tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-285601472024-02-22T03:57:03.227+01:00The Sykes StoryAudrey Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15519248765101524805noreply@blogger.comBlogger21125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28560147.post-68145441005682453912009-08-23T01:46:00.004+02:002009-08-23T02:02:15.310+02:00Four years ago...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpiR1Cp1sRivdk8D-B0sV_x5GGFEItopj85tCYXgp5T3OJhosXBFIv2OOgwMLc9kyQizlC7jM7LOq-UWlxeiEz5eYPtMfAkA0rkO2NgLA1qPJTTB-i9yp5j7IXl5siu2vl_LBfAQ/s1600-h/denmarkdays.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpiR1Cp1sRivdk8D-B0sV_x5GGFEItopj85tCYXgp5T3OJhosXBFIv2OOgwMLc9kyQizlC7jM7LOq-UWlxeiEz5eYPtMfAkA0rkO2NgLA1qPJTTB-i9yp5j7IXl5siu2vl_LBfAQ/s320/denmarkdays.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372942773297830674" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The cheapest way to fly across the pond from the US four years ago today was to hop on a one-way cargo carrier to any destination in Europe. I was dropped in Vienna with the perspective of Denmark being a stone's throw away; a dragging ten hours later I arrived in Aarhus, DK, the first stop on my Erasmus Mundus adventure.<br /><br />My jet-lagged slumber was shaken the next morning by a loud knocking. King-size bags sat unpacked in a corner, and my half-naked body was rolled in a blanket like a hotdog... on a mattress still lined with plastic. I had forgotten what I was doing in this barren dorm room, or where I even was.<br /><br />The knocking continued. I scooted to the doorway and soon found myself standing in front of two unexpected visitors: A short, curvy young Indian woman beside a lofty Ukranian in his late 30s with goofy glasses and an amusing grin. I squinted at the figures in front of me to help my eyes focus. It was a puzzling few seconds of silence before one of us spoke.<br /><br />"Hi, we're your new classmates," said the woman from India, Ankeeta. I stood there awkwardly draped in my down comforter with sleep in my eyes and a frizzed head of hair.<br /><br />I was still convincing myself this was no dream when the Ukrainian, Alexander, chimed in with giggly broken English and startling enthusiasm, "Yes! And we have come, and invite you to a nearby beach!"<br /><br />Perhaps the only thing my body was capable of that day was sprawling out on beach sand, so I managed to mumble an agreeable reply. My hands fished beach attire from my bags, and five minutes later I stumbled out of my dorm with two new acquaintances bounded for Moesgård Strand.<br /><br />Once there, Alexander wasted no time stripping down to his Speedo, splashing and galloping into the icy Danish waters. Ankeeta struggled with her modesty for a solid half hour by attempting to change into her swimsuit, whilst keeping a towel wrapped around her body, to avoid anyone catching a glimpse of her privates. It was a highly entertaining episode for this American to witness, and this was just Day One.<br /><br />Four years deep I still have vivid memories of my first day with Alexander and Ankeeta. The situation was a first for me, yet the entire two years of Erasmus Mundus would expose me to situations I never knew could exist in my life. This invitation to sun bathe by the North Sea was just the beginning of a lifestyle that followed the theme of "What have you got to lose?" I even roll with that saying today, and encourage others to give it a try: The outcome is always worthwhile.<br /><br />A happy four years of Audrey in Europe since Aug. 22, 2005.Audrey Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15519248765101524805noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28560147.post-43227006174304903002009-05-07T09:47:00.002+02:002009-05-07T10:38:23.447+02:00Rock solid: Molotow<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLI1hdhVt2usnrdj9hwSsV2YjdFgaNPJqvq96oIq6DPUMT8hgDCo5zEwDJtPYqIFujS1dbGZrDLcqD6n7na3RncC0X6VfaKOb5cKruWx20_EtXT26qoah7u45iJrusN0wmKVd-5g/s1600-h/Molotow+Voll_(c)_Jonas+Fischer.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLI1hdhVt2usnrdj9hwSsV2YjdFgaNPJqvq96oIq6DPUMT8hgDCo5zEwDJtPYqIFujS1dbGZrDLcqD6n7na3RncC0X6VfaKOb5cKruWx20_EtXT26qoah7u45iJrusN0wmKVd-5g/s320/Molotow+Voll_(c)_Jonas+Fischer.