I'm about to go have some ghetto classic hot dogs, pot boiled, at Alex's place.
And then we're going to Pieckan later. Every Tuesday night is international night and we pile in and dance like fools and drink overpriced beers. Then, I moan and groan about having to bicycle all the way back from lent. But, how can I complain when there's a dance club on campus. As if that would happen back home at good ol' NMSU.
I've had a million little crystal moments and I can't count how lovely they've been. I think I've decided that everyone is confused and struggling together and there's peace in that. I've never been living the dream like I'm living it now.
Listen to The Tallest Man On Earth. He's from Sweden and his music is gonna rip you in half.
Then, listen to me try and do it justice. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5kAAUEEYBR0
By the way, boys and girls, my address here is:
Griftdijk Noord - 16
H - 112 Lent
6663 AC
The Netherlands
Send me some love, or perhaps a care package filled with green chiles and real salsa.
Mick
7.2.11
The Company
(This post was begun two weeks ago: I'm lazy and should make this a daily activity, lest it become bi-annual)
It's Saturday night at 8:00 and I'm parking my borrowed bicycle outside the Café Samson. It's dimly-lit and looks a bit seedy from the outside. There are a few older gents leaning low over their beers carrying on a conversation and on the other side of the patio there's six or seven kids that look my age laughing and sitting back leisurely. I like it already.
It's good and busy inside. There are people lining the wood-top bar and the barman is working hard to keep drinks full and just right. The whole decorum is wooden tables and tumbledown chairs -- it reminds me a little bit of the hostel in Prague. I'm looking for Simone, the girl that the university assigned to me as my guide to Nijmegen. We hadn't met yet -- just some facebook conversation, but she was sipping on a glass of red wine at a table in the back so I shoot her a wave and sit down. The beer menu is intimidating. They're organized into countries of origin and beside each name is the alcohol percentage. My native PBR was nowhere to be found, but there were quite a few fancy looking choices with 10% or 11% in small font. I realize I'd been here once before over the summer and had been so overwhelmed by the selection that I opted for a Coca Cola and Vieux. But, now I was ready to conquer. Sort of. Actually...hmm... maybe I'll just ask the waiter what he recommends. He brings me a Château-Neubourg in its own signature glass. Tall and skinny and the bubbles are flying up from the bottom of the glass like a geyser. Apparently every single beer has its own unique glass and there must've been fifty different options on that menu. That's a lot of glassware.
The beer tastes great and Simone and I talk about philosophy and Dutch society and Las Cruces (she studied there last year). More people pile into the bar and by nine it's totally poppin' in there. Miriam was back in Nijmegen after her late winter break trip to Germany and she meets us there a little after 9:00. She brings her two friends, Karin, and Cristi. There was wine and beer and I had a martini (with a mysterious maraschino cherry floating on top) and tried to sort through the flurry of Nedenglish conversation that was passing back and forth across the table. There was something comical about it. I'd say something in Dutch to Simone, who respond in English, then Miriam would chime into the conversation with some Dutch and I'd respond in English. It was a mental workout. And I was an amateur at it, but it got a good round of laughs out of our group. I'd purchased some clip on lights before I met up with Simone in an effort to avoid a €40 fine for riding at night without proper lighting accoutrement and I'd stuck the lights in my pocket when I got to the cafe. There was a priceless moment when I pulled my light out of my pocket and told the girls that I wasn't sure what the storage protocol was. Then, in fine form, they each shot their hands into their pockets and within the seconds the table was littered with little LEDS in cheap, plastic cases.
People don't go out around here until at least 1:00. It's bad form to start bar-hopping earlier than that -- there's nothing to do. I was jonesin' to have a taste of the different venues lining the Molenstraat, a Dutch equivalent (both in name and purpose) to the Mill Street of sweltering Mesa, AZ or the central avenue of any university city where all the semi-affordable, almost classy cafés and clubs make their names known. So, finally after two or three hours at the table in the back we headed out and my head was a little bit light from the last, rich blonde bier that had been in my cup.
I grab my bicycle and we walk towards the Molenstraat. Karin says I should practice bicycling slowly so we make a single file line of cycles past the construction in Plein 1944 and make our way to La Compagnie. It's modern inside with silver, neon decorum and loud music, none of the songs I recognize. But, the girls drink their Róse wine from short stemmed glasses and I order a biertje (meaning whatever the cheapest brand is they have on tap).
Quick dutch lesson of the day:
The dutch love their diminutives. So, there's a handful of words that are made cuter for no reason. But, it'd be wrong to remove this little sound from the tail end. Biertje, kaartje (ticket, card, etc), oh and if you're a 14 Dutch girl who drinks Bacardi Breezers and sluts it up at the bar... well you're a Breezersletje.
So, back to my biertje. After I order it, I hold it close to my chest with my elbow bent as I return to the girls -- a sort of pointing and pushing device to maneuver through the crowd.
After La Compagnie we made an appearance at The Underground, at Twee Keer Bellen, and finally settled down for a while in Malle Babbe. I liked Malle Babbe. A classic dive bar. And, if you wanted you could snake your way to the corner where some dedicated smokers pulled their cigarettes out of their packs and huddled around a shelf on the wall. The bartenders seemed to turn a blind eye to it.
