Slip inside the eye of your mind, don't you know you might find, a better place to play?

Almost a whole year into my time living in Amsterdam and the sun has finally popped out his lovely, yellow head and the beaches and terraces of Holland are buzzing with excitement. The nights are longer; the music is louder; and the skin is on show. Summer has definitely arrived. But one thing that never seems to change, despite the shift in season (well particularly for me as I'm yet to escape the educational system) is that feeling of an era coming to an end the minute the weather hots up. In primary school, saying farewell to your friends for a six week period which may as well have been an eternity felt like the absolute end of the world, despite knowing fine well that you'd all be back in September and nothing would even dare to change.
But this time, it really does feel like the be all and end all. Not only is this my final year in further education (permission granted to slap me so hard in the face if I ever even consider a PhD) but studying abroad means these farewells really are the end of an era. Although I strive to fulfil all my promises of seeing some of the faces that have made this year completely unforgettable again in the near future. I know that first we're going to have to deal with pixelated Skype conversations yelling 'Sorryy? Whaat?!' as our voices travel half way around the world to reach each other.
I've written before about study abroad friends and two years later, I still believe the same. They inevitably end up in this special place in your heart and it's always their faces you see when you reflect back upon your experiences. Yes, Amsterdam is the absolute man of my dreams but he would be a mere shadow of himself if I hadn't have got to share him with such marvellous companions. And what makes this an even more bittersweet farewell is the fact that it's not a farewell for me. In fact, I'm staying here. Indefinitely. And although that crazy bunch I call my Coco's family will ensure I'm not alone, I still can't help but feel this is a new start. The beginning of a fresh chapter, a new era. I've never not been a student before and although this is all a little premature considering my thesis is still only around the 60% completion mark, I'm kinda scared.
Nevertheless, on that note, I think it's time to reflect upon the lessons I have learnt this year at the VU. The Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam. Probably one of the worser educational systems I've found myself being a part of (and I went to Man Met) but nonetheless an institution that has taught me many lessons about the Dutch system, the Dutch culture and of course the Dutch themselves:

• Dutch lecturers have a slight problem with my written English. Apparently my grammar and sentence structure are actually kind of appalling. I try to fit way too many ideas and analyses into one 25,000 word essay when I clearly won't have enough words to explain them within my limit. Oh, and my supervisor wants me to hire a native English speaker to edit my work before she even attempts to read it again. My bad, what do I know, it's only my first language...
• Dutch students, on the other hand, think I'm an English language whizz and have no qualms in approaching me in the library after overhearing my native tongue to hit me up with a list of 6 versions of the same phrase to ask which one is correct. And to be frank, keeping in line with my first point, 9 times out of 10, I haven't got the foggiest. Turns out speaking the language naturally means we only know half the rules and regulations of English that those who study it live religiously by
• Dutch lecturers love making you give presentations. English students don't adore the old presentations so much. As a result, classes assessed solely upon presentations = classes in which I don't end up with the highest grade
• If you don't have a debit card, you can't eat at the VU. Every vending machine and most food stops require payment by Chipknip - an oddly useful yet frustrating Dutch payment concept
• Dutch students like to mix and match the following staple foods in order to create lunch: a piece of bread; a boiled egg; meat; a croquette; cheese; drinkable yoghurt; hagelslag
• If you want to get in an elevator at the VU, forget any boundaries you have about personal space
• Photocopying costs money, scanning books and sending them to your laptop is free.
• Many electives on my International Masters are unavailable to me because of the simple reason that I'm International and not Dutch
• The architecture lecturers at the VU think it is an inspiring and beautiful campus. The VU is the ugliest collection of buildings I've seen to date
• One of my lecturers was obsessed with Assassin's Creed to the point that every class had at least 30 minutes dedicated to the cause and when the new game was released she came in the next day all red-eyed and puffy after an all-nighter of almost finishing it. Oh, and one time she taught us wearing an Assassin's Creed hoody which had an Assassin's hood which when she put up came right down over her face, the staple fashion piece for every assassin
• The VU doesn't really rate film, advertising, or culture. Shame when you're in a Media programme
• The VU doesn't really encourage active learning. Unless it's a class discussion which is then filmed by 360 degrees rotating cameras so the lecturer can watch back the footage to check we never wandered off topic
• Michel Foucault can Fouc-off, and take Ad-yawn-no with him
• The VU does however, have a beach volleyball court right in the centre of it's courtyard for all your beach volleyball and sandcastle building needs
• And of course, the VU charges at least a tenth of the price of any UK University for any Masters programme, ensuring my degree is fully paid off before I have even finished it
  

