SoCal

Yesterday I drove the whole two blocks to In-N-Out to order a grilled cheese sandwich and fries. Today I drove from Claremont to Pasadena to catch up with a friend, and then went to the McDonald's drive-in right in front of my hotel just to order fries. Did I mention that I never get fast food, and that this fast food was within walking distance? It's just too amusing to pretend to embrace the car lifestyle here. And you can't help but be amused by the sign for the Shamrock Shake still sticking out of the Astroturf as you idle.

nostalgia

And it hit. Like clockwork. My yearly nostalgia for Europe... today in the form of Christmas in Antwerp (which ironically never even happened -- I was trapped in my room with a broken femur for the holidays). I'm longing to wander snow-covered, winding cobblestone streets and to drink genever in arcaded, candlelit underground brick cellars... Maybe Christmas in NYC and New Year's in DC will at least take care of the ill-advised snow craving.

To feel nostalgia today is particularly odd. This morning I was thinking about nostalgia quite clinically (or at least psychoanalytically) as I pondered Richard Pine's introduction to Creativity, Madness and Civilisation (2007). He points out that unheimlich really translates to "unhomely," relating it rather obliquely but intriguingly to nostalgia (Greek: nostos, the homeward journey; algos, pain). And here I am, feeling a nostalgia for an invented home, constructed in my own mind as a false memory, yet vivid enough to gravitate me towards a place that has no bearing on where I grew up. And I keep trying to critique the American carillon as nostalgic sonic mark of an invented European heritage. Maybe I'd do better if I could first sort myself out.

many happy returns

I think back on all the times I visited a place and thought, "Oh well, I'll probably never see this or stay here again" -- the Calhoun common room and Longwood Gardens carillon in 2000, Mechelen and the Utrecht clothing store in 2003, Berkeley in 2004. Why do I keep returning? What's next?

666 photos on my DSLR from Seattle/Alaska cruise.

European shopping

I knew it. They do jack the prices up in the US. I bought a dress from Mango on sale for 20 EUR in Germany, and found the same dress on sale for $33 in New York. It's about a $5 difference. Something tells me that Zara does the same. Good thing I spend all that money traveling to Europe to buy the clothes for a few bucks less.

noodles

I'm not one to get homesick, but I am starting to lack a hearty bowl of soup very badly, or at least food cooked by myself. Soup noodles would be nice. I'm desperate enough at this point to have looked up the location of Wagamama in Newcastle. Not the most authentic, but it should hit the spot.

Zurich Day 2

I began today with a big mistake. Not stopping to question the oddness of playing a concert on a Friday at noon, I bought a 60 CHF roundtrip ticket to Zofingen. Very charming town and a charming ride, but as it turns out my concert is tomorrow. At least now I know precisely how to get there, and I took the extra precaution of pre-purchasing a ticket for tomorrow as the machines don't always accept the bills you feed them.

Despite the not inexpensive mistake, it was difficult to stay angry at myself for long since I suddenly had a day to explore Zurich. I’m sitting now by the corner balcony of the lovely African Lodge Room on the sixth floor of the Hotel Otter, listening to a lengthy concert of swinging bells coming from perhaps two churches northwest. The named penthouse room had better be a free upgrade, because it’s slick--a masterful blend of African savannah and cosmopolitan neo-Baroque. What is it with me and penthouse upgrades? It’s evident from here that the Swiss love plants. Every spare bit of rooftop is lined with them, more so than with lawn furniture. Densely built as this old city is, everywhere you look (presuming you do a good job of looking up) there is green.

My first stop was the Migros Museum, Kunsthaus, and surrounding galleries, all tucked into a sleekly designed former factory space. After a delicious cheese sandwich, I happened upon an exhibit on urban renewal at the ETH Zurich--how I’ve missed these European topics presented in their modern European designs. The Law Library of the University was difficult to find, but as the Wallpaper City Guide mentioned it multiple times, I kept looking. Everyone I asked on the block remarked that the photo was beautiful but they had never seen the space. I hope they seek it out, because the moment I walked in I felt as if this Santiago Calatrava building had changed my life (and I hadn’t even opened a book)! An eye-shaped receptacle of natural light framed by wooden beams, and dramatic glass elevators that whisk you past each eye-shaped level lined with studious aspring lawyers to the top skylight. I’d been skeptical of spending my time in Zurich finding an academic library, but the guide was right to mention it multiple times. Few buildings have caused me to smile.

A stop by cash-only vendor of used designer purses SecondBag and I was trotting down the Bahnhofstrasse with a cheap orange Longchamp (boy will Ingrid have a fit!) in near-perfect condition on my shoulder. The Champs-Elysées certainly defines class and bling, but I wonder if Zurich’s most expensive shopping drag couldn’t give it a run for its money. Gorgeous Burberry blondes and high school girls with designer purses I haven’t even considered buying yet mingle on the tram with backpackers and immigrants, cyclists ride perilously between trams on tram-only roads, bike messengers with wing-like reflective yellow backpacks wave to each other, and a bespectacled man rides calmly and quietly alongside my tram on a Ducati 900 Supersport. On the winding cobblestone streets leading south to Grossmünster, I am pulled to and fro by delicious smells emanating from chocolateries and crêpe stands. Several photography postcards and musical stamps later, I’m back in my room impatient for my roommates to arrive two hours late. I suppose they did me a favor hurrying me wide-eyed through the Bahnhofstrasse to meet them on time, but I rather wish I’d spent more time there... and was eating now.

The only thing that has bothered me so far about this place is the abundance of fake blondes (is it that desirable?) and shoe stores. Expensive shoe stores. Zurich has a citywide shoe fetish. Why?

As if the world wasn’t small enough, Sue has elderly relatives living in Zofingen. I hope they enjoy my concert tomorrow if they can hear it.

It’s half an hour after I started writing (19:00), and another bell has started ringing. I could sit here listening all day.

metros II

I'm back in the Bay Area, and it's high time I updated my metro graph.

b3co.com

pre-Groningen

The shower is going and I don’t know how to turn it off. Curious about how to start it, I had pressed the little red button on the 70’s-era coin machine without inserting any coins and nevertheless water started splashing, first dismayingly cold, then warming up and going... and flowing... and going. As I had no designs on a shower, I started blogging to wait it out, hopefully before someone else arrived. To my chagrin, two German girls strolled in shortly before it stopped.

