One Does Not Cage the Crow

I love my bike, but it's slowly killing me.  The year has not been kind to it.  It's rusted in weird places, and as I pedal, sometimes I can feel vibrations rumbling through my foot.  It squeaks, clacks, and sometimes produces this grating noise that seems to penetrate my very being.

So soon, I came to the realization I needed a new bike.

Some of you might remember how I obtained my current bike.  I woke up at the unholy hour of 4:30 am to stand in the cold with my friend and several other bike-less people to enter the city's auction of abandoned bikes.  So, since I need a new bike, I decided to try this again.  This time, however, when I woke up, it was raining, and I seriously considered going back to bed.  But something kept me awake.  An evil something...

So I headed down to the bike auction, alone this time, but better dressed, and completely warm.  I brought a book, a book-light, and a muffin.  The wait did not bother me.

And I ended up finding a pretty awesome bike - it was green, aluminum (meaning no rust and super-light) and even had gears!  It was one of the better bike brands.  I purchased my new find and rode it home.  It was like riding on air.  Amazing.

I chained it up outside, right next to my old bike.  I even admired my new bike from my window.

The next day I looked out the window.

It was gone.

I ran outside to where I had left my bike.  My old bike was still there, slowly rusting away.  My new bike, along with the chain, were nowhere to be seen.

I spent the next several hours running around - around the neighborhood looking for my bike, in case some drunk students moved it as a prank.  To the place I bought the bike where they politely told me it wasn't their problem.  To the police station where they had me file a report, but said there was little they could do.  I spent the afternoon wandering the main part of the city, looking at the endless seas of parked bikes, looking for my own.  I found several that looked very similar, but always there was something that let me knew it was not mine.  After all, there are a lot of bikes in this city. 

Days past.  Every time I passed a bike rack, I would look for my lost bike. 

Will I ever find you?

I don't know if I'll ever stop looking, but chances are, I'll never see my bike again.  One of my (Dutch) friends consoled me by saying, "Congratulations - you are now officially Dutch."

If those evil bike thieves could glimpse the grief and sadness that they caused me, having only been able to ride my new bike a grand total of 5 minutes, perhaps they would have reconsidered stealing that bike.  Or perhaps there really are soulless and heartless people in the world.

You may have noticed, my old bike wasn't stolen, although the evil bike thieves certainly walked right by it.  After conveying my anger, one of my friends told me a story - he and his wife left their bikes chained together to a tree.  One day, when they returned, the chain was cut.  Her (nicer) bike was taken, but his bike, the old trashy bike, was still there.  He said, "Happiness is low expectations and a trash bike".

One does not cage the crow... he is free.    

Engineering: Fail

Talk about a bad day.

Stockholm has a truly amazing shipwreck that you can visit.  It is the most well preserved shipwreck from hundreds of years ago... but it all started with a some really bad decisions.  

The Vasa Warship was a ship unlike any ever seen.  It was built in the 1600s.  The warship was magnificent... it had 64 cannons, could hold 450 men, and was decorated with elaborate wooden carvings, each with unique meanings.   

It was also high, so that the crew could shoot down at an enemy ship, and later board it easily.  But its height, while it was its unique feature, was also a tragic miscalculation and a lesson in stability.  On its maiden voyage, after sailing only 1300 meters, a slight breeze caught the sail and caused the boat to tip.  Soon, water rushed in through the cannon ports, and the boat sank into the Stockholm harbor, in front of hundreds of stunned onlookers. 

And this majestic ship, after sinking on its maiden voyage, stayed under the water for more than 300 years.

Then, in the 1960s, a complex salvage operation was made to bring the boat back up.  They raised the Vasa in one piece from under the harbor waters.

The boat was then reconstructed, piece by piece, over the course of several years.  The boat is now 95% original wood.  Once put back together, the ship was sprayed with PEG, a wax that could penetrate the wood and keep it from cracking and drying out, for a full 17 years.  Now, the ship lies within a museum, and you can imagine what it must have looked like when it was brand new.

Bram in a reconstruction of the inside cabins of the ship.  They must have been shorter back then.

And a point if you can guess what this is.

Remembering a Very Bad Day

Bram and I made a somber visit to the 9/11 Memorial.  It's still under construction, but it gives a touching, beautiful, and sorrowful tribute to those who lost their lives that day.

Where the towers used to stand, two holes now stand in the earth - each with two cascading waterfalls flowing down the footprint of the two towers.  It's impossible to see the bottom of the second waterfall - it seems like the water just falls forever.

Nearby, the new towers stand, taller than the old ones, reflecting the sky.

The names of all those who lost their lives, etched around the two waterfalls.

This is the Survivor Tree, the only tree that survived the collapse of the buildings - quite incredible considering how close it was to the devastation.  I suppose it's a symbol of undying hope and life that continues on. 

Dynamics 101

When I was in Colorado, I came up with the laws of Winter Bus Dynamics:

1.) When waiting for the bus, the time you wait is inversely proportional to the temperature.
2.) The number of buses that fail to show up will correlate directly with the amount of snow on the ground.