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332998403066589570" /></a><br />When the Beatles first left England to grace this earth with legendary music in 1960, the initial spark was a 48-night rockstar bender two blocks down from Hamburg’s venue, Molotow. The Reeperbahn's historic nature of driving visitors to debauchery was no exception for four Liverpool moptops: the overindulgence of sex and drugs, arson arrests for burning condoms, and George Harrison's eventual deportation is just scratching the surface.<br /><br />“Every fucking band playing in the Molotow, as soon as they drop their guitar cases they ask, where did the Beatles play? Where did they walk? Where did they hang out?” says Molotow owner Andi Schmidt. “This is where they started their career.”<br /><br />Fifty years later Reeperbahn's sinful reputation continues to generate the classic raw and gritty body rock 'n' roll lives to penetrate, and for the Europe rock scene, Molotow is an essential organ. Standing since 1990 in a virtually lawless district of Hamburg, Molotow mirrors its streets by providing a forum to rock without curfews, drinking limits or smoking bans.<br /><br />“Germany is crazy and strict with everything, but Hamburg is like an outlawed place," says Schmidt, who has lived in Hamburg since almost 40 years. “You can't say, ‘Fuck your law’. The way we handle it is to say, ‘Yes I know the law but I can't check everything’.”<br /><br />In essence, Molotow’s fusion of perspective with placement makes a gristly yet harmonious blend of luscious attraction for band performances. Yet Molotow is a musician’s haven because it follows the principles of a good venue: unique character, a solid sound system, and genuine kindred spirit to the rock scene. <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Butts and bottles</span><br />A small, dark basement with maximum capacity of around 300, soundproof walls emit the wreaking stench of Beck's beer and St. Pauli cigarettes. The low ceiling suffocates skin pores as the air thickens with sweaty, damp humidity. Sandwiched between bars in the front and backroom is the frenzied heat of the stage, where the crowd and band merge into a giant ball of sound and body explosion. Bands love it.<br /><br />“There’s a lot of action on stage because you’re so close to the audience. Our frontman climbed around, people stage dove; it was sweaty and loud,” says Frederik Mohrdiek on performing at Molotow with his former band The Sissies. “It’s tight and focused on the stage, but it’s company rock ‘n’ roll enjoyment.”<br /><br />However, complimenting Molotow’s unembellished exoskeleton is sound of near-perfect acoustics, not to mention ambitious employees who know how to work a venue well enough to evoke approval from all forms of rock.<br /><br />“Plus the place is very open-minded and willing to book bands they’re convinced of even if they know they might only pull 20 people from it,” says Hamburg-based DJ Andreas “Baze.djunkiii” Rathmann who spins with Lars “Das Audiolith” Lewerenz as Plutonium Pogo at Molotow. “Amongst DJs and musicians in indie and rock, the reputation is high; everyone seems to know the place all over.”<br /><br />“It's definitely more important for us to have good bands and good music here, not the money. As silly as it sounds some venues just don't care about it, many don't even have their own PA system,” says Schmidt. “Here you can hear every instrument and vocal; there's no feedback, and if there is there's a guy right on the spot taking care of it. That’s the way it should be.”<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Bands and Fans</span><br />Molotow's fame rises from its underground reputation of acting as a launch pad for some of rock's most famous additions over the past 15 years. Proudly resting above the entrance is a long list of prominent alumni, from The White Stripes to The Killers, The Rakes to The Black Keys, Billy Talent, At The Drive-In and about 130 others.<br /><br />“Molotow was The Hives first sold out show of their career, and in their first music video they rebuilt our entrance on their set in Sweden. They held up a sign in front of some place saying Molotow and it had a huge queue. When they come to town they always come by,” says Schmidt.<br /><br />A pile of signed guestbooks collects dust on a bookshelf at Molotow’s office. Inside are short blurps, long-winded notes, face illustrations and phallic doodles to name a few. Enon drew a rabbit, The Lawrence Arms “hearts Hamburg, hookers and sex”, while Piebald “occupied the building where this book lives and thank you for it. We like Molotow.”