Egypt here I come... hold on tight

After 4 email conversations, I had confirmed with the hotel that a driver would pick me up from the airport and take me via car to the hotel. Maybe my expectations were too high but I figured it would at least be a nice car.

I walked out of the baggage claim area to a deluge of signs searching for my name. Soon I saw a piece of paper that said “Mr. & Mrs. Donaldson” close enough. I greeted the driver with a smile hello. He asked where the other person was (presumably Mr. Donaldson) I politely explained that it was just me, just one person. He looked utterly confused and said the reservation was for 2 people. Ah, no – just one and I can show the email to prove it. Ok, ok we go.

On the way to car, still confused I’m sure, he asked, “Where is your husband?” I thought to myself… rice and beans – you don’t even know me and you are asking where my husband is! But responded with “well he couldn’t make it this time” yep, couldn’t make it because he doesn’t exist! But realizing that this is a pre-dominantly Muslim country and a solo woman traveler is a rarity at best, I figured playing along would be the best option so for the next 5 days, Mr. Donaldson was unable to accompany me on vacation because he had work.

We approached a vehicle that resemble Flash plus a few years and I thought to myself – no… no this is not the car that I am going to ride into the dessert in with a strange man who is convinced I am not who I say I am. But alas it was. So we pile my stuff in the trunk and head off into the night. I loved Flash, really I did. I enjoyed driving him even on the highway but I do realize that other people didn’t really share my sediments and now I know why. I thought I was going to die when the driver entered the road at some speed I can’t even begin to comprehend. I have never been on the autobahn but I would imagine it is something like what I experienced my first night in Egypt – cars going at ungodly fast speeds, passing each other with no regard for lanes or signals. But I’m pretty sure there is one major difference with the autobahn and the roads in Egypt – the cars! The cars in Germany are meant to go that fast and you feel somewhat safe doing so, in Egypt not so much. I continued in this state of panic for the next 30 minutes – seriously couldn’t breath and my hands were turning white because I was gripping the “oh my god” handle so tightly. At one point we were speeding along and the driver pointed out that the water was straight ahead. And we were heading straight for the water with NO signs of stopping!! I quickly responded with, “Great, see the water. Do NOT want to go IN the water!”

After 3 security check points, we pulled up to the Sheraton Soma Bay in all it’s glory. It was like beacons of light in the midst of a dark sky… oh wait… it was beacons of light amidst a dark sky. There is seriously nothing else around this resort and you can see for miles. Paradise found!

Amsterdam Facts & Figures

As progressive as this city is, women giving birth are not administered an epidural unless it is deemed medically necessary. Are you freaking kidding me?? No, I have not had children (nor do I plan on it anytime soon) however from what I understand this epidural makes things a WHOLE lot easier.

The metro can shut down at anytime for no real reason; 2 of the 4 metro lines were closed for the majority of the summer… not really sure why. Now I’m sure there is a sign somewhere that explains why these 2 metro lines are shut down but I am also sure the sign in Dutch and says something to the affect of “the metro is closed due to the lighter than average travel expected during the summer months since most people will be going on 4-plus week holidays. Sorry for an inconvenience.”

10 (times 2) – number of hot guys I pass on any given day; this city is great!
9 – number of times I took the kick boxing class (and got my a** kicked!)
8 – number of coffee shops I pass on the way to the train station
7 – number of visitors I had the pleasure of having while in Amsterdam
6 – number of coffee shops I pass on the way to the train station, if alternate route is taken
5 – number of red light windows I pass on the way from the train station, if alternate route is taken Note: this route is not usually taken but is a viable option
4 – injuries sustained as result of accidents (1 kankle, 2 bruised legs, 1 tender ear – don’t ask)
3 – number of places I called “home” in Amsterdam (first apartment, Pulitzer Hotel – during water leak of first apartment, and KSA corporate apartment)
2 – number of bike accidents I have had involving other people (one with Ingmar and one with Ellen)
1 – number of times I got on the wrong train to go to work; what can I say, it happens to the best of us
0 – number of shops where coffee is sold before 9am hence the need for me to purchase a “to-go” mug so I could be somewhat pleasant on my way to work

The hash laws – as explained by Vincent in Pulp Fiction: It breaks down like this: it's legal to buy it, it's legal to own it, and, if you're the proprietor of a hash bar, it's legal to sell it. It's legal to carry it, but that doesn't really matter 'cause - get a load of this - if you get stopped by the cops in Amsterdam, it's illegal for them to search you. I mean, that's a right the cops in Amsterdam don't have. – Enough said!

