Norway

Oh, I absolutely adored these Norwegians I found, the boy was nerdy gay, the girl was quiet and hilarious, we walked in Centraal and the boy was like "WOw, oh WOw, is that absinthe?"

Lovely

love love love love





Yesterday, I acquired a visit on a true Dutch one of these:


















Saturday night, I was doing this:



















Today, I got one of these:

Gouda

Today, I used one of these



While in this place

the mean little

hostel man won't give me the password
so i can't get my pictures off of the computer
they're all going to have to go on here, sorry

star

AM*DAM


--
THE CAPS LOCK IS STUCK

AMSTERDAM HAS BEEN JUST GORGEOUS
MULTICULTURAL
FILLED WITH LOVELY FRIENDS

Colors

Last night, I had dinner here.

A friend of mine won a competition in his homeland to do an internship within the heavy walls. His place was small but adorable.

Seven different nationalities, ringing around the table, wine and goat cheese and insults and politics.

Out, out, new friends and more new friends and maybe more?






'you sleep at my girlfriends home tonight?'
The sweet fourteen year old with a knack for english and alarmingly mature broad shoulders. Her parents are not home.
'are you sure I wouldn't be, interrupting?'
I tease, but I want to wary of potential dramz on the horizon.
'eh? Interrupting? Oh I see. No, there is no problem, you see, because we ran ou of condoms.'

Cur

Kirrrrrr




He tells me about cigarettes. You have to be eighteen to buy them here.
No, sixteen.
He stares into his empty mug.
He's cute; I'm glad it's just us, because he seems shy, embarrassed by his imperfect English.
Sixteen... How do you say that in French?
He tells me. It sounds exactly like the word for six.
I count from one to five in french, to prompt him.
He smiles at me.
No no, what is - six - in french?
I ask him this in my imperfect French.
Six? He repeats.
Ah, a man, a woman,
(masculine and feminine versions? I wonder)
And when, well, this. He points to his groin.
Ah! I laugh. He thinks I asked him, 'what is sex'

Weather report

Czech politics heat up

lazy Sunday with my new cat.

mstrd

(images of current home
not my images)

Burgundy

Southern Burgundy

Le Musee des Beaux-Arts in Dijon

I'm getting a lovely tour by a friendly woman, a friend of my roommate, she's wonderfully interesting, and a car pulls up, they are friends of hers.
They chatter briefly in french, and I am introduced, as her ami americaine, (something to that extent.) The talk switches the english, and the woman inside outlines her history in america - years spent in san francisco, a sad marriage, an ex, how American her children act, how she's returning to beautiful California within the month, how she told her friends to find her a new man.
This conversation quickly transitions into which type of man is a better lover; French or American. The two women in the car, pulled to the side of the narrow french street, as well as my new companion leaning towards the open window, are not reticent in expressing their opinions on the matter.
"My sister, she marries a Chinese guy," the blonde ex-Californian elaborates, "I like him, but he has two brothers, and my sister said they are both-" she plucks her long fingers from the steeringwheel and loosely forms an 0 with the index and thumb, allowing for an inch of space between the red painted nails, "-small." she laughs good naturedly, as if commenting on the unfortunately cool summer weather. "She tells me that some nights she can't even feel her husband," an eye roll "and they only do it once a month!"
Minutes later, she waves us goodbye and pulls her little European automobile back into the street, never for a moment displaying an ounce of chagrin over her topic choice.


Later, we visit an exquisite little French family, and we drink tea and have a lovely bilingual discussion. Over the next couple of hours, I learn that Americans are 'prudish; puritans.' and that French women don't eat.



Which makes a lot of sense.
I never thought of it this way - maybe I need to stop being closeminded.

kitty

Part 1
Cutie cute invitation. Bedclothes.

Part 2
Dishes and radiohead.

Part 3
Groceries. Ignore catcalls.

Part 4
Rural country wine moody gorgeous.

Part 5
Warm stares. Severely irked.

Part 6
Home run bus giggle scarf.

Part 7
New friends mansion rainforest.

Part 8
Detour homely nightfall sleepy.

chez moi

I have come to Dijon and I have found an adorable home, in the south, in the French suburbs.

