Life Seen From a Bicycle

July 24, 2012

July in Amsterdam is remarkably similar to July in San Francisco. Gray and drizzly for a week and then the sun comes out one afternoon and everyone goes insane. Parks are clogged and any chair sitting on a sidewalk or along a canal is occupied by someone lifting their face to the sky and looking pleased with life. My apartment for the month comes equipped with a balcony, naughty felines (ask me how many times I've walked into the kitchen to discover a certain cat licking the butter) (TOO MANY TIMES IS HOW MANY), and a bicycle. The bicycle is tall and black and slightly rusty - it looks like something from the Sears Roebuck catalog, circa 1954 - and when I climb on, my posture is forced into corseted Edwardian perfection. When I ride it, I feel like the Wicked Witch of the West in her Kansas incarnation. This pleases me.

Since the sun was out yesterday and I feel slightly more sure of my ability to find the apartment again after I leave it, I cycled into the center of the city to sit along a canal and eat fries. Being a total cliche also pleases me.

My first time on a bike in Amsterdam was petrifying. I was compelled to climb on it after a week of procrastination because I was meeting someone in the center of the city and my bus card was out of money and the only place to refill it was closed on Sunday. Already late, I gamely hopped on. After pedaling an entire two blocks without dying, I started to enjoy myself. Not just because everything was all Dutch and sunny and picturesque, but because I was paying attention to all that bright, pretty Dutchness.

How often do you really pay attention in your every day life? It's so easy to go on automatic when you know where you're going and what you're going to do when you get there and understand all the rules of the system in which you're operating.

I had no idea what I was doing on a bike in Amsterdam. Yes, I know how to ride a bike and I had a city map in my bag, but I didn't know the streets or the road rules or the language, something that might prove handy if someone needed to yell, say, "WATCH OUT FOR THE BUS!" at me. So I went into hyper focus mode. And realized that a lot of life passes me by when I'm not truly paying attention to what's right in front of me.

Cycling past Centraal Station on my way home was oddly calming. My brain is usually concentrated on seventeen different things and at least thirteen of them are worries. Six consistent worries, four variable worries, and three new worries I've invented just for the occasion. But as I pedaled past the train station in the great salmon stream of Dutch cyclists, dodging taxis and tourists and the occasional rogue fish, all my worries and thoughts disappeared into a soundless tunnel and my brain filled instead with "Oh shit, oh shit, oh god, here we go, I'm going to die, we're all going to die, MOTHER OF GOD, WHO DECIDED THIS WAS LEGAL?"

Then I passed the station, filled my lungs with air, and concentrated on finding the giant windmill that points my way home. No, that wasn't a lazy Dutch metaphor. There really is a giant windmill in my neighborhood. The windmill serves beer.

I'd like to say that I'm going to take my first Dutch cycling experience and use it to stop regularly tuning out the world by sticking my headphones in my ears and watching the pictures in my head rather than the road in front of me, but that's absolutely not going to happen. Instead, I'll simply try to notice when my attention is focused entirely on what I'm doing. Because that is peace - and even grace. Something I never thought I'd find on a bike in Amsterdam. Certainly not when I misjudged an angle and almost barreled over an elderly man from Bristol. Sorry, dude. Enjoy your stay.

Given my totally justified fear of bicycle-related death, taking this picture was probably a dumb idea.

How I Accidentally Ended Up in Amsterdam

July 17, 2012

If you're wondering about the likelihood of ending up in Amsterdam by accident, let me say that if it was possible to take a wrong turn somewhere in Northern California and end up in the Netherlands, I would've done it. I wasn't planning to go to Amsterdam. Yet here I am. Because life enjoys veering seven degrees to the left and often the thing you didn't plan turns out much better than anything you would've planned and that's saying something because you consider yourself a rather impeccable planner, even though it sounds suspiciously like boasting when typed out like this. YES, I'M A TOTAL BRAGGART. IT'S FINE.

Before I left for Costa Rica, I mentioned Amsterdam in a post. Because it was the first city that occurred to me when I needed a random location to end a sentence. Ten minutes later, I got an email from Nicolien saying that she had an apartment in Amsterdam and she was going to Serbia for a month and would I like to come to Holland and watch her cats while she was gone? WHY, YES. YES, I WOULD LIKE TO LIVE IN YOUR AMSTERDAM APARTMENT WITH YOUR CATS.

If you've ever wondered if a blog can wield some serious juju, let me assure you that it can. Make a joke about Amsterdam, end up living there for a month. I think we should all try to maximize whatever wordpress magic lives here. Ahem.