So who cares if it's been lacking a bit here and there, it's hardly a waste of money and I'm walking away completely debt free, which I'm sure not many Brits can say after completing a Masters. And what's more, if it wasn't for the VU I probably wouldn't have moved to Amsterdam at all and I definitely wouldn't have met some of the most inspiring and life-changing people I can now call my friends.
So yes, it really is the end of an era but as Oasis oh-so-famously sung, don't look back in anger. VU, you may be a little rough around the edges but on the inside you've fed me more Balisto bars than a gal could ever dream of and who'da thunk it, you've actually taught me a bit about Art and Media as well. 

Ay, wat wil je? Heb je een probleem met mijn gezicht?

Two months away from my one year anniversary with my beau, Amsterdam. And like the love sick, can't-keep-our-hands-off-each-other couple that we are, I've recently found myself adopting all those little traits that used to niggle me so as the polite, little British girl that rocked up all those months ago. That is, over the last few months, I've noticed myself becoming ever so slightly more Dutch. Fear not, I haven't sprouted an extra eight inches, nor have I packed up and moved to a windmill where I survive purely on a diet of cheese and stroopwafels. These are just the little day to day things which prove I'm well on my way to adapting to this terrific lifestyle I've found myself living:

• I cycle everywhere and anywhere that would take me over 3 minutes to walk
• I prefer a vaasje over a pint - sorry Britain! - they just stay so bubbly, fresh the whole way down to the bottom
• I've learnt to appreciate that a great sandwich doesn't always need two slices of bread
• On that note, I've recognized that if there's one thing the Dutch can do, it's a crackin' sandwich spread
• My knowledge of the lingo is improving every week, well ik ben aat het proberen leer
• And the phrases I am gathering tend to be short, to the point, questions and statements. None of this polite dilly-dallying around the point, afraid to offend anyone present with every mumbled word. Phrases such as: 'what do you want?', 'do you have a problem with my face?', and in true Peggy Mitchell style, 'GET OUTTA MY PUB!' - all to be uttered with the utmost sass and underlying aggression
• I wear trainers all day every day. Trainers being Vans, Converse or Nikes - the Netherlands' top three. I study in 'em, I work in 'em, and I party in 'em. A pair of heels will guarantee you funny looks here, and for that, my feet are so happy.
• Anyone on a rental bike is my immediate enemy. Especially those who incessantly ring their bells because, of course, it's just hilarious..
• I take great pleasure in ringing my own bike bell at tourists walking in the bike lane
• Bitterballen are pretty awesome
• Shaking hands whilst stating only my name upon meeting new people is getting less and less weird
• I'm wearing an orange sweatshirt today. Because orange isn't actually all that bad of a colour..
  

However, in hand with this, of course comes the very few things I just know I'll never get used to. That my wee, British brain still cannot fathom, such as:

• Why the Dutch feel the need to wrap each teabag in it's own individual packet, yes, even inside the box
• The obsession with yacky liquorice
• THE WHOLE PAYING FOR THE TOILET THING?!
• And of course, Zwarte Piet. A little out-of-season I know, but nonetheless, the cheerful assistant of Sinterklaas, who children and adults a-like imitate by blacking up their faces and donning red lipstick because.. duhh, he spent so long up a chimney, why on earth else? 

But anyway, a relationship without these odd little discrepancies would be a boring one at that. And if there's one thing my Amsterdam isn't, it's boring - my Masters thesis more than accounts for that.
So schatje, you keep opening my eyes and I'll keep adapting, and who knows, maybe one day I'll be able to pronounce that hard 'g' without accidentally spitting all over your face..

Insta-Dam

It's funny where inspiration comes from sometimes. I can spend the whole day in the library, forcing words from my brain, uncomfortably piecing them together to tease out sentences, paragraphs, pages that nobody but my supervisor is even going to ever read again. Yet, uploading one photo from my phone to Facebook. One photo taken in a drunken haze of happiness and exhaustion last week and something sparks. Something sparks and I want to spend pages telling you about a city, a moment, a feeling.

