europe 2016, day 6: brussels (may 3)

Had to say goodbye to Amsterdam today. Quite sad, really. Think it was a really special three and a half days for all of us there. I was particularly moved by the simple kindness shown to us by all the people we met while we were there - our hostel hosts, various shopowners and food stand vendors, strangers on the street and people at Hillsong. All made it feel as though we were leaving people versus just a physical place.

This morning we grabbed a last breakfast at the breakfast bus - eggs, toast, and tea - before taking the metro one final time to our Megabus station. Megabus journey itself was largely uneventful (a good thing), but it did give me a good three hours to finally get into "The History of Love," after several failed attempts in the past. The first two or three times I tried to read it, I thought it a pretentious book. This time, though, the character of Alma pulled me in, and I gave myself over to the story in surrender.

Three hours, 125 pages, and one half a salmon sandwich later, we arrived in Brussels at the Gare du Nord. We slung our backpacks on and set off for the 15 minute walk to our Airbnb - mostly all uphill, which is no fun in heeled boots and a 20-pound pack in unexpectedly hot weather. It was a big relief all around when we arrived at Rue du Moulin and were let into our apartment by our host, Mariano. He led us up a few flights of stairs and opened the door to his "vintage nest" to a lot of oohs and aahs and wows from the three of us. It's just as the pictures showed - flooded with natural light (every Instagrammer's dream), with a tasteful purple colour scheme, a spacious kitchen, soft white curtains, a cosy dining table and living room, and most attractive of all, a large double bed with three piles of clean white towels and a wrapped Belgian waffle perched on top of each. Clearly, Mariano is one of Airbnb's finest hosts.

He gave us a very thorough tour of the little place, and then sat down with us at the dining table to give us an even more thorough walk through of the best routes for sightseeing in the city, with highlights of the best restaurants, museums and sights, punctuated with funny little comments about Belgians and Brussels. All much, much appreciated, but also rather hard to sit through with an extremely full bladder.

Once Mariano left, with many profuse expressions of thanks on our side, we settled in, ran through the plan for the rest of the day, taking into account Mariano's tips, and headed out to explore the city.

Brussels is a very walkable city - in terms of size, that is, not terrain, being almost entirely cobbled streets - so we made our way pleasantly and quickly enough from Rue du Moulin to our first stop in central Brussels, the Cathedrale de St-Michel. Not particularly impressive to look at from the outside, especially if you've seen the Notre Dame in Paris, but once inside, I felt hit in the face by the grandeur. Not even necessarily that of the St-Michel itself, per se, but of all cathedrals. It struck me as I walked slowly down the main hall, just how magnificent cathedrals are in all that they represent. Looking at the gigantically tall stone pillars, and running my hand over them, I wondered how much human effort it took to build just one pillar. And to have been built in the 11th and 12th centuries, before we had construction cranes and vehicles and machines... it's staggering to think of it.

While I was standing around in the cathedral thinking about the sheer effort behind the building of it, my mind went randomly to a social studies project I had to do in seventh grade. The assignment was to use only natural materials - things found outdoors - to build a model of a human habitation or shelter. I was in a group with Kevin and Claire and it was all sorts of awkward because Kevin liked Claire but she didn't like him and he was all weird about it so overall it wasn't a very comfortable group for a project. Middle school is a weird time. Anyway, we ended up making some type of hut - or something that could reasonably be called a hut - from leaves, sticks, dirt, and some more leaves, and I remember thinking how difficult it was to build something (or something that wouldn't topple over, at least) out of practically nothing.

Now, to scale that puny seventh grade effort to what it takes to build a giant cathedral - well. One millionth of the effort, one billionth. It left me floored to just try and imagine it.

As I walked out, passing a couple of people who were praying, and many more people who were taking pictures and joking loudly with friends, I wondered what the 11th century Roman Catholic priests might think if they could see the St-Michel today and all the tourists - like myself - casually traipsing through. Would it signify, what they thought? Likely not. What force is powerful enough to grapple against the tide of the tourism industry and win?

We left the cathedral and headed next to the Parc de Bruxelles - pleasant enough, but again, my mind made the unfortunate comparison to the parks of Paris and Bruxelles emerged defeated. We strolled through to the other side and to the Royal Palace, which prompted the inevitable wistful daydreaming about what it would be like to be royal and live in a palace, and how exciting hide and seek would be, and didn't Prince William and Prince Harry live fairly normal lives growing up royal and but wasn't Harry a rebel and well I think he was when he was younger but he seems to be pretty solid now?

We then wended our way through more streets to the heart of the city, stopping at one of the famous Neuhaus chocolate shops for one truffle apiece. Also had our first Belgian waffle along the way - delicious, chewy, topped with a lovely light creme fraiche - which has ruined me for all other waffles for life.

From Neuhaus on to Grand Place, a square in the central city surrounded on all sides with beautiful, opulent buildings, including the city's Town Hall. Lots of tourists, lots of cameras, and lots of scattered groups of people sitting on the ground, eating and laughing.

