out of jfk

i liked using violet to draw mountains as a child.
i scratched scattered houses in greys, the foreground in greens
with flowers,

usually.

perfect, darling! and then
i'd find the mountains on the fridge,
out of reach,
hiding a smudge.

but soon
sunlight turned violet
to lavender
to grey.
and how fickle
brittle corners curled,
threatening to fully envelop my world.
houses became flowers became houses
became flowers
and now
as i, eleven thousand miles above you,
find our one bedroom apartment
from my double paned
aeroplane
window,
houses become flowers become houses
become
grey.

and i pray
to see between
the day to day.

quiz: you know you're in new york when...

(a) your local hot dog joint is open for business at 7am but is closed by the time you get home from work,
(b) passing WASPs with gold canes and black top hats on park ave becomes commonplace,
(c) you spot celebrities at your coworkers' cocktail parties,
or
(d) you realize the "no honking" signs are just kidding.

answer: all of the above.

the opera

in an effort to celebrate yet another year and to pluck from new york another cultural feather, we found ourselves dressed to the nines on a thursday, opera tickets in hand.

they were in hand, of course, because in spite of expectations for a cold winter, i was in a halter dress and heels. no tights, no coat, no purse. the unseasonable weather made its way down into the underground, and our fancy garb stuck to the orange polystyrene subway seats.

coming by way of train, we were forced to approach lincoln center from the dungeons of the city. (oh, how easily phantom rumors could form!) mansion-dwellers, to whom such trips became commonplace before even weekly mentions in the sundaystyles, slid up in their town cars. let them have their chauffeurs; they missed the amazing saxophonist playing for pennies on the underground.

of course, the opera itself was incomprable to anything i had ever witnessed. not only was the ceiling graced with a chagall, not only was the world transforming before our eyes, but the purity, the hilarity, the precision of il barbiere di siviglia was so perfectly crafted that i did not know whether to laugh or to cry. to realize that this alternate reality exists only a trainride away from my brooklyn haven is to realize a new desire. a persistent and not necessarily novel need to reach out to the unknown finally found its justification. why haunt a neighborhood, a bar, a stage if you can find at each train stop a new reality an ounce more inspiring than the one before it? why become a regular when the inspiration drawn from these locales comes from not knowing them?

hypocritically, i am indeed going back to the opera. but i guess i'll have to see a different show.

proof the kids all take the trains

happy orange fruit

i'd like to announce that i am pleasantly surprised.

the time put into carving that dear pumpkin really was worth it, for this year, my jack-o-lantern remains unsmashed. that's right. no one threw it against the brick schoolyard wall a few steps down the road. no one stepped on it or kicked in its face. no one stole it. nothing at all has happened to it. i guess brooklyn really has changed.

moving here one month ago, i was somewhat skeptical. growing up, i'd soak up new york city movies that referred to brooklyn as if it were a world away, ghetto, poor, and unruly. even the recent influx of artists in the area did not sooth my uncertainties. artists can be rebellious. in fact, in a way, they should be! hence my shock at finding my apartment on a clean tree-lined street in a neighborhood of recycling fanatics. halloween decor--fake spiderwebs, plastic bats, paper skeletons--went up days before the trick-or-treating began, and now as leaves fall, brooms sweep up the foliage and children get lost in the piles. i love it. and so does my pumpkin.

And Counting

9 more days in Holland
8 days of getaway in the Balkans
3 more days of work
1 more night in my apartment
1 more visit to Amsterdam
1 bike sold

And I make my way back home.

For the first time ever, I was told yesterday that I have a midwestern American accent. Having never been to the midwest, I find this very amusing.

Hills

[The time has come, the walrus said, to speak of many things. My days in The Netherlands are coming to an end. What is left to be said? Much, my dearests, much.]

There are hills in Holland. Plural. Given, I'd found one of them in Leiden. But until this weekend, I had come to the conclusion that it was lone anomoly.

But Maastricht, home of the European Union and rather representative of at least a quarter of the nations who signed the treaty there in 1992, sits on the Maas just a few kilometers from hills of a most welcoming nature. Caves, quarries, and farmlands hide between and spread over them, and forested paths lead the horseless wanderer to adventure. There are hills in Holland, and I recently muddied up my sneakers on them. I stretched my legs.

I felt English, remembering the summers I spent with my family. We'd rent a farmhouse at the end of a gravel road and prance about in our wellies. Ducks would scatter as we'd scramble up gentle inclines and then up trees.

These hills, these woods, they bring back these memories. For that I am thankful.

Opened and Closed

It was barely raining. Don't ask me from whence I came or where I was heading. I know I stood at a bus stop. Or a tram stop. Which was it? No matter. A newspaper blew my way, opened at my feet, and immediately closed as if knowing already that I couldn't understand it. It flopped over, displaying its back cover, then moved on to the eyes of the next man in line, the next bundle of jackets and scarves on a brisk Spring morning. We all watched it while fiddling with gloved fingers.