Some of my happiest moments in Amsterdam are when I'm cycling home from work at 6am. When the streets are empty and houses are just beginning to stir. The occasional jogger pants on by. But other than that it's still. It's silent. And it's mine. I make my way in a dazed state of post-work exhaustion and subdued tipsyness. Music in my ears and usually some crazy prop I've inherited from the nights work in my hand - the other night it was an empty 4.5litre bottle of Jamesons, and yes, it was bloody heavy.
It's my me time, my content time, my gezellig time. Time to unwind, reflect on my day, remember just how much I have to do tomorrow. But it can wait, it has to. Because now I'm cycling, and now I'm happy.

Amsterdam has this way of making you feel at home despite everything. Not like Paris, who did everything in his power to make me feel unwelcome, to let me do everything the hard way.
(...People consistently reassure me that at least I learnt from these experiences but believe you me, there are geen lessons to be learnt from being homeless for two weeks!)
But it's not just the kooky, crooked houses leaning over the canals, peering down at you to say hello. Or the friendly, little cobbled streets, each one inviting you in for an adventure. Or even the Coco's terrace, where there's always a familiar face, where everybody knows your name. It's the whole package of this city. The whole atmosphere that collects to create these big, open arms - and for a knuffel-whore like myself, it's just what I need.

I constantly return to this analogy of Amsterdam as my boyfriend. And if he was a human, I think he'd be a hipster. He oozes style. He has his own quirky way of dressing, he adores travelling by bike, he was made to be instagrammed. He's the kinda guy that all the cool kids want to drink and smoke with. But also has so much under the surface, so much culture, so much experience. Yes, he puts up a wall sometimes, makes you work for his affections (pda is soo mainstream), but he soon returns with quirky, romantic treats. Each time something new, something exciting. Always keeping you on your toes. It's when I'm cycling home from work that I get the real him though, the vulnerable him, that's when we talk about our feelings. I know he's a slut and all the girls go crazy for him, but in my contented, drunken haze, in the first few hours of sunlight I'm pretty sure he tells me he finds me lief right back.

And that's why last week I opened a Dutch savings account. Why the open tabs on my laptop are apartment rentals on Craigslist. Because Amsterdam, I'm sticking around. I've found a part of me here that I'm not willing to let go of just yet.
Plus, I'm learning Dutch. Where the hell in the world am I going to use that otherwise?

10 non-Master related things I have achieved so far in Amsterdam (namely when I should have been achieving Masters related things):

• I have perfected the amount of phlegm to involve when saying 'geen'
• I can ride my bike with geen hands for approximately 3 seconds
• I can ride my bike with one hand and text/Google map with the other like a pro
• I can ride on the back of someone elses bike without holding on
• Working at Coco's has ensured I have established a vast variety of fancy dress props, predominantly a crackin' hat collection
• Last week I went on a date with a guy who legit has his own Wikipedia page
• I was awfully brave and went swimming in the IJ at midnight when the grimy state of the water; the bottom of the water; or in that case, any of the octopuses were not visible to me
• I won a cuddly crocodile on the Camel Derby at the fair
• When dressed like a savvy gent, I learnt how to flip my top hat up my arm until it reaches my head
• Gezelligheid
  

...On that note, if anyone wants to send the 'priorities' talk my way anytime soon, it would be greatly appreciated. One month 'til thesis deadline and 18,000 words to go.
Dammit, Amsterdam, stop being such a babe.

You can find him sitting on your doorstep, waiting for a surprise..

Sitting in my usual spot on the 9th floor at the VU, procrastinating from my thesis, when I realise the coffee machine I purposefully place myself in such close proximity to is in fact out of order. Upon noticing my sincere shock and heartache, the Dutch guy sitting next to me states that he is in fact heading downstairs for caffeinated supplies and he'll bring me back a coffee. So sitting at my laptop, hot coffee and a Balisto in hand, I got to thinking about Dutch guys, and my experiences so far with the tallest, cheese-eating, bike-riders in all the land.
As a young, single, (& sassy?) female living in Amsterdam. One of the first things people ask me about my time here is how are the Dutch boys? Is the talent better than back home? Have I got myself a Dutch boyfriend yet? So, as somewhat of an answer to these queries, here's a list from me to you of all the things I've noticed about Dutch boys so far:

NB. This list is subject to change, particularly when/if a Dutchie opens my eyes and sweeps me off my feet. Until then, cynicism overrules.