Next stop was the Mannekin-Pis, or the statue of the little boy peeing - the "cultural symbol of Brussels," as the plaque in front of it described it. Not sure how I would feel if the cultural symbol of my city was a little boy peeing, but Belgians seem to be totally happy about it. Apparently it's become the "image of Brussels' folklore, the joy of the inhabitants. and their capacity for self-mockery," so there you go. More attractive to us than the statue, if I'm being very honest, were the many waffle and ice cream and chocolate shops in its immediate vicinity, where Judy got her first waffle and I polished off some very rusty French to order an ice cream.

Then a longer trek - involving more hills - until we arrived at the Palais de Justice, where we made the briefest of stops essentially just to be able to say we saw it, and then, finally, oh blessed heavens, we headed off to dinner.

Our first full meal in Brussels was at a lovely place with a great Tripadvisor rating bearing the simple name of Le Bistro. Lost no time in ordering two orders of mussels and fries, which Judy had not been able to stop talking about in the first five days of the trip. We were served by the friendliest and jolliest server imaginable, who told us we had come to the right place for mussels, explained the differences between the populations of Bruges and Brussels, showed us how to eat mussels "like a true Belgian," and offered to take a picture of all three of us and our mussels. We left very happy and very full. I felt not unlike the Walrus and the Carpenter from "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland" once they had eaten their fill of all the poor little trusting mussels, but with none of the guilt. Come to think of it, I don't think they felt all that guilty either.

After dinner we - for once - called it an early night - really, truly - and hopped on the metro to Botanique Kruidtuin, the station nearest our vintage nest home. Stopped at a convenience store to pick up snacks, and I gave a worker there a heart attack while he was in the middle of stocking shelves with my excited gasp upon catching sight of the Hula Hoops; he jumped about a foot and I meekly apologized and tried to explain that I got too excited by the excellent snack selection, which he seemed to understand.

Home by 9pm, a record for us, and it felt absolutely heavenly to come home to a place all our own, with an indoor bathroom, heating, and a large teapot and charming teacups perfect for an evening tea-and-journal session. Life, I think, would be hard pressed to get better than sitting around a table over cups of tea with friends, Judy's Spotify playlist, and Speculoos cookies.

europe 2016, day 5: amsterdam (may 2)

Horrendous start to final day in Amsterdam this morning - I was seized with debilitating cramps in the shower and completely unable to function for the following hour. It took a Herculean effort just to get myself from the shower back to our room, where I alarmed Judy by immediately flopping onto her bed with groans loud enough to wake the dead, or at least our next door neighbours if they weren't already up. I couldn't move at all, but lay there whimpering helplessly and feeling sufficiently miserable.

Fortunately, a certain blessed individual about a hundred years ago came up with the genius invention of the hot water bottle, and the blessed souls of Lucky Lake Hostel happened to include these in their list of amenities, so Tiff and Judy filled a couple for me to ease the pain. They also somehow got me to eat a banana and swallow an Advil, a hard thing to do when you're curled up in the fetal position trying not to think about the pain destroying your lower abdominal region and desperately cursing your second X chromosome with all the foul words your brain can conjure up. Thankfully, it passed, after a while, as it always does, and I slept it off for a bit, before regaining strength enough to join Tiff and Judy at the bus-turned-breakfast-bar for a quick bite.

They also made sure to tell me afterwards all about the lovely, relaxing breakfast they had had while I was in the trailer sleeping off my cramps. Very nice of them to keep me looped in on their activities, in case I felt like I was missing out. I have such thoughtful friends.

First stop of the day was Rijksmuseum, which I was stupidly excited for. Though not an informed art history student by any means, I've always loved art museums and I've always loved art. All the biggies: the National Gallery, the British Museum, the Met, SFMOMA, Art Institute of Chicago - could easily spend days inside them without venturing outside. And Rijksmuseum looked like it was going to be no less amazing than any of these.

Once we got to Rijksmusem - and also once we had finally learned how to pronounce it - we decided to make it a split-up-and-do-your-own-thing-until-2pm deal, so we could go off and enjoy the museum in our own respective ways, which suited us all perfectly. Judy did two of the museum's audio tours and followed them to the letter. Tiff made a beeline to see the library and Yves Saint Laurent's iconic Mondrian shift dress, and then spent some leisure time sitting outside in the gardens. I started out doing the highlights audio tour before impatiently abandoning it only a few paintings in when I realized I had too much I wanted to see, and then set off to conquer all the most interesting exhibits at my own brisker pace. (There's a personality psych analysis just waiting to be dug up here on the three of us, I'm certain, but I was an English and Media Studies major, not a psych major, so I'm not going to pursue this.) A one hour and forty minute whirlwind through Rembrandt, Vermeer, the Hague School, the Dutch Impressionists, Van Gogh, Monet. Absolutely gorgeous treat for eyes and mind. And the museum building itself was beautiful as well, so even just walking from exhibit to exhibit was an experience.

We met back up at 2pm and swapped briefs of our solo adventures before heading outside to embrace our touristness by taking pictures at the "I amsterdam" sign. Impossible even to attempt to get a picture without fifty other tourists in the background of your shot. People were swarming over every surface of the sign like ants on a log. Oh what funny beings we are. Many entertaining exchanges overheard there as well, among all the groups taking pictures of each other. One girl climbed on top of the first "a" so her boyfriend could take a picture for her. Once that was done he came back to watch-slash-help her get down.