<br /><br />“A lot of now famous bands with a big fan base played at Molotow long before they caught attention, and one can’t ignore that,” says Baze.djunkii. “Even if you are coming from an electronic music background, there is a lot of room to experiment because the people that go there are really open-minded.”<br /><br />Molotow might be 28 stairs below ground, but the stage is a small step up from the crowd floor. For fiends of audience contact, Molotow dares to provide a band-fan connection stripped from platform barriers.<br /><br />“I once saw Battery play there, and I jumped on stage and put the singer in a headlock. But it’s okay, some people want to go onstage and just be with the band,” says Mohrdiek, who still plays at Molotow with current band Bangkok Kash. “It’s good to be in touch with the audience if they’re going wild. It’s good to be on ground level; you have direct feedback.”<br /><br />“We don’t have drunk jocks, drunk fights are not a problem. It’s all about having the right people at the door,” says Schmidt. “Some places hire karate guys with jackets looking for trouble. If you don’t do that, you’re kind of cool.”<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Rock ‘n’ roll hospitable respect</span><br />The venue’s acquirement of distinctive quality, impressive performer history and an energetic audience is no fluke. Molotow’s resistance towards usual venue “norms” develops from experience on knowing where to draw the line between lifestyle and pure insanity.<br /><br />“Although I like them a lot, I turned down Towers of London because they wasted and wrecked about every venue they played in,” says Schmidt. “I once sent home a Swedish band because they were totally drunk, and I couldn’t imagine them playing since they couldn’t even stand. It’s okay to be punk rock, but it’s stupid to wreck a place.”<br /><br />This is not to say booked bands can expect rigid communication. In contrast, Molotow is a venue to offer not only a smorgasbord of food and drink to their performers but also accommodation: the office’s spare rooms are equipped with beds and blankets.<br /><br />“Backstage there are snickers, M&Ms, bread with cheese and sausage, and one crate of beer,” says Mohrdiek.<br /><br />“Tons of places you feel like a burden. In the UK you get a pack of crisps for the whole band,” says Schmidt, who has played in bands for about 30 years. “We treat bands nicely. We care for them, give them good food and a place to stay.”<br /><br />Despite ongoing battles with keeping a punk rock environment in a stringent society, Schmidt has enough funding to keep Molotow alive for at least another three years.<br /><br />“If you love sweaty basement clubs with nice stuff, good music and an ecstatic crowd then go. If you’re lucky enough you’ll catch some future legends on stage at the very beginning of their career,” says Baze.djunkiii.<br /><br />The era of live Beatlemania might have ended decades ago, but it’s venues like Molotow that keep Hamburg standing as an arena offering a music subculture most European cities would die for. Check it out, but try to refrain from condom bonfires. Try.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />- Audrey Sykes</span>Audrey Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15519248765101524805noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28560147.post-20957965625818323212009-04-16T00:20:00.001+02:002009-04-16T00:20:20.720+02:00My latest hobby...<object width="425" height="274" data="http://api.kyte.com/flash.swf?v=2&uri=channels/182433/406147&appKey=MarbachViewerEmbedded" style="margin: 0pt; display: block;" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" id="KyteApplication_1"><param value="p=181&disableShowNavigation=true&appKey=MarbachViewerEmbedded&uri=channels/182433/406147&domId=KyteApplication_1&" name="flashVars"/><param value="always" name="allowScriptAccess"/><param value="true" name="allowFullScreen"/></object><a href="http://www.spinearth.tv/report/sneak-peak-punk-and-indie-naked-in-amsterdam">See full report...</a>Audrey Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15519248765101524805noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28560147.post-21375555711331730632009-04-13T12:23:00.001+02:002009-04-13T12:23:41.783+02:00Tulipmania lives<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtHJhlDkBLVhiwOE5xsztAiRmIAjJAOfd4yw8-1dKVeyV1LSZcCPlHw0FrQqBqpLCfbooeHKMZTBkVAdeBMCqS0OtPM9QoFmMw6NdwiHeQCD_v2LqOY65IWYPfOhUOxR0qkY6xuA/s1600-h/AMSTERDAMTULIPMUSEUMGrowersOnTheField+HOOGKERAPEL1935.