We are going to get so much ass here, it's going to be sick. I'm talking like crazy boy band ass.

There is a prevalent notion held by many people (and reinforced by movies like "Sex in the City") that NYC is the place with the most beautiful people, running around looking beautiful all the time.

These people are wrong.

Women (and a growing population of men) in New York, admittedly, take care of their shit and are certainly put together. But people themselves are not beautiful they way they are in Amsterdam. There is just no contest. I'll give you that people in New York are probably more graceful (maybe that's why I don't fit in...I actually have scars forming from this past visit), but in terms of straight up hotness, the mannen en vrouwen of the Netherlands win.

All the short NY bankers in their fancy suits (those that are still left with jobs, that is...) simply can't hold a candle to the tall blonde men in capris (gasp!) and highwaters. And so, I have been attempting to blend in with these beautiful people by trying to learn how to ride my bike without a) getting whiplash from checking people out and b) flashing the entire world because I can't keep my legs together in a short dress (that sounds wrong; everyone knows I am a believer in abstinence: Penny between the knees is the safest and cheapest form of birth control).

Perhaps the bicycles are clouding my vision. (I have cheer sex all the time with guys riding by; it's so much better than when walking...think about running and how the extra-speed is like a get-out-of-jail free card to give the once over to anyone who passes in the opposite direction. It's like that, but EVERYWHERE, ALL THE TIME and you aren't sweaty and getting passed by 64-year-old guys with merlin beards in awkwardly small running shorts.) Or perhaps it's the fact that the sun is up, oh, 19 hours of every day, and that people are outside all the time with actual smiles. Whatever it is, I was shocked on my return at how friggin hot Amsterdammers are in the summer.

Now, all you people who have talked about coming to visit but never put your balls on the line -- you've got a month or two to get out here and take advantage before the city starts preparing for winter hibernation and people only leave their houses for rations. And since I know you all well enough to know that's not going to happen (fine, screw you, more for me), I recommend checking out the women's Dutch swim team in Beijing to get a sense of what I mean -- some chick in the relay last week actually winked at me (yes, right at me and only me) before they got on the blocks and won the event. Flirt with the crowd and bring home the gold, how hot is that?

Ahhh, it's great to be young and insane

Back in Amsterdam after a GREAT month in the States. It's been a long time since I have been excited to be back in the U.S. (I spent some QT in Brooklyn and decided that the Death Star force of Manhattan is not as strong in the boro). Jacko's wedding was awesome, my hangover the morning of was not. This was the first time I'd ever been in a wedding...I did not realize the pain that morning hair appointments can cause. Oh well, little sister who can't handle her booze until the day I die I guess. There's not too much to say about the wedding other than it was basically perfect. There was lots of man-crying (the sensitive males in my family are not above that) and a general consensus that no two people balance each other the way J&M do. And that there probably are other people this happy, but no one happier...


Laundry list of all the other cool shiznit that went down (in no particular order of importance or chronology):
Checked out my dad's new place (how many bathrooms?!?); got lost in Rock Creek Park, Chandra-Levy style; tried to go black (coffee), but came back; bought a sensible white suit (Miami Vice Halloween here we come); had a typical Saturday night at Chadwicks; hosted a "start strong, go home early" bar crawl on Smith St.; "partied" with mom; visited C&A in Rochester; saw Springsteen in a state of enlightenment; had the best hangover experience of my life (check out roadmonkey.net); co-hosted a Christmas party in August (and concluded that small parties with too much booze is my new favorite thing); planned for a crazy Miami reunion in October (!despedida de soltera!); named Johnny Black and ginger my drink of the month (can't unseat the greyhound...yet); fell and skinned my knee like a 10 year old (sober); exposed the Dutch to Junior's cheesecake; exposed the Dutch to Corner Bistro; road tripped, Coltrane style; determined that I like dogs (Kona) more than cats, but that I'm not mature enough for the former so it might have to be the later; heard best friend #2 got engaged; fell and skinned my knee like a 10 year old (drunk...same knee); and decided I missed America (and that I'm okay saying that outloud).

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.