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.

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: