You're wearing the shirt of the band you're going to see? Don't be that guy

I learned this weekend that I am a close, personal friend of Arcade Fire. Closer than six-degrees of Kevin Bacon close. In high school I starred in a student-directed, one act play with Will Butler -- well, in truth he starred in the play and they let me have a part because it was high school and like only six people try out for student-produced plays. And yes, the acting is as bad as it sounds: Will's stage presence tended to be the exception whereas mine tended to be the rule (i.e. mediocre at best).

Anyway, this is definitely one of those circumstances where I remember him but there's no way he remembers me, especially now that he's famous and dances shamelessly in public the way I (shamefully) do when no one is home. Sigh, talent gets all the perks. I wish I had known that I knew him when I saw them in concert last year. His bro and front man kept giving the crowd crap for not being rowdy enough (we weren't, but that wasn't my fault -- blame the Dutch...they can be awkward). I could have given a high school shout out or tried to weasel my way back stage for one of those "Hey, remember me?" awkward conversations you have with people you don't really remember, but pretend to so as not to be rude. (last time I forgot to pretend I knew someone, they reported back to Coltrane that I was an evil bitch -- hey, not my fault if you are just another rower I don't know.....oooooh, now she really is a Ceee U Next Tuesday).

I was informed of my semi-relationship to this semi-star over the weekend when Charlo "I now give wicked good hugs" T. was in town for an Amsterdam quickie from London. Joined by another friend of hers who was also an ex-rower, ex-New Englander type, we spent the weekend playing the name game and generally reminiscing about the good ole days (in truth boarding school was my own personal social hell, but hey, if I had actually had friends I would not have been able to pass classes).

Highlight of the weekend was not the Dutch losing to the Russians (Holland Hup no more...), but rather gettin' busy to Arcade-esque music at the best sweaty club ever. We checked out Club Rascal -- an Indie disco night that rotates locations every month or so -- on the top floor of some building in the west of the city. It was like hipster heaven except people were not afraid to admit they enjoyed dancing (I saw at least 40 people smiling...oh the irony). Unfortunately, it must have been 35°C and we were not the only people removing clothing on the dance floor and taking "glistening" to a whole new level. "Then, we tried to name our babies, but we forgot all the names that...the names that we used to know (doo doo doo doo)....(doo doo doo doo)..."

You've got mail!

In the digital age, I get really excited about "real" mail. To foster my need, I send postcards in hopes that someone will get the hint and send me some postcards back (that doesn't seem to be working, so consider this also the dropping of the hint). I'm down to hoping more people get married just so I can get mail.

So, yesterday I received an envelope without a stamp, but with my name neatly typed on the front with my address. Curiosity peaked, I browsed the mail pile on the stairs and noticed one of my neighbors had also received the same thing. Figuring it was junk I took it upstairs with a pouty face and was flabbergasted to see that I had been sent a PERSONALIZED note regarding Chlamydia screening with a personal login code and everything.

What.the.fuck.

First of all, how one tests for Chlamydia online is beyond me (my Dutch isn't good enough to reach the whole letter...just to see the word "Chlamydia" repeated, oh, 80 times). Second of all, why out of the 5 women who live in my building did only 2 of us receive these letters? Third, do I really need a personal letter about VDs? Kid you not, it reads "Beste mevrow Levner, Via deze brief nodigen we je uit deel te nemen aan de Chlamydia Screening Amsterdam." Fourth, why would anyone testing for VDs "invite" you to testing -- is this a party? Will there be punch and pie? Fifth, what have I done in the last 6 months that would put me on the target list for this. Please let the answer be "not turn 30" (y'know, like all women in Amsterdam from ages X to Y received this or something) instead of "makeout with some random dude at Odeon. We saw you and we hunted you down because he looked dirty and you looked like a hoodrat hoochie mamma."

Chlamydia is not a flower. Golden Shower, however, is (it's an orchid).

You could be a farmer in those clothes

I have finally been wowed by a "rural" city. This is groundbreaking because I am a horrible east coaster that always rags on farm towns (i.e. the entire Midwest) and loves to tell anecdotes about gas station chains called "Kum & Go" and the number of Cracker Barrels per square mile. Farmland in The Netherlands is a little different because hey, it's Europe, and far be it for a small town reputation to prevent them from knowing how to party (that and "the middle of nowhere" is actually pretty close to civilization given the lack of land mass).

To be fair, Groningen is actually a university town, but it kicks the ass of any rural university town in the U.S. that I've ever visited. I went this past weekend with my colleague, Mirjam (which is pronounced "meer-yam"; J is a Y sound in Dutch....though Meerjam would be a pretty sweet name too) to her home town to see the sights and get fed by her parents.