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtHJhlDkBLVhiwOE5xsztAiRmIAjJAOfd4yw8-1dKVeyV1LSZcCPlHw0FrQqBqpLCfbooeHKMZTBkVAdeBMCqS0OtPM9QoFmMw6NdwiHeQCD_v2LqOY65IWYPfOhUOxR0qkY6xuA/s320/AMSTERDAMTULIPMUSEUMGrowersOnTheField+HOOGKERAPEL1935.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318218973368066194" /></a><br />When the 17th century Dutch elite became enthralled with flowers in a time notoriously known as Tulipmania, the most sought-after and expensive tulips were infected with bugs and viruses. <br /><br />The attraction to “Broken Tulips” was its magnificent mutations of color, form and size. Pedals seemingly dipped in porcelain, laced with spring hues, edges frayed and feathered – Broken Tulips were a representation of Golden Age novelty and exotic discovery. <br /><br />“The tulip was grown about the elite group like a toy among the rich,” says Sjoerd van Eeden, co-owner of the Amsterdam Tulip Museum. “It was after Tulipmania where tulips then became in the hands of farmers.”<br /><br />Tulipmania's peak in February of 1637 was a frenzied swirl of contract agreements and market exchange, seen in retrospect as folly-ridden senselessness. One Viceroy tulip bulb sold for four tons of beer, while one Sempur Agustus bulb for 12 acres of land. Ten years later, Dutch historian Theodorus Schrevelius would write, “Our descendants will laugh at the human insanity of our age, in times tulip flowers have been so revered.”<br /><br />About 300 years later, in 1949, ten prominent Dutch bulb growers and exporters opened the first nonprofit showcase for The Netherlands flower industry near a castle garden just outside of Lisse. No more than 35,000 visitors were expected at the new attraction, fittingly titled Keukenhof from the land’s previous use as an herb garden and hunting ground. Opening year visitor totals topped an unpredictable 250,000. <br /><br />“It was a way to ask foreign business people to come and buy bulbs from Holland,” says Keukenhof’s General Manager Piet de Vries. “It was overwhelming at the time. We had no toilets, maybe one for the growers. We had no restaurants. At the time we just weren't prepared.”<br /><br />As Keukenhof celebrates its 60th anniversary on March 19, the world’s largest flower garden will have attracted more than 44 million visitors since its conception, offering 150 acres of land hosting 4.5 million tulips in 100 varieties, 7 million flower bulbs in total plus 2,500 trees.<br /><br />“We are the show window for the Netherlands and for Dutch bulb growers in the industry,” says De Vries, who currently works with 93 growers around the country whom supply Keukenhof with flowers free-of-charge. “We have prominent growers and growers with special varieties. We have a long list of people who want to show here.”<br /><br />Keukenhof itself is considered a national landmark, but the Dutch tulip industry today holds its own international fame. Boasting a market share of around 70 percent in universal flower production and 90 percent of trade worth about €540 million, it is estimated that there exists well over a thousand growers in the country who work at a national and global level. <br /><br />“To say we are working together goes too far,” says Van Eeden, who was raised amongst a family of international bulb exporters. “One person grows red tulips while the other person grows yellow tulips. We're competitors, yet countries who demand tulips can be large enough to buy from fifty exporters.” <br /><br />Nearly one quarter (over 900 million) of Netherlands flower exports are destined for the United States each year.<br /><br />Tulips carry an economically nomadic disposition throughout its history. The flower’s native landscape is the Himalayan region, filling valleys with over 60 percent of today’s wild tulips. <br /><br />“The Ottoman empire, with its huge trade route area, was the first thought to have collected wild tulips. It caught on, hybridizing began, and the tulip became a garden flower because of Turkey,” says Van Eeden.<br /><br />The tulip’s introduction to The Netherlands is believed to be the work of Flemish botanist Clusius, Latin for Charles de L’Ecluse, who first planted tulips at the University of Leiden’s botanical gardens around 1595. Interest rose among wealthy Dutch enthusiasts, and tulip demand eventually ignited the world’s first stock market exchange.<br /><br />“Holland was already the economic center in Europe with money. The Dutch were prepared and had the means to finance a curiosity with tulips,” says Van Eeden. “People from the lower classes also looked at the tulip as an opportunity for investment and profit.”