I didn't know what to expect. I made myself expect the worst, just in case.
It's adorable.

We have a little tiled porchy porch brimming with plants, and basil and a few other herbs, i have learned. We have a cat Zaza, whom I am assured is extremely affectionate. I have my own fridge, to seperate food quarrels, although I doubt there will be any, my roommate is this lovely energetic older woman, really zesty and tends to shout when she speaks. She has short hair and red glasses. She lived for most of her adult life in Tucson, AZ, but she is french and has returned here to explore her roots. I'm noticing now her apartment has a true Arizona sentimentality to it - the curtains are striped in reds and golds, the glass door to the porch has swung open with a determined nonchalance as if hungering for the sun. My room is wonderful, a comfortable matress and rose wallpaper and a lacey window covering. Will upload photos as soon as I am able.

She insists on taking me out, and I feel obliged to accept her hospitality.

'some people will tell you you're crazy, but those are not your friends,' she advised me, dancing around the cute little kitchen, stirring rice, spilling beans, munching on lettuce in between long droughts of wisdom. Her eyes glow with a vehemence, but there is nothing negative about her actions. Stubborn, maybe, but still so youthful. She opens up to me as if it is nothing, maybe it is nothing to her, she's seen a lot in her life.
We are going to rest, and then go to a poetry reading together.

It's nice to use cutlery again.

I love people

"I have friends of mine for the afternoon, and I have a swimming pool (The program of the sunday is: Swimming pool, cookies, beer and fun)"

Street glitter

the most beautiful city in the world.



Bordeaux is much better in the sunlight.

I have a headache. I'm debating between heading down into the chuckling swirling street community, or battling the oncoming sickness with a bounty of fruit and sleep. My head actually does feel really bad, like the taut grayness before a storm. Oh well cest la vie!

People are responding to me on couchsurfer! It's exciting. I never told my parents about my couhsurfer account and have no intentions to. And i plan to take precautions so it's okay.


http://www.couchsurfing.org/about.html

Bordeaux is gray.

In this past month, (no, a little more, thirty something days) I have packed, nested, repacked six times. That means six pseudo homes, six pillows, six keys. Although during this time I have slept in ten beds. No, nine beds and a couch.

I woke up and someone had covered me with a blanket. That's always the sweetest feeling.

My iPod keeps deleting this post. I'll keep it short.

Bordeaux is interesting, although I find myself missing the cool feminity of urban Paris.

http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bordeaux_Cathedral?wasRedirected=true

Teenagers pool and disperse at it's base, like ameoba.


"I feel like the french don't fidget."
"ah well, it's probably because we're too lazy."

Hermes bracelet

My roommate and I scoured saint germain nightly for activities over the past week. We were lucky, sometimes unlucky, enough to have manyadventures. She found a young love. He was a wonderful stylish half Scottish documentary director with a gorgeous little family, he shared a flat with his siblings, pandora and archibald. I really appreciate the fabulous people we run into here.
Some are not so fabulous. There was a situation or two that had to be dealt with but I feel like I am better for it.

I wish I could describe this past week. Month. I don't ever want to leave. I just want to live off rice crackers in hotels, sip Bloody marys at cafe de flore, discover more chic secret night clubs, construct schemes to avoid bar creatures, console dramatic parsons students, tell the well dressed shop keepers merci, au revoir every time I leave, befriend our neighbors, duck into chocolate cafes during a spontaneous angry downpour, trip on my borrowed heels, unpack and repack and shuffle from home to home, get excited over bathtubs, smoke with friends at 4 am because the clubs are closed but we aren't done so we dance to our little ipod playlists.

Today it is officially. My wonderful roommate ducked into a black taxi on a crowded street this morning, and wiggled her long fingers farewell, true hands of an artist, and I turned around and went back tonour hotel room that felt like a trailer and read and contemplAted a bit. What am I feeling? Sadness? Freedom? Nervousness?
I'll go to the train station today and look at tickets. Still not sure where I'm going. Maybe I'll do a little research and pick a place, I know everywhere will be just as amazing, just different, but Paris is my home and I love it here and am not inclined to return to Oregon .