"How do I get down?"

"Same way you went up. Just come down."

"I can't just come down; it's too high."

"Well maybe you should've thought of that when you climbed up." Tsk tsk. Bad move.

"How is your saying that going to help me right now? Can you say something that will actually help me?"

I wasn't sure who I sympathized with more in the moment, but once I had climbed up myself and was pondering how to get down without breaking an ankle, I understood the girl's struggle. And then ten seconds later I had clambered down fairly easily - with Judy's coaching - and my sympathies shifted the other way.

Once we were done taking pictures we walked over several blocks to Albert Cuypmarket, an outdoor market reminiscent of Portobello Market in Notting Hill in London, and equally as interesting, if not as pretty. Lots to look at, and we finally had our Amsterdam stroopwafels, fresh off the waffle griddle and chewy, with hot caramel in between the two layers and the top half covered in melted chocolate. Heavenly.

I asked the man making them - who looked like a blonde Benedict Cumberbatch - if he could come to California with his stroopwafel cart.

"But why do I need to go to California, when all the Californians come to me?" he asked, gesturing at the three of us and smiling.

"Fair point," I conceded. He had me there. You win, blond Benedict Cumberbatch stroopwafel man.

When we had contented ourselves with the main food item we had come to the Netherlands to eat, we made our way to the airport to take a bus to the main attraction we had come to the Netherlands to see: Keukenhof, or, in English, the tulip fields with rows upon rows of bright tulips that you always see pictures of online in listicles with titles like "21 Places You NEED to See Before You Die."

Anticipation was high, to extreme, dizzying heights. This was what we had been looking forward to seeing for months, since the whole notion of a Europe trip was first conceived back in September.

Tiff and I knocked out on the bus from the airport and woke up to dazzling sights of tulip fields out the window, and were immediately alive with excitement. There's only so much I can say to describe Keukenhof. Tulips everywhere, a huge garden with endless beds of the flowers - and who knew there were so many different varieties of tulips! - everywhere you turn, inspiring the giddiest frenzies of admiration and excitement and constant spurts of futile picture-taking - futile, because none of them will do justice to the bright colours and unfathomable expansiveness.

I was a little disappointed to find out that we couldn't get any closer to the giant fields that are just endless rows of tulips - unbroken red, pink, yellow strips as far as the eye can see - but it was still breathtaking all the same, even from a distance. It reminded me of the second Anne of Green Gables book, Anne of Avonlea, when Paul describes to Anne his voyage to the land of the sunset with the oldest Twin Sailor, telling her how the sunset is actually made up of flowers - yellow and gold and pink and orange flowers, rows and rows of them.

It was also just a lot of fun, goofing off and being total children, riding the zipline/swing in the park and racing each other through a little maze and taking poorly choreographed videos of ourselves jumping around the tulips. It was a day that really cemented how glad I am to be traveling with Tiff and Judy - they are, together, a lovely mix of fun and sassy and goofy and responsible and plan-ahead-y and prepared and chill and flexible and spontaneous and patient and good-humoured. I am seeing more and more of their good qualities with each day of travel, and today is day five. Which means nine more days of fully discovering how great they are. Or of discovering how mistaken I was in the first five days. But hopefully the former.

After spending a couple of hours at Keukenhof satisfying an excited anticipation that had been built up over months, it was back to the airport. We arrived at 8:15pm, and should have made it back to the hostel by 9:30 after a quick bite, but as I have already established, we are completely incapable of getting back home when we say we will, so we ended up not getting back until 10:30. Dinner itself was speedy, but we are such an ADD group - distracted by a supermarket, then Tiff wanted french fries (I am learning rapidly on this trip that Tiff and Judy's favorite food group is french fries), then I wanted a soft cone from Burger King, then we had to go to an ATM, then buy metro tickets back. If we ever do get anywhere by the planned-for time, it will be a miracle. But back we made it at last, and Tiff and Judy are now cosy in their double bed on the bottom bunk, and I am eager to climb up onto my single top bunk with a hot water bottle, so - goodnight. I will be sad to leave Amsterdam tomorrow, but looking forward to Brussels, and to not having to go outside in the cold to get to the bathroom/shower.

europe 2016, day 4: amsterdam (may 1)

Day two in Amsterdam and Sunday, which for good, Jesus-loving Christian girls means church, and which for good, Western Evangelical millennial Christian girls means a Hillsong church. Really just the easiest solution, given that there's a Hillsong plant in pretty much every city in the world where you can fly a plane to from Australia. We planned to attend the 10am service, so it was a quick bite at the breakfast bus and then out the hostel grounds by 9am and off to Holandrecht Station.

On the metro along the way to church we met the most beautiful golden retriever, which Judy immediately fell in love with. Of course, she tried to sneakily take a picture of it - creepy invasiveness is forgiven in ours, the Snapchat generation - and of course I nearly choked laughing when the owner caught her in the act. But she just had a good laugh about it too, because it is a proven fact that all Dutch people are unfailingly nice.