- Surprisingly, not all Dutchies are as tall as you'd like them to be
- Many Dutch males naturally have frustratingly luscious hair
- As a result of this, if I'm ever crashing at one of the guys places after work, unlike with English boys, there are no hair straighteners for me to borrow in the morning
- Dutchies don't tend to beat around the bush, they are very direct. Which makes playing dumb, flirty, chasing games a no go.
- Dutch guys, of all ages, love red jeans
- They also love trainers, the chunkier the better, although Vans and Converse are also a hit. In fact, every successful and high-up male museum exhibition curator I have met through my Masters so far, has loved pairing a subtle floral shirt, with a sharp blazer, jeans and high top Conny's.
- Backpacks are a third fashion essential
- Dutch guys don't really like to date, normally because that entails buying things for girls
- They also make you pancakes because it's normal, not because they're being cute
- The slicked back hair. 'Nough said.
- Oh, and one Dutch guy very kindly punched my female friend in the face the other night, what a sweetheart.

So, in a word, no. I have not got myself a Dutch boyfriend yet. Do I mind? No, the fact I can't borrow a dumb pair of hair straighteners is just a mere, insignificant downfall of the fabulous friendships these guys can offer. Dutch guys are loyal. They're hilarious. What's more, they get sarcasm. Dutch guys love to have fun. To get wasted. To dance. To leave you the keys to their place for the week while they're out of town. They're there for you when you need them. Whether you're in need of a temporary phone or a lift home on the handlebars of their bikes.
And sometimes, just sometimes, you can find the occasional Dutch guys willing to steal you a bike. To paint it a delightful, hipster colour for you. To bring you treats for every two hours of study you successfully complete during your study dates. To feed you through a hangover. And to stand by your side in a whole film roll of disposable camera photos, none of which any of you can remember. The Porthos and Aramis to your Athos, one might say. It's those who are the ones worth writing home about.
Plus, all the drunken, bow-tie clad Facebook photos together can even give my family the false hope they need that I won't be hopelessly single forever, win win.

And on that note, meet Ruby..

She may be bike number 5 over 9 months, but she's the fourth leg of this tripod.

She says she loves who I'd be if I grew up, but 'til then could I please keep my shoes on

You'll soon come to notice that as my thesis deadline creeps closer, the frequency of my blog posts will significantly increase. That instead of getting the small BOOK I need to write out of the way sooner rather than later in order to enjoy an Amsterdam summer of festivals and fun, I will be spending my days re-posting Buzzfeed articles showcasing The 17 Best Parts Of The Only Shirtless Picture Of Ryan Gosling In “The Place Beyond The Pines or 18 Microwave Snacks You Can Cook In A Mug. And until 'the fear' kicks in I shall be found dancing around my bedroom to Taylor Swift, eating peanut butter out of the jar and cutting in my own bangs after a New Girl overdose. Do I enjoy living this close to the edge? Yes actually, I'm very comfortable here. I've got my Ryan Gosling pillow and the cuddly crocodile I won at the Dam fair by my side, oh, and another thing, an alcoholic beverage in my hand..

The longer I live in Amsterdam work at Coco's, the more the ratio of my having a beverage in my hand to me not having a beverage in said hand is increasing at a rapid and mildly concerning rate - unfortunately alongside the number of alcoholic beverages consumed and the exponential growth of my beer belly, sigh. As a result, yesterday I created a new rule for myself whereby I no longer drink during the week, playtime should be reserved for weekend purposes only. Alas, this lasted all of FORTY MINUTES - damn you and your Espresso Martini, Adriaan - so here goes, ten reasons why I'm definitely convinced that I'm slowly but surely becoming an alcoholic:

