phew, for a minute there i lost myself

Today's soundrack:
"Karma Police" by Radiohead
"Testify" by Rage Against the Machine
"All Along the Watchtower" by Jimi Hendrix

This is what you'll get when you mess with us:



This is footage from Sunday, June 21st, showing a protest successfully forcing the Basij to back off in defeat.

Not all protests are successful, however. The rally that was planned to honour the memory of Neda was blocked and scattered by the Basij and riot police for the main reason that can public mourning is an incredibly powerful force for change in Iran. For a primer as to the importance of mourning rituals in Iran, see Robin Wright's article in Time. One of the Ayatollahs has called for 3 days of public mourning for the murdered protesters beginning June 24th. However, according to Iranbaan, as reported by Sullivan, there are reports of upwards of 2000 riot police and paramilitaries camped out in Lelah Park, a clear positioning to allow for the effective quashing of any and all protests and public mournings.

In response to the continued aggression and brutality of the regime, Iranians are preparing for a national strike in an attempt to cripple the government (such as it is). This, combined with the unconfirmed report that 40 out of the 86 leading clerics on the Guardian Council have called for the nullification of the election results, could do much to advance the protesters cause in the coming week.

If you haven't written a letter through Amnesty International, contacted your foreign minister, or taken to the streets in protest, please consider doing so. The protesters need to know they're not alone. At the moment, according to "Iran expert Jason Rezaian, who just left Iran, says that given the media blackout protesters 'feel like they're in this alone'" (Sullivan's Twitter Round-Up, Day 10).

The hour is getting late.

if you tolerate this, then your children will be next

Today's soundtrack:
"If You Tolerate This Then Your Children Will Be Next" by Manic Street Preachers
"Knockin' On Heaven's Door" by Bob Dylan
"Shed a Little Light" by James Taylor
"2+2=5 (The Lukewarm)" by Radiohead
"Justicia, Tierra y Libertad" by Maná
"Sunday Bloody Sunday" by U2

This is video - a short video - that has been posted to the live blogs I've been following. It's of a young girl named Neda who was standing by the roadside in Tehran, watching the protests with her father. She wasn't protesting herself. She was just standing there and bearing witness. She was shot through the heart by a Basij for watching the protest. The voice you hear is her father, who had been standing beside her.

Graphic is an inadequate word to describe this video of the last moments of Neda's life.



A Huffpo reader sent in the transcript. This is what Neda's father said:

"Neda, don't be afraid. Neda, don't be afraid. (There is yelling and screaming.) Neda, stay with me. Neda stay with me!"

Andrew Sullivan, whose blog on the Atlantic I've been following, posted this email that he received explaining the video:

"At 19:05 June 20th Place: Karekar Ave., at the corner crossing Khosravi St. and Salehi st. A young woman who was standing aside with her father watching the protests was shot by a basij member hiding on the rooftop of a civilian house. He had clear shot at the girl and could not miss her. However, he aimed straight her heart.

I am a doctor, so I rushed to try to save her. But the impact of the gunshot was so fierce that the bullet had blasted inside the victim's chest, and she died in less than 2 minutes. The protests were going on about 1 kilometers away in the main street and some of the protesting crowd were running from tear gass used among them, towards Salehi St.

The film is shot by my friend who was standing beside me. Please let the world know."

Bear witness:

amnesty international canada: Send a letter to the Government of Iran (such as it is) and please consider donating to keep the Urgent Action Network viable. Let the Iranian Government know that the world is watching.

Consider writing to your own governments asking them to open their embassies in Tehran, Iran, to help the wounded (if the wounded protesters go to hospitals, they are arrested). If your country's embassy has already opened its doors, thank them. Note: There are reports of the Basij blocking the entrances to the embassies. At the moment, the Canadian Embassy is not accepting wounded protesters. Email the Canadian Embassy in Tehran at tehran@international.gc.ca and Lawrence Cannon, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, at CannoL@parl.gc.ca to help change that. Ask them - politely - to open the embassy to accept wounded Iranians whose only crime is protesting for their rights.