<br /><br />“There was a tulip mania. There were flower bulbs calculated for two thousand euros per bulb,” says De Vries. “At the end of tulip mania we had the first stock crash that we've seen, because of flowers.”<br /><br />The stock crash of 1637 is argued to be the first recorded economic or speculative bubble burst of its kind. Traders went from monthly earnings of roughly €30,000 to a total loss in weeks.<br /><br />“There was a lot of money going around, it was early capitalism, and then this crazy spinning out of control took place. Many people were burned and fell out,” says Van Eeden. “But people love that story.”<br /><br />Research on documented economic devastation launched by the tulip market crash shows considerable exaggeration to the story. Tulip obsession since the crash, however, has anything but vanished. <br /><br />In 2007, The Netherlands exported 4 billion flower bulbs worldwide. Keukenhof’s eight-week window of floral spectacle estimates a reel-in of 800,000 visitors, more than half from abroad. The 15 floating stands at Amsterdam’s Bloemenmarkt offer “groene vinger” customers buckets of flower bulbs regardless of the flower season.<br /><br />“Buying tulip bulbs right now is impossible, yet there are thousands at markets. Sellers will tell you at the flower market to wait until the fall, but it will never bloom,” says Van Eeden. “The Dutch market is a bit messy. Anyone can go to a grower, get some bulbs and sell them in the street.”<br /><br />Hybridization in the past centuries has led to over 5,000 garden varieties, and about 50 new types are expected this year. One of this year’s attractions at Keukenhof is a section of tulips named after celebrities from Hillary Clinton to Sponge Bob.<br /><br />“We have people who work here all year, preparing, planting, making the grass trimmed like a golf course, making everything look perfect for those eight weeks we are open,” says a Keukenhof employee. “Everything is planned, but we can’t predict Mother Nature.” <br /><br />A desperate tourist will shuffle around Amsterdam’s Tulip Museum, exiting with lost hopes of tulip purchasing and settling for painted wooden replicas. The tourist will breeze in and out of the world’s largest tulip field, marveling enough to deem Keukenhof the most photographed place on earth. As a frantic attempt to reward their home garden with Dutch novelty, the confused tourist will reconsider a handful of out-of-season tulip bulbs at the bloementmarkt. <br /><br />"We travel a lot to all the famous tulip parks all over the world, and we are very open because we do not have any competition. The biggest risk for Keukenhof is if there are no tourists traveling, but people are still traveling,” says De Vries.<br /><br />It is argued that the documented “human insanity” of tulips died with Tulipmania. Perhaps the overwhelming social fandom for flowers followed suit with its cherished Broken tulips, and has simply just altered its form.Audrey Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15519248765101524805noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28560147.post-87180467590648870942009-03-28T13:28:00.003+01:002009-03-28T13:46:49.278+01:00Audrey makes a videocheck out spinearth.tv for other clips of mine<br /><br /><object data="http://api.kyte.com/flash.swf?v=2&uri=channels/182433/375957&appKey=MarbachViewerEmbedded" style="margin: 0pt; display: block;" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" id="KyteApplication_1" height="274" width="425"><param value="p=181&disableShowNavigation=true&preShowAction=autoplay&appKey=MarbachViewerEmbedded&uri=channels/182433/375957&domId=KyteApplication_1&" name="flashVars"><param value="always" name="allowScriptAccess"><param value="true" name="allowFullScreen"></object><a href="http://spinearth.tv/report/introducing-the-flemish-black-box-revelation">See full report...</a>Audrey Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15519248765101524805noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28560147.post-9727400471135521702008-12-20T23:07:00.000+01:002008-12-20T23:14:52.580+01:00The Perfect Women's Comp<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgFNGpWBnRCodchqw_6s6Sybmox-ThJCbCNfAW-ywq37Q9nId1H8qJILMCJ8sXltD2rPsyAune0k6Q0v-hHFQub9G6r8iodrXvPggeL87s8LKHrEY4M-vGKxqzapWWIHPKPSdGRg/s1600-h/kaprunwail.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 206px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgFNGpWBnRCodchqw_6s6Sybmox-ThJCbCNfAW-ywq37Q9nId1H8qJILMCJ8sXltD2rPsyAune0k6Q0v-hHFQub9G6r8iodrXvPggeL87s8LKHrEY4M-vGKxqzapWWIHPKPSdGRg/s320/kaprunwail.