Perhaps it was because Hillsong London had left such a bad taste in my mouth when I visited three years ago - fine, it was definitely because of that - but I had very low expectations for service today. But God, in his infinite general awesomeness, has a way of surpassing our measly, faithless expectations and showing his glory even when we are not looking for it.

Service was no Livingwater, but I was still exceedingly encouraged by it (and by exceedingly I mean that the degree to which I was encouraged exceeded my paltry expectations) and the message that was preached - on finding your own cleft in the rock where God can meet you, just as he met with Moses. Good and very timely word. Also, while I've tended to be wary of how concert-like Hillsong's worship feels, I couldn't help but be blessed to see just how joyful everyone looked to be there. A palpable joy in the room at being in the house of the Lord. There's no way that's not going to be encouraging, even for a jaded cynic like me. (Ha! That was a joke. The claim that I am a cynic would convince probably nobody who's ever talked to me for five minutes.) Evidence that God is at work in Amsterdam and loves the Dutch people.

Lunch after church we had at a cafe we stumbled upon after we spent a sizable chunk of time wandering the area around church looking for a food market which we had been assured by someone from Hillsong was open but which, in fact, was not. I will try not to hold it against him. (He had been very confident, though.) But no matter. The cafe, a Gertrude Stein-inspired cafe bearing the name of Gertruudskoffie, was charming, the sandwiches delicious, and the Wi-Fi un-spotty. What more can one ask for in a cafe?

After lunch, back to the city center again, to Central Station. From there we headed to a nearby bike rental/coffee shop and joined the 800,000 cyclists in this famous biking city to experience Amsterdam in a new way. Getting on a bike meant that we all had to marvel again at how well planned this city was, with the bike lanes and bike traffic lights everywhere allowing people to bike without having to fear for their lives as they do back in America.

I wish very much that I could say that the bike ride through the city was a magical experience, that I breezed through the streets with the serenest of smiles on my face and music playing in my head while beautiful houses passed me on either side, and yes, it is true that I had a smile on my face much of the time and that music played in my head the whole ride (mostly the "one step at a time" song from Anastasia which Judy has been singing nonstop so far on this trip, thank you Judy) and that beautiful houses passed me on either side. But I was also sweating profusely while simultaneously freezing from the wind hitting my face, and my thighs were hurting like nobody's business. So it wasn't quite the perfect, idyllic experience I had hoped for, but I chalk this up to my own sad unfitness mostly. It was still extremely enjoyable. Although I can't fathom how everyone here bikes all over the city all the time like it's no big deal. I was ready to collapse after about fifteen minutes of it.

We eventually made it to Rijksmuseum (which we are going to tomorrow), the "I amsterdam" sign, and the Van Gogh Museum which Tiff and I went to while Judy had some alone time, having already visited a few years back. Not too much mot say about the museum other than that it was expectedly impressive, but also rather tragic. I mean, you walk from exhibit to exhibit and practically every single one talks about Van Gogh's suffering and early death. It's depressing. But the paintings, the paintings! Beautiful. As with everything else on this trip so far - glad I went. Well, maybe not Skansen. (Tiff would say definitely not Skansen, emphasis on every syllable of "definitely.")

After we'd had enough of yellow oil paint sunflowers (which I definitely was not allowed to take a picture of), we met up with Judy at our designated rendezvous point and got back on our bikes for a ride to and around Vondelpark, nearby. That was a bit closer to the idyllic bike ride I'd pictured - greenery all around, people strolling about happily. One thing I've felt about Amsterdam is how much the city seems to shout, "I'm alive!" Full of life, in the best sense of the phrase. Just bursting with it, in fact. And Vondelpark was that essence of Amsterdam's vibrancy condensed in one beautiful green happy place. We spent a lovely hour or so there, biking round and sitting on the grass eating sausage rolls and Speculoos cookies, til it was time to return the bikes from where we got them, near Central Station.

If the trip to the park from the rental place had been hard, the return journey was a test of sheer willpower. For some reason that twenty minute bike ride felt much harder than the ten mile roundtrip hike I'd done on my recent backpacking/camping trip. It also afforded much cause for admiration for Judy, who led the way back. She somehow was biking at lightning speeds while simultaneously navigating us back to the rental without getting us lost. I watched her pedal easily from a distance behind her as she made it look effortless. It didn't seem fair.

We made it back with three minutes to spare before their closing time, and I spent the next ten minutes massaging my frozen ears to restore sensation while Judy asked the rental guy for recommendations on food, something she is very good at doing. Amid the torrent of information he poured out, he gave us one particularly cool tip: "Go walk into the Sky Lounge at the Hilton Doubletree Hotel and you'll see great views of the city from eleven floors up."

"We don't have to buy anything to be there?" Judy queried.

He pondered this for a moment.

"Well, if you're there for five hours they might make you buy a coffee, but you can just go in and come out," he assured us, after thinking it over.