Get out and show your support for the Iranian community in your city, courtesy of those helpful folks at Anonymous. The Spaniard and I hit the Calgary rally the other day (photos by Amir-Reza) and I was left speechless by the passion and the hope within the Persian community.

At the very least follow the work being done by Atlantic's Andrew Sullivan and Huffpo's Nico Pitney.

Also, check out fellow Raveler and revolutionary Burrow's blog for some fascinating insights into Iran, both before the protests and now. She has links up for how to make your computer into a proxy for the folks in Iran, as well as solid commentary on the events themselves.

tonight, in iran

Today's soundtrack:
"Rise Up With Fists!!" by Jenny Lewis and the Twins

I've been following the coverage of the Iranian elections somewhat religiously since my internet was gloriously restored to me the other day. I don't know why exactly this particular revolt strikes a cord with me. I'm not Persian. I have no friends that are Persian. I don't know anybody in Iran. So it's clearly not the fact that this is happening particularly in Iran that has my interest. It's that were the situations reversed and I were in a country where the elections were stolen, I'd be doing the same thing as the thousands of Iranians students who have taken to the streets in protest.

The coverage on Huffpo was difficult to watch - especially the beating of women in the streets -, but it wasn't until the coverage of the police attacks on the universities that I felt my guts tying themselves into knots. Rubber bullets and riot police tearing through the dorms in search of any students, because students (as we all know) are the real shit disturbers. Faculty have resigned in protest of the elections and the students have taken to the streets. Thousands are marching... but over a hundred have been arrested.

Once they're arrested, they enter a no-man's land as far as the media is concerned. We don't really know what happens there. We can imagine, sure. The disappearances in Argentina aren't so far out of the collective memory of the world. However, thanks to a Canadian journalist who was "mistakenly" arrested, I now have a clearer picture of just what those protesting students face:

Inside a concrete room to my left, I could see more than 50 others being made to stand in uncomfortable positions – on their toes with their hands pressed behind their heads. Some were covered in blood, and police with batons patrolled the rows, tapping some detainees on the shoulders with their sticks. There was no screaming, just the sound of boots pacing on the concrete floor.

Tonight, while I lay in my bed beside Miguel, there are hundreds of protesters in Iran who are being tortured merely for marching for their human rights. You try sleeping soundly.

did i mention?

Today's soundtrack:
Whatever what playing at the party last night.

Well, it's done and I've passed. Now I'm trying to recover from a rather miserable hangover, organize our move, prepare an abstract, and figure out just what my stomach wants to eat today. It's the last item that I think will give me the most trouble today.

the list

Today's soundtrack:
"La Vida es un Ratico" by Juanes
"Me Enamora" by Juanes

Another update? It's as though I suddenly have free time. I just don't know what do to with myself. I've phoned some of my friends up and harassed them and my parents will begin to screen my calls any minute now. I've organized the big house party we've been talking about for a while. I went swimming this morning (and then promptly realized that my favourite part of swimming is the lounging on the deck that happens afterwards) and even bought groceries. That's right, my cupboard now contains more than rice cakes and peanut butter.

I thought I might like to follow Lady J's example and make a 101 things in 1001 days list, but math has never been my strong suit so figuring out what day it'll be 1001 days from now is just too much for my rum-and-coked mind. Besides, 1001 days is a big commitment (which, I suppose is the point), so instead I'm going to make a list of what I want to accomplish this summer:

- Read Wuthering Heights, The Sea, Niebla, The Idiot, Leaves of Grass, Norwegian Wood and The Rainbow. Also, I want to finish Possession and re-read The Divine Comedy. Hmm, that's a somewhat pretentious list, no? Well, you can just suck it, Stephanie Meyer.

- Go quasi-vegetarian for the summer. Why only quasi? Because giving up eggs, cheese, and milk is just not going to happen people. Also, I might sneak the odd bit of fish. But no red or white meat.

- Make my Ravelry queue, which is finally down to a reasonable size. At the very least, I want to have my Christmas knitting done by the end of August.