You can board a train without a ticket; however IF the “train police” come by you are required to purchase a ticket plus pay a fine of 35 euros. On my way to Rotterdam, I “forgot” to buy a ticket. Actually I tried by the machine would not take my credit card, a Dutch PIN card is needed, nor would the machine take cash so I decided to take my chances and got the train sans ticket. When the ticket police came around, I told him I didn’t have a ticket and would like to purchase one and pay the fine. I figured the ticket was about 5 euros so in total I would owe 40 euros. He said that was not possible. WHAT? WHY? He proceeded to explain that he didn’t have any change so I was not able to buy a ticket from him. HUH? Here I am offering to pay the fine plus the cost of the ticket, whatever that may be, and this guy says no. After several minutes of debate back and forth of my options (which included getting off the train at the next and waiting at least 30 minutes for the next train) he conceded and let me stay on the train without paying the ticket or the fine. Whatever

And last but certainly not least
You can buy just about anything here…

I have a pretty big sweet tooth but this was just a little too much for me to handle.

Recording breaking weekend

During my wonderful weekend in Berlin I managed to break a few personal records:

Record – not falling for 4 straight weeks, if you exclude the bike debacle Ellen & I had it has been almost 8 weeks with no falls. However, on Sunday as I was walking down the steps of the subway station in Berlin my foot slipped and down I went – gracefully of course! I slid down about 8 steps and finally stopped with my right leg curled up under my bum and bags scattered about. A woman (with a very smelly, gross looking dog) tried to help me up but the sight/smell of the dog made me gag so I had to push her away. A bit bruised on the wrists and ankle, but thankfully no kankle was developing, I gathered up my things and went on my way. Note: pride was not bruised, being in a foreign country where no one knows you really helps!

Record – not having to catch a Monday morning flight for 18 weeks (that’s more than 4 months!!). But alas this record came to a screeching halt as my Sunday evening flight was cancelled due to a crew shortage. I was re-booked on the first flight out Monday morning which left at the un-godly time of 6:40am. This meant I had to be at the airport by 5:45am. Since I was staying at solid 30 minutes from the airport I had the privilege of having my wake up call at 4:30am. Seriously that is just WAY TOO EARLY!

Record – not having a connecting flight for 9 weeks. Yep, this one goes hand in hand with the one above. That glorious 6:40am flight went to Frankfurt NOT Amsterdam which meant I had to connect in Frankfurt. After being shaken awake by the flight attendant as we were landing, I was still a bit out of it when I entered the terminal. I did notice I was at gate A2 and managed to read the board to discover my next flight was departing out of A42. Now for those of you who have not had the pleasure of connecting in Frankfurt’s airport let me explain to you how it is set up… it is one LONG terminal in where there are no trams, limited people movers for only short distances at a time, and very scarce luggage carts (due primarily because it is holiday season in Europe I presume). In desperate need of coffee and a second breakfast, I stopped for nourishment about halfway through my journey to the gate. I also manage to snag a luggage cart which meant I was now pushing rather than pulling my crap, I mean luggage.

Lookout Martha... here comes Julie!

The 4th of July is a special holiday for my family so spending it in another country is a bit difficult. In an effort to discourage my feelings of abandonment, I decided to host a 4th of July bbq for our team to celebrate! I bought a grill, decorations, downloaded an "American" ipod mix, and even attempted to plan a menu for the big event. Shopping started the Saturday before the big day and involved several trips to the market and other assorted stores to pick up the necessary components of the celebration. You have NO idea how heavy a watermelon is until you have to carry it 4 blocks! I figured that I could handle making most of the side dishes for this meal as long as someone else manned the grill. Even though Ingmar volunteered, his late arrival, allowed Patrick to step and help out. Belss his heart, Patrick grilled not only hamburgers but also corn for all of us! Mind you, my "patio" is only about 2 feet wide and the grill could only handle about 3 pieces of meat at a time so this was quiet the production.

The meal turned out pretty good but the best part was dessert - a flag cake!

It turns out I CAN cook (and bake too!)... but don't be getting your hopes up for a dinner party anytime soon... just because I CAN doesn't mean I WILL :)

Bitten!

No, I’m not talking about SJP’s new clothing line (although from what I’ve seen it looks so cute). I’m referring to the mosquitoes in Amsterdam. These bugs are vicious and evidently not only are they really attracting to me but also I have a more severe reaction to their little love taps than most.

For my first 2 months here I really didn’t notice the bugs at all. I spent several nights with my windows (sans screens) wide open enjoying the night breeze off the canal. But come July, these suckers were out for blood.

I have been gang rapped by mosquitoes! Seriously I have awoke to more red bites on my arms, legs, and face - yep face - than I would have even imagined. At one point I think there was a family of mosquitoes that was making a nice home in my pillow. I tried to take a picture of some of these bites but magically they don't appear with the camera - ugh! Desperate to rule out the possibility that it could be something worse than mosquito bites I spent countless hours research insects and insect bites which only made me itch more!