Now that I am living in Groningen, I have drafted my complimentary rules of Winter Bike Dynamics:

1.) A bike in motion will tend to remain in motion, especially when on a thin layer of ice.
2.) For temperatures below 35 degrees F, the speed one goes on a bike increases exponentially with decreasing temperature times 2 (where the 2 results from two processes - one to keep warm, and one from the biker's desire to drink hot chocolate/tea/coffee on arrival).
3.) Wind direction is always opposing direction the biker wants to travel.  However, this does not immediately imply that wind direction is opposing the way the bike actually travels.
4.) If temp < temp critical, brake line freezes.  Unable to stop, crash in to hard object.  Put both legs in casts.  Enact laws of Winter Bus Dynamics.
  

My Circumnavigation Adventure Continues.... and a Trans-Oceanic Conspiracy Revealed

On the way from Europe to the US,  I was upgraded to business class.  It was amazing.  We had real silverware and comfy headphones.  We were served steak in a mushroom onion glaze and thinly shaved potatoes.  In addition, I was in the first row, so there was plenty of room to spread out.  I had a footrest.  I never was so relaxed on an trans-Atlantic flight.

Fast-forward a week, and now I'm on my way to Japan.  Thirteen hour flight this time.  I was in the second to last row of economy, and behind a woman who reclined her seat as far as humanly possible.  I fight down the rising panic of claustrophobia as I sit shoved into the back corner of a flying tin can, popping sleeping pills and hoping that unconsciousness will come and I won't remember this experience.       

So... was the airline kind to upgrade me on my first trip?  Or did they do it in a diabolical plan to ruin every economy airline trip I take from now to the end of time? 

Torrential Rain and Government Sponsored Freezing

April 15th marks the day where the government decides to shut off the heat.  Coincidentally, it's also the day that the weather decides to become as awful as it knows how, with torrential rain and near-freezing temperatures.  Are the two connected?  Probably.  It's too much of a coincidence otherwise.  Perhaps the weather likes to let our technologically inclined society that it still can control our lives and emotions.  Or perhaps some government officials have cameras installed in our offices, watching us shiver.

Anyways, after a March of t-shirts, it's back to sweater weather for me.

Hospitals in France

My worst fear recently came true - needing the hospital in a country where I didn't speak the language well.

A couple of weeks ago, I came home to find that my husband was really sick.  He seemed to have a severe case of food poisoning.  I took care of him the best I could, and we settled down for the night. 

I went into the other room to read for a bit as my husband tried to fall asleep.  A bit later, I hear him get up, then I hear a thud.  My husband had passed out, and he was out cold long enough for me to try to wake him up, fail, and start panicking.

I called a good friend of mine and he told me which emergency number to call (France has 5 or so of them - hospital, police, fire, etc).  I call the emergency number, and in my most perfect French ever, I say,

"Est-ce que possible a parler avec quelqu'un en anglais, s'il vous plait?"

I talked to a few people on the phone, and the ended up sending the paramedics.  They, of course, did not speak English, so we talked to them as good as we could, however, I discovered I had never learned the words for "passed out", "food poisoning", or various other colorful health terms in French.  But they were very patient and soon we went for a ride in a French ambulance!

At the hospital, as they are taking our information, Bram is speaking pretty good French for someone who was just lying unconscious on the bathroom floor.  He was beginning to feel faint though, and he wanted to lie down, but the nurse didn't understand him, so he just started to mime fainting, when he actually began to fall over.

Finally, a hospital bed obtained (albeit, in a hallway), IV set up, and after asking for a blanket for my shivering husband, we try to explain all we can to the nurses.  Finally we get a room, and I spend the night sleeping in a folding chair as Bram gradually gets better over the night.

It was scary and frustrating to not be able to express ourselves completely, especially when I see my husband is suffering, but we did alright in the end - although it took some time, we could understand the nurses and doctors, and they could understand us.  I'm happy to say that Bram is now doing great.  But the real kicker is when we received our hospital bill.  A similar hospital  bill in the States was over $4000.  Here, we had to pay €27.    

The Dangers of French Dining

So last night, we went out to eat with one of my husband's French friends.  The French language found on menus was one of the first things I learned on coming to France, but last night was different.  We went to a very "French" restaurant, which had things on the menu which a.) were either hard to translate or b.) were fun things that the French eat but that Americans in general do not, ie andouillette or steak tartar.  (If you don't know what either of these are, I would recommend a google search on your part.)

Anyways, something that caught our eye - Ris de veau.  Veal with rice?  Bram's friend confirmed it - he thought it was some sort of risotto with veal and mushrooms.

So we ordered it.

It wasn't risotto.

See, in French, rice is spelled riz.  On the menu, what we ordered was ris.  I thought it was a typo.

It wasn't a typo.

Shortly afterwards, this is what was delivered to our table:

This is not risotto.  I did not know what this is.

My husband's friend looks at it and realizes his mistake.  He didn't know what it is, so googles it on his phone.  He then tells us he will tell us what it is after we eat it.