- Swim continuously for at least 45 minutes, twice a week. That means no more than a 30 second pause to grab water or a flipboard.

- Finish a chapter of my dissertation.

- Be less antisocial.

- Meet Lady J for a day-long coffee.

- Drink a beer at sunset on the roof of the Yard. Drink a beer at sunset at the Lake.

I think that's a pretty good list for the summer, although I may only accomplish the last two goals. In the meantime, however, if anyone has another goal to suggest for the summer, please feel free.

survival of the fittest

Today's soundtrack:
Just the sound of pen on paper.

To paraphrase Lovelace, "The exam is over. Katherine lives".

exam bathous; or, the art of sinking in comps

Today's soundtrack:
Fantasies by Metric

Dear blog:

Yeah, it's been a bit hit and miss this year, hasn't it? The Saskatoon Knitting Circle hasn't seen me in months. Jason, whose birthday is today (Happy Birthday, Jason!), has religiously and very sweetly avoiding phoning me... although this may have something to do with me freaking out on the phone "I HAVE NO TIME TO TALK! THE FUTURE OF CIVILIZATION RESTS WITH MY FIELD EXAMS!" And I haven't had a good virtual coffee with the dear Lady J since the last time we actually had coffee. And the Spaniard? Last I heard, he was somewhere in Calgary, wondering who thought snow in May was a good idea. I spent most of April wondering if I was turning 27 or 28 in May (the answer: 27, so I feel like I gained a year) because all modern knowledge had been pushed completely out of my head. Sure, I don't know how old I am, but let me tell you about the evolution of the epic form in the Eighteenth Century...

But all this insanity is almost at an end.

I wrote the first half of my field exam today.

Sure, the moment I stood up from the exam I realized that the last question I answered revolved around the evolution of Sensibility, which of course my answer circled around without actually explicitly stating... but hopefully I can fix that during the oral examination. But enough about that.

Tomorrow, I'll have another three hours of writing, then a break until June 2nd, when I do the oral examination. Hopefully it'll go something like my thesis defense, when the whole procedure took two hours, but an hour and a half of that is full of the professors asking questions. And at the end, somebody got bingo.

In quasi-celebration, I ordered pizza, moved some boxes into the office (so that's where the dust bunnies were coming from), SWEPT MY FLOORS (this is news to those who know that cleanliness and... well... food has become a non-existent priority. I call it the field exam diet), and in a few minutes, will be drinking a rum and coke. Tomorrow? More pizza (okay, leftover pizza) and rum and cokes. And sleeping. Oh yes, sweet, glorious, undisturbed sleeping.

I think I've handled the whole thing well, and I write that fully aware that many women think they've handled menopause well, too. The only time I've broken down completely was on the phone with Daniela the other day when the stress had piled up to hyperbolic levels. She very wisely pretended not to notice. I'd love to say that in hindsight, all the stress wasn't logical, but it really was. Field exams, regardless of the fact that they are tailored for each candidate, are just as terrifying and difficult as you imagine. A breakdown is inevitable and maybe even useful (big fan of the catharsis am I).

Regardless, as of 4pm tomorrow, I'll be finished the most important test I'll ever write. At 4:01pm, the debauchery will be just beginning...

a vindication of the rights of readers

Today's soundtrack:
"Pop is Dead" by Radiohead
"Piano Concerto K. 365" by Mozart, as performed by Vladimir Ashkenazy and the Philharmonia Orchestra

Those of you who know me in real life know of my disdain for Dan Brown. Some of you, who live with me, remember the obscenities shouted at the terrible writing and ridiculously misogynistic pseudo-feminism.

Today, I'm happy to report that I'm not the only one who thinks Dan Brown is a hack writer who deserves to be pilloried like Colley Cibber. Ladies and gentlemen, Stellan Starsgard.