Thinking I could escape these little guys for a weekend, I headed to Berlin. But oh no! They still attacked me – even through jeans and a sweater. I woke up to red bumps the size of quarters that were itching like crazy. I walked into a pharmacy and showed them my arms. Without having to say a word, they led me straight to the insect repellent section of the store. I stocked up on something that would suppress the itching and a spray that would deter from future bites. While I wasn’t snapping pictures or downing beers I was religiously applying my new products.

You might be a redneck if...

• you steal glasses from the bar because you think they are cool glasses
• you haven't seen enough of the red light district but your wife and sister in-law have
• you wash your wine down with beer
• you tip more than 15% because you want the Dutch to like you (even though tipping 10% is more than enough)
• you find yourself defending George W.
• you prefer to shop at Albert Hein rather than the 9 streets
• you response with "shake and bake" when someone asks if you are ready to leave
• you organize your own bike pub crawl
• you are consistently asking the server for another beer, "Can I get another beer?"
• you put ice in your beer and remove the foam with your hand
• you say to the sommelier"thanks for hooking us up"

The Rednecks are coming!

I awoke one morning to a voicemail message that went something like this...
"We booked our tickets!! We're coming for a whole week in early July! I can't wait, it's going to be so fun... of course we'll have to figure out the details but get ready because THE REDNECK ARE COMING TO AMSTERDAM!"

It was Ellen letting me know that she and Matt would be coming to visit. Needless to say I was ecstatic - this city was a perfect introduction to Europe for both her and Matt. And I knew I could entertain them for a week here. Let the countdown begin and Amsterdam beware - the redneck are coming...

Papa don't preach

In my weekly phone call home, my dad mentioned he might come over for a visit while I was in Amsterdam – great. A “visit” for my dad usually means 1-3 hours so I figured at most he would stay for 2 days – oh no he decided to spend 5 days in Amsterdam. What in the world was I going to do with my father for FIVE days???

For starters, the man works 24/7 which meant coming to Amsterdam was going to be a change of pace…more like trying to stop an Indy car while going top speed. He claimed he was going to “relax” during his visit. Now I found this hard to believe but as someone pretty smart once told me “people will surprise you.” Shocked is more appropriate.

I met Dad at the airport on Father’s Day – a holiday not wildly celebrated hence the need to make my own “Happy Father’s Day” sign. The layover was a quick “visit.” I handed him a map, pointed out where I lived, where the train station was, where the bar was, etc. Then I handed over keys to my apartment and was on my way to work out (ugh!). The day he was due to arrive I received an email from his secretary (aka my mom) saying he would delayed one day – joy down to four days.

I walked home from work the day I knew Dad was there to find he had already made friends (he and Johnnie always seem to get along) during happy hour. His schedule for the next few days went a little something like this:

7am-9am: wake up, have breakfast but DO NOT talk to Julie (as she is not a morning person), and do a bit of work
9am-11am: walk to boat tour, take boat tour (yes, he did this all 4 days, same boat tour)
11am-1pm: find something to eat, usually involved seeking out a cookie or 2
1pm-3pm: nap time
3pm-7pm: happy hour with friend (Johnnie) and light snacks
7pm – dinner with Julie

Some days nap time took a little bit longer and happy hour started later but he was ok with that.

On Friday, Dad was willing to shake the schedule up a bit and head to the Heineken Experience, not the brewery but the experience, for happy hour. During the tour we got to “experience” what it is like to be a bottle of Heineken beer and what it is like to drive a cart of horses through Amsterdam. Of course you also have the opportunity to enjoy a few Heinekens as well as snap a few photos. Back on schedule, we headed to dinner after the brewery.

While at dinner the rain poured in and we opted out of watching fellow co-workers run. Easily convinced or 3 sheets to the wind, Ingmar talked us into meeting the team at the finish. So we did what anyone would do… downed 2 Irish coffees, sent a few text messages, and hailed a cab. One of the great things about Amsterdam is the lack of the open container law which in this case meant roadies!

Standing at the finish line (beer in one hand, umbrella in the other) we cheered Ingmar, Patrick, and Suzuko to the finish. After the race, we all headed to the bar… Dad and I might not have run the 10k race but we were certainly running, or rather drinking in another kind of race! Therefore, I don’t remember much but I do remember leaving the bar and Dad specifically asking me “do you know where we are?” I replied “Of course, I do… now if I could just read that street sign we will be ok.”

American Football?

During Svea's visit to Amsterdam, we had a team event to the Amsterdam Admiral's American Football game who play in the NFL Europe league. I can honestly say that I don't know many girls (with the expection of Marsha) who could explain any sport, let alone football, to a male. Not that we couldn't do it, it's just that they usually know much more about sports than we do so we don't bother. So you can imagine my surprise when Svea and I found ourselves explaining the basics of American Football to Joost and Patrick. Here are just a few of there questions...

• Why are there so many people on the field?
• Do you watch football just to see the guys in tight pants?