•  Mieke Bal is one of the core theorists of my thesis, she's a great gal. However, whenever I reference or quote Bal, as I type her name I immediately think of Bol's liqueur
• When out shopping for birthday presents last week, me and Linda stopped for a shot of tequila mid-mission, then resumed our business as if nothing had happened
• I haven't had a hangover in months
• When I leave for work on a Saturday afternoon, my floormates don't expect to see me again until Monday morning
• There is a drink that exists at my work called 'a Robyn'
• Me and Hannah have recently made up a dance especially designed for bar stools in the Coco's Mine, since we find ourselves sat there every weekend. Minimum effort, maximum proximity to the bar.
• I legit drink beer to unwind
• Me and a friend actually hid beers at a house party the other week, in fear of supplies significantly depleting
• If I make a mistake or forget something, my friends just assume I am/was drunk
• I properly enjoy downing an Irish Car Bomb
  

However, the slightly bigger issue would be that in actual fact that none of this remotely bothers me. Drunk me has a hoot. Drunk me is a generally better and more talented human being - as my recent Pool reigning and continually improving efforts at the Smirnoff Challenge prove. Hell, drunk me is probably going to write a substantially better thesis than sober me could ever fathom.
And I'll drink to that.

Today I miss home. That's all.

It's miserable and magical, oh yeah

They say the first step is admitting that you have a problem, so here goes. My name is Robyn and I have been dancing around my bedroom in my pyjamas and singing into a hairbrush listening to Taylor Swift's '22' on repeat for the last two weeks.

The problem is, I think I'm ok with it. After wasting endless hours on thoughtcatalog reading bullshit articles about how hard and depressing your 20s are, articles such as 9 Things You're Too Old For In Your 20s; 10 Lessons Everyone Learns In Their 20s; and Types Of Women Men Like Better Than Me, dressing up like hipsters and making fun of our ex's sounds frankly idyllic.

I moved to Amsterdam to do a Master's degree - which retrospectively has to be one of the least thought out and impulsive decisions I've made, probably ever, and I don't mean the moving here bit. I was too chicken to pack up and make the move alone so I fell back on studying here, making the journey a marginally easier ride - students get huge social induction events; students get accommodation; students get free stuff. Turns out the words 'study' and 'Amsterdam' aren't friends. They despise each other actually. In fact, Amsterdam is a total possessive and jealous boyfriend and won't let me spend any time with study. He's whiny, he's needy, he requires my full attention at all times but for everything he takes, man does he give back! It's not me, it's Amsterdam, it's impossible to do anything other than play here.Yet every time I find myself in a downwards spiral of study neglect and guilt, I just gotta listen to Taylor telling me how 22 is supposed to be and I realise that I'm absolutely doing it right.

Yes, life can be about succeeding, creating opportunities and securing a good job; getting paid to do what you love, something that challenges you daily but you feel passionate about, care about. But the longer I spend living away from the UK, away from home, the more I've realised that life is really about those little things that happen in between. Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans. The accidental four day benders you find yourself amongst on Easter weekend; late night scouring the streets for dodgy bike dealings; crazy nights with old friends collecting naughty and hilarious stories, using one hand to drunkenly balance on the back of someones bike whilst the other sends out a "you'll never guess what just happened to me..." text; wasting money at the fair because you really want that kinda creepy looking 'I Love You' bear, leaving every ride in physical pain from laughing so damn hard; hell, even hangover days curled up on a friends sofa sobbing at The Lion King while he runs out to buy English tea and pancakes.

Despite all the neglect I have given (am giving) my thesis. I guess there is something I'm learning from finally getting down some words and introducing concepts of narratology and narrative theory. Life is a narrative and your 20s are about writing yours. You can't go back and change it but you can learn from your misinterpretations of previous chapters, your mistakes. Just don't read the last page first, don't ruin the twist, it's the best part.

See, alone we stand, together we fall apart. Tables they turn, sometimes.

Living away from friends and family isn't always the easiest. Even in the most thrilling periods of play times and good times, it's easy to have a down day. To wake up suddenly very aware of how far away Dad is when I need him to fix my bike in that superhero way he knows how to make everything work again; realising that Mum's breakfast pancakes would be stone cold and soggy by the time they reached me; and that crying into a webcam over a dumb boy doesn't come close to being able to have my Sister squeeze me tight in-person and ask which loser she has to go and beat up. Knowing that the day ahead of you is filled with endless potential linguistic barriers, that going to the supermarket should not be this stressful and living in constant fear that people are laughing about you in a language that makes as much sense to me as the fact that I have to PAY to deposit money into my Dutch bank account.
Well, today is one of those days. With my Masters thesis staring me expectantly in the face - and by Masters thesis I of course mean blank pages - and the persistent, and frankly rude, snow that continues to fall outside despite it being ALMOST APRIL, it's safe to say that this bear is grumpy and crying out for affection with a needy blog post.