I WOULD LIKE AN APARTMENT IN NEW YORK THIS FALL, TWENTY THOUSAND DOLLARS, AND A STUFFED PANDA. I MEAN, A REAL PANDA WOULD BE AWESOME BUT I BET THOSE THINGS EAT A LOT AND FEEDING BAMBOO TO A GIANT BEAR EVERY DAY SOUNDS LIKE A HASSLE.

Now it's your turn! What would you like the blog genie to bring you? Leave it in the comments. May I suggest using the caps lock key? Everything works better in caps lock.

(I'll keep you posted on whether or not the universe coughs up any pandas or New York apartments.)

So I'm in Amsterdam for a month, staying in a lovely little apartment with two cats.

Amstercat

My first full day here, Nicolien and her husband took me around the city. We walked past canals and wolfed down a huge pot of cheese fondue and I drank more beer in a day than I've had in the past year. It's a beautiful city, especially in the rare July sun. Every so often, we'd pass a building that pitched forward, as if it was straining to catch up with time. But they never fall, the houses just hover a few feet in front of their neighbors, like they can't wait to find out what's next. I know how they feel.

Green Insects and Great Expectations

June 19, 2012

Hey, guess what! Traveling does not, in fact, turn you into a completely different person. If I thought I was going to go to Costa Rica and do anything but talk about bugs on Twitter, I was fooling myself. Isn't it a rule that you're not allowed to go to a foreign country for a month without something momentous happening? A life-changing event? An epiphany? A bestseller? A nice summer fling? Instead, I've spent most of my time becoming that much more cemented in who I already am.

Who I am really likes quesadillas and will always choose a nap over a fling.

None of this should surprise me even a little bit. And yet it does. Women are a mystery! Even to themselves! DON'T FEEL BAD, MEN. WE DON'T UNDERSTAND US EITHER.

I've had some feelings about my expectations, because I have feelings about everything and because expectations are a specific brand of human folly that really enjoys poking our tender bits with the sharpened tines of its cantankerous little folly fork. Ouch. Stop that, folly fork.

But your life is going to do what it does, no matter how many trips you go on, dates you set up, projects you do. Your life will always just be what it is, regardless of your expectations.

So I'm finally starting to shift out of poking range so I have space to enjoy the small things. Because the small bits are always the best part. And goodness, there's a wealth of happy-making in Costa Rica.

Ceasing Cyclical Self-Reflection In Favor of Small Bits of Awesome.

Or, Things I Really Like Here.

Walking down to the beach just to watch red and purple crabs scuttle frantically away from my clomping feet.

Sitting on the roof with the surfers and egging on prodigious thunder storms.

Swatting at my hair like it's developing a sentient personality, one that quivers eagerly at the thought of hastening my demise. I'm not convinced this is just my imagination. The humidity has not been kind.

Walking down dirt roads through the jungle to take a yoga class or buy more mangos.

Walking home in the hot sun and being offered a lift on what looks like a go-cart on steroids. I sit on the front and cling for dear life as we jolt down hills.

Propping my feet on the deck railing as I work on my laptop. If I lift my eyes four inches above the screen, I can see the ocean.

This Guy

Et tu, Jiminy Cricket?

He dropped unceremoniously into my lap one day and then spent a reasonable portion of the night hanging out on my laptop. The next evening, I had a one-night stand with a lightning bug. The night after that, I learned to shut my door as soon as it got dark.

The Coffee and Where I Get To Drink the Coffee

Dogs That Show Up While I'm Drinking Coffee, and Wander From Table to Table In Search of Hands to Pet Them. Their Success Rate is Impressive.

Especially this one. I MEAN, LOOK AT HIM.

I was tempted to take him home with me - he didn't have a collar and his ribs were alarmingly prominent - but then I remembered that not all dogs have collars around here and sometimes people carry machetes and I don't want to end up on the wrong end of a scythe because I blithely kidnapped some dude's adorable dog. And customs would probably have a fit.

Black Sand Beaches and White Sand Beaches and Yes, I Got Called Racist By Two Different People The Last Time I Mentioned What I Still Insist Are Racially Inconclusive Beaches

I went running today - at noon which, by the way, is a really stupid time to run in Costa Rica - and as my feet hit the sand on what must be one of the most beautiful beaches in the world, I realized that maybe my life doesn't need to change. Maybe I don't need any major epiphanies. Maybe I'm fine just the way I am.

Which is its own sort of epiphany, I guess. So never mind.

Life on the Mountain Top

June 12, 2012

My mom likes to tell the story* of how she forgot to latch the front door one day when I was a baby. She got in the shower and I made my break for freedom. When she got out, the door was wide open and I was nowhere to be found. She raced out of the house, towel flapping, to find me half a block away, waddling straight down the middle of the street in my diaper, trailed by a nice lady in a car who wanted to make sure I got back where I belonged. Thanks, nice lady. BUT I BELONG ON THE ROAD, YO.