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281998001512268450" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Advancements in women's snowboarding have done well, but some companies still suffer from Barbie syndrome: Just like Barbie, ladies prefer draping themselves in fluffy material and prancing in the snow like babies. </span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />Don’t make me puke. </span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />Marketing women’s snowboarding has gone all girly. Events are the same way: There’s still a lot of “glitter” and not enough “cool” in female competitions. Enough is enough. The female shred biz needs to adjust their rose-colored goggles and get with the now. </span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />To help put event directors on the right path, I have a vision: The Perfect Women’s Comp. It’s more than just bluebird days and perfect snow; the perfect women’s comp can be achieved if five easy steps are followed. When done correctly, it’s an event guaranteed to go down in history as the best thing to happen on planet Earth. </span> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" ><br /><br />1. Kill the lollipops</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br />Let's face it, take away sponsor names and women comps sound like a bowl of cheap candy: Gummies and Rainbow Rail jams, Strawberry Lollipop freestyles, Bunnies and Chickies halfpipes.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />Lame. Freestyle comps ain't no tea party with dresses, so feed sweets to the birds and rough up the names. The perfect women's comp would have a title with enough attitude and ferociousness to attract and stand out as the most ass-kicking event of the season. Titles can still hint at an all-female event, just add more fire. My top three picks would be:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">A) Good Girls Go To Heaven, Bad Girls Go To Pipe Comps</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br />B) Bitches Ride Harder Rail Jam</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br />C) Leather and Whips Freestyle Contest</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />See what I did? I just turned Brittany Spears into Joan Jett with a mere title change. It's cooler to be a badass babe than a princess pussy. No more Girly names and Chicken logos when dealing with pro events for pro riders, let's get hardcore.</span> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" ><br /><br />2. Charge a pink tax</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">It's funny how the stereotype of girls liking pink has gone out of control in an industry that claims to support an alternative lifestyle. Sponsors with pink banners or pink products to symbolize being for women are so insanely incompetent and clueless they need to pay for being idiots. Literally.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />If you're a girl and you like pink that's great, but don't be a sucker and fall for the color companies love to slap on labels “For Girls”. That's why the perfect women's comp would charge a tax on pink. Not the singer, the color. </span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />“Brand A has a new Pink Stiletto binding to display? Ouch, that will be 1,000 euro please. Ridiculous price? Well so are pink bindings called Stiletto.”</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />“Wait, Sponsor B has a purple tent with lots of feather boas and sequined snowflakes? You're right, it's not pink, it's worse than pink. You've missed the point, and you're not even coming in with that.”</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />You get the idea. Snowboard life prides itself on edgy design and style, and we're not girls with pony pillows and pink parasols. We're extreme and inventive. There is a big, decorative color wheel out there, and the perfect women's comp should embrace it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >3. Men are the sex symbols</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br />The Winter X Games is a giant, crazy drunkfest with pro hos running wild every day. Wet t-shirt contests means girls who are wasted off strawberry vodka end up getting topless for the crowd. Which is cliché crap, because the perfect women's comp would have wet t-shirt contests with