I’d been amused when the Hungarian girls compared the Stayokay Zeeburg to a hotel, but this hostel shows that they were right. Besides the modestly attractive lobby, the Simplon Jongeren is spartan. Even the ‘Clouds’ painting by Margreet Ubels sprawling across the gridded ceiling doesn’t soften the barrenness. In contrast to what the shorter Hungarian girl noted was a “good view” (of a young man undressing in another window) from our Stayokay room, this hostel has a view of a wannabe construction site and an unphotogenic industrial roof.

I should have been grateful for my Japanese and Korean roommates. Quiet as they were, they were unquestionably preferable to the obnoxious Dutch girls who just walked in chatting at the top of their lungs. Their nasal accent is even more grating. They casually butt into the German girls’ low-voiced but animated conversation, but stay away from me.

When it comes to hostels, you get what you pay for – roommates included. Those Japanese girls though, they were a riot. They had both brought heavy pieces of luggage filled with hairdryers and heaven knows what; they spent egregious amounts of time patting their smiling faces with makeup; unfortunately they took showers barefoot and probably won’t last for long without athlete’s foot. Although they came from the same time zone as the Korean girl, they went to bed early while she went to bed late. One of them locked herself out while putting the bedclothes outside. Never a dull moment with them around.

The Hungarian girls, friends since kindergarten in Budapest, were the friendliest folk I’d ever met in a hostel. I need to visit Budapest. And I should have invited them to visit me in the Bay Area, as one of them loves SF and is starting at UT Austin. My mind is clearly still on vacation.

As a college town, Groningen is lively for its size. Gezellig restaurants and bars buzz along the streets leading from the hostel to the Grote Markt, and my American sensibilities noted two cozy cafes serving frozen coffee and good tea. There is a sizable shopping district, much of it standard chain stores which are relieved by interesting businesses such as a surprisingly run-down Bijenkorf, upscale Dutch boutiques (ick), and specialized bicycle shops. Passing the open-air markets, including a mouth-watering fish market, I reached the Aa-kerk—The famed Aa-kerk with its Schnitger-orgel!—and made a mental note to return for a musical pilgrimage. To my surprise, the church was open late—for an exhibition of contemporary art, all of which was available on loan! A female DJ was spinning; perhaps this was an exhibition opening as people were lingering at tables drinking and crunching on bar snacks. What a strange sensation to walk into my holy Aa-kerk to be met by large-scale photographic portraiture of black gangsters from Amsterdam (clad in American ghetto), this female DJ, and the organ nowhere in sight. Perhaps Groningen is my type of city, to a degree. Perhaps it is only my accommodations that feel bleak.

The clash of old and new, secular and sacred entertains me here. Beyond the Aa-kerk stands the grand Korenbeurs, a historic monolith flanked by two impressive statues. It now houses one of the omnipresent Albert Heijn supermarkets.

There is a little Chinatown a block away from the hostel. It can’t comprise more than ten or so businesses, but it is there nevertheless, with even a Chinese salon. I had dinner in a very nice combination Chinese-Thai restaurant with white table cloths and tall red candles. The cross-influences amuse the knowledgeable eye to no end – Thai art suspended beside upscale Chinese kitsch, and my Buddha vegetable dish served on a warmed “rice table” tray heated by candles. I was one of only two parties there for dinner on that Saturday night. I hope the restaurant does brisker business on other nights; I can’t imagine how it could survive otherwise. The food was fine, and the check came with the largest mint I had ever seen; certainly larger than a quarter. I folded my chopstick wrapper into a caterpillar and set him there feeding on it before I left. A terribly good value for 8 EUR. This is the Netherlands after all.

It’s a small world, running into Boudewijn on my second day in Amsterdam and John Courter on my third. But in Groningen I feel alone. I hope tomorrow that feeling will be dispelled. I also have an interesting breakfast to look forward to. Returning to the organic foods store, I pored over the cereal shelf and bought the highest-fiber package I could find, only to discover at the hostel that it was a rough, powdery substance that would form a paste in milk. Yum. A subsequent trip to Albert Heijn scored a more reassuring box of All-Bran.

I need to stop going to the Netherlands. Especially with $3,000 from Berkeley for the next two years, I should be able to get myself to Scandinavia for a concert tour. Of course I had a delightful time in Amsterdam and am charmed to a certain degree by Groningenas well, but I know the type. I need new horizons. Germany needs to be in those plans too somewhere. My other head will surely show me a good time in München.

My days here are long because the sun goes down late at this northern latitude. At 9:07 pm, golden sun suddenly floods the room and we all turn our heads to see what has changed. The shower is silent.

Amsterdam nº2

I made good use of my second day in Amsterdam. First I wandered through the Anne Frank House (I should have known that Anne’s original diary was in Dutch!), bare of furniture the way it was when the prisoners were taken away and all the furniture confiscated. Echoes of Corrie Ten Boom seemed to resonate throughout the house and Anne’s story. The depth of thought she expressed in her diary shocked even her father. “I can only conclude that parents do not know their children as well as they think,” he tells us in a video. Most touching of all, earlier in the year of her death, Anne learned that diaries and correspondences would be collected and archived after the war. She set about revising her diary letters to the imaginary “Kitty,” but she could never have imagined how the world would come to love her in so many languages. The world gave her little, but she gave us so much as the voice of her people. The last time we know of her being seen in a concentration camp, she believed she was all alone in the world. Her friend, speaking to her across the fence, brought a care package of trinkets to give her something to live for. A woman caught the package as it flew over the fence and rushed away with it. A second package did reach Anne, and that was the last time that this particular friend saw her.

After this haunting affair, I decided it was time to indulge and had my first Hollandse nieuwe broodje of the year at a stand at the foot of the Westerkerk. The frieten from the next stand were the worst I’d ever had, but the broodje was satisfying psychologically and physically. A carillonneur who was rather in need of more training made music to accompany my tiny feast. Afterwards I set out in search of a post office marked on my map, only to find that all local post offices had been inexplicably shut down. This led me back to the Singel, where I saw Boudewijn strolling down the sidewalk speaking to a young woman. People tell me he knows everybody, so one cannot assume she was a carillonneur. Small world here – even in Belgium I never ran into people I knew.