So we went, and once again found ourselves sticking out as the painfully obvious group that did not belong, with our awed expressions, black North Face fleeces, and sneakers, in an environ of leather jackets, sophisticated, lofty smiles, and high heels. But we have so far built a pretty good track record of not caring one whit about sticking out, so we walked around, enjoyed the view, and walked back out as if we had, in fact, just eaten at the expensive Sky Lounge of the expensive Hilton Doubletree. And who would contradict us? No one who wanted to seem rude. So we walked in and back out, unchallenged.

Dinner was Indonesian food, which I have learned I greatly enjoy. During the meal we saw an adorable chubby cheeked little baby sitting at the next table, whom Judy, for the second time in so many hours, promptly lost her heart to. Of course, she tried to sneakily take a picture, and I watched her thinking how funny it would be if she got caught again. And of course, as soon as I thought that, she let out a guilty squeak, having just made eye contact with the baby's mother. I laughed unmercifully, but as I have already mentioned, Dutch people are all nice to an unfathomable degree, so the mother just laughed as well at Judy's discomfiture. Judy is good at riding a bike without getting tired and asking strangers for food recommendations, but her talents do not include furtive picture-taking of children and puppies.

She has also just brought me a lovely hot water bottle for bed, so I feel slightly bad for making fun of her. Oh well. She'll see this eventually anyway.

After dinner we were planning to get boba because going a full two weeks without boba is unthinkable to me and Judy - not Tiff, who is evidently made of stronger stuff than we are - but the place was closed, so we came back to our hostel instead, arriving at the totally wild time of 10:30pm, a solid two and a half hours later than our planned curfew. But that has been the one constant thing on this trip so far - a spectacular failure to return at a time even remotely close to the one planned. A long day, but another gorgeous one. Amsterdam is a gem.

europe 2016, day 3: amsterdam (april 30)

[continued from previous post, which was written on the same day as this one - broken up to separate Stockholm from Amsterdam]

Cue 5am the next day, and Judy gently but desperately pleading Tiff and me to get out of bed - "Friends, please wake up" - and all of us learning a lesson in overestimating our ability to do early morning flights. Mildly miserable start, but we made it to Arlanda Airport without a hitch, and onto our flight/two-hour nap to Amsterdam smoothly.

We landed at around 10am, and got to Lucky Lake Hostel (a name to die for) around 12:30pm, getting picked up from the metro station by the hostel shuttle, driven by an employee who, whatever else her merits, had definitely not been hired for her driving abilities. On the ride to the hostel she somehow succeeded in hitting not merely one, but four, bollards on the side of the road, causing Tiff to see her life flash before her eyes and Judy and I - who hadn't seen what happened but heard the four successive loud thwacks - to wonder uneasily how much of the shuttle bus we would reach the hostel with still intact.

Lucky Lake Hostel is easily the most adorable hostel I've ever stayed at. It's exactly what it looked like in the pictures that convinced Judy and me that we had to book it, even if it's a little farther out from central Amsterdam. A cluster of pastel pink and blue and yellow and white trailers with communal picnic tables in the center, an outdoor kitchen, and a "breakfast bus," for, well, breakfast. It's just all so cute. The bollard-murdering employee who picked us up gave us a quick tour after we checked in and it took all my self-control not to burst from the cuteness when she said, "This is the breakfast bus." From what we could see, though, there's definitely a certain kind of people who stay at this hostel, something we all immediately noticed - and we are not it, it seems. Continuing the trend we started at Tranan in Stockholm of sticking out like a sore thumb wherever we go, or rather three sore thumbs clad in black North Face jackets.

First destination in Amsterdam once we recovered from the cuteness of the hostel and the trauma of the drive there was Winkel, for their famous apple pie. We shuttled back to Holandrecht Station (thankfully with a different driver this time), took the metro to Central Station, came out from underground, and stopped pretty well near speechless once we emerged outside. At first sight, Amsterdam is spectacular. The canals, the grandeur of Central Station, the whimsically crooked buildings with big, white-paned windows. Too, too much to take in.

Winkel is in the Jordaan district, which was once upon a time a poor district inhabited by working class people and struggling artists and came near to being completely destroyed after WWII, but which was saved by "a few impassioned individuals," thank goodness. Today it is a hip, thriving hub for young people, artists, and plenty of charming boutiques, bustling over with life. But back to Winkel. Their apple pies are celebrations of the art of baking, and the toasted sandwiches we ordered alongside them were like manna for our ravenous selves. We left extremely content.

There was a market right by Winkel, so we finished off our afternoon lunch by sampling every possible type of cheese in sight, and then exploring the rest of Jordaan. Judy and I stopped at one shop for fresh oysters - only 1.60 euros each, how does one resist - while Tiff inspected every real estate window we passed to figure out when and how she can move here.

The last main thing from today was our visit to the Anne Frank museum, something I'd been highly anticipating. (And also something that half the tourist population in Amsterdam had been anticipating, apparently, from the length of the line to get in, which wrapped around the block.) Hard to really describe this experience. How do you talk about walking through a building which once hid people trying to escape the Holocaust? Heavy stuff. But also inspiring, wonderfully inspiring. I got to see up close the spirit and faith and determination that one little girl carried in her in defiance of the darkest of times. And it was something extraordinary to realize just how far-reaching the power of her spirit and her writing. Her diary has carried to every corner of the earth, and people all the world over have been touched and uplifted by her. Who can ever say that a child can't change the world, can't light it on fire with hope and resilience? To anyone who does, one can simply point to Anne Frank and tell them not to be an idiot. Very glad I had the privilege of visiting the Anne Frank house today. Hopefully it isn't something I forget too soon - but I don't think it will be.