Yeah, I don't know who he is either, but seeing as we agree on Dan Brown being the epitome of everything that is wrong with the literary scene today, I think I'll be imdb-stalking his movies from now on.

lockean humour

Today's soundtrack:
The Hazards of Love by the Decemberists

I've been reading Adam Smith and John Locke for the past 24 hours, which is insanity in itself, but when I got to this passage, something odd happened:

This might with Justice be expected from those Men, who lay stress upon this Opinion: and it gives occasion to distrust either their Knowledge or Charity, who declaring, That God has imprinted on the Minds of Men, the foundations of Knowledge, and the Rules of Living, are yet so little favourable to the Information of their Neighbours, or the Quiet of Mankind, as not to point out to them, which they are, in the variety of Men are distracted with. But in truth, were there any such innate Principles, there would be no need to teach them. (Essay Concerning Human Understanding 76)

After reading this, I began to laugh hysterically. See, what it means is that if God was an innate idea, along with all his rules for living, there would be no need for churches to teach us about God because we'd already have that knowledge. Get it? It's hilarious!

So clearly one of two things have happened: Either I am completely ready to write my comps or I've lost my mind entirely. Any philosophy scholars out there want to make a case for Locke's wicked sense of humour?

I thought not. I'll be awaiting the men in white coats, then.

On a slightly saner note, Happy Birthday, Mom. If you could possibly let me know how old I am, that'd be helpful. I haven't been able to remember in a little over a month.

fear is the mind killer

Today's soundtrack:
Explodo 3

Have been re-reading V for Vendetta in a vain attempt to keep my sanity as I prepare for comps. Noticed that V quotes "And did those feet" by Blake early on in the text. Made my 18th-century day.

I have a pile of books beside my bed, books that I'll read once comps are over: Wuthering Heights by Anne Bronte, Divine Comedy by Dante (this is re-read), Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman, and Don Quijote by Cervantes. I've been told that nothing beats the first time you read Wuthering Heights, which reminds me of what I was told about A Confederacy of Dunces. Turned out to be true. I still can't see a hot-dog stand without snickering. Between this list and the promise of a night of sheer debauchery to celebrate the end of comps, June might be one of the best months I've had in a while.

But back to Pepys, that wife-beating, lecherous ass, and a cold glass of Moosehead. Cheers.

are you now...

Today's soundtrack:
Battlestar Galactica

So I know I haven't been blogging a lot lately. Something to do with my upcoming comps. But every once and a while, I feel like I should crawl out from under my rock to see what's happening in the world. And then I see something like this that makes me want to crawl right back under. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the latest McCarthy incarnation, as reported by today's Huffington Post:

Not too long ago, Congresswoman Michele Bachmann was on Hardball, calling for the media to investigate her Congressional colleagues to "find out if they are pro-America or anti-America." Well, it turns out that someone has taken up Bachmann's call on a proactive basis! His name is Spencer Bachus and he has made a list -- a secret list! -- of the socialists in the House of Representatives. Or so he told the Birmingham News. Who are the seventeen socialists? That's the secret part, apparently.

From The Hill's Briefing Room:

Rep. Spencer Bachus (R-Ala.) puts the number of socialists in the House at 17.

"Some of the men and women I work with in Congress are socialists," Bachus told local government leaders on Thursday, according to the Birmingham News.

Bachus gave the specific number of House socialists when pressed later by a reporter.

Run! Hide! The socialist menace is upon us! Won't somebody think of the children?!

And back under my rock I go.

in which i agree with karl pilkington

Today's soundtrack:
"15 Step" by Radiohead

The other day I decided to find out what all this Twitter buzz was about. When it first came on the scene, I saw it as nothing more than solipsistic self-indulgence, spewing 140 characters into cyberspace because everyone in the world is entitled to know exactly what you thought of the latest Survivor challenge or the dog shit in your backyard. This theory has now been confirmed.

Admittedly, I only spent a few days on Twitter. During those few days, I was repeatedly spammed by the anti-Obama brigade (do you know the truth about Obama?) and friended by various creepy personas. After updating post-Stewart/Cramer smackdown, I was instantly added by someone else who had also updated about it. Well that's just a little too much in my personal space for me.

