These are just ghosts that broke my heart before I met you

The Netherlands and I have been going through a rough patch this last week or so.

As the weather has been freezing over so have Amsterdam's affections towards me and recently we seem to be having quite a few discrepancies. Despite my most recent efforts to induct myself into Dutch culture, the city continues to seek me out as a tourist. While I managed to keep my mouth almost completely shut observing the blacked up children dominating the crowds whilst awaiting the arrival of Sinterklaas and his hunners of Zwarte Piets last weekend and not complain as Sinter's little helpers refused to give out sweets to anyone above three foot, the Amsterdammers remain certain they can take me for a ride the second they hear my British accent. Refusing to haggle in English and claiming that I simply cannot be British because I'm not hobbling to vom in the street wearing heels far too high for me and because I'm not flashing my patchily tanned tits, arse, stomach and legs all at once is getting a bit old now guys. Plus it's a Sunday, that look is strictly Saturday only for me. On that note, we also need to talk about sarcasm and how it works.

Sinterklaas' big entrance

  
On top of this, my living situation has escalated with the police making yet another visit this time taking my darling neighbour back with them to spend the evening in jail, oh - alongside with the knife he was casually threatening someone with. Hitler has also taken to binning any dirty dishes that remain in the sink for longer than three minutes and we appear to have developed a food thief with a craving for washed, peeled and chopped potatoes when they have been momentarily left alone in a pan on the kitchen table.

However, just when I had decided to be the bigger (surprisingly difficult in the tallest country in Europe) person and give in to Amsterdam's crooked and canal-framed puppy dog eyes, my beau took it too far and let my bike get stolen. My beautiful, one week old, shiny, baby girl, Lexi with her little basket and wonderful friction powered lights. Not only unlawfully taken from me, but unlawfully taken from me in the middle of the night, when the trams had stopped running and the taxi fares were to too daunting to consider. And yes, I know it happens here on an hourly basis and it was probably a lesson to teach my to start chaining my bike to something more than just itself but a girl's got to mourn, ok?

In spite of all this, the fun has nevertheless been continuing, with a delightful visit from Bryce, the amazing treats of my first ever Thanksgiving dinner, pretty special Bon Iver and Beach House gigs and further fun times with my friends. So I guess like any relationship that wants to succeed, Amsterdam and I are going to have to look past our issues and work on the art of compromise.
Honey, I promise I'll keep my bike chained to immovable objects from now on if you'll just tell your family to be a little friendlier.

Amster-Damaged

It's been a long time coming but since my middle-aged neighbour just thought it was socially acceptable to come to my bedroom door and enquire if it was my time of the month, I've decided it's time to tell you all a little bit about my living situation.

Uilenstede is a pretty special place to live. It's basically a giant student residence complex with something like three thousand folk living here, of which international students make up a large chunk. It may be a thirty minute bike ride from the city centre but that far from disadvantages us. We have our own little community here with VU (where I study) only a ten minute maximum bike ride; Jumbo supermarket a two minute job  and a 10 second climb up the fire escape ladder on our kitchen balcony to pop upstairs to Unit 12. For a night of comfort we head over to the Green building with their luxurious ensuites, large kitchens and cosy sofas but the cheapest of cheap Red building, where yours truly resides, ain't so bad. Located on prime real estate next to both Amstelveen Snacks for midnight munching and Uilenstede's main entrance/exit - making it an ideal meeting location, the red building hosts thirteen people on each floor with a communal bathroom and kitchen area. An awesome set up for meeting and interacting with new people - all sharing cultures, cooking as a group and chilling out watching television together on an evening. Unless you live with PSYCHOPATHS that is.

Some of you may have already heard about Unit 8. Maybe from that time we had the POLICE round after our wonderful, pleasant floormate decided to BEAT the shit out of his girlfriend. Or if you missed that one, maybe you caught it the second or third or even fourth time since she was unable to leave after he took her passport HOSTAGE. Maybe you heard about our delightful floor NAZI, who puts up strict cleaning rotas every week but hides all the cleaning products in her room so in order to complete your task you must alert her so she can watch over your shoulder while you work. Or perhaps you heard about the great guy she has living in her room with her, the one who dominates our kitchen every night preaching about the way homosexuals and people who have abortions should be dealt with while we hurriedly cook our meals, FORCED to escape to our bedrooms to eat them. We've also developed a heart-warming tradition of passive aggressive notes, either stuck up on the notice board or delivered directly to our bedrooms, whether they be 'gentle' reminders to complete our tasks or the encouragement of general hygiene and cleanliness that the generous folk who leave hair-balls in the shower and VOMIT in the bathroom sinks seem to forgot about from time to time. Oh, how could I forget about my next door neighbour? The one in the heavy metal rock band who in between rehersals in his bedroom likes to considerately BLAST out his 'music' at all hours. Luckily there's a small group of us who have actually been raised to develop the general social skills and etiquette of humanity and we manage to keep each other going. However, the fear that we are merely part of a social experiment created solely to investigate how long we can grasp onto our sanity for is slowly becoming realised, as one of the good eggs walked into my bedroom whilst sleep-hallucinating last night and ate a plastic spider..

C'mon kids, what you waiting for? Book your tickets to come and stay with me asap. Just remember to bring your straight jacket.