After a few plays, Patrick didn’t get what the big deal was about football, he thought it was boring then Svea explained tailgating.

A few notes about our experience...

• You can bring beer in, but they ran out
• Only bathrooms are port-a-johns and peeing stalls
• They sing the American national anthem (and everyone signs along!)
• There is a dance party after every plan
• The hot dogs are served in hamburger buns
• The yard lines are barely visible
• Rumor has it, it’s harder to make the dance team than the football team
• Shrek makes an appearance - but only if you're lucky!

Paris in the spring time

The purpose of my weekend trip to Paris was to shop and I can honestly say mission accomplished! Getting to and from was a bit of a different story. I grew up in the mid-west – the heartland of America – and therefore a child of public school not public transportation. One of my guide books had said there was a 4 hour train to Paris – to me this meant an easy travel day with no security and no limit to your carry on luggage – perfect! Yeah, not so much.

The ride started out just fine. In fact, the train ride itself wasn’t that bad. It was however a bit boring since there was no in-route entertainment (guess you are suppose to entertain yourself). But alas, the time pasted and finally I arrived in Paris!

Now I was able to master the subway system in Tokyo but unlike the rest of that city, the subway is laid out well and pretty easy to follow. So naturally I thought I would be able to handle the Paris subway. And since I wanted to make some major purchases over the next few days this meant making a few sacrifices (i.e. the luxury of a cab from the train station to my hotel). Given that I had nothing else to do on the 4 hour train ride, I had carefully plotted the location of my hotel, the subway line, and how to reach the aforementioned from Paris Nord (aka the main train station). On paper it seemed easy enough, 1 transfer and I was there. However this ONE transfer managed to be the longest ever connection – 700 meters to be exact. That’s 7 football fields for those of you not familiar with the metric system and that’s pretty far when you are carrying your bags, wearing heels, and sweating like an American without air conditioning. Flashbacks of Tokyo filled my head and I began to regret my decision to come to Paris. As I staggered the last 10 meters to the train, I noticed a man staring at me; not thinking much of it – I boarded the next train and continued on my journey. Aboard the train, I was entertained by a local rap group and children running back and forth throughout the car; annoying as it was it did remind me I was definitely not in Tokyo. When the train arrived at my stop, I exited the entertainment car and continued to trek to the hotel. Admittedly, I was a bit disoriented and confused as to which exit to take. The man that had been starring at me before “just happened” to exit as well and he was oh so eager to help me. “Can I help you miss?” “Are you married miss?” “Tell me your name miss.” “Maybe you and I can (insert hand gesture that I don’t know what it meant but I’m sure it was not nice)” At first I tried to politely dismiss his help but his interrogation continued and when he took my map from my hands I lost it. I looked him straight in the eye and said, “I am perfectly FINE and I DO NOT need your help, now good-bye.” Whew… now where in the hell am I!

After a good night’s rest and a solid breakfast (where I reviewed my itinerary for the day) I headed out to SHOP! I started at Le Bon Marche. Heaven has a place here in Europe as well as a name – Le Bon Marche a fantastic department store in Montemarte that managed to hold my attention for 2 hours and capture the first three purchases of the day. After Le Bon Marche I took to the streets. I had a Marilyn moment while crossing the street – apparently those grates on the street really do have air blowing up! Thank goodness I opted for non-thongs! One hour later I was starring at a subway map in disbelief. I had successfully managed to completely turn myself around. Sucking up defeat and not being able to hail a cab, I walked to the subway. Upon exiting I saw the Seine River and Eiffel Tower – this was the Paris I remember.

In fact I was so entranced by the view I again went the wrong direction! Thankfully the Parisians were beginning to warm up – a local artist helped me sort out my directions. The second planned destination was so close I could feel it – Christian Loubitian here I come. I am not really sure what I was expecting of this red soled boutique but was quiet surprised to find the store was rather understated but relieved to see it came with signature red carpet. The disappointment however continued when each style I pointed to the salesman said – no not in your size. When I finally received a “yes” it was really a no due to too much toe cleavage. I marched onto Rue Saint Honore. My next stop proved to be quite an enjoyable experience, Gucci – gotta love it! Having gotten a preview of what the new flats looked like at LBM, I knew I wanted them. Strategically carrying my Gucci purse I gained instant creditability with the sales staff, François in particular. The flats were an instant hit, so much so that Francois insisted on pulling out the matching purses (just received on Friday). Despite my longing to spend more time in the shop, I knew I need to continue to stay on schedule. Roger was calling…and I was ready to answer! The Roger Viver boutique is exquisite – even had the opportunity to check out the VIP room. The next stop was the Champs Elysee. I spent the next few hours literally strolling the magnificent street in awe. Stopping for a crepe here and an ice cream there I was so content. Realizing that it might be a good idea for me to actually indulge in some real food, I meandered off the Champs Elysee to a corner brasserie. As I took my seat at the outside table, I turned to my left and stared in disbelief. I was looking at the exact hotel where I had stayed the first time I came to Paris. I just couldn’t believe it – by no means did I intend to find this… funny how things seem to find you.