With little time left, I hurried through Mango in the magnificent historic shopping center, then skipped the alluring photography exhibits at Huis Marseille and Stadsarchief in favor of ARCAM. However, I made my roundabout way there via the Stedelijk Museum CS. This allowed me to take more photos at the same underpass as in 2005, realizing later in the SMCS that I could cleverly revise their titles to “Vers Un Nouveau Stedelijk Museum” from my old “Towards the Stedelijk.” Despite the promise of its wild undulating exterior, the free-entry ARCAM offered only one exhibition room, but plenty of architectural biking tour maps to make my mouth water. The text of the captions was typically tiny; attractive but hardly functional for sore eyes. I made a 15-minute run through the SMCS (my Museumkaart is still good for a few days yet) afterward and was glad for it, as the museum is closing in October for the one-year return to its old living quarters, version 2. I wish they sold copies of their posters with the crossed-out names of RIETVELD, MONDRIAAN and so on over the names of lesser known contemporary artists, in reference to the collection on display—the climate control of the old Post CS isn’t precise enough for the exhibition of their most renowned masterpieces.

Hurrying out of the Stedelijk Museum, I rushed in my flipflops to, up, and down the dock behind the station for half an hour until my knees began to complain. As it turned out, the Pannenkoekboot departed from Amsterdam Noord, which is across the Ij. I had forgotten how bad the Dutch are at giving directions, even those who work for tourist enterprises. So I took the free commuter ferry in order to sightsee, and boy did I get an eyeful of new architecture and a magnificent industrial area further south. A rainbow Greenpeace boat partially powered by an aggressive-sounding windmill was docked for the festivities that night, but I wanted to catch Andrew on Skype and go to bed early and so returned for dinner at one of the pannenkoek places on the way from the Dam to the Westerkerk to satisfy my protesting pannenkoek appetite. My stomach declared victory after a couple of poffertjes for dessert.

Jazz at the venerable Concertgebouw put me to sleep, so I slipped out during intermission, made reservations for my final day in Europe at the Stayokay Vondelpark, took note of the nearby Wagamama for a late-night dessert after Gouda, and headed back to the hostel. Thankfully, I was able to video chat with Andrew, and FON.com continued to work in my room just for Gmail. What a luxury, to have free wireless Gmail in your hostel room! I like the FON concept, although I don’t know how workable it is. Seems that there are quite a few hotspots in Groningen, including a cafe. Definitely worth testing.

Amsterdam is no less under construction than it was when I came for the second time with the Yale Guild. The magnificent Central Station is still an unsightly mess, the SMCS is still in the unclimate-controlled Post CS, and the Rijksmuseum is still under renovation. Things move slowly around here. The results had better be good, because I will end up back here soon.

Amsterdam nº1

The first half-day in a new country is a foregone conclusion. You will waste your time figuring things out, no matter how confident you are. I failed to prepare myself mentally for this fact, despite the foreboding location of my hostel in the boonies of Amsterdam.

After finally settling into my lofted dorm room in the Stayokay Zeebrugge (having been let in during lockout by a sweet Asian housekeeper), I hopped the 22 bus to the opposite end of the line at Museum Het Schip and savored the creativity of Amsterdamse School architecture. Pumpkin soup, a tomato-basil sandwich, and a cup of tea kept me going through the utter exhaustion and the damp of the overcast day. After wandering through the furnished exhibition apartment and exhibit (learning along the way that the Amsterdamse School’s official organ dedicated an issue to Frank Lloyd Wright—makes total sense), I made my way to FOAM and discovered Adama Bamba, an African photographer who promised to open a new world to me, although his work was only visible in the brochure. I was also lucky enough to attend an exhibition opening on the first floor, and felt an extra rush of artsy-fartsiness as a result.

By the time I was through with feeling artsy (and woefully underdressed, especially when trying to prevent my ginormous EMS backpack from smacking fellow art lovers in the crowded halls), the rest of the (legit) museums had closed, so I bought a new SIM card and then allowed myself to be pulled into De Slegte, where I purchased two carillon-related books, although I found nothing particularly drool-worthy in the photography or A+A sections, and then into ZARA—the four-story ZARA on the winkelstraat. Boy did I make a killing in there. I certainly could have stayed and bought more, but fortunately I ushered myself out in time to stave off sartorial disaster. I doubt my luggage could have fit much more for the rest of the trip. It’s terribly irksome that after all the trouble I went to tracking down an affordable product, I forgot to bring my vacuum-packing bags with me for the return trip.

By accident (or perhaps because it’s the only authentic and cheap Cantonese restaurant in the area), I ended up at dinnertime at the same joint at which Ingrid and I had gone two years ago when I was dreadfully ill and needed to live on a diet of jook. The food was authentic, but only when I strolled out the door did I discover that the next place was an affordable and appetizing fusion restaurant. Next time. I had to end my long, long flip-flop walk somewhere.

Asian food (as well as Mexican and Argentinean) is quite a delicacy here, although it’s usually considered cheap cuisine in the US. Curious.

To my delight, my roommates from Budapest were extremely friendly. Perhaps Hungarians look more mature than their age compared to your average American, because I assumed they were nearly my age. They were in fact starting college in the fall, and marveled at my independence and achievements at the age of twenty-five. I didn’t know whether to feel like a proud woman role model or an old fogie.

goodbye cody's

The Berkeley air was choking with the smoke of wildfires blowing in from all around NorCal. Perhaps some particles of San Bruno Mountain gorse even reached the Campanile -- who can know?

What would you bring with you if you had to abandon your house to an approaching wildfire? Photos? Stuffed animals? Jewelry? Other monetarily worthless things that can never be replaced? My things are still all in boxes, awaiting their Berkeley home. I would have run out with little more than my passport, Social Security card, and laptop in hand, frozen by the choices between all the rest of those worthless, precious things. Perhaps my bike would have come with me. And my carillon sheet music, if I had the presence of mind.

Berkeley's iconic Cody's Books closed on June 20. I stood reading and rereading the tabloid-sized notices posted on the wall-to-wall windows, stricken. Passersby, perhaps noticing my expression, stopped to glance at the notice, but nobody lingered. Perhaps it was old news to them. Perhaps it was meaningless news to them.

Moments earlier I'd been in a wonderfully thought-provoking bookstore on Bancroft, picking up "The Book is Dead: Long Live The Book" and then setting it back down again with revulsion, unwilling to believe its warning, determined to believe that it was just the sort of book it warned against, a sensationalist product designed only to sell. But the fact is that I neither read it nor bought it. Perhaps the book is dead unless we change something fast. We buy our books from giants like amazon to save a few bucks. And here is the evidence, in these tabloid-size letters. I never suspected that my last visit to Cody's was unrepeatable. And my last visit four years ago to the 4th Street store. And the visit to the Union Square shop that never happened. How Cody's has been shuffling around. To what end?

The end, I suppose. Just as I was starting to take up the slack on the reading list I've been growing but otherwise ignoring since high school. And just as I've stopped moving house often enough to want to actually own my books.