However, after a few whiny (on my part) and affirming (on his) words with an old friend, I decided it was time to take some man pills, build a bridge, get over it, and take a look at the bigger picture. Stop being so dramatic because, although it hurts to not be able to hold close the ones you would give anything to, anything to get rid of that stupid ocean between me and Boston, me and Australia, I know it'll make our next play date all the more adventurous.
So here we go kids, 10 things I have to smile about right now:

1. I freakin' live in Amsterdam
2. Lauren Day is coming to play tomorrow
3. I’m young and have no commitments to hold me down, I’m my own number one priority and the world is my oyster
4. I have an awesome job, always a pleasure never a chore
5. I have amazing friends and family that support me no matter what
6. It’s almost summer
7. The sheer existence of peanut butter. Oh, and that it's literal translation from Dutch is 'peanut cheese'
8. I will be getting into freshly washed bed sheets tonight
9. I'm about to watch two films and call it 'research' 
10. This:

Painfully cheesy I know, but would you look at that, the snow has ceased and the sun is peeping out to finally say hello. Nevertheless my thesis pages are still blank, but hey, you can't have everything, right?

Tramps like us, baby, we were born to run

The other day I was chatting to a customer at work about just what it is that makes Amsterdam such a tremendous city to live in. What it is that makes it feel like home the second you lay eyes on those familiar crooked houses with their endearing slanty roofs, almost leaning over to greet you as you potter on by. Yet also the anticipation and excitement a days exploring can bring, with each newly discovered nook and cranny of the city guaranteeing a fresh perspective, teaching a new lesson.
After swapping stories of work and play, we found the common ground for the reasons behind our contented grins was in fact our experiences with fellow expats. The city is brimming with them. Faces from far off lands. Smiling faces that jump to bewilderment the minute they are confronted with the guttural sounds of Nederlands. But each face with a unique story to tell. One of my favourite things about meeting new people in this city is not asking their name or where they live but where they're from and how they got here, why Amsterdam, why now. And every response is worth the time it takes to listen, quirky stories of fate that match the city's unique and gezellig charm.
Nonetheless, as romantic and fruitful as expat life in Amsterdam sounds, hand in hand with it comes expat problems. First world expat problems if you will. And fear not, in true British style I am of course going to vent to you about these now. After all you know what they say, you can take the girl out of England...

- I have to take my UK plug adaptor everywhere I want to go and study. I have known this for 6 months now, yet still forget it every time.
- Being continually and relentlessly embarrassed by tourists from our homelands, reminding us just why it is that we left. English football hooligans make me a terrible person.  
- The MENTAL weather. It's mid-March. Stop snowing, ya weirdo.
- Having no idea whether the day or month comes first when writing the date. If it's a number under twelve, I'm stumped.
- Never mind the Dutchies, I have no idea how to greet other expats. Hugs, kisses, handshakes, waves. I break a sweat just thinking about it.
- Not having natural cockiness on a bike, or just natural co-ordination in my case.
- Not being able to understand a hell of a lot of public and usually pretty important announcements.
- Panicking every non-Brit with the mention of Mother's Day. Don't worry guys, you have another two months to prepare.
- Buying cards for such occasions.
- I keep burning my mouth on Bitterballen and leaving my Stroopwafels melting on top of my cup of tea for that split second too long then hearing that fateful plop. Zo ongezellig.
- I'm done with mayonnaise.
- Getting excitable whenever I hear a Northern accent then looking massively weird when people clock me.
- Being far too polite and easily offended to comprehend the bluntness of the Dutch.
- Being trapped in a small time portal when it comes to contemporary music.
- HAVING NO IDEA WHAT THE HARLEM SHAKE IS??