Sunday was spent wondering more streets and popping in the few shops that were open. I strolled through the Lourve and Tulleries and enjoyed another crepe (ok, 2 more). The time pasted quickly and I found myself rushed to get back to the hotel, grab my things (multiple bags now) and get to the train station. Evidently everything runs on its own time in Paris except the trains which leave promptly at their scheduled departure as I was so nicely told by the train attendant when I arrived 1 minute late. Nearly out of breath, I headed to the ticket counter to re-book myself on the next train. Luckily, the man behind the counter was a friendly Parisian who didn’t charge me for the ticket change and offered some advice on where to spend the next 2 hours waiting for my train.

Once aboard, I was faced with another set of “party seats” and because I’m such a dedicated worker, I was determined to find an outlet on the train. So I made my way to the dining car and befriended the man working behind the counter. I convinced him to let me use one of his outlets for my computer. I spent the next 3 hours at the bar, not uncommon for me, however this time I was typing away rather then knocking a few back.

When I exited Central Station (back in Amsterdam), I joined the taxi line. Even though I had spent my quota in Paris, this was one luxury I wasn’t ready to give up just yet.

Straight Hair

Service is not the forte of this county; in fact it is notoriously bad. At a restaurant it is not uncommon to wait upwards of 20 minutes before a server arrives at your table. Even after the initial greeting expect to wait a solid 15 minutes before anything of substance arrives. Knowing this, I was a bit nervous to get my haircut over here. Nevertheless, did a bit of research, found Leo, and made an appointment.
Leo made me feel somewhat comfortable but as he continued to delegate tasks to his staff my nerves grew weary. To calm my nerves, a started playing a game I enjoy playing quiet often - gay, straight, or taken. Realizing most of the men working at a salon would be gay; I thought maybe some of the male clients might be able to make this game rather interesting. When I first walked in there was a very attractive guy getting his haircut. Straight I decided because of his roaming eyes towards the females in the salon not the males. When I was on the hot seat and waiting for my hair to be magically transformed and gray to be covered (yep, I’ve got it and I’m not afraid of it – just don’t want anyone else to see it!), another guy sat down next to me. At first I was going with a straight (his clothes indication number one) however about 10 minutes into his haircut, the stylist was using the FLATIRON. I kid you not… the top part of his hair was being straightened! I had to contain my laughter. First thought, don’t stare; second thought, no longer straight, definitely a solid gay with straight hair. Now, I’m all for the metro sexual thing – manicures/pedicures massages evening using a bit of product in your hair but when you start using the Chi I believe you have crossed the line between metro sexual and gay. By the way, this guy’s hair was not long seriously standard boy length maybe an inch longer but certainly not a length that would warrant the Chi. And seriously, when all else fails bald is beautiful – just look at Brittney.

Oh yeah, my hair turned out fine. Turns out Leo is a pretty good listener (like he said) and more importantly my hair has returned to that youthful sheen.

Green Light Red Light

Patrick decided was time for me to experience the Red Light District. I politely told him no matter how “famous” said place is; I was not keen on viewing windows of half naked women and porn shops sober. So the plans for the evening were to meet up at a bar and then hit the notorious district. Since Ingmar and I are practically neighbors, he offered to pick me up – great, no dealing with trying to find the meeting place on my own. When he arrived at my apartment – I asked how we were getting to the bar and he responded with “by bike”. Not really understanding what this meant, I donned heels (thinking minimal walking would be involved) with my outfit and I was ready to go. I quickly learned that “by bike” means you ride on the back of the bike when one doesn’t have one’s own bike, which I do not. There are two options when riding on the back of a bike: 1. the straddle 2. the side sit. Since we all know I have zero sense of balance I opted for the straddle – not a smart decision because you don’t start on the bike with the driver… you have to run behind then jump on the bike once it is already in motion. And if the driver has to stop the bike, you (as the passenger) must get off the bike, wait until the driver starts riding again, and then jump on the back. Better yet, with this option you also have to have enough muscle control to hold up your legs so your feet do not drag on the ground. Given my shoe choice for the evening I had to lift my legs even higher. Yes you can see where this is going – it spells disaster all over it and I’ll get to that later. But for now on with the evening…

We met up with Patrick, Lisette, and later Bas at De Kroon, a fun place that proved to be quite the playground for Lisette and me to play fashion police. After a few rounds, it was time to change locations, something that I had been delaying for a variety of reasons first and foremost because I did not want to have to get back on the bike. Much to my dismay upon our exit to the street everyone hopped on their respective bikes and I was left to scurry after Ingmar (in heels no less!). During this second ride, I was really beginning to feel pain in my legs. Our second location put us closer to the final destination but left enough distance to enjoy a few “proper” cocktails, which in Dutch terms means a fruity drink with a crazy straw. I opted for a more traditional vodka tonic but looking back probably should have indulged in a more festive cocktail.

