatshirts and jeans, the image of college kids that our culture has embraced and generalized in books, television and movies.

One thing is the same about each and every picture. Aesthetics aside, from each group, you can feel the glowing mix of excitement and disbelief that they are actually here, standing in a castle in Europe. They are all preserved forever in the state I now find myself in - curiosity, wonder, a sense of adventure, of recklessness, of not taking one minute of this experience for granted. It is something we all share, each of us, from myself, to my friends of this fall, of two years ago, to strangers captured in a photo years before I was born.

Wow.

Things have been pretty low-key around the castle for the past day or so. We're all taking things easy, sitting around with Eurail maps splayed out in front of us, computer screens glowing, trying to plan thirteen weekends traveling across an entire continent. It's not easy - common expressions are scrunched, frustrated faces, wrinkled brows, eyes widening at prices - screams of "We're never going to get out of Croatia!" echo through the castle.

This weekend, a whole mess of us are headed down to Bruges in Belgium to enjoy chocolate, waffles and beer, and experience the first chaos of traveling abroad from the castle. The next weekend is mostly one-night or day trips, as Carnival parades through Well.

There are now pillows light as air floating through the sky, white clouds in stark contrast to the blankets of grey that we've seen for the past five days.

I'm going to walk in the sun while it's still around, turn my face into the light and bake like a cold-blooded animal seeking warmth. You forget what the sun is like after days of rain, and - let's face it - I've got even more days of rain ahead, so I'd best bask and take it all in while I can.

life's what you make it.

(no, for the record, not every blog will end with hannah. it just fits here.)

linden

Having the drinking age in The Netherlands be sixteen is cool, I guess, for a lot of reasons, not the last being that we can go to bars and hang out and have drinks and everything. We went to the Linden last night, which for those of you reading this who don't know, is one of the bars in Well. It was our first real night here, so a lot of the castle kids headed down to legally purchase some beer, wine, or other assorted drink - but as we all speak only English and quite a lot of these Dutch people speak only Dutch (go figure), it was a little difficult to order anything but 'beer' or 'wine.'

(One of the problems, incidentally, with the low drinking age, at least according to straight men like Greg, is that "you can't feel safe checking out any of the girls because they might be sixteen!")

I'll tell the truth - I don't usually like beer. The taste just doesn't appeal to me - too tart, toosomething, I'm not quite sure. I think, though, beer tastes like whatever color it is. The lighter the beer, the lighter the taste - not in terms of... heaviness, but in terms of taste. Does that make sense? A very light beer tastes yellow. I had my first really dark beer last night and OH MY GOD. It didn't taste at all like any beer I'd ever had, It was sweet, tasted browner, like iced tea. Delectable.

The bartenders were all women last night, women with crooked teeth, huge smiles, and short spiky hair. Actually, come to think of it, a lot of these Dutch people have short, spiky hair. I tell you, the amount of hair product collectively in that room could probably grease... I actually don't know. What kinds of machines need grease? Printing presses? A lot of hair gel, is the point. That whole 'hair flat but flipped up in front' that caught on in fifth grade is apparently still cool in the Netherlands, especially with young boys.

Oh, yes, that's right, there were tons of children running around the bar.

That's because the people in Well are all preparing for Carnival - yes, that Carnival. (I think.) They take these things VERY seriously. They tell us they've been rehearsing for this thing for weeks. And we saw firsthand just how intense Carnival will be.

Let me back up a little.

So, we get there, and it appears to be a very normal bar - or at least it fits my mental image of a bar. Everything is made of smooth wood; a rich, deep brown, pockmarked with spots of darker brown. There is a light haze of cigarette smoke in the air, and the lights are dim and swinging from the ceiling; a bright, jarring yellow slot machine dings in the corner. It's nice, sure, and the bartenders are pleasant.

Then a man wearing a long blonde wig, purple lipstick, and a black skirt falling just below indecent wandered out of the bathroom.

It took just a second for us to double-take.

In the Linden, there is a door marked "Toilette," and going through it leads to a short hallway; two open doors lead to bathrooms on your right. Further down the hallway is a closed door. From behind the door was a muffled thump-thump of music. Like Harry Potter drawn to the door of the Department of Mysteries, so were we drawn to this closed mystery door.

We peeped, we peeked, and I don't think I can articulate in words what was going on behind that door.

It was a thudding in our ears and children with red and black facepaint running around in blue jumpsuits. Flashing rainbow lights and men in huge costumes and towering, shimmering hats. Screaming, yelling, singing along in Dutch -  oh my lord, was it ridiculous. Every so often, someone would wander out of the super secret rehearsal, bedecked in sparkles and streamers, would yammer in Dutch for a little while, then turn back to Narnia.

We weren't allowed in. A very large Dutch woman told Greg, my roommate, that he couldn't come in.