More and more, the internets seem to a be a place where those who feel the real world just doesn't understand their brilliant insights to spew their self-congratulatory praise. Lookit me! Lookit how clever I am! I don't have to write that I love something, I just put a 3 and a bracket together! See? <3 I'm brilliant! Oh, and Paris Hilton is a whore. Well thanks for the insight there, Sparky. Next!

Twitter seems to be the most annoying of these developments. 140 characters that reveal nothing but soundbits (if that), directed at no one in particular. A group of people talking at each other. Just what the doctor ordered.

In the words of Karl Pilkington, it's just not worth it.

snotcicles

Today's soundtrack:
"Narcissist" by Sage Francis
"In the Bleak Midwinter" as sung by Harry Christophers & The Sixteen

It is cold. Bitterly cold. Miguel has a new method of measuring just how cold it is. If you can walk to the end of the block and you just begin to feel the cold in your jeans, it's not too bad. If you only get into the alley before the cold sets in, it's damned cold. And if you only get outside the door, it's just insane and you stay home.

But we are hardy folk so we trudged to school, our long underwear mocking our attempts to remain warm for 15 minutes. By the time we got to the university, Miguel had sprouted snotcicles - that is, icicles in his mustache, right beneath his nostrils - and was doing a pretty good impression of Dr. Zhivago (you remember the scene, when he's left the partisans and is trying to get back to Lara).

Just as we got to Place Riel, a kid from the Residence came bounding out the door in a flimsy t-shirt and jeans, and sauntered into Place Riel. Miguel and I could only look at each other in utter disbelief.

In my mad effort to stay warm, I'm knitting up a baby blanket for some friends Miguel will see in his round-the-world trip. I'm using leftover black yarn, which I figure is appropriate for a Danish baby. Get it? It's a Blanket for Baby Hamlet!

Alright, it's possible that I'm the only one that finds this completely entertaining. The rest of you are just a bunch of savages.

now hear this...

Today's soundtrack:
"I'm So Tired" by the Beatles

I am not wearing any long underwear.

For the first time in weeks, I am long underwear-free. I'd do a little dance to celebrate, but it's so warm that I risk breaking a sweat if I do so.

I am, however, wearing my lovely handknit socks. They're made out of the Bearfoot Colors wool that my aunt gave me. Although the wool bleeds like a demon anytime it's near water, they are the most comfortable, lovely pair of socks that I've knit. And at this point, I've knit more than a few. See Ravelry.com for evidence.

But the sky is blue, the temperature is hovering around 0ºC, and I'm facing a weekend of bodice-ripping literature (re: Aphra Behn, for the uninitiated). Good times.

tying up loose ends

Today's soundtrack:
"Me Enamora" by Juanes

Just snuck a peak at the 14-day weather projections for Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. It is going to be so cold that the yellow line literally plummets off of the graph. There is no numerical value for the degree of cold we're in for. And it's snowing. Again. Another 10cm today. Thank the gods I have a handy Spaniard at home who still regards shoveling snow as a novelty. Hopefully by the time the novelty wears off, we'll have kids that can shovel it for us. What better reason to have children, really, than to have people to shovel the walk and clean the bathrooms. Clever evolutionary invention.

Must distract self in order to maintain sanity, therefore...

So there are some loose ends from the vacation that I haven't tied up yet. So here they are, in no particular order other than the order in which they are presented.

1) During our walk in El Retiro, we saw a bunch of men on rollarblades playing hockey. Not field hockey. Real hockey. Well, minus the ice. Don't believe me? I give you photographic evidence that Canada is slowly taking over Spain:


2) In honour of the emblem of Madrid, I give you Miguel doing his best bear impression, although this may only be funny to the Spanish:


3) In Madrid, even the statues are well hung:


4) Although Spanish meals are something like final exams, something must be said for Dutch cooking. No, seriously. Witness the bliss on the Spaniard's face as he digs into a typically healthy Dutch lunch. Yes, those are giant chocolate sprinkles on black bread:



Although the jetlag is now gone, it's been replaced with a paralyzing fear that on good days manifests itself as nothing more than sheer panic. Comps are four months away and I'm bunkering myself into my office for hours every day. In light of this, I'm seriously considering changing my answering machine message to the following:

"Hi, we can't come to the phone. If it's urgent, leave a message and we'll get back to you in May. If it's not urgent, call back in May. Thank you, that is all."

when in spain...