It was show time… we entered the Red Light District which really means we crossed the street and passed the church. Yep, I said church! Right smack in the middle of the land of prostitution is a church – interesting dichotomy. We strolled along a few of the streets. Well, really I wasn’t strolling as much as walking briskly and clinging to both Bas and Ingmar for fear that I would be left to fend for myself, if even for a moment. Now, I am making this out to sound like it was truly a petrifying experience, which it was not, unpleasant, yes, definitely, certainly. It is extremely odd to be walking down the street and glance over at a window to see a woman half naked and doing her best to persuade any passerby to come in and indulge. I think the highlight of my experience came when we walked through the “museum” (which is basically a house that you walk through rather than walking on the street so you can preview a bit more clearly). As we walked by one of the women said, “how about all of you?” At this point, I was done with the Red Light district and lucky for me so was the rest of the crew. So we did what every other tourist does when they realize this whole thing is much less than it is cracked up to be and hit another bar.

After several rounds of Jaeger shots (thanks Ingmar) and last call by the bartender, we all headed home. I had been so distracted with the whole experience that I had forgotten about that dreaded bike. But I was up for tackling it now, call it liquid courage or call it my desire to get to bed either way I was ready. Earlier, perhaps while the boys were “window shopping”, Lisette had kindly explained to me that the feminine way of riding on the back of the bike was the side sit. I was ready to give it a try. Ingmar started on the bike, I jogged after and gracefully sat sideways on the back. So excited that I had actually accomplished this feat, I turned back to give a cheer to the rest of the gang – big mistake! Huge! This caused the bike to become unbalanced and its passengers (i.e. Ingmar and me) to fall very ungracefully to the ground. But wait it gets better… so I’m sprawled on the street, Ingmar is tangled in the bike. He manages to get up and help me up in fairly short order because a car is now rapidly approaching us. However I realize that a button is missing from my jacket (not a regular button either) so I did what any girl would do and went out into the street to get pick it up. This caused Ingmar to lunge into the street to pull me out of the way from the car and consequently cause my ankle to twist in a non-uniform way and the bike to fall on us yet again. When it was all said and done, we WALKED home a little bruised and battered, ankle swollen, but button in hand!

The next morning, actually next afternoon (thank goodness for all these mid-week holidays) I awoke to a VERY swollen ankle – I going to go ahead and say it… I had a kanckle! Not only that but also my inner thighs were black with bruises from jumping on the back of the bike and I’m not exaggerating… there was no purple, no blue and certainly no yellow in these bruises. Maybe the Dutch just build up a tolerance to slamming your legs on the bike repeatedly throughout the evening or maybe that’s why they all have their own bikes!

Meet the team

Thought I would take this opportunity to introduce all you readers to the team of KSAers that I have had the privilege of working with over here…

Ingmar – our social coordinator and chauffeur. Although he refuses to wear a hat or let us call him “Jeeves” he still drives us everywhere we need to go. Lucky for us he’s got a pretty nice car so we’ll let the whole hat thing slide.

Patrick – our language expert (speaks Dutch, English, German, Spanish, and I’m sure a few others) and gives me a run for my money on who spends more in a given weekend. Though we don’t buy the same things (he focuses more on art, me shoes) we wind up spending about the same amount of money!

Suzuko – the other dose of estrogen this predominately male team gets. She definitely enjoys her wine, which allows us to kick back a few bottles at least thrice a week. After a few glasses, she really lets loose!

Joost – our stability factor and always here bright and early. He’s learned that it’s best not to talk to me until I have spoken to you in the morning. Even though he lives in the Hague, he’s always up for joining our team events.

Sven – our comic relief… even though he doesn’t mean to be funny. His dry and straight forward style of communication comes naturally since he is German but he is still one of the funniest people.

Working Out - Amsterdam Style

After spending a week of doing nothing but sitting by the pool and getting painted in chocolate in Mexico, I decided it was time to get back on the workout train – Amsterdam style. I arrived a few minutes early to the Body Combat class at the gym (appropriately named Fitness First) that I have joined. The class was described as a combination of Taebo and martial arts, I thought it would be a good way to relieve some stress and possibly get a workout. My hopes weren’t too high (based on previous classes taken in other countries) and a class of only 45 minutes probably isn’t all that much of a workout – Wrong!