* I like to say this is proof of my adventurous spirit, but it's probably just proof that people should lock their doors around me.

My adventures of the past few years have been of the smaller, more internal variety. I won't say I've forgotten how, but I will say that I got thrown for a loop my first week in Costa Rica. There were a lot of emotions and most of them were confusing. I'm-never-going-home-again giddiness! Send-me-back-to-my-friends-right-now loneliness! Quesadillas-for-breakfast glee! Where-the-effing-hell-are-all-the-vegetables discontent! Why-am-I-having-any-negative-emotions-at-all-because-I'm-in-Costa-Rica self hatred! OH-MY-GOD-LOOK-AT-THE-VIEW-THAT-COMES-WITH-MY-BACON mania! Many of these emotions happened within a few minutes of each other and, goodness, that gets exhausting.

But emotions don't get left at the airport and insomnia will happen when you drink six cups of coffee a day because surprise! COFFEE IN COSTA RICA IS REALLY, REALLY GOOD.

Also, There's This

I like it when the sand reflects the sky. It does that really well here. Good job, beach.

Even if I have to be glued to my laptop, even if I have more emotions than I prefer, even if I'm not exploring as much as I'd like, I'm still here. And that's what counts.

Sticking Out Like a Sore Turkey Vulture

June 7, 2012

I should be able to speak Spanish. At least enough to ask for avocado and use basic, if improperly conjugated, verbs. But all five years of Spanish yielded was the ability to translate what people are saying twenty minutes after they've said it. When I was lost the other day, a lovely lady on a motorbike rode up and said "Quieres cambiar?" I smiled uncertainly until she drove away. Three minutes after she left, the slowly-churning cogs clicked into place. "WAIT, YES! I DO WANT A RIDE! SI! SI! Shit." I trudged on and cursed my youthful self for sleeping peacefully through fifth period.

At customs, I greeted the official looking dude behind the counter with a cheery "Hola!" He looked surprised and said, "You speak Spanish!" With an exclamation point, as though my hello was so fluent-sounding that he just assumed, and was excited by the prospect. I felt like I was betraying his punctuation when I admitted "Nope. That's all I've got." After changing a few dollars into colones, I tried to thank the guy behind the counter in Italian, French, and English. Basically, every language I have any familiarity with except Spanish.

Linguistic and navigational mishaps aside, I love it here. My office is a balcony that overlooks the ocean and a jungle full of howler monkeys. I eat mangos for breakfast and make coffee with the Costa Rican equivalent of the french press, which is basically a sock hanging from a mini wooden scaffold. You pour hot water into the sock and it drips coffee into your mug. The beaches are full of perfect shells and it's so humid the bananas sweat, which is gross, but not as gross as the "Don't put it in the toilet unless you've eaten it first" rule. Don't ask.

I love the details of new countries, details you only really become familiar with if you stop moving long enough to see them. Or if you're someone other than me, someone who lives in a place for eight months and when asked if you ever use the hot tub in the backyard doesn't say, "There's a hot tub?"

All The Minutiae That Has Entertained Me Thusfar

Blonde hair is unusual here. People straight up stare. It's not unpleasant, they just gaze at me in gentle confusion, the way you might look at a penguin waddling down Madison Avenue.

Last night I saw my first firefly. I was charmed. Less charming are the seven billion other insects, each of which has personally welcomed me to the country. They find my legs quite tasty and thank me for bringing them along.

A team of abandoned monkeys lives on the hillside where I'm staying. They used to serve as guard animals with a ferocious pitbull until their owner decided that was a stupid idea. They attack the sweet Husky that lives here by barking at it and throwing sticks. If you've never seen a monkey bark at a dog before, I highly recommend it.

Mango peels go here. I've been advised not to throw them near the house, lest the howler monkeys come say hello at 4 a.m.

Fresh vegetables are hard to come by. Beans and cheese and rice and tortillas are not. If you eat in a restaurant, the salad options are green, chicken, and fish.

Very few people have washers and dryers. Most clean their clothes by hand on one of those ridged boards you see in pioneer movies. I now know my answer to the "Would you rather pay fifteen dollars to do one load of laundry or spend most of your time being grungy?" question.

Dogs are everywhere and none of them are on leashes. They're all friendly and come running up if you so much as glance their way. If you pet them and tell them what a nice dog they are, they'll walk along the beach with you for awhile before wandering off to sniff an abandoned surf board.

Strange birds populate the trees by the beach. They're black and rather formidable, like a cross between a turkey and a vulture. I'm all proud of my description, but they're probably called turkey vultures. Of the genus younotascleverasyouthinkus.