I wish people were never treated the way we treated that newspaper. But they are. They are overexposed at times, and still no one pays attention... or worse, no one is able to.

Taylor in Town?

Apparently, the worlds of international justice and confusion get along well. The Hague is already home to the ICTY, the ICC, the ICJ, the US-Iran Claims Tribunal, and the PCA. Which of the previously-mentioned court(s)/tribunal(s) was/were established by the UN? And in which one was Milosevic tried? The confusion in the public arena is completely understandable considering all of these lovely abbreviations. And now, another acronym-the SCSL (Special Court for Sierra Leone)-wants to send its most high-profile client to The Netherlands. I have no problem with Charles Taylor heading to The Hague (while in custody, of course!), but I worry that having the ICC physically host the SCSL will simply lead to more mix-ups and misinformation regarding jurisdiction and responsibility.

However, I am willing to disregard all of this if his transfer up into central Europe would increase security and stability in the sub-region of Africa. The question is: Will it? Or is the strength and success of the SCSL attributed to the fact that it is located in the country of those which it intends to aid and inform?

Up

The clouds move faster here than anywhere I've ever known. They move fast and are reflected by my glass-panelled building. The people on the street look up and see not me. I am a cloud, a bird, a plane passing by. I am invisible behind my twelfth story window.

At (?) The Hague

Thanks to the world of international broadcast television (and to the former Serbian President), the entire world should (SHOULD!) know now where I'm living. A certain arguably left-leaning American broadcast channel liked to display an on-screen map of Europe and The Netherlands while reporters' voice-overs explained the events of last weekend in a very business-like manner. A little red dot on the map indicated where The Hague (also known as Den Haag, s'Gravenhage, and La Haye) is located. Other stations chose to send their reporters out into the rain; the poor, drenched souls reported that Slobodan Milosevic was found "lifeless" in his cell at The Hague. (At The Hague. At?) The death of this prominent figure has brought many questions to the forefront, the least of them being Where in the World is Clara the Brit? Because the trial was not completed, because the implementation of the tribunal cost many UN members quite a chunk of cash, because some claim Milo did not "see justice," and because the most high-profile defendant at a very expensive temporary court in a small city on the shore of the North Sea was never convicted of anything, the media began questioning the reputation of international courts as well as the efficiency and effectiveness of international criminal justice as a whole. It must not be forgotten, however, that this tribunal has provided international law with a legacy on which to build and has set the foundation for the creation of a permament international court. True, things did not go as planned. True, flaws of the system were certainly made very clear. But should the media choose to concentrate on the more positive contributions the tribunal has made to society, I--for one--would not complain.

Note to Self

Remember to change your Yahoo! weather location to Anchorage or Albuquerque. When you're living in damp Holland, waking up, checking your email, and seeing that it is 76 degrees and partly cloudly in Southern California does not do wonders for your mood.

I've complained a lot about the Dutch, I know. And I could easily spend the next paragraph telling you about how my landlord claims that it is my problem-not hers-that my shower is spewing sludge (as Summer would say, “ew”), but I thought I'd take a post to praise those who dwell in these low lands. What a concept, no?

[Inspired by moments on the way to station on this 10th of March.]

Even in the most torrential of gales, the Dutch are out and about, in their red pants and orange sweaters, pausing only when a STOP sign interrupts the bike lane. This bright-colored clothing trend irked me at first. It went against everything I’d subconsciously stored in the Fashion department of my brain. A girl in Los Angeles could never get away with throwing all colors of the rainbow into one ensemble, but the Dutch really couldn’t give a damn. And I love that. They wear whatever they want, unabashedly… even to the office. And they run for trams, for trains, for busses, for anything they think they might perhaps miss. Again, unabashedly. This shamelessness has me smitten. I can see the same people in other cities worrying as to whether people would find it strange that a woman dressed to the nines passed them in full sprint in order to catch the number 72 inner city bus. But in Holland, it’s just another gal who can’t be late for work.

Lost?

It's been a while since I've really needed help with directions around here. While in Amsterdam the other day, I stood by a canal, map clenched in one hand and my Lonely Planet in the other, hoping to figure out if I'd gone too far. People squeezed around me on the sidewalk and locked their bikes to the railing I leaned on, but not a single one stopped to ask me whether I needed help finding something. I guess this wouldn't normally strike me as odd, but I had just recently spent a weekend in Scotland where--even if I had no map out and just looked slightly dazed--passers-by would smile, inquire after my health, and help me find whatever I may or may not have been looking for...

Via Mia

Canal Shadows

My Daily Caffeination

It all started in high school, when I’d dart out with my classmates to a local Starbucks. We’d take the 35 minute lunch break to indulge in what are essentially just well-marketed milkshakes. Mocha, coffee, caramel, and java chip were the flavors of those days. Now there’s double chocolate chip and cinnamon dolce and caffè vanilla and toffee nut. But I can’t vouch for the addictiveness of those.