Incidentally, the newest item on my travel itinerary: Shipton's Arch, known for ages by locals, revealed to the West in the 1950's, lost, and found again by National Geographic in 2000.

Why I love Berlin.

New York Times, why do you tempt me with two of my favorite aspects of Berlin, cycling and architecture, and finally clear up the question of the name of my favorite building along the Spree? I know I have a "Take me to California" shirt, but really I'd rather be enjoying all that this article reminds me of!

Is it not bizarre that CNN.com is using some pedestrianized sort of 1337?

mirror world ii: University of Cambridge (backblog)

Despite a late start, I made an afternoon of Cambridge, the English-speaking world's second oldest university and thus perhaps the closer sister to Yale in American collegiate history. Despite my hasty online research the night before, I was woefully unprepared to find my way, particularly as there were so many colleges and few were visible from the main thoroughfare leading outward from the station.

But first I meant to exchange my euros as drawing on my American account was getting very painful with the horrendous exchange rate. Owing to a block-wide power outage, a long queue of customers formed behind me at the bank by the farmer's market as I fidgeted impatiently. I was first in line for the longest time, but heaven knows what kind of transactions the two customers being served were closing. A third employee whose computer wasn't working was busily counting cash and piling it into a bag to hand to the Asian male customer, and the other fellow was trying to wire several thousand pounds to some middle eastern country. Oddly, they were both quite poorly dressed considering their transactions. Clearly the mafia was at work. "The British love to queue," Chip advised me later, making me hope this had been an invaluable cultural experience.

Even after purchasing a map at the tourist office, I was at a loss as to where to start amongst the thirty-one colleges. There wasn't even a university bookshop; there is a Cambridge UP Store (filled with decidedly unsexy-looking book jackets relative to my former employer Yale UP) but no Cambridge Bookstore, the reverse of the situation at Yale. Fortunately I eventually tailed a group of Japanese tourists into King's College (1441), the place to start if you're looking for magnificence. Its ceiling, the largest fan vaulting in the world, ensured that I would never be proud of Harkness Tower's singular fan vault again, despite its uniqueness in American architecture. I was also surprised by the presence of Flemish art -- Flemish stained glass glowed from the clerestory and Ruben's magnificent "The Adoration of the Magi" (1634) crowned the altar (lowered specifically for the painting, to some continuing consternation). The northern arcade contained an interesting exhibit that perhaps explained the silly entrance fee, but then I was sent out into the courtyard and experienced the déjà vu of walking into Christ Church at Oxford. (Apologies to all insulted.) The Gatehouse and Great Tom, the vast green courtyard, the overcast skies... At least to a dumb American they look very much alike. Very breathtaking, too.

The guard who took my admission fee at Trinity College knew where Rochester was, although he couldn't recall why. A fountain at the center of the courtyard was surrounded by a shock of bright red flowers that looked surreally luminescent beneath the grey skies, and I wondered if this was the gardeners' way of staving off the meteorological monochromaticism. I found some comedy in the magnificent dining hall; first was the contrast between the purely functional and slightly ugly cafeteria equipment and the stained glass and soaring open timber roof, second was the sign casually mentioning that the dining hall had been continuously used as such for six centuries. One finds this kind of history all over the place at Cambridge... one finds little from that era in the US; the Native Americans may have been around but they lived lightly off the earth and didn't endeavour to build their cantines as eternal monuments.

By the time I was done gawking here and there 'round Trinity, it was 17:00 and, I reckoned, too late to enter the other colleges as a tourist. Fortunately I had dressed the preppy student part just for this purpose ("Are you going sailing with that sweater tied around your neck?" Jon asked me in the morning), and strode confidently into several other colleges from the Backs (literally referring to the backs of the colleges on the Cam) without being questioned. St. John's became my absolute favorite, a veritable architectural wonderland of fairytale white spires, magical courtyards upon courtyards, quaint passageways, and the Venetian Bridge of Sighs under which tourist-filled punts were still floating.

After wandering Sidney Sussex, Naomi's alma mater, and taking a peek into one of its marvelous red common rooms of which Yale's are only an echo, I rolled up my sleeves in search of nourishment, finally settling into a busy Indian restaurant on Regent next to a table at which an educated middle-aged man was talking to two teenagers with classy accents. I found the place not without a great deal of wandering, intent as I was to get a feel for the city. My wandering nearly got me into trouble as I took a long way back to the station in hopes of spotting Lammas Land (just for the kick of being a TDer initiated at Llama Land), but I made my train with time to spare and returned utterly exhausted to Balham, where I went straight to bed.

P.S. While consulting Wikipedia's article on Cambridge, I chanced upon the origin of the Harvardian epithet, cantab. Somehow the term Cantabrigian, abbreviated in post-nominal letters as Cantab., found its way into our vocabulary for the Harvardian. Whether this is meant as pretense or irony is not yet known to the author.

departu/re/turn part 1

It’s a cool morning as I stash away the last of my belongings. Standing in the door in pajamas, Jon and Al see me off, and I wonder when and where we’ll next meet. Jon tells me I’ll arrive in plenty of time, so I worry about getting bored at the airport.

I’m pleased to find the train ticket to Gatwick more reasonable than that from Stansted, and am doubly pleased when I catch a train leaving conveniently from the other side of the platform, though it’s not suggested in my online itinerary. But when I stride into Area B of South Terminal, I find myself ensnared near the end of a mind-bogglingly long line and try to shake myself of it to seek out Air Transat. I follow a Canadian family with the appropriate luggage tags around, but they eventually find their way to priority check-in, leaving my to fend for myself again. Finally, a staff member directs me to the very line that was in my way when I first came in. It’s easily over a hundred people long. I remember Chip’s comment about the Brits' fondness for queuing. I decide that this is my final cultural experience.

The regulations at Gatwick are even stricter than at JFK, so I stow more things away as I wait, amazed that they all fit into my almost carry-on-sized red luggage. Half an hour later, I think I’m near check-in, but beyond the double doors a line of equal length appears. As it zigzags, I get a look at the people queuing behind me. In general they are less dressy; you can pick out the Londoners from the North Americans. One lavishly dressed woman draped in a bright yellow woolen scarf is wearing delicate three-inch designer pumps. I wonder who she wants to impress on the plane and whether her feet hurt.

After an hour of queuing I am at the security point, which takes another fifteen minutes. There is a spare currency donation bin in line, at the worst possible place as everyone tries to squeeze their purses into their carry-ons according to the “one bag only rule” and otherwise stresses over draconian security measures. I find the bin’s unfortunate placement a bit offensive; who relegated it there and how am I going to donate my spare change now?