lots of wasted topless MEN instead. </span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />Ah yes, topless men not just on the stage, but everywhere. They are the sex symbols and pro hos at this event: Shirtless servers, bartenders, pipe and park groomers. They've spent all season bronzing their skin and tightening their six-packs, just for this women's comp. Flaunt it boys, flaunt it. </span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />At the perfect women's comp, pro ho men are the ones who walk around in fur coats and moon boots, feeding us ladies free shots and flirting with pro female riders. In the bathrooms, men would gel each other’s hair and say, </span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />“Oh my God, I think Torah Bright is SO taking me home tonight!”</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br />“Yeah right, you'd have better luck with Cheryl Maas!”</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br />“Hey, like, do you have any gum?”<br /></span> <span style="font-family:arial;">“I know one thing, Kelly Clark is looking HOT in that red jacket!”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Oh guys, we'd say, stop being so chatty and fetch me another slice of pizza and beer. And they would.<br /><br /></span> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >4. Think “Girls just wanna have fun”</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br />That Cyndi Lauper song wasn't a hit for no reason: take an average comp and turn it into a nonstop party on and off the mountain. And I don't just mean with drink specials.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />The perfect women's comp would be a constant explosion of entertainment. Rock gigs, free stuff, live art shows: if you want to be super sweet you're going to offer as many flavors as possible.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />Keep product demos but expand the variety. All rich snowboard brands have a women's line. It's time for them support one of the fastest growing markets in the industry by showing up to events with gear that will blow our minds. Women’s helmets with MP3 players, the lightest female outerwear invented, the perfect park board for women: we know this stuff is out there, so bring it on.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />Trick tips from pro riders are great, but it doesn't have to be basic park runs on kid slopes. The perfect women’s comp would add kickers into foam pits, air-maintenance on giant trampolines and crash landings on massive air bags for practice. </span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />P.S. Yoga workshops are so three seasons ago, the perfect women's comp would replace them with breakdance sessions taught by Anne-Flore Marxer.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >5. Make it for women, by women</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br />The perfect women’s comp would be organized for women and by women: Sponsors, athletes, media workers, course designers and event workers. Getting the female shred industry involved is putting 100 percent girl power into something motivating and encouraging.<br /><br /></span> <span style="font-family:arial;">The perfect women’s comp would take place somewhere accessible to the masses. No more mid-mountain location in the middle of nowhere. The course would be innovative and pushing women’s pro riding to its limits. Women announcers would pump audience’s ears with trick talk and smooth charm.<br /><br /></span> <span style="font-family:arial;">Now is the time for businesses to strut their stuff when it comes to women's progression. If we really want women's riding to be taken seriously, we need the support and creativity to make it happen. Women's snowboarding is to bring symbolism to the rebel females who zip around mountains instead of shop at malls on the weekend. It’s about creating a community of female athletes who inspire one another to be stoked on snowboarding. It’s simple, let’s do it.</span> </span>Audrey Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15519248765101524805noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28560147.post-77167626506675872922007-09-26T16:56:00.001+02:002009-10-04T17:48:26.712+02:00Counter culture<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwaSik8eUi1NCQyLYGegaulVL3c5yoEDT1N0ZBiGPTMJvE0VBPZysbucNXmpPWGVKB3b_QXgRvZQdOSBkHeIbhfzjtBVueiFulkSgvGsCLpoJZ7k9IMDo9Mx30AjeBjH8XkY-0rg/s1600-h/Free.