The other sobering part of today: walking through a section of the red light district on our way back to Central Station. It wasn't too active when we went as it was still early in the evening, but I saw enough in the neon light windows to feel a weight on my heart. Not an easy part of town to walk through, but important, I think, to see it, confront it, be reminded of what is happening in this part - and many other parts - of the world.

Back to the hostel after that (and a quick couple of stops for some stroopwafels for coworkers to appease them for disappearing for two weeks and dumping all my work on them), and settling into our cosy but cold little trailer. Amsterdam feels totally, starkly different from Stockholm, much more touristy and chaotic, but I can't help liking it despite this.

europe 2016, day 2: stockholm (april 29)

End of second full day in Europe (today is April 30th) and rather a sobering one, but since I didn't have time to jot down some scribbles about our very full day in Stockholm yesterday, I'm going to back up a bit and start there.

April 29 - started our day fairly early and made our way west via bus from where we were staying, in Lidingo, to Ostermalm. Once we got off the bus stop we accosted a kind-looking young man for directions, which he gave somewhat un-confidently. He seemed so dubious of his own direction-giving skills that I almost wanted to pat him on the back and reassure him that he had done a great job, but I didn't, obviously, not being insane, and we moved on. Following his directions, we headed down some very pretty, very pale-yellow-brick-y streets and eventually found what we were looking for - a Fabrique, which a friend of Tiff's had described as "like the Starbucks of Sweden, with really great pastries."

We made a lovely simple breakfast of a Swedish cinnamon bun, a cardamom bun, and a hazelnut rhubarb tart, questioning as we ate the suitability of Tiff's friend's analogy. Fabrique is about 100 times nicer than Starbucks in the realm of pastries, although since said friend had added the qualifier "with really great pastries," maybe this critique was slightly unfair. After Fabrique we popped into - where else - a McDonald's, because America, and because Judy had been talking nonstop about french fries ever since we had walked past it thirty minutes earlier.

After our french fries stop, we headed toward Sergels Torg, a sunken square in the city (in Norrdmalm) with patterns of diamond shapes on the ground in bright pink and yellow. Emily told me later that she had been extremely underwhelmed by Sergels Torg, but fortunately since I hadn't the remotest idea what it was before we went, I was neither underwhelmed nor overwhelmed ("Can you ever just be, like, whelmed?" Thank you, Clueless), but mildly interested by its appearance and how it added to the lively scene of the city.

We then stopped at the visitor center, a place of such helpful information and consistent Wi-Fi that it caused us all to break out into enthusiastic praises of tourist visitor centers, and then, under the recommendation of our oh-so-friendly visitor center staff helper person, meandered over to an outdoor market and indoor food court (called Hotorgen, I think). There we filled up on some cold smoked salmon, potatoes, and chili-marinated chicken, and there Judy learned a valuable lesson in the importance of reading menu items to the end of the line. She had thought we were ordering chili and was visibly perplexed and disappointed when our chili-marinated chicken arrived. It would have been kind of sad had it not been so funny.

After lunch, we got on a bus to the eastern island of Stockholm. Our first stop on this island was Skansen, a strange combination of zoo and open-air museum featuring traditional Swedish village buildings. I think we had thought that this would be an important way of learning about traditional Swedish culture, but the only thing I learned on that little visit was that European bison are very large, very smelly, and there aren't that many left. The views from Skansen of the rest of the city across the water were lovely though. But overall, we were all a little bemused by Skansen. Tiff, in particular, seemed less than thrilled with the place, and like she couldn't leave fast enough. To top off an already underwhelming experience, I also lost my bus pass somewhere in the park, and learned an important lesson in not putting things into my back pocket.

Thanks to this piece of irresponsibility on my part, we had to walk to our next destination on the island, Djurgarden, about fifteen minutes farther east, where we found ourselves at a delightful well-actually-I'm-not-sure-what-it-was, called Rosendals. Tiff described it as the result of a greenhouse and a cafe having a baby, and also as her dream bridal shower spot. (Judy and I took notes, or at least we pretended to.) She also learned a lesson there in not passing up things she wants to do on the spur of the moment, as we ultimately skipped out on taking an afternoon tea/coffee break there, a regret that Judy and I got to listen to laments about for, just about, oh, the rest of the day. Rosendals was a pretty place though, and I was sorely tempted to buy about a hundred jars of jam there, but nobly resisted.

We then walked over the bridge back to Ostermalm and then bused south to the little central island, Gamla Stan, or Old Town. Gamla Stan was beautiful. Easily my favourite part of Stockholm. Nothing like those narrow cobbled streets with colourful houses had I ever seen before. Vibrant colours, but not gaudy. It all gave off an impression of youth and gaiety and confidence. It was all so quaint, and so simple, and so relatively unsullied by modern uglinesses that it was absolutely delightful. After a not-long-enough time there, we headed farther south of Gamla Stan, to Sodermalm.