After a quick dive into the Clarins boutique (an exciting discovery for me), the tacky Harrod’s gift shop (curses that they also sell tea there), Ted Baker because I didn’t know it was a line of clothing and accessories, and a busy coffee shop for fruit salad and an all-natural juice (ingredients: apple juice, vitamin C), I am hurrying to my gate and arrive just as passengers start boarding. So much for arriving three hours early and being bored.

The Canadian staff is open and friendly in a matter-of-fact way, and I relish hearing yet another accent after all I’ve heard this summer. The drink service is too infrequent, however, and when I ask passing flight attendants if I can buy a drink, they only tell me yes, and when I find another attendant in the back, he’s taking his lunch and says he’ll come by in five to ten minutes, which he never does. I resolve to put my extra currency towards the Canadian Children’s Wish Foundation, for which we’re all given envelopes, rather than allow Air Transat to profit off my thirst.

Although I must admit I’m very tempted by the Inniskill ice wine, sold by the bottle or miniature bottle, offered in-flight. This is the Canadian way to fly.

London day 6

I stated that the color of London is black. I still hold this to be true, but with one slight emendation: the other color of London is pink. It's not just Jon; an inordinate number of British men wear tailored pink shirts with their (mostly striped) suits. In fact, one of the major retailers on Jermyn Street is Thomas Pink. It carries an inordinate number of women's shirts with French cuffs, which makes me greatly regret the fact that I have neither the money nor the occasion to own one. Nevertheless, the British toiletries shops may warrant a return on Wednesday.

I spent the morning putting together a BRAT diet for Jon's queasy stomach and then found the charmingly colorful, hidden, and happily alternative Neal's Yard. Both were accomplished with much wandering around and backtracking. The matter-of-fact man at the takeout counter had a South American accent to match the bright, un-Londonish colors of the triangular yard. While awaiting my tremendous and affordable portion of scrumptious vegetarian food, I got to talking with a certain James and his partner, who were moving to France. Soon we were chatting over scalding hot vegetarian chili, gluten-free basil bread, and free juices as part of the deal -- mine was cashew, a juice whose existence I had to consume to believe. Definitely a place to which I will return.

St. Martin in the Fields was closed for renovation and St. Paul's choir was on vacation from Evensong, so I was out of luck church-going-wise in London. Fortunately Naomi had made up for it this weekend. So straight I went into the Tate Modern, where I shelled out for the Dalí and Hélio Oiticica special exhibits. I was a bit Dalí-ed out by the end of the first exhibition, especially after seeing his puzzling and slightly gruesome films and then topping them off with the (in comparison) saccharin Destino, with its anachronistic early-20th-century soundtrack and modern animation. The swinging bell tie-in had lost its magic since the Boijmans van Beuningen, which somehow managed to display all of Dalí's works more imaginatively. Nevertheless, I was pleased to have examined "The Persistence of Memory" and a number of other chef d'oeuvres up close, and Oiticica's work turned out to be pleasingly informed by Klee, Malevich, et al, yet blown up into strikingly spatial cosmic systems of warm tropical colors. I might still give in and get that Tate timeline... to think I'd never heard of Oiticica before! My late arrival left no time to see the most exciting avant-garde exhibits, and those are free, so obviously I must go back.

From the Tate I made a beeline to Savile Row to peek into London's dearest haberdashers while there was nobody else around to notice. They were all doing the two-button thing (only Chip would know the proper term and context for it), and to my delight I could even see tailors busy at work in the basement of one of the stores. To my amazement, they all offered "bespoke tailoring" -- in other words, clothes made to order without a pre-existing pattern. Definitely British. Of course I ended up outside a giant Brooks Brothers once I turned back onto Regent Street, but not far past it was my ultimate evening destination -- Ramen Seto, home of the cheap bowl of noodle soup.

The ramen was actually mediocre and the soup overly rich, but anyway it was merciful on my wallet and allowed me to time hop into Harrod's for a look at the tea selection. I'd had a difficult time imagining the department store to end all department stores, but I finally found that it was a Disney-like fairyland made of course to much more sophisticated standards than any Disney attraction and filled with a mind-boggling amount of designer merchandise, but nevertheless Disneyish in its extravagant existence outside of any practised interior aesthetic. Still worth another trip -- I am not, I repeat, not coming back from England without tea.

Every year Euge becomes more glamorous, and she was dressed to rival any Londoner when I found her outside the Ritz. We were met with much more resistance trying to get into the Landsdowne Club without a printed letter of introduction, and I wonder if the lack of a white male in our presence had something to do with it. But finally we earned our time to catch up, and discovered that she's been living in another branch of the apartment/hotel residence that I stayed in with Josephine and Victor. Big city, small world!

Afterwards we wandered about the club, but other than the lovely ground floor and swimming pool, the club didn't offer a fraction of the luxuries of the Yale Club of New York City. In fact, none of the reciprocal clubs I've visited can hold a candle to it. But I have yet to make it out to Stoke Park. They're bound to make me eat my words. In any case, the deal I have with the Yale Club as a non-NYC-resident/full-time graduate student is unbelievable. I suppose most in my position don't do so much traveling, but as it is I get access to exclusive clubs for a laughable annual membership fee back home. Euge is raking in the money, but for this week I have the posh deal in London: club-hopping. A great sport if you can pull together the look and a bit of spunk.

Incidentally, while everyone finds it funny that ancient rivals Oxbridge share their turf at the Oxford & Cambridge Club by St. James', I just learned from Wikipedia's article on the Yale Club that our 22-floor James Gamble Rogers-designed facility also plays host to the Dartmouth Club, the Virginia Club, and the DKE Club (presumably not for your typical frat party).

England days 3 + 4

Naomi rushed into the train station to meet me a few minutes after I arrived, although to be honest I'd been dallying around and figured I was probably the one keeping her waiting out front. She'd had several appointments in the morning, but what kept her was the alarming news that John had not just been ill, but experienced a minor heart attack at some point over the past couple days, and neither of them had put all the symptoms together. Nevertheless the perfect hostess, she made lunch and tea for me at John's place and afterwards let me amble around town while she made the first of several visits to John in the Yeovil hospital.