While studying for exams at university, I’d find a cushioned corner spot at one of the local cafés, somewhere between someone else’s pile of books and a photo of Los Angeles in the 1920s. Even nights were warm, so coffees would be iced. (They’d leave rings of condensation on my class notes.) But that was all well and fine. I drank coffee for the sake of drinking anything while studying, I drank it to pass the time, and I drank it mostly in hopes of fooling myself into thinking that I didn’t actually go out to absorb 11 weeks of game theory in 7 days—no, I went out for a nice iced beverage. The nights were sweeter that way. I’d even add sugar and let the ice melt. I’d weaken the bitterness of it.

But now, only months away from those nose-in-the-books days, I am officially a coffee snob. It’s odd, really. It’s not like I’m living in Italy or Austria, where they pride themselves on their coffee culture. I’m living in a country where “coffee shop” means “dark hole in the wall where you can get high.” Seriously, any insight into HOW this happened would be greatly appreciated. The guy at our coffee bar knows me by name. “See you tomorrow!” he says now, after I order my daily latte.

So, yes. Coffee has become a necessity. Good coffee, that is. Bad coffee gives me headaches. The stuff out of the machine will just not do. And I doubt I would be able to stoop to the level of my high school self… unless, of course, I happen to be driving around in flipflops one sweaty summer night in my hometown. I may just have to settle, then, for a coffee-flavored milkshake topped with whipped cream. I’d sit outside, pour it down my throat, and then lay with my hand on my tummy, snow-angel style, on the itchy itchy grass. And I’d have to invite my little brother. For sure.

The Hi Wendys Go Global

Carolyne's Goodbye

The indoors of a Dutch brown cafe. The mismatched furniture. The sweet sweet aroma of a cheese and wine fondue. The warmth of the mere thought of not being outside. These are things we treasure on windy winter nights in the level lands of Holland.

Oh, and friends, glorious friends...

Earphones

For some reason, I can't stop thinking about the boy walking down the Spui yesterday. He had his arm around his girl, his head tilted her way. I was thinking "aw, cute" about yet another couple on Valentine's Day until I realized he was wearing earphones. And no, they weren't sharing them or anything adorable like that.

He was just another guy tuning out another girl. And when did that become socially acceptable?

I mean, if she were his sister, that would be one thing. But the body language would just be WRONG if this gal were his sister. Or if she were his nanny, his teacher, or anyone whose job could be classified as a 'nagger,' that would be another thing.

But not his girlfriend. Not his best friend.

Now, I realize that this boy's life is not my business. But the tilting patterns in our social world are messing with my sense of reality and I cannot help but dwell on this, on the days when doors aren't opened for the female of the species. Not to sterotype the entire male sex--there ARE good ones out there, for which I am thankful--but I pray this tendency of both genders to be careless with one another will reverse soon itself. It is only a matter of respect.

Against the Wind

It was August when I first flew in. Days were decent, often grey, and sometimes rainy. Rust-ridden bicycles filled the streets. When it poured, they sprayed pedestrians with rainbows of runoff. While I’d run, huddled under an umbrella, towards the train station, the locals would forgo all forms of public transit for a pair of wellies and a bike.

Of course, I thought them crazy. Los Angelenos skip work when it rains.

But today, in the sideways winter wind, the sleet, the hail, and the wet wet snow, I rode my little magenta bike out of the center of The Hague to work. (My gloved hands were numb by the time I tried to respond to emails.) And last night it went with me to the gym. And the grocery store. I strapped my purchases behind the seat with a bungee cord.

I am such the hypocrite. And I’ll bet that it was one heck of a lot nicer to ride bikes last August. Hell, it was practically summertime.

It’s unfortunate that it took me a good six months to get used to the idea, but you live, you learn. Humans can be so predictable. Next time, I'll throw all my prejudices out the window.

Excuses, Excuses

It began to feel like a chore. I wrote all day long, using words to persuade and convince them that this is Exactly What They Want. I edited edited edited until each piece was perfect. Perfectly subtle, that is. And I had no energy left for a little collection of musings I had begun to post on the www.

I love my work; and that makes it all the more difficult to separate work from loves. But it is necessary. Writing for me, for you, is a love. Writing for work, is… work. Remind me of that, will you? And I’ll stick around.

[In case it is not blatantly obvious, I am still in Holland. Actually, I am currently in the clouds above Holland, but that is simply because the clouds are low today and there is about a two-foot visibility range. Most times, because this country is as flat as its favorite food (although there IS one hill in Leiden), I can see to the port of Rotterdam from my twelfth floor office in The Hague.

We have one more month until the first of Spring.]

Schiphol

when i think of you and an airport,
i think of leaving, one of us always
oceans away.

with a balloon, she squats by
the glass panelling, knees creaking,
her two-year old grand daughter waving back
from the stroller on the other side,
bubbling over with laughter
and curls.
i hope i can make you grin
like that girl.

you don't know i'm waiting,
late for work.
i'm waiting for your delayed flight
and your eyes and your arms,
waiting for everything to be alright
again.