When I left you all here, hanging on the edges of your seats, I was off to Spain. At the moment, I'm now back in Utrecht. Internet access was limited in Madrid as Miguel's parents are computerless, so I hope you'll forgive the silence of the past few weeks. Nevertheless, I'll try to sum up, as briefly as possible, my past two weeks y pico in Madrid.

After we arrived in Barajas, we took the metro back to Miguel's parents's place. Have I mentioned how much I enjoy the metro in Madrid? Well, they have a new metro map and it's nothing short of a postmodernist nightmare. The stations on the map bear very little resemblance to their actual spatial arrangement in Madrid. Sure, it's pretty but I spent several minutes looking for Cuatro Caminos with no luck.

But not to worry, the metro was completely redeemed for me two days before New Year's Eve. Miguel and I were taking the escalators down and in front of us were four rather rowdy teenagers who were trying to pick up every girl that passed them by. "Feliz año, guapa!" over and over again. We all ended up in the same train car and the boys launched into a Spanish Christmas carol that sounds pretty flamenco (to a Canadian anyway). "Ande, ande, ande la Marimorena. Ande, ande, ande que es la Noche Buena!" was sung over and over again, with some pretty funny verses inbetween, by one of the guys while the other two clapped and the last one danced around the car.

The metro is actually a pretty critical part of any family dinner. It seems to be the custom, as the party is breaking up, to discuss which lines are the best or fastest to get home. Now why they don't just pull out the map and all look at it is beyond me. They prefer to do this by memory. Trouble is that their memories aren't always what they should be. "You should take Linea 9 until Plaza de Castilla, then switch to Linea 2" one would say. "Linea 2 doesn't come through Plaza de Castilla" the other replies. Such disagreements usually end with pistols at dawn in el Retiro.

We didn't spend the whole time in the metro, though. Miguel and I snuck out to the Museo Archeologico, the Museo Thyssen, and the Prado. We spent hours wandering around the Puerto del Sol, Palacio Real, and el Retiro. We went to an Improv competition that Miguel's friend Beatriz was performing in. We went for cañas and coffees and chocolates con churros. At one point we ended up in a bar in a district that Almodovar used to hang out in when he was younger. I don't think I stopped eating the whole time I was in Spain.

Christmas Eve was spent with Miguel's family, although we later went to mass with his friends. I didn't know the majority of the traditional Spanish Catholic songs or Christmas songs, but I did like the one that went "oh no, no pasaron!", which I believed was a direct reference to the Civil War Republican slogan in Madrid, but Miguel assures me that it is not the case.

I think I saw every Spaniard that I know while in Madrid. Even Marta, who we hadn't gotten in touch with but managed to run into accidently in a Gino's the night before we left Madrid. Que casualidad. We spent a lot of time with Miguel's friends who are all kinds of entertaining, although some are still battling tuberculosis.

We spent New Year's Eve with Miguel's parents, and later with Miguel's friends Dani and Maria. I still haven't managed to eat all 12 grapes during the 12 campanas, but I have another two years to practice. After the bells and the fireworks (oh those Valencians), Miguel and I went to play boardgames with Dani and Maria until 6am, when we decided that we should probably call it an early night.

But now we're back in Utrecht, after spending the night in Eindhoven with Richard, Sonia and the soon-to-be Small One/Pequeñin, crashing at Yvon's for the night. Tomorrow morning, we're going to take the train to Schiphol Airport, and then back to Canada and the -22 that awaits us. It'll be a bit of a change from the 18C we had in Madrid.