I was utterly taken by Sherborne Abbey's golden-hued Hamstone and vast and varied fan-vault ceiling, lingering the better part of an hour wondering and reading while someone provided a soundtrack on the organ. A brisk walk up Cheap Street (the oddly-named main shopping thoroughfare) turned up no florists still open as I'd forgotten the time in the abbey, but finally I came upon a delightful music shop at which I could buy a gift for John to ease his time the hospital. I chose a new Joseph Jongen/Flor Peeters album to make the connection a bit more personal and ensure I wasn't doubling something in his extensive library.

The drive to Naomi's parents house in the 200-person town of Dewlish sped by as we talked and enjoyed the countryside, and her vegetarian parents fed me a veritable Turkish feast. It was one of the best (and most lavish) meals I'd eaten all summer. A peculiar combination of being at the exhausted end of my tour, relaxing into the countryside after the oppression of otherwise delightful London, knowing I was taken care of and had no schedule or priorities whatsoever, and going into food coma put me straight to sleep, though I'd promised to be up in ten minutes for more socializing. I woke up in exactly the same position on top of the covers nearly ten hours later.

Nell and Naomi took me to the hilltop ruins of the 1000-year-old Corfe Castle, where many children were running around during the "birthday celebration" of some 1950's British children's author whose books had been banned from certain libraries in the 80's for not being PC. Obviously the stories were good enough to stand the test of censorship and time and even Harry Potter. A walk around the town with its traditional stone roof tiling proved that the 21st century had even penetrated to here: a gallery sold USB keys in the shape of various animals. There was also a lavender bunny whose removable tummy you could warm up in the microwave and which would release the aroma with each squeeze, but this seemed a bit extravagant and anatomically weird.

Best of all was our picnic and walk along the seaside cliffs. The landscape was basically untouched because, ironically, it is used by the military as training ground. Signs everywhere warn you not to step off the path lest you get shot or step on an unexploded mine, but dogs seem to wander freely ahead of their owners and blackberries are just starting to ripen. Gentle and yet close-set hills of green and cliffs set against a remarkably blue ocean made for the loveliest walk I've taken all summer, through a foreign yet familiar verdant and dramatic landscape. The place names here are exotic to me. Some are also amusing -- Affpuddle and Blandford?

Naomi left for Yeovil to see John and stayed in Sherborne overnight, and I enjoyed a rice dish Naomi had made for the dinner party made by the person she'd learnt it from. Her parents talked animatedly of their big band and about Nell's amazing vegetarian farmer uncle, but I was getting comatose again, so ended the evening watching the beautiful film "Girl with a Pearl Earring". Every scene had been composed with the care of a Dutch masterwork, the gorgeous colours straight out of Vermeer's own palette. The storyline was restrained, never veering into the sex or violence that most films think they need in order to make it big. If only the characters had been better developed -- time to read the book. It's remarkable how many books Vermeer, one of my favorite artists, has inspired. And I'm fonder of this painting than of the Mona Lisa. She's more beautiful, more luminous, more hypnotic, more alive (I know this is sacrilege), and her gentle yet acute gaze will follow you wherever you are in the room in which the painting hangs (the Mauritshuis in The Hague).

I slept like a baby once more, again not disturbing the covers at all or even all the things piled up in a corner of the bed. My dreams were strange and vivid, but I couldn't be bothered to remember them. Something about hurrying to keep up with a schedule. You can never quite escape who you are, can you?

contrasts

If yesterday was the day of symphonic organ concerts followed by Russian discos, today was another day of the uniquely Berliner brand of stark contrasts that occur so organically in this old new city. Last summer, I missed getting the last ticket to Berliner Unterwelten's tour of the stunning Flakturm and settled for the Dark Worlds tour of bomb shelters instead. This time, I was behind schedule again but managed to get tickets for the 13:00 tour. To pass the time, I wandered into a lovely rose garden (thereby fulfilling my annual rose garden summer dosage) and climbed the hill beside it to find myself on the roof of the Flakturm itself, intensely fortified as if enemies might come charging up the hillside at any second, although suicide jumpers seem the likely problem. The fascinating view of outer Berlin merged not long after I arrived with the sound of swinging bells from several directions ringing in the noon hour. Campanological life in Europe is good.

Smoked salmon is cheap here. The Deutsche Bahn convenience store carried Lachsbrötchen for 1,90 EUR. In fact, sandwiches are super cheap and relatively healthy here, a most welcome relief from the generic paste-filled sandwiches that pervade the Low Countries. Peach drinks are also popular, although a stalking wasp forced me to gulp mine down faster than I'd intended. For the few moments I had the drink to myself, however, perched on a bench on the wide concrete expanse of Gesundbrunnen soaking in the sun and idly watching the people idly drinking their German beers, I reveled in the delight of being utterly free to do whatever I wanted with my time. Without my tools for work and with extensive public transportation, I'm bound neither by a schedule nor by my mobility. My Tageskarte allows me total spontaneity. It's heaven on earth.

The tour got off to a slow start, and our tour guide spoke German at such breakneck speed that I reluctantly tuned him out for most of the time, choosing to read and reread the posters on the walls rather than deal with the linguistic mayhem caused by this auditory hailstorm. But just as I was tempted to leave, he led us into the massive corridor of concrete pillars and ceilings that had nearly collapsed under their own weight and the weight of time and neglect, and I knew my time had been well spent. BU's not-advertised policy of forbidding photographs, however, seems utterly contrary to urbex ideals.

Lacking the time I'd hoped for to race home and change into true summer clothes (the depths of the Flakturm were chilly), I hurried instead to the Haus der Kulturen der Welt and joined a crowd of thirty or so intent listeners for Jeffrey Bossin's electroacoustic carillon recital, which ended with a truly glorious klang. To have heard two electroacoustic carillon concerts within two months is really not bad. Afterwards I met the staff from Studio TU Berlin and two composers on DAAD grants, rushed home to change into the summer clothes I'd been waiting since June to don, and met Jeffrey for Mövenpick ice cream.

This left me too little time to rush through the Deutsche Guggenheim, so I opted to hop on the S-Bahn and hop off wherever I fancied, which proved to be the Hauptbanhof. After wandering its glassy corridors and grabbing a veggie wrap, I went in search of the artificial beach I'd seen from the rails and instead found sand sculptures, which I skipped, and further down, concrete things mounted in the ground on the Spree on which many young things were sitting, drinking beer, and enjoying the sunset. I sat down, snapped up my wrap, and snapped away with my camera, hoping to catch the surreal moment. Under the spell of twilight, it seemed as if the ultra-modern, clean glass monolith of the DB was the only building in a world whose borders ended at the other shore of the Spree. Beyond that shore was simply endless sunset, the only inhabitants us young'uns sipping and eating and watching nonchalantly in our sunglasses as the orange orb of the sun disappeared beneath the edge of nothingness.