Nags and niggles aside, Amsterdam and I have definitely made it through the honeymoon period of our relationship and found ourselves firmly developing some solid foundations - ironic for a city standing below sea level on some apparently rather flimsy wooden poles?
And our future? Well, it's definitely looking bright, and it's definitely looking orange.

What is your profession? OHW OHW OHW.

Waking up as the sun rises curled up on a sofa with my partner in crime (read 'bad influence') by my side, hidden away upstairs in the bar where I work with the start of my next shift less than 8 hours away, is becoming a worryingly regular part of my life now that I'm employed.
Coco's Outback, the new and exciting, rebellious phase of my love affair with Amsterdam. The bad-boy you convince yourself you'll never go back to but one glance and the butterflies in your stomach carry you straight back into his Aussie arms. The bar where every hour we drop the customers and gather for staff shots; where my initiation was eating a grass hopper followed by copious Stroh 80% shots; and where baggy t-shirts are banned for female staff members unless significant side boob is offered. The bar responsible for the fact that I haven't had a single hangover since January 1st, namely because I've been consistently and irrevocably drunk since the 2nd. My second home.

With this in mind, in a brief window of Sunday sobriety, I decided to reflect upon the things I've learnt both of life and of the outside world after inducting myself into the alcoholic, nocturnal, but bloody gezellig, spiral of barwork in an Aussie bar in Amsterdam.

• All the lyrics to Men at Work - A Land Down Under. Romeo Done.
  
• Why we call it going Dutch. Those guys will not spare a cent other than for anything other than what they have eaten/drank.
  
• A guy in a Coco's t-shirt will get overwhelmed with beer mats on a nightly basis covered in scribbled down numbers from girls eagerly leaning over the bar drooling into their vodkas. Beer mats thrown at them from all angles, hell, even slipped into their pockets as they walk around collecting glasses.
  A girl in a Coco's tshirt? Innappropriate and unappreciated gropes from way outside the niche market. Oh, and dirty looks from said girls throwing their digits at the fellas.
• After 10pm on a work night, I am dependent upon alcohol.

•  I'm growing a Jäger baby belly, his name is Macklemore.

• Never leaving the place sober made the demise of bike number five inevitable. But don't worry, despite the bumps and bashes, It has certainly seen superb things in it's final few weeks. The bike doctors diagnosis should come in over the next few days. Spokes crossed.

• Disco pants are the ideal work pants. Comfy as hell, easy to run up and down stairs in, and the tips? They speak for themselves.

• As long as I live/work in Amsterdam, my hair will always smell of smoke. Always.

• British tourists are an embarrassment. Whether they be being carried out spewing on a Saturday night or huddled over a burger and a Pepsi on a Sunday afternoon. C'mon guys.

• Stag do's with strippers are the MOST fun. And these strippers definitely warm-up to a circa late 1990s/early 2000s playlist of Destiny's Child, Pink and the like, as they are sassy as hell.

• My gag reflex and I can't handle anymore Pink Troyka.

• THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS JUST ONE DRINK.

Does it matter that our anchor couldn't even reach the bottom of a bathtub?

Quietly sitting trying to blag my way through a Masters thesis proposal on the computers at my Uni last week and eight Dutch folk legit surround me in order to have the most excessively loud and annoying conversation. My bad, forgot I'd put my invisibility cloak on that day. Sorry guys, but it's time to let it rip on Dutch people. The people of Amsterdam. Don't take it personally, in fact, refer back to the old Paris blog and see that in comparison to those losers, I freaking adore you all.

 Or just stop reading now.

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Let's stay friends.