When we came out of the Tunnelbaum station there we emerged in a completely different world. Modern, lively, loud, hip, brimming over with life and especially swarms of young people. We grabbed dinner at a pub, and then walked to Fotografiska, Stockholm's photography museum, where we learned just how liberal the city is. Also saw Ai Wei Wei photographs - the only name I recognized there - and more pretty views of the other islands across the water, since Fotografiska is right by the water's edge.

Home to the glorified closet we've been calling an apartment at 10:30pm after a very long, very packed day, and I've never seen anyone jump into bed as fast as I saw Judy do then; the wisest thing to do, since we had to be up at 5am the next day to make our flight to Amsterdam. Why did we do this to ourselves?

europe 2016, day 1: stockholm (april 28)

Two weeks in Europe - two blissful weeks away from work and ministry and life in the Bay - have truly, finally kicked off, after months of detailed planning and weeks of the involved parties texting each other, "We're going to Europe soon!"

Judy and I met what we detected was a faintly antsy Tiff in the check-in line at the Norwegian Air counter at Oakland International Airport, all of us with our backpacks on and varying degrees of dorky tourist accessories - me at the lowest end of the spectrum, Tiff at the highest with a separate iPhone case hanging around her neck awarding her super-tourist/old person status.

Thanks to the obliging-ness of other Stockholm-bound passengers, we all got to sit together on the plane. Tiff and Judy promptly conked out for the next ten and a half hours while I had my own movie marathon of Anastasia (oh, John Cusack), Juno, and Brooklyn, before catching a few hours of sleep myself. When I woke up, we were in Sweden.

We had what I am assuming to be the first of many travel adventures - or mishaps - on our way to our Airbnb. Per the Google Maps directions Judy had pulled up at the airport, we got off the airport shuttle bus in central Stockholm and started walking through the streets to our building. We found the address easily enough, after perhaps five minutes of walking. A minor problem presented itself when we tried to punch in the access code, however, as there was no # key on the box, but no matter - a lady who was walking out of the building just then let us in.

We hiked up to the third floor, where our apartment was located, and where a not-so-minor problem presented itself: there were no key pads in sight, on any of the doors. This was bizarre. Also not the kind of situation you want to be confronted with when you have just stepped off a ten hour flight and are carrying 20 lbs around on your back.

Judy pulled up the Airbnb listing again on her phone. Tiff peered at it over her shoulder, and then groaned.

"Judy, this is the Airbnb we cancelled because it was too expensive..."

The Airbnb we had replaced this one with was about half an hour away, apparently, news which sort of made me want to sink to the floor and cry quietly. But being the reasonable people we are, we decided simply to adjust our itinerary for the evening and head to dinner first, a decision which was reached without any sinking to the floor or quiet crying on our any of our parts.

We walked over to Tranan, which Samie had recommended as a great spot for Swedish meatballs, and which, it turned out, was on the fancier end of the scale, as restaurants go. Undeterred, we went inside, backpacks and all, and were greeted by a blonde lady with pursed lips and her nose in the air.

She looked at our giant backpacks and sneakers and untidy hair and general unkempt and painfully touristy appearance and scrunched up her nose ever so slightly, sending it even higher into the air than it already was.

"Do you have a reservation?" she asked.

Does it look like we have a reservation, I wondered.

"Er... no," said Judy.

"Okay. You can be ready by 7? We have a lot of people with reservations coming in tonight. Full house."

"You mean we should come back here at 7?"

"No, you'll need to leave by 7 before our reservations start coming in."

I looked at my watch. It was only 5:30. I got the impression she was offended by our apparent lack of appreciation or awareness of the decently posh nature of the restaurant and the fact that we had just showed up with three backpacks and zero reservations. Offense or no offense, however, we were seated and tried to hide our backpacks under the table as best we could and attempt to look respectable. Grubbiness aside, we enjoyed our Swedish meatballs, potato puree, lingonberries and fried Baltic herring with a relish, and managed to leave before the appointed 7pm kick-out time. I was tempted to steal the cute postcard which they delivered our check in, but didn't want to leave a worse impression than we already were leaving, so I just took a picture of it instead.

Given that it had started raining fairly hard by the time we were done eating, and that we were bordering on exhausted from our flight, we decided to call it a night and called an Uber. It arrived in a few minutes and we loaded up our packs into the trunk happily, and then climbed into the backseat of what would turn out to be a fantastically grotesque Uber ride.

As Judy and I entered the car (Tiff was still loading up), our driver asked us with what I am sure he imagined to be a charming smile, "So, are you girls from Hong Kong or Japan?"

I glanced at Judy, whose face had clouded over with a dark scowl, and who clearly was not planning to deign to respond.

"California," I responded resignedly, once I realized it would be up to me to carry on the conversation. I tried to sound as polite as I could in the face of such aggravating idiocy. The effort to do so became increasingly more difficult as I found myself obliged to respond to a seemingly neverending torrent of astonishing stupidity and vulgarity that poured forth from our driver's mouth for the rest of the ride home. At one point this fascinating man remarked that he liked LA because "there are lots of girls, lots of blonde girls, like Barbies" and then immediately contradicted this by declaring that these girls wore too much makeup, so fake, and that he preferred "natural, strong, intelligent girls, like you girls."