And then the sun set and we suddenly felt colder, so we went on, and I went on and found the source of the distant drumming I'd been enjoying. I gave the man some spare change and took a picture of him at his suggestion, only to realize that he was asking me to use his camera, which I tried unsuccessfully to do as the camera did not cooperate. Giving the cold shoulder to obnoxious tourists and easily discouraged Germans on bicycles, I sauntered eastward along the Reichstagufer and found myself on the surreal Band des Bundes, with its icy skyward winding Paul-Löbe-Haus (footed by a surreal shubbery) and Kahnian Marie-Elisabeth-Lüders Haus, one of the absolute most beautiful modern buildings I've seen in ages. A massive flock of birds kept sweeping dizzily over me from one side of the Spree to the other, and the beautiful colors of twilight made this incredible feat of architecture a drug for the rest of the evening. It must have taken me a good half hour or more just to walk the three blocks that constitute the Band des Bundes.

P.S. for Head 2: Same giant spiders proliferating here as in Hamburg. Need bag of peanuts and good aim on the double! Also, although Friedrichstraße seemed sketchy on the side we wandered into last year for Starbucks, the other side is the theater district and bursting at the seams with classy cafes (and someone doing a fire show). The mosquitoes are everywhere but do not find me appetizing at all, again a welcome relief from the Belgian mosquitoes who could never, ever, ever get enough of me.

Berlin Day 1

I have the hallway of the JETpak hostel to myself. At 2:00 on a Friday/Saturday night, all the young'uns (and even the older ones who feel out of place) are partaking of Berlin's famed nightlife. I get all the bandwidth, but more importantly, I get the privacy I've been missing otherwise. It's been a long day of culture and cuisine, and my hopes lie tomorrow with the things open during business hours.

The morning began with a two-hour breakfast--more specifically, a two-hour hunt for breakfast that finally led me to the organic grocery just three blocks away. But in the meantime I discovered Lindt's chili chocolate at another grocery store with a strangely cheap looking exterior and yet classy interior complete with olive bar. I also got to know the neighborhood better on foot, so no time was lost.

What followed was a stop at the Sony Center and the alarming discovery that my camera batteries had died. I gave up people-watching over a frozen mocha as most of the people were tourists (excepting perhaps a middle-aged punk mom) and instead shamelessly pored over my lonely planet guide to Germany, knowing I was clueless in good company.

The Musikinstrumenten-Museum, which I'd promised myself I would visit when I passed by en route to the Bauhaus Museum last summer, was a stone's throw away. The structure and interior decoration were delightfully neo-Bauhaus, a strange setting for musical instruments from the middle ages to the present. Each instrument seemed to double my excitement; some were strange takes on things I knew, some were enormously elaborate, some were simply ridiculous. I enjoyed the collection doubly because I could now appreciate the countless historical keyboards and also make a point of examining the horns. Saturday's Wurlitzer performer entertained us with a rehearsal fraught with a persistent cipher, providing a strange soundtrack for my journey past 18th-century clavichords (if only I could have played one!) and lutes lined with scraps of medieval parchment. I never imagined I'd learn so much about the organ from this museum, but a 16th/17th-century collection from a church in Naumburg of everything from zinks to 8-foot schalmeis revealed the mysteries behind these eponymous pedal reed stops based on instruments totally alien to us today. Even the Wurlitzer was fun to examine, with all of the pipes, vibraphones, cymbals, etc. visible and clearly labeled. A wild section on computer music made me laugh and want to run out and buy a vintage synth for my own home, while a mock piano-making studio taught me about the manufacture of spring strings and other mysteries. I made off with eleven postcards and many free brochures and posters a good three hours later, having forced myself to rush so I could catch lunch by 15:00.

Catch lunch I did -- in the area around Rosa-Luxemburg-Platz, a neighborhood of which I would happily become a denizen, had I reason to move to Berlin. Just blocks away from the courtyards of the Hackescher Markt, this trendy run-down neighborhood united Maura's requisite "a bit of sketch" with delicious cheap eastern eateries, cheap haircuts in chic salons, hip hop and eastern clothiers, and boutiques carrying stunning futuristic pieces to break any fashion-hungry girl's heart or budget. Monsieur Vuong himself reseated me from the bar as soon as a table became available, and my request for "some vegetarian noodle" quickly brought me an asymmetrical bowl of the best Asian noodles I've eaten in ages. I was blowing my nose with at least three others in the restaurant by the end, feeling thankful for my bowl of artichoke tea. The best meal (paling in 't groen excepted) I've had so far since arriving in Europe -- cost me 8 EUR.

After poking my head into the various shops, I hopped into a salon and enjoyed a shampoo and cut (blowdry and apply salon products of your choice yourself - fun!) for 11 EUR in an industrial-turned-Beaux-Arts concrete cavern. At this point, with my new favorite shirt (a black cotton sleeveless turtleneck that, with my gorgeous 'A' necklace, makes me look like a million dollars), billowing grey Urban Outfitters skirt, and b/w-striped arm warmers, I looked like an authentic Berliner. I love the fashion here. It's too broad to pinpoint (although prison stripes for gals and aviators for guys are definitely in), too wacky to find in one store, and thankfully bears no resemblance to the frill-fraught neutrals of Belgian female fashion that, to my dismay, have hardly changed since last year. Berliners aren't afraid to make fashion statements, and overwhelmingly the most favored one is the statement made in all black.

Thoroughly taken by this neighborhood, which despite its relative peace and quiet is minutes from the bustling elegant courtyards and stilettoed girls of the Hackescher Markt and nearly in the shadow of the Fersehturm, I found my impatience growing for something new and also non-intellectual to relieve all the effort I'd spent in the MiM. So into the gleaming hallways of KaDeWe I sped, half affronted at the fact that it was a department store and half in heaven helping myself to samples from the near-complete lines of Aveda, Clarin's, L'Occitane, and Crabtree that I love and can't afford. Feeling better-versed in Breitlings after poring over two tall cases of them while trying not to look suspicious, I ascended through women's clothes and electronics, all of which I scorned, to the food court for a bite to eat.

A few steps in and I already felt faint. By the time I reached the tea department (the size of an entire store and with all teas in teacups for the sniffing), I was nearly in a swoon. So many fine foods, so many smells and sights! But where was dinner? I was preparing myself mentally to find nourishment elsewhere as closing time neared, when I reached the end of the aisle in one of the fish departments (spotless and magically lacking in any fish odor whatsoever) and found 4 EUR sandwiches. Not just any sandwiches--mine was filled with a generous amount of smoked salmon, not the oily thinly sliced kind but the thick chewy kind. I savored it and took notes on the experience, still unable to believe my luck.

The bathroom on this floor was tremendous, and it just happened to have one of the best views of Berlin in the area, framed by long windows looking out on the curiously undulating façade of the building across the way. The setting sun made for a doubly brilliant scene that evaded my battery-starved camera. And I managed to walk out of the store with the least dignified item one could ever imagine purchasing at a high-end department store -- a 4-EUR box of Ballastoffreich (fiber-enriched) Kellogg's cereal. This store is serious in its claim to sell everything. My only regret was that the Eiswein they carried was quite fine: 30 EUR. In other words, 30 EUR too much, especially as I have nobody to savor it with.

I must admit ZARA pulled me in for the next hour, as KaDeWe sent customers pouring out of its doors towards other Ku'damm-area stores at 20:00. One romantic white dress with a wide black band really caught my fancy, but it was a special item and thus sported an impossible price tag of about 130 EUR. To my surprise, I really have found no substitute for the J. Crew summer dress at Zara or Mango. American fashion does follow its own route, but the rarity of this cut of dress really is a surprise to me. Anyway, it's time to think of winter clothes. And I've found the perfect knee-length woolen coat to keep out the Rochester cold this coming winter. Rochester, aren't you excited to be my catwalk in September?

And so I'm back at JETpak, planning tomorrow out and wondering when the rest of my roommates will arrive. Gute Nacht.

Middelburg Day 1

Although the first leg of my flight with Icelandair came with the requested vegetarian meal, the second leg comes without and the stewardess places the blame on me before saying she'll look to see if anything edible remains and never uttering a word to me again (or offering the drink offered to everyone else). The Brooks Brothers yuppie next to me comments on her peculiar overreaction. He turns out to be a Harvard med student nearly fluent in Dutch, though not as fluent as the middle-aged man sitting next to him, who has until now sported a Boston accent with his wife and little daughter. My sensitivity to American accents and obesity is still heightened as I observe my fellow Americans in the plane juxtaposed against typical Icelanders sporting English competency and supermodel looks.

Digression: Part of what I like and dislike about Cambridge is its effeteness, both intellectual and multilingual. There is no need to suddenly switch one's conversation with the J. Press salesman over to French once this commonality is discovered when English is the first language of both parties. The eagerness to engage one's mind and others in deep conversation about absolutely anything reminds me of the naive excitement I sense amongst some ---- undergrads, although here it is sometimes executed in depth and can lead somewhere important. I love its presence but dislike its open display. I'm one to talk, aren't I?

Schiphol is much the same besides the healthy smoothies stand's transformation into a 'DONER KEBAB' haven, but luggage delivery time is seriously inefficient. I end up on a Brussels-bound train with two finance professors from the Fordham Business School (a secular arm of The Jesuit University of New York), Frank Werner (who introduces himself as Frank 'Warner') and one whose name needs no conscious memory effort, Jim Stoner. They are flush with passionate ideas for a new joint book on sustainable finance and explain them wholeheartedly, even stopping to shed light on some of the terminology. Frank has an interesting answer to my question of why the environment has come to the forefront of public consciousness; both Al Gore's deliberate efforts and Bush's unintended botches have drawn more people to a side that Gore shows as sensible and that Bush shows as an alternative for conservatives to his rapidly support-losing brand of conservatism. I am interested in their enthusiasm for change as large-scale as they are suggesting; I had thought of finance scholars as practical-minded analysts, but here are men on a grand thought experiment determined to bring their results to the world. After all, Stoner lists "Ontological Inquiry, Excellence, and Personal and Organizational Transformation" in his university profile. The masses have not heard their voices clearly before but are more likely to listen now; I wonder if they have always approached finance this way or whether they are developing ahead of the game. Here is an obvious display of scholarship and yet I enjoy it more than much I overheard in Cambrdge; they seem hapless to hold their excitement back rather than eager to make more of it than it is. It is already enough.

I pick up a stoptrein at Roosendaal, still in wonder at how expensive Dutch train tickets are relative to Belgian ones. At Middelburg, I wend my way rather indirectly to the Bagijnhof. I don't yet feel the euphoria of return (that will happen when I finally set foot in Antwerpen again, the city truly woven into my spirit), but I feel a strange mixture of ease and discomfort. Walking down the charmed cobblestone streets, knowing that any destination is within an easy stroll, I have my yearned-for freedom back--freedom to go where I please without being prisoner to the motor vehicle. But Middelburg is a small town, and the inhabitants stare openly at me, and the fashionable women are still dressed in the awful frilly look I came to despise and truly hoped would have changed by now. I have come to expect them, but still I am irritated.


two belfries

Gerda is waiting for me and has already arranged for dinner with one of my new housemates as well as a hybrid(!) bike loan from her family. We chat and I give her the ironically selected Ivy League gift I've borne across the ocean -- a handsome crimson Harvard academic planner, from which I hastily peel the price tag.

Bagijnhof 4 is an inefficient maze of heavy purple doors and crazily steep, narrow, creaky (creaks of the vocal, lip-smacking kind) orange staircases (all but the latter quite typical of stairways in old Dutch buildings). My third-floor room belongs to a certain Iliana, who has a penchant for clipping South Park cartoons and Absolut ads. She has not offered to loan her bedding (not atypical in this country), so I trek out to HEMA and pick out all the cheapest sheets while still coordinating them in bright blue. For a bath towel, I pick out a striped bright blue beach towel that will also serve as a blanket on cool nights. The bed and Iliana's orange IKEA folding chair become the proud the highlights of the room. They are trumped only by the tripartite window that overlooks the Stoppelaartuin (now a parking lot) and the little backyards of the surrounding houses, one of which contains a mural of a hand either holding moss or overgrown by real moss. Iliana is taller than me; I cannot see into the mirror she has set in front of the little sink.

A bell begins to toll, sending up a flock of maybe fifty birds who fly high over the slanting mossy rooftops westward.

Only later do I realize that the ceilings are pitched symmetrically, starting at the hip. I cannot decide whether they remind me of the interior of a Quaker meeting house, a Swiss mountain home, or a witch's abode. But I have finally indulged in the Burt's Bees travel set from Jeannene and for a while the room feels rather like a North Carolina spa.


21st-century Middelburg