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.