"No," she said, "you not in here. Back to your cafe."

Greg backed off quickly, or so I hear.

Those Dutch people sure are crazy.

In the bathroom, I was spoken to twice in Dutch by middle-aged men. The first asked me a question - while I was peeing, mind you, and I know that might be TMI, but deal with it because I'm not changing it. I looked at him for a second, and then tried to say "English" in Dutch - "Engles" - and he laughed. I must have succeeded, because he switched to English for the rest of our conversation. This is how that went:

Drunk Dutch Gentleman: "Ohhh - how are you?"

Brian: "???!!!??!?"

DDG: "You sleeping?"

Brian: (attempt at casual laughter) "No, not really."

DDG: "Carnival, ehhh?" (gestures in the direction of the Narnia party)

Brian: "Yeah, it sounds like fun."

DDG: "You no have Carnival, yes?"

Brian: "No, we don't."

DDG: "Ah. You will enjoy!"

Brian: "I'm sure I will!"

He then departed the bathroom and returned to the party. I paused to regain my bearings, then returned to the rainbow-light-less part of the bar.

A second time, I walked into the bathroom and it was a little more crowded, and a balding gentleman started garbling at me in Dutch, and didn't stop. I think he might have been trying to tell me all the toilets were taken, but he just. didn't. stop. So, awkwardly, I left.

I returned to a table where several friends were deep in conversation about Carnival with a jolly Dutch man named Oro. He was wearing a pointy periwinkle blue hat sequined with darker blue sparkles and decorated with blue and white tassels. It glittered and waved whenever he moved his head. Gold and silver medals danced and clacked on the lapels of his blue suit coat. He was, as we found out, the emcee of Carnival - a very big deal.

All around Well, we've been seeing this neon bird symbol, and one of us asked Oro what the deal was. He explained that every town has its own symbol for Carnival, and Well has the bird. Oro gestured to a carved wooden bird hanging around his neck.

Curious, Collin asked what the symbol for Venlo, a nearby city, is.

"Oh," said Oro. "You know. It is... the chicken, but... not the chicken with the wings." He flapped his arms here for effect. "The chicken... with the balls," he said, struggling for the word. "The one that... that fucks the chicken," he finished, thrusting his hips.

We all stared, slackjawed, laughing, and then Collin burst out, "A rooster?!"

"Yes!" cried Oro, hitting Collin on the arm. "Rooster!"

The one that fucks the chicken.

Chicken fuckers.

I mean, seriously.

Whoa. Okay.

I start class tomorrow, which blows my mind. It feels like such a vacation here.

I think I ought to peel back and give those of you who haven't been to the castle a better visual, so we'll talk more about that in a little bit.

Meanwhile..

We've (still) got the party with us.

typical

Today, while we were being given the run-down on castle rules:

"You can't wear high-heeled shoes in the castle. Sorry, girls. 

... or boys."

Yup. Still at Emerson.

arrival

It is 2:55 pm, Netherlands time. I have been awake for a good day, but 24 hours and 3444 miles later, we are here and it is wonderful. I warn you – this is going to be a long one.

Yesterday began with a frenzy of activity, as halfway through the pre-departure orientation, I realized – I don’t have my passport.

I was like – SERIOUSLY? First my ATM card, now my passport? But luckily, it was safely at home, and Billy drove it in to Boston for me. I spotted him looking confused, wearing the black track suit he wears every day (it’s the only thing that fits him – he refuses to buy bigger pants) on Boylston street around noon.

The rest of the day was harried goodbyes, chicken pesto paninis and a lecture on Anne Frank in a warm Emerson classroom. The air was hot and heavy and a good half of us were asleep.

Traipsing onto the buses that would ferry us all to the airport, I realized how surreal this all was. There were my friends, standing outside the bus, waving goodbye. I felt – just for a second – like I was on a different bus entirely, a big yellow one with green seats and a bunch of screaming children. It felt, quite honestly, as though I was just leaving for a really long field trip.

The buses peeled away, and, as is typical of Emerson College, they peeled off in two completely different directions. We all arrived at the airport, though, so it worked out in the end.

For the record, the last time I was ever really in an airport was when I was five years old, so my mental picture of airports came mainly from episodes of Friends – like the first season finale, or the series finale, where Ross chases Rachel to the gate with remarkable ease. My reentry to Logan Airport after fifteen years, then, came with images both extremely familiar and extremely foreign.

For instance, airports (or, you know, Logan, at the very least) really does have those floor to ceiling windows that those bidding farewell to someone can press themselves up against in passion, breath fogging up the glass. The architecture is very epic – square pillars and circular beams and fans that shine lights and cast shadows that move and are honestly kind of creepy. Thanks, Kevin Bright and Marta Kaufman. What I didn’t expect, and perhaps what I should have expected, was the cacophony. There were TVs blaring CNN reports on the Holocaust, and at the same time, male and female voices blared over the speakers announcing flights and delays and other assorted information.