All in all, a nice long and relaxing trip. And now, the insanity of comp prep and dissertation writing...

in amsterdam

Yesterday, Miguel and I went to Amsterdam for the day to see the Rijksmuseum and Anne Frank's house. It was the first time, we realized, that we'd be sightseeing alone. No family, no friends. And while I missed a bit of the camraderie that comes in a larger group, it was wonderful to finally spend a day in Europe free from any added stress (not including the loss and then miraclous rediscovery of the Anne Frank tickets). We spent the whole day walking around Amsterdam. Over canals, beside canals, between canals. Did I mention that there are canals? I think I took more pictures of those than anything else.

Before we got to the Rijksmuseum, we stopped for possibly the greatest bagel ever made at Village Bagel. The Dutch know cream cheese. I may need to rethink my anti-Dutch policies.

After carbing up, we hit the museum to see the Rembrandts and the Vermeers. Although the building looks massive from the outside, the actual gallery space seemed quite small in comparison to the Uffizi and the Prado. Miguel thinks they must be renovating and that when its finished, the museum will be much larger. Miguel saw his favourite Vermeer, the one with the maid pouring out a jug of milk. I saw Rembrandt's cloth merchants and the Night Watch. There is something brilliant about the way Vermeer and Rembrandt use like that is so unlike painters in Southern Europe. I think it has to do with the damp mists and grey hazes that are so common to places like Amsterdam and Nanaimo. There are diffusion of light so that it scatters everywhere and nowhere. Then, every once a while, a steady stream of sunlight highlights just a small part of a building or a street. In a place like this that is so grey most of the year, light is at a premium. No wonder it figures so prominently in Rembrandt's and Vermeer's work.

After the museum, we walked what felt like the length and breadth of the Netherlands and finally got to Anne Frank's House. It's around the corner from the fabulously old church and I found myself wondering if Anne every mentioned the bells in her diary. The house itself is bare. Otto Frank wanted the Annex to remain unfurnished. He didn't want it to look lived in, I suppose. Putting in the furnishings would make it look like a safe home, which it wasn't. Interesting aesthetic choice anyway. Most powerful for me was the ladder up to the attic. You can't actually climb the ladder, but then have a mirror propped up so you can see outside as Anne would have. At the very end of the self-guided tour is Anne Frank's diary. The real book, plaid cover and all. The whole experience left me pretty much speechless.

After Anne Frank's house, we walked back to the station and made it back to Utrecht where we met Yvon (at whose house we're crashing) and went for dinner at a new fusion-type restaurant she'd been wanting to try. Nothing really too exciting there, just thought you'd want to know that I'm eating fine.

Today we're off to Delft to see Jolien, then onto Eindhoven to see Sonia and Richard (more of Miguel's friends that are graciously allowing us to crash). Tomorrow, we on an early flight to Madrid where we'll be force fed manchego and jamon serrano for the next few weeks.

Also, because of the jet lag, I've been getting up at 5:30am. How unimpressed am I.

in utrecht

Today's soundtrack:
Tropic Thunder
Vicky Christina Barcelona

It's ungodly early in the morning here but the jetlag has kicked in and I just couldn't sleep for another minute. So here I sit, at Yvon's computer, eating little gingerbread cookies that have a cool sounding Dutch name that I can't remember.

So here's what has happened so far...

After a mere 15 hours of traveling and the 100m dash in Frankfurt, we arrived in Amsterdam. Miguel's friend Froukje (one of the Dutch Girls, for those keeping score) met us at the airport and brought us to Utrecht, where we are crashing at yet another friend's lovely home. This home has the narrowest, steepest staircase I've ever seen in my life, but I've been assured this is typically Dutch. After a few hours of rest, Froukje came to drag us from our inflatable mattress and out to dinner. So we walked along canals, dodged bikes (they really do outnumber cars and they have their own lanes of traffic - very civilized), and passed a yarn store on our way to a nice little Yard and Flagon-esque pub.