Uh uh.  I google it myself, but google translate does not help me.  So I start to eat.  But apparently, my stomach does not like the fact it doesn't know what it's eating.  It is decidedly NOT HAPPY. 

I look over at my husband's friend who is whispering to his girlfriend what it is.  He gestures at his ear.  Oh my gosh, I'm eating ear?  No, he assures me, I am not eating ear.

So finally I find out what it is - sweetbread, or rather, the gullet of a calf.  Knowledge did not make my stomach any happier.  The consistency was just too strange for me.  The waitress had a good laugh at our expense when she heard of our mistranslation, and told us that Americans normally don't order that.

Ha ha.

Ironically, if you go to Wikipedia, the entry for sweetbreads shows it on a bed of mushroom risotto:

Moving - I've Lost my Mind

Normally, I don't like to move.  I avoid it.  However, we don't have that many things here.  We have no furniture, and only a few suitcases we brought with us and random things we've accumulated.  So, let's move!  It would be easy to move to a new apartment! 

Famous last words.

First of all, we signed a lease with a couple who doesn't speak English.  I was able to communicate with them over email and in person in French - something I definitely would not have been able to do last year.

Go us.

But things just got more and more complicated.  First, I had an interview to change our housing insurance to the new house.  In French.  Signing French contracts and reading French leagaleeze is always fun.

Then figuring out how to change our address in France.

Then walking through a torrential downpour to try to cancel our internet by meeting with people at the internet provider, only to realize we can't actually cancel our internet by talking to the people at the internet provider.

Then let's not forget actually packing all of those "few" possessions into multiple carloads of stuff, spending 300 euros at the store to buy all the things that the new apartment doesn't have that the old apartment did have. 

Then ... having my parents visit two days later.

Happy Strike Season!

Once again, the strike season has started in France.  Sure, other countries have baseball, soccer, or cricket.  France has the strike.

In France, striking is about getting the government or an employer to back down on an issue, sure, but there is also the thrill too.  Everyone enjoys stopping work and walking like a hoard of zombies through the subway tunnels (because, of course, the metro isn't running) carrying assorted torches and squid.

(I've actually never seen torches, but it wouldn't surprise me.  I have seen strikers carrying squid and tossing it around merrily like a hot potato.  Not quite sure on the significance of that.)

I'm fairly fortunate - I live close enough to work I can still walk if none of the trains are running.  But I've heard horror stories how in Paris, hoards of people try to cram into the 1 train out of 20 that is running that day, and end up falling or getting pushed into the gap between the train and the platform.  


Last year though, I was very un-fortunate.  There was a three week long strike that was really messing with the French economy.  Of course, the trains weren't running.  I had to get 1. to Paris 2. across Paris and 3. on my plane to London.  I left my house 8 hours ahead of time.  I waited for one out of four trains that went to Paris, which stopped at the southernmost station within the city limits.  Then I fought the angry mob walking through the tunnels to get out of the metro (since 4 times as many people were on the train, and the train stopped and made everyone get out at the same station, it led to some close encounters with fellow commuters).  I ended up taking a privately run bus to the airport.  But the streets were packed with people who would have taken the metro if it wasn't shut down.  It took me 4 hours to get across Paris.  By the time we got to the airport, several people had missed their flight.  But I, who expected the worse, got their on time!  (I was very lucky the air traffic controllers weren't on strike!!!)

On the way back, though, I had to sit in the rain for four hours in the middle of the night waiting for a train, because, lucky me, the strike was still going on.

Another time, the tram I was on stopped midday and told everyone to get off, leaving me in a part of the city I've never been before.  Took a while to get un-lost.

So if you're lucky enough to witness this truly French spectacle, don't let it get to you too much.  Just kick back and watch the world as it crumbles around you.

Bad days

We all have bad days... I recently had a doozy.  First I left my laptop at home, which meant that I couldn't do my normal work, and I had to download papers in the cold, non-heated computer lab.

Then, I had a meeting.  Not just any meeting, but a 2 hour long meeting, all in French, that went over lunch.  Meetings can be bad.  Meetings that you can't understand and that stretch over lunch are worse.

French class was also rough - after a 3 week absence (a two week "vacation" from class, followed by my own trip) left me struggling on pronunciation.

Finally, though, I got home, put on some laundry, and took a bath, trying to relax.  As I got ready for bed, my downstairs neighbor knocked on my door.

She said, "Is anything wrong with your apartment?"
"No, why?"
"Well, my apartment is flooding."

I followed her downstairs, where I saw waterfalls of water cascading down her walls.  I went back upstairs and found the culprit.  Here in France, my washing machine has a little tube that lets the machine drain into the sink.  Well, as the washing machine rumbled away, that little tube decided to launch itself out of the sink and onto the floor, dumping at least 3 or 4 washing machine loads worth of water on the floor (minus, of course, what was now in my neighbor's apartment).  So I spent the rest of my "relaxing" day mopping up the inch of water in my kitchen.

As Hamlet says, sometimes sorrows come not in single spies, but in battalions.