Our flight began, naturally, with me seated smack in the middle of a row, and there were two crying children a few rows ahead. Yes. Two. I mean - really? I like children, you all know I do, but my god.

Then, a genius Emerson College student started playing with the remotes built into our seats, and this flight attendant with a bubble of red hair came over and said that she’d better explain how the remotes worked.

"This button calls me," said the flight attendant, gently reprimanding. "This one doesn't call me."

I guess you have to have a good sense of humor to be a flight attendant.

Airplanes boggle my mind. I mean - think about it. They are large cylinders with wings, and they float in the sky carrying people inside them. HOW DO THEY DO THAT.

Honestly. We were, at the highest, FORTY THOUSAND FEET UP IN THE AIR. THAT IS VERY HIGH AND I AM WRITING THIS IN ALL CAPS FOR EMPHASIS. HOW INSANE IS THAT. FORTY THOUSAND FEET.

I’d pee myself if I ever had to be a pilot. Because airplanes seem so flimsy. Metal and people, hanging out up in the sky. You rise, rise, rise, and the air pressure rattles your teeth and blankets the air so that when you speak, it’s muffled, the sound losing its luster, muted.

The flight itself was, on the whole, pretty boring. I watched Cars (cute movie), ate some chicken that was this milky shade of white and I was really concerned before taking a bite, but it was warm and solid and tasted like chicken, so I figured that was a good thing.

I’d like to share with you something I wrote on the flight, which I think sums it up very nicely:

“It’s 4:35, Netherlands time, which makes it 10:30 in Boston. I am sitting here on a plane over the Atlantic Ocean, listening to Hannah Montana. We’ve got the party with us.”

I love myself.

So we rattled to a landing at around 7:45 am over here, wandered into a hazy Amsterdam morning, only to be greeted by an H&M, Loreal and Heineken ads, and an elderly bus driver named Jacques. Three drowsy hours passed us by, with green expanses and black sheep and windmills and McDonalds flying by the windows, and I must have fallen asleep because before I knew it, here we were at the castle, red brick and troll bridges.

“Let’s be rebels and hang out under the bridge,” Katherine said, until she noticed the moat. It figures.

I have to go have a life. More to follow.

We’ve got the party with us.

speedbumps

In twenty-four hours, I will be on a plane to the netherlands.

Meanwhile, I spent my last day in America walking around Boston and picking up some last minute necessities. I decided, like any regular human being, to stop at an atm machine to get cash to purchase said necessities. This is how that went:

brian: why hello atm machine, may i please have some money?

atm: OH HAI I'Z GONNA EATZ UR ATM CARD LOL BYE

brian: wtf.

YES. THE ATM ATE MY CARD.

This would not be much of a problem if i weren't GOING TO EUROPE IN ONE DAY.

So I immediately ran over to the nearest Bank of America to solve this dilemma.

Banks are all the same. The lights are too bright, the air is too thick, and there is an atmosphere of Quiet Importance. I approached the desk, and a heavily-accented gentleman named Dimitri asked me iv he could help me wiv anysing. 

I said, "Sir, your defective ATM machine has swallowed my card whole and I demand you right this situation at once."

And then I punched him in the face.

No. But I did make it clear that this was a huge problem, and he said that a new card can be delivered to my home on Friday. Wonderful. Except I'll be in The Netherlands. So the deal is, I'll live off of my cash for awhile and Bonnie and Billy will send the card to me ASAP in the mail. LOVELY. 

oh well.

twenty three hours to go.

supplies

fyi, i'm only bringing five pairs of pants.

it was surprisingly easy to pick out which pants i wanted to take with me. i only really have four pairs of jeans that i wear on a regular basis anyway, so that didn't take long.

and then i turned to my closet.

i stood in front of my closet for an embarrassingly long amount of time, running my hands over all of my clothes. it's amazing how many different materials my shirts and vests and sweatshirts are made of. warm and soft and slightly itchy and smooth and flannel. 

"take me," cried my blue and red flannel shirt.

"no, take me," said the gray sweater vest.

"you're all useless," said the brown t-shirt. "but i'm not."

i ended up taking all three.

i'm disgusting.

three days to go.

we begin

It is January 13, 2008, 6:57 pm, and I am sitting here in my bedroom in Revere, MA.

In four days, I leave for The Netherlands to spend three months living in a castle and cavorting across Europe.

Oh, and learning. That too.

I'll use this to keep all my fans (aka you people) updated on my progress and my assorted misadventures. I'll probably also post pictures - but those'll also be on Facebook, fear not.

Either way.

Read blog. Love life.

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