As my fellow class members began to gather around the door, I noticed one woman who was wrapping her hands with boxing clothes; she was not one to reckon with… piercings galore (including a diamond like stud in her chin), authentic Mohamed Ali boxing pants (red satin with stars down the legs), sports bra/tank top combo which revealed tattoos all over her back. I prayed to the high heaven this was not my instructor! The Gods were smiling and must have had a bit of “let’s see how she handles this one” attitude because our instructor (who was a jacked black woman) appeared and ushered us into the studio. She started by asking the group a question (in Dutch). I assumed she was asking if anyone was new. I and one other woman raised our hands. The instructor looked at me and said something (in Dutch) at lightening speed. The blank look on my face must have signaled her to stop speaking and ask “do you speak English?” I mean at this point I wasn’t sure I wanted to say yes… part of me wanted to reply, “No hablo engles; hablo espanol.” Back to reality – I replied, “Yes.” She responded with “Ok, let’s get started.” The rest of the class was in Dutch.

I spent the next 45 minutes jabbing, hooking, crossing, side kicking, and round house kicking at least 2 counts behind everyone else. Every time the music stopped, I thought “thank God, we were done” only to hear the instructor say something to the affect of “come on!” I did learn a few moves and feel quite able to defend myself should the need arise.

At the end of the class, I approached the instructor to thank her. She suggested I stay for the next class of Body Pump. Thinking this would be a nice way to round out the workout I complied. I gathered my weights, erring on the lighter side to be safe. However it wasn’t until about halfway through that I realized the weight was listed in kilograms not pounds therefore I had actually doubled the weight I was lifting! This class begin in a similar manner however now that the instructor new I had no clue what she was saying, she was more inclined to demonstrate the moves. Figuring this class was also only 45 minutes, I thought I was going to die when at quarter till 1pm she was just starting the arm workout. Since the class continued I quickly learned this one was longer than the last one, what I didn’t know was how much longer. Again, I started praying this was not one of those 75 min classes because at this point, my body couldn’t take much more. This woman is crazy – she has us doing things I’m quite sure a human body is not supposed to do – I mean who does the abs workout while holding a weight plate!!

Cash Only

Shopping, eating and drinking around Amsterdam are not too difficult however most places prefer you use cash or this neat thing called a chipcard which requires you to have a Dutch bank account. Since the banks are only open Mon-Fri 10am – 4pm opening an account here doesn’t really coincide with the job I was brought over to do.

Alas, paying in cash was not a problem for me during my first week here. I successfully withdrew euros from a variety of ATM’s around the city and was using my debit card as a credit card where I could (the international withdrawal fees can be hefty). But during my second week, the cash started to run low and I kept forgetting to go to the ATM. On Friday evening, I left work a bit frazzled and decided a nice dinner was in order.

I found this adorable spot to eat, place my order of brueshetta, crisp wine, and baked salmon. While enjoying my brueshetta I noticed the menu said "CASH ONLY". Panicked I explained to the waitress that I needed to go and get cash. Much to my dismay my ATM card wouldn't work despite trying 5 different ATMs. Distraught and not really knowing what to do, I headed back to the restaurant. I must have looked just awful because as I was explaining my situation the waitress calmly smiled and said, “Just give me what you can.” What I had amounted to 5 euros and $5 which did not even put a dent in my 30 euro bill, however she insisted I sit and eat the rest of my meal. I explained that I would go to an ATM near my apartment that I knew worked with my card and promptly pay her tomorrow. She basically said don’t worry about it so I sat down and ate my meal filled with guilt.

The next morning, determined to pay off my debt, I marched to the corner ATM where just a week earlier I had successfully withdrew a decent about of cash. Much to my dismay, my card was rejected yet again! At this point I phone my bank figuring something had to be wrong. Yep, something was wrong all right; my bank had frozen my account!! My bank thought that someone had stolen my card and was making purchases in Amsterdam. Now I’m all for the fraud protection but look at my records… for the past 12 months I have made purchases (all quite similar I might add – spas, clothes, home accessories, shoes, you know the girl basics) in Tokyo, Hong Kong, Shanghai, Bali, San Francisco, Aruba, NYC, St. Louis, Chicago, Naples, West Palm Beach and Atlanta. It doesn’t take a genius to realize I travel a lot! I politely explained to the bank representative that I was indeed the one making purchases in Amsterdam so could she please release the freeze on my account. She eloquently replied with, “No, I can’t but someone from fraud protection will be able to if you can verify the charges.” Then she put my on hold for another 15 minutes. Bear in mind I’m on my cell phone where the average per minute charge is $.29 – this call was costly me just under $10 at this point. A solid 40 minutes later my account was unfrozen, euros were in my hand, and my bank knew of my travel plans for the next 4 months.

Queen's Day

From the moment I arrived in Amsterdam, people were talking about how great Queen’s Day is. “A must” natives proclaimed. Horrified that I might miss “the best day in Amsterdam” due to vacation, I regularly had to assure people that I was leaving the day AFTER Queen’s Day.

They said it was a city wide festival which was fun… I had no idea what I was going to experience when I woke up on Queen’s Day.

