2.21.2006
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.
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.
2.20.2006
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...
2.15.2006
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.
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.
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.
2.13.2006
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.]
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.]
2.09.2006
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.
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.
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