• Let's start with the Dutch customers that come into the bar where I work. The rude, annoying customers. The ones that dine 'n' dash, or when they do pay, chose to do it separately and without a cent to spare. Also those inappropriate customers, the ones that on Australia Day seriously violated me. When what started as playfully putting dollar bills in my pocket quickly escalated to pulling my ponytail to hail my attention only to go on to make me the filling of some un-namely human sandwiches. ONGEZELLIG. 
• My Dutch lecturers enjoy penalising me for my use of language and grammar in my assignments. My assignments written in English. That language, the one which is my mother tongue. C'mon guys.
• They STILL can't spell my name.
• What Maddy dotingly coined as 'the prawn cocktail curl', the small flick of hair a Dutch man has behind each ear as a result of obsessively slicking it back is starting to weird me out.
• CHOOSE BETWEEN A HUG, ONE KISS, OR THREE KISSES. You can't have all three, it's greedy. And you can't interchange them, it stresses awkward English girls out.
• The Dutchies have no qualms about getting up in your personal space. Particularly in supermarket lines and elevators. Again, you're stressing out the inventor of the queue.
• Their stock of Indie music stops circa 'The Coral - Dreaming of You'.
• They are annoyingly in shape for all the deep fried foods they munch.
• Dutch people laugh at me when I tell them of my biking woes, or even worse give me that endearing-borderline-patronising look you give a child as you praise the illegible scribble they just handed you claiming it a story about you.
  Aww you're such a tourist, aren't you adorable.
• And finally, I'm excessively jealous of anyone who can naturally speak more than one language. If that's not reason enough to get antsy, I don't know what is.

However, ranting aside, I have also in recent weather came to feel sorry for Dutch folk as there is one thing they will never know the true joys of. Sledging. The rush of grabbing a dustbin lid, an old scrap of carpet, hell, even a carrier bag and throwing yourself down the side of a hill. The kids here are dragged in their sledges along the never-ending flatness by exhausted parents, or if they're lucky, a friends bike.
And for that, plus how delightfully short they all make me feel, I'll let them off.
Well, most of you.

Hit the cycle path, Jack

My time in Amsterdam so far appears to revolve around a series of unfortunate incidents concerning me and my bike. And today, as a pigeon flung himself under my front wheel, saying adios to the troubles of this world, was no different. As most of you know, I've already been through a handful of bikes during my time here, each one troubled in it's own way. Yet like an optimistic and clingy girlfriend, determined to power through a doomed relationship, I continue to convince myself that I love cycling. Cycling is great. It's so convenient. I'm so Dutch.

Bike number 1 was called Leonart. He was my first love in the Netherlands but unfortunately he was also purchased at an off-the-back-of-a-lorry market stall and it was only a matter of weeks until his wheels threatened to crumble with each and every push of the pedals. Plus, he had the handlebars of a mountain bike and was bullied by all the other Dutch bikes, so off he went for a better life at a bike farm far away where he could happily cycle through fields of tulips forevermore.

Bike number 2 was Heathcliffe. Appropriately named as he immediately became the bane of my life as soon as he was mine. Purchased second hand off a seemingly sweet Portuguese man, Heathcliff fell apart within the week. But, like his namesake, he of course chose to leave a path of destruction in his wake, and decided his breaking should centre around his pedals. Enormous issue when you have a bike that brakes with backwards pedalling and you're heading down a hill (read 'slight slope' outside the Netherlands). Cue feet dragging along the floor, legs hitting against said stuck pedals, and delicious bruised shins for the next few days. But did our Portuguese correspondent know this was going to occur? That remains unknown.

Number 3 was Lexi, and the one that still draws twangs of pain from my heartstrings when I think back. Lexi was black and shiny, she had a basket on her front and clever, wee friction-powered lights. She was the perfect height for me and had a bell with an attitude. All the other bikes would stare when we rode past, she was a heart-breaker. But apparently too much so, as one night she was unlawfully taken from me, padlock and all, from outside a friends place as I unknowingly tucked into my first Thanksgiving dinner inside. There's surely some kind of irony in there.

So now we're on number 4. Or 'It', as I like to call it, to keep emotional attachment at bay. Number 4 has lived a dark and exciting life, brought up amongst the back streets and dodgy dealings of the city. It is a free spirit and despite only having one brake and requiring a Jumbo carrier bag over the seat at all times to protect me from the dubious gel oozing out of the seat, we've turned out to be quite the match. That is until It had far too many tequilas on New Years Eve and decided to throw me off a handful of times on our way home from work. Always keeping me on my toes, well, my bum. But we made it home, regardless of a missing handle and of course, my further decorated shins..



Turns out when you're half-cut, cycling is very much something you can and will forget how to do. Nonetheless, the Dutchies have promised me that practise makes perfect when it comes to drinking and cycling, and with the snow that's just started falling, expect further dramatic and no doubt embarrassing accounts of the trials and tribulations of my bike and I imminently.