I'm not much of a dancer. But, I have fun doing a series of repetitive and ridiculous movements on the dance floor. And, in the haze from surreptitious smokers and the shafts of rotating yellow party lights, I looked around at the company I was keeping and I looked down at the time -- it was 4:00 in the morning -- and I thought about the someday and the now and how I'm glad I'll have this to remember then. Everyone looked really young and beautiful and radiant and careless.
It's Saturday night at 8:00 and I'm parking my borrowed bicycle outside the Café Samson. It's dimly-lit and looks a bit seedy from the outside. There are a few older gents leaning low over their beers carrying on a conversation and on the other side of the patio there's six or seven kids that look my age laughing and sitting back leisurely. I like it already.
It's good and busy inside. There are people lining the wood-top bar and the barman is working hard to keep drinks full and just right. The whole decorum is wooden tables and tumbledown chairs -- it reminds me a little bit of the hostel in Prague. I'm looking for Simone, the girl that the university assigned to me as my guide to Nijmegen. We hadn't met yet -- just some facebook conversation, but she was sipping on a glass of red wine at a table in the back so I shoot her a wave and sit down. The beer menu is intimidating. They're organized into countries of origin and beside each name is the alcohol percentage. My native PBR was nowhere to be found, but there were quite a few fancy looking choices with 10% or 11% in small font. I realize I'd been here once before over the summer and had been so overwhelmed by the selection that I opted for a Coca Cola and Vieux. But, now I was ready to conquer. Sort of. Actually...hmm... maybe I'll just ask the waiter what he recommends. He brings me a Château-Neubourg in its own signature glass. Tall and skinny and the bubbles are flying up from the bottom of the glass like a geyser. Apparently every single beer has its own unique glass and there must've been fifty different options on that menu. That's a lot of glassware.
The beer tastes great and Simone and I talk about philosophy and Dutch society and Las Cruces (she studied there last year). More people pile into the bar and by nine it's totally poppin' in there. Miriam was back in Nijmegen after her late winter break trip to Germany and she meets us there a little after 9:00. She brings her two friends, Karin, and Cristi. There was wine and beer and I had a martini (with a mysterious maraschino cherry floating on top) and tried to sort through the flurry of Nedenglish conversation that was passing back and forth across the table. There was something comical about it. I'd say something in Dutch to Simone, who respond in English, then Miriam would chime into the conversation with some Dutch and I'd respond in English. It was a mental workout. And I was an amateur at it, but it got a good round of laughs out of our group. I'd purchased some clip on lights before I met up with Simone in an effort to avoid a €40 fine for riding at night without proper lighting accoutrement and I'd stuck the lights in my pocket when I got to the cafe. There was a priceless moment when I pulled my light out of my pocket and told the girls that I wasn't sure what the storage protocol was. Then, in fine form, they each shot their hands into their pockets and within the seconds the table was littered with little LEDS in cheap, plastic cases.
People don't go out around here until at least 1:00. It's bad form to start bar-hopping earlier than that -- there's nothing to do. I was jonesin' to have a taste of the different venues lining the Molenstraat, a Dutch equivalent (both in name and purpose) to the Mill Street of sweltering Mesa, AZ or the central avenue of any university city where all the semi-affordable, almost classy cafés and clubs make their names known. So, finally after two or three hours at the table in the back we headed out and my head was a little bit light from the last, rich blonde bier that had been in my cup.
I grab my bicycle and we walk towards the Molenstraat. Karin says I should practice bicycling slowly so we make a single file line of cycles past the construction in Plein 1944 and make our way to La Compagnie. It's modern inside with silver, neon decorum and loud music, none of the songs I recognize. But, the girls drink their Róse wine from short stemmed glasses and I order a biertje (meaning whatever the cheapest brand is they have on tap).
Quick dutch lesson of the day:
The dutch love their diminutives. So, there's a handful of words that are made cuter for no reason. But, it'd be wrong to remove this little sound from the tail end. Biertje, kaartje (ticket, card, etc), oh and if you're a 14 Dutch girl who drinks Bacardi Breezers and sluts it up at the bar... well you're a Breezersletje.
So, back to my biertje. After I order it, I hold it close to my chest with my elbow bent as I return to the girls -- a sort of pointing and pushing device to maneuver through the crowd.
After La Compagnie we made an appearance at The Underground, at Twee Keer Bellen, and finally settled down for a while in Malle Babbe. I liked Malle Babbe. A classic dive bar. And, if you wanted you could snake your way to the corner where some dedicated smokers pulled their cigarettes out of their packs and huddled around a shelf on the wall. The bartenders seemed to turn a blind eye to it.
I'm not much of a dancer. But, I have fun doing a series of repetitive and ridiculous movements on the dance floor. And, in the haze from surreptitious smokers and the shafts of rotating yellow party lights, I looked around at the company I was keeping and I looked down at the time -- it was 4:00 in the morning -- and I thought about the someday and the now and how I'm glad I'll have this to remember then. Everyone looked really young and beautiful and radiant and careless.
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