The weekend started with an exciting car ride past modern windmills and a chemical fire and ended with a hangover. But the hangover was WORTH IT. After visiting the small suburb where Mirjam used to lived (ponies! geese! beetroot!) we rolled into the big city for a crazy Saturday night. I'm thinking we're going to just chill at a local pub, drink a bunch of beer and be in bed by 2am. But ahhhh, so good to be so wrong.

After meeting like 80 of Mirjam's friends randomly on the street (yes, it is that small...) we set up at some swank lounge bar and proceeded to get warmed up before heading to a club. I'm sitting there thinking we are going to go to something like the Kong, but it turns out my college town left something (everything?) to be desired in terms of clubbing spots. Hidden by a typical Dutch facade, we walked in to this modern four-floor party haven called En Zo (And So…). Arguably coolest club layout I've seen yet in The Netherlands. After dancing forever, we ended the night/morning with a little sight seeing (on the right is the famous Martini tower at 5am...and happy partiers post some fries and mayo).

Sports make ya grunt and smell. See, be a thinker, not a stinker.

I'm not going to pretend that I don't care what I look like when I work out. After being initiated into the spandex fold in 1996, I quickly built up a massive amount of shorts and unis, with plenty of matching t-shirts and sports bras to sport while running around regattas, pretending I was important. (sadly, most were left in a room in Winthrop or the basement of a Central Sq apartment, but nevertheless I've still got enough skin tight workout gear to make most people throw up in their mouth a little bit)

But now I'm an "adult" and I belong to a "gym" where people dick around on "machines" and look at you like you are "insane" if you are a female that knows how to "squat". Fuck you, you man with big arms and no lower body -- stop doing bicep curls and go get some quads; you look like The Hulk meets Jimmy from South Park.

Anyway, apparently you are a freak if you sweat at the gym. I've always been a big "sweater", but used to take solace in the fact that Patrick Ewing was also a sweaty dude. (Fun Knick fact: Ewing dropped up to 15 pounds of water weight in games). It's just me and this one svelte old guy in spinning classes that are drenched, while everyone else simply glistens. Thing is, he's a skinny fucker that owns actual biking shorts and shoes -- he looks hard core thus he sweats hard core. I, on the other hand, look like I accidentally fell in the pool while dressed. People step around me so as not to be tainted by the icky cotton t-shirt that looks like it might transmit a disease (I can see the headlines..."Sweaty American Spreads African Sleeping Sickness via Overripe Workout Gear").

Yes, I am now ashamed of my sweat. I have to do all my lifting and stuff before cardio because I'm afraid to touch the "machines" post anything aerobic for fear of castigation by other members (but hey, not like I would understand a word of it anyway). And you know what else I've learned recently that is another "you are no longer a real athlete" downer? A healthy 40-year-old woman should be able to do 16 push ups...in a row. A 40 year old? With the exception of American Gladiator-types, I have yet to see a 40 year old woman do one push up. Meanwhile, I've (depressingly) regressed to girly push-ups. Though, per the long-ago and wise suggestion of Russell, I do attempt to do real push-ups in the privacy of my own home (because otherwise I would embarrass myself…even more…if that’s possible). Personal goal from post-college: Run a marathon. Personal goal today: Do 6 "real" push ups without anyone laughing or giving me a weird look.

Toodle loo, mon poisson, au revoir!

Southern France was a huge suprise. First, we actually met some really nice French people -- two to be exact. The guy who ran our cooking class (I learned how to "carmelize" zuchinni!) was hillarious, didn't speak a word of English, took us wine tasting at 11am and then introduced us to a bunch of goats. The second really nice French person worked at the tourist office in Cassis, so she doesn't really count because she's paid to be nice. Regardless, she actually pointed us in the direction of a mini hike that my mom could manage and a huge plate of mussels. yum. Mom and I ate a TON of seafood on the trip because the freshest thing they get in Iowa is rocky mountain oysters and because the word "poisson" is fun to say.

I still continue to be blown away by how old shit is in Europe. Arles (left) is famous for Roman ruins and for being one of the last stop's on Van Gogh "I swear, I'm sane" tour. It was tre fun and the locals enjoyed laughing at me while struggling to pronounce "eau" correctly.

After Arles, we headed south to the coast. This is probably a messed up analogy, but France is a lot like California...topography wise that is. It goes from mountains to coast to fields, etc. I had no idea that there was so much diversity so close together. We then trekked over to Antibes (near Cannes), visited Grasse and Biot to spend bling on parfume and glass, then sat and fried like tourists for a day. Got me an excellent base burn/tan which has quickly faded because it feels like friggin October here.