The real crowning moment came about halfway into our drive, just as I was beginning to wonder how much more of his chatter we would have to put up with. He'd been quiet for a few whole seconds, and it seemed he was still thinking about the question of where we came from, as he presently asked, "So, California?"

I nodded.

"So you are all adopted?"

I almost lost it then, and I thought Judy might demand to be let out of the car then and there. Tiff seemed, blissfully, not to have heard.

"No," Judy responded tersely. And through gritted teeth, I imagined.

"Ah, immigrants! From China?"

"Korea."

"Korea! They have the best education system there. Very good. And you?" he asked, turning toward Tiff.

"Taiwa- er, China." Evidently Tiff had no hope that the guy knew where Taiwan was and chose to make it easy for him to understand.

"China! Very hardworking people, Chinese people."

I resisted the impulse to kick the back of his seat and pretend it was an accident. Heroic of me, really, considering.

Finally, after an eternity, we reached our (actual) Airbnb, leaving the car significantly grumpier than when we entered. We wandered around in the cold and rain in a confusing apartment complex before finally being directed by a kind old man to our building. Our apartment is tiny - actually, "tiny" might be generous; the kitchen is literally inside a closet and the table folds into the wall - but it was paradise to us after a long day.

A comfy fold out couch and a camp bed made it exquisitely cosy and homey, and we spent the rest of the evening happily listening to Judy's playlist of pop songs from our middle school years and finalizing tomorrow's agenda. I'm stoked. From the little we saw today, Stockholm is very, very pretty. Totally delightful. The buildings here all have a pleasingly uniform colour palette of tasteful pastels, and the streets are clean and open and quiet. (At least, they were in the area of town we were in today.) I can't really fathom that I'm here. Still seems very unreal.

And two whole weeks of freedom and fun and food and adventures ahead! I wouldn't switch places with the Queen of England today for anything.

october 19, 2015

three things i did well today:

one. i kept calm when i had a hundred different things thrown my way at work. i'm decently proud of this one. when the storm came, i wanted to take my computer and my tea and hide out in one of the tiny rooms with the door locked even though our doors don't have locks, but i resisted the impulse. mostly because i needed two screens to do my work. it still counts.

two. i made good on a long ago promise made to buy someone dinner. a yummy dinner, at that.

three. i made not one but four cups of tea. green tea. (which i strongly dislike.) because i'm sick. so the thing i did well here was: take care of my throat.

today i had trouble focusing at work because i kept getting distracted by my recent typical-millennial internal dilemmas about work and meaningful work and whether or not i should be where i am now and what does it all mean anyway. but that's ridiculous, i think, because God did not mess up, of course i should be here where i am now of course i am in the right place for the right now.

i bought old postcards at a quaint little bookstore in the mission today in san francisco. 85 cents each. i half-wondered if they were actually old or if they were just reprints, copies, made this year with an old date stamped on them to make them appealing to people like me who like old things or who want to like old things. i picked three cards after sorting through that whole box on the counter. one was a 1985 cover of the new yorker (the magazine) - it was a man and a woman leaning against the wall of a rooftop and against each other and looking out and up in to the new york night skyline.

another was an (allegedly) old photograph of a group of fancy looking women, glamorously dressed and fabulously made up, sitting around in an elegant room. there's one lady at the forefront of the scene wearing a gigantic bonnet - no that's not right, those are the old-fashioned quaint little ones with the ribbon underneath i believe - a gigantic sun hat and a coat that's more sophisticated than any i can ever aspire to - and she's got a little smirk on her face and she's walking away from the room like she's thinking she has better places to be. or maybe that was just how she smiled. anyway, i liked that one for some reason. or no, i liked it for no reason, i think. we're allowed to just like things without having any particular reason for liking them, right?

the last one had a man leaning his bike against a signpost in a grassy field with nothing else around except a little old building. one of the pictures that made me pause as i was thumbing through the box of cards. i turned it over. photograph was taken in essex, many decades ago. made sense that i stopped at this one.

i took BART home and halfway home i was hit with the thought i wonder if the man next to me thinks i'm afraid of him thinks i'm racist because my body is tilted away from him. i was consciously tilted away from him because i'm sick and visibly and audibly sick and coughing and wheezing like a hideous gremlin and i didn't want to gross him out or get him sick. but then that other possibility hit me and regardless of whether he was actually thinking that or not or even paying attention to the gross coughing grampus on his left it made me wonder what it must be like to wonder such things about other people and what they are thinking about you because of the colour of your skin and the way you look talk dress sound smell appear

i tilted my body to face directly forward so i was parallel with him. in that moment i think i thought i would rather have this man think i am not racist and risk getting him sick with my germs than let him think whatever he wanted to think knowing that i've spared him a horrid throat cold. i wonder what that says about me.

i think i am incredibly self-absorbed.

either way, he got off at the next stop anyway, leaving me to my coughing and my self-absorption.