Then a rather bizarre thing happened. I was wearing a beret, because it was a little chilly and I do have a delicate constitution, but I hadn't taken it off when we sat down. The waiter, after taking our orders for hot chocolate (and can I just say that the Dutch really know how to make a good hot chocolate), told me I had to take my hat off. I thought, okay sure, that's only polite. But politeness isn't why I had to take it off. This pub has a rule that no head coverings of any kind can be worn there. It's their not-so-subtle way of making sure that Muslim women who wear headscarfs cannot come in. Incredible, no?

After hot chocolate and after Giorgio (Froukje's fellow) arrived, we went to this lovely hole-in-the-wall Ethiopian restaurant. I was pretty brave (and am still quite proud of myself) and tried a little bit of everything on this massive platter of lentils, beans, tuna, and I really can't remember what else. The selling point for Froukje was that we could eat with our hands. I'm just happy I didn't fall asleep on the spongy bread.

But now, my cookies are almost all gone so I take that as a sign to go in search of more food. Today Miguel and I plan on going to the Rijksmuseum and to Anne Frank's house. Afterwards, the Dutch Girls, Miguel and I are going to have dinner and (hopefully) relax a little more.

last night

Today's soundtrack:
"Gate 22" by Pascale Picard
"Red Flag" by Billy Talent
"Your Rocky Spine" by Great Lake Swimmers

President-Elect Obama.

Been smiling like an idiot all day. I knew last night was going to be one of those nights, but I don't think I was expecting the afterglow to last as long. I've read a lot of blogs and editorials today. Most of them focus on how wonderful it is that an African-American has won the presidency.

That's not why I'm excited. Sure, I lost it when I saw Jesse Jackson in the crowd, tears streaming down his face. Sure, I understand the racial divide in the States is something monumental to be overcome. But that's not why I'm excited.

It's taken me all day to be able to articulate this properly. Poor Miguel was stuck listening to my ramblings at 1am as I tried to explain why I am beside myself with glee.

During the CBC coverage of the election, they did a segment at the White House. The correspondent (Henry Champ, I think), gave a brief blurb but then gave his attention fully to what was happening in the street outside of the White House. Pennsylvania Avenue was packed with young adults. The noise was immense. The Secret Service were twitchy. Champ said that the people in the street had surrounded a car.

Later on in the night, the CBC went back to Champ and the White House. Champ explained that they were a bunch of university students who began texting each other when Obama was announced the winner. They all agreed to converge on the White House, but not to protest. To celebrate. They were dancing for joy in the street.

It is that joy, that relief, that the long dark eight years of the Bush presidency are almost over that hit me the hardest. That knowledge the world made it through, a little worse for wear, but changed. Obama's speech summed that up nicely.

Mom hit the nail on the head on the phone: "It's like they've got their innocence back." I, for one, cannot wait to hear the inauguration speech.

random art quiz

Today's soundtrack:
Roadtrip SkipMix

Melistress of Ravelry fame led me to this art quiz. The results are rather uncanny:

Your result for What Your Taste in Art Says About You Test...

Balanced, Secure, and Realistic.

17 Impressionist, 2 Islamic, -4 Ukiyo-e, -9 Cubist, -20 Abstract and -6 Renaissance!

Impressionism is a movement in French painting, sometimes called optical realism because of its almost scientific interest in the actual visual experience and effect of light and movement on appearance of objects. Impressionist paintings are balanced, use colored shadows, use pure color, broken brushstrokes, thick paint, and scenes from everyday life or nature.

People that like Impressionist paintings may not alway be what is deemed socially acceptable. They tend to move on their own path without always worrying that it may be offensive to others. They value friendships but because they also value honesty tend to have a few really good friends. They do not, however, like people that are rude and do not appreciate the ideas of others. They are secure enough in themselves that they can listen to the ideas of other people without it affecting their own final decisions. The world for them is not black and white but more in shades of grey and muted colors. They like things to be aestically pleasing, not stark and sharp. There are many ways to view things, and the impresssionist personality views the world from many different aspects. They enjoy life and try to keep a realistic viewpoint of things, but are not very open to new experiences. If they are content in their live they will be more than likely pleased to keep things just the way they are.

Take What Your Taste in Art Says About You Test at HelloQuizzy

Thank you, that is all.