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwaSik8eUi1NCQyLYGegaulVL3c5yoEDT1N0ZBiGPTMJvE0VBPZysbucNXmpPWGVKB3b_QXgRvZQdOSBkHeIbhfzjtBVueiFulkSgvGsCLpoJZ7k9IMDo9Mx30AjeBjH8XkY-0rg/s320/Free.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114527902450714226" border="0" /></a><br /><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">From saunas to Jacuzzis</span>, reindeer steaks to BBQ spare ribs, Schnapps to Budweiser: As an American rider on hiatus in Europe for over two years now I can confidently pin point what makes snowboard culture European, and what makes it American.<br /><br />It's more than just outerwear, food and slope design. It's a combination of things, the core of a culture dripping in self confidence, individualism and national identity. To better catch my drift, here are the top five differences when it comes to living the snowboard life in North America versus snowboard life in Europe.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">1. Saunas</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> In Europe: You're naked</span><br />My first Euro sauna was in Hemsedal, Norway. I had the perfect post-shred plan to pull and never thought twice about a counter culture interrupting. Cockiness took over sensibility and I proudly strutted my ass into a sauna wearing a bikini and holding a case of beer. It wasn't long before a father and his two twenty-something sons joined, who entered with nothing but a moist face towel effortlessly hanging around their waists. To me, this was shocking.<br /><br />It was a tight space to pack in this much perspiring flesh, and the father parked himself on the bench above me. I sat there with eyes shut, trying to look relaxed as I sipped beer -- knowing uncomfortably well a mere piece of cotton was all that divided a dad's sweaty, hairy sac from my face. The air got hotter, the stench of man odor snaked into my nostrils. I lasted five minutes before exploding out of there with laughter and a pure feeling of terror.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> In N. America: You're clothed and drunk </span><br />Listen up because this is from personal experience: In America, it's only natural to bust into a sauna with friends, beers and bathing suits on. Maybe even a joint or two. We know the hot air get us 100 percent loaded, that's the whole point. It's great and we love walking out delirious, super dumb and sliding on the floor in our own sweat laughing like a bunch of idiots. There are never, and I repeat never, men with sweaty balls close to your nose and loincloth wrapped around their hipless waists.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">2. Apres Ski</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> In Europe: Bavarian folk and Bon Jovi</span><br />Oh Jon Bon Jovi, why didn't your fandom die with the 90s era of neon and Milli Vanilli? While North America pressed on from the world of flannel-shirt rock Bon Jovi skipped the pond and nested himself and his Billboard classics into the bars of every ski town in Europe. And if it’s not Livin On A Prayer it’s Top Bavarian Folk Hits To Slap Your Thigh And Swing Your Beer Mug To. And come on, we all are secretly in love with this stuff. We try to hide it by doing a mocking jig in our saggy shred pants, but really we want to grab a partner and boppingly waltz on tables.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> In N. America: Reggae and 80s Hair Bands</span><br />It should come as no surprise. North American riders are obsessively trying to be irie because we can be so damn uptight. Ski areas blast reggae from dawn to dusk, and after that it’s Drunk Music Time. And what’s the best drunk music for a ski town filled of men snowboarders in their 20s and 30s? For us, it’s Guns N Roses, AC/DC and Aerosmith, with occasional Johnny Cash guitar to lick out a better “small town” vibration. We are usually too cool to dance and think it’s way better to air guitar, chest slam and break glass.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">3. Fashion Faux Pas</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> In Europe: Euro gaps and spandex </span><br />Rule: Spandex is a privilege not a right. This statement applies to every turf fate plants your two feet on, but apparently some people simply don’t get it. We riders are smart enough to let this condition of “rule rebellion” alone, though we still are the ones who suffer the consequences of their ignorance on the slopes. It’s not fair, I know, and we growl, sneer