It is a combination of Mardi Gras, St. Patrick’s Day, City wide yard sale, and American Idol. The people of Holland don the country color of orange and put those Tennessee fans to shame.

The day begins at a decent hour where I spent most of the morning perusing the streets of Jordan part in awe and part in shock at some of the things I was seeing. This is the only day where you are able to sell anything and no license is required; believe me these people sell anything! Nicely displayed in front of their canal homes one can find a wealth of vintage treasures or as some call it, junk in hopes to make a profit or at least pay for the drinks during the evening. The streets turn into markets, the canals turn into an avenue for booze cruises, and the corners turn into opportunities for the next big star. I witnessed break dancing, clogging, tap dancing, and singing for all age ranges.

The day turned into the afternoon which brought on more of the drinking. Having not really “experienced Amsterdam” up to this point – I was in for a shock! Ingmar as my tour guide and his friend Paul as his accomplice we managed to make friends with a whole block of people while enjoying the live music and the drinks kept flowing. The afternoon turned into night which brought on the dj and in typical Julie fashion a few falls on the dance floor; not mention a few stellar moves as well. The rest of the evening is blur however I do remember seriously enjoying some street food and somehow managing to unlock my front door and stumble to bed!

Despite my level of intoxication, one thing is for sure I will be marking my calendar for Queen’s Day 2008 (April 20th) yes it is a Tuesday however I have been assured that no matter the day of the week every year is the same. And if 2008 is anything like 2007, a good time will be had by all.

It’s raining men… hallelujah it’s raining men!

While the rest of Holland may be concerned about the fact that it has not rained in over three weeks, I am happy as a calm... On my way to work the other day I passed a man who’s legs where as long as me! And the man he was walking with was only a few inches shorter. Even if I put heels on (which we all know doesn’t happen very often due to my lack of ability to walk in them) I would still be far shorter than the majority of the Dutch men. For the most part the men have a great sense of style here. It’s a laid back cool yet still polished look, but there some are exceptions. You have your typical stoners who haven’t washed their hair in a few years and the older generation who hasn’t yet realized that stone washed jeans are not in style. Those aside there is enough eye candy to last for quite a while J The other day I felt like I had entered an award show because literally in ONE day I saw the following look-a-likes:
- Josh Duhamel
- Matt Damon
- Matthew Fox
- Michael Vartan
Seriously I was about ready to start asking for autographs. I saw the Josh Duhamel character the next day and was tempted to say hello but chickened out.

And oh yeah, the women are beautiful here, too. I work with a woman who looks like Giselle – yeah you could say I’m intimidated. But it has yet to motivate me to actually look decent when I go to work … brains still out weight beauty, right??

Feeling right at home

I’m celebrating my one week anniversary here in Amsterdam and it feels like I have been here for much longer than that – don’t worry – not in a bad way! I’m settled into my fabulous apartment which sits on one of the most beautiful canals of Amsterdam. I have yet to learn how to pronounce the name and when asked where I live I reply one of two ways: 1. it is the canal that begins with a “K” or 2. pull out my blackberry (I finally caved!) and point to the note that contains my address. Literally 2 doors down is my neighborhood pub whose bartender I have already befriended. Other than the little step that is in front of my door, which has already caused not one but two causalities – my ankle is still swollen from the first – the apartment is great.

I have learned a new way to become aware of my surroundings – look right, look left, and look down – proceed. I call this method Avoid and Protect… by looking right and left you avoid getting hit by a bicycle and by looking down you protect yourself from stepping in dog poop. I’ve come close to getting run over by a cyclist – not a pretty sight! You also have to use A&P when exiting a car; before you open the car door always look right and left.

I learned from the people at work that the place to shop is the PCH, so on Saturday that’s where I started my day. After a few wrong turns (I’m sure this will change but right now all the canals look the same!) I found myself in familiar territory… Gucci, Prada, Louis Vuitton, Chanel – the gang was all there. As I strolled from shop to shop I was lost in my own little world when suddenly I was jolted back to the present when I found myself starring at a shop called “Donaldson”! On the street of motherships I literally found my own! Curiosity at a high I walked in the shop to see what it was all about. Seeing my name everywhere from shirts to bags to hangers was really bazaar. This must be what Paris and Nikki feel like when they pull up to a Hilton hotel.

After I finished my trip through stores I still can’t afford – even being on this side of the ocean the stuff is expensive! I spent the rest of the day perusing the flower market and walking around the city. You can get 5 bunches of fresh flowers for only $8 – best deal in town!

Welcome Back!

For those who were with me during last summer’s adventures in Japan – welcome back! For those who are just joining to hear all about this summer’s adventures – welcome and get ready… this is going to be a very exciting four months! I do have to preface the rest of the entries with a warning – I am in Amsterdam where some things that are not legal in the states are considered part of everyday life here so consider yourself on notice!