And even though she was was an annoying bitch for 25% of the trip, TomTom the Navigator was helpful 75% of the time. Which is good because since I don't even know the intricacies of Dutch traffic laws, figuring out French signage would have been a challenge. The phrases I know in French are mostly useless (la vache mange le garcon) and my mom's French consists of "buenos suerte" which isn't actually French, but a gold star for effort. (one time in Spain she wanted to tell a waiter the meal was very good and said nice to meet you instead...). Sad to leave the sunshine, we spent the last day in Amsterdam resting from our severely strenuous vacation and breathing in the final enjoyments of the holidaze.

Fat, drunk, and stupid is no way to go through life

Ahhh Koninginnedag (can you say it 5 times fast?). What a great holiday. I think this makes up for not having Halloween. Koninginnedag (Queen's Day in engels) is like Mardi Gras meets July 4 meets Miami Tailgate Party meets Night at the Roxbury meets a Flea Market. The entire country takes the day off to dress up in orange (for the House of Orange, which is their monarchy), get drunk, listen to techno and sell all their old shit on the street. Kid you not, this is the only day of the year that people are allowed to have sidewalk sales with all their crap. I praise the mastermind that approved the hocking of household junk during the day of highest alcohol consumption. I mean, what drunk person wouldn't want an accordion that's missing a few keys? Other weird traditions include performances by children for money: The park fills up with little Fiekes and Johans, playing their violins for change, apparently as a way to teach children about the value of earning a dollar (yeah, we missed that part of the tour this year...biiiig loss).

The coolest thing about this holiday is that it's not just done in Amsterdam -- the crowding of the streets happens EVERYWHERE in the country (the photo above is the main artery to where I live...that isn't even the centre of town). Since NL is the size of NJ, imagine this: The entire Turnpike packed with people in silly orange wigs and boas. This may also be the one day of the year that the pedestrian rules over bikes and trams (aka "silent killers). Though one of my friends did wear an orange helmet...y'know, just in case.

Lieutenant Leigh (in her 2nd annual Queen's day appearance...though the first was spent playing Geriatrics with me as I didn't have the ability to take off pants with zippers...my own, not other people's you perverts) and Capt'n Greg came up to help celebrate. We wandered around, drank, wandered around, drank, looked for a toilette, drank and generally had a lovely day (poor form on the story telling, I know, but it was a couple of weeks ago, so any cool anecdotes have been lost to the short-term memory gods).

'What did he use for rope?' 'Human hair. From my back.'

We need to have a heart to heart about long hair on men. I'm not talking about thefreakwhotookmetopromsophomoreyear metal hair, I'm talking about what European men (and particularly the Dutch) seem to think is cool. Think the Winkelwi before Twin A decided it'd be cool to have short hair and Twin B had to follow suit because god forbid they crap or sue Facebook without one another.

I usually embrace the whole Patrick Bateman look, but on the amount of hockey hair in this country is starting to creep me out. That, and throwing off my gaydar completely. I'm pro metrosexuality, but it's as if they are making up for all their chest waxing by growing it all on top. FYI -- waxing your chest is stupid (says the girl who used to date someone who did...). If you are sporting a Teen Wolf sweater, it may be acceptable, but otherwise, leave the chest hair, be a MAN. Fun hollywood fact: Ben Stiller gets his back waxed. Go Zoolander!

The long locks on their own would be one thing, but the hair with the copious amounts of product starts to get gross. It's like Flock of Seagulls meets middle earth, but they all have designer shoes. Shoes are another reason I have trouble picking out straight dudes -- everyone is in crazy designer sneakers and Prada boots. A colleague of mine accidentally wore two different shoes the other week; he points down to his feet and goes "I didn't even realize it until just now!", seemingly in shock. But it's not like one was black and one was brown, or one was old and one was new. They were both tan leather with outer stitching, slip on to the ankles and slightly squared toes. The big difference between the two was a sepia tone versus a more chestnut colour (heaaaaaar the sarcasm). One pair of these shoes for special occasions -- ooooh, you stylin' metrosexual you, who I bet would look good in pink. Two pairs of these shoes -- holy shit, don't you have anything better to do with your time than go shoe shopping? Like watch football? Or even darts? (the Dutch love darts. Check out The Wizard -- can't be Dutch with a mullet like that, but he was all people talked about during the darts World Championship. Yes, people talk about the darts World Championship. It's not bigger than non-American football, but close...too close).

Sigh. A little venting on my welcome home from vacay. Sit tight for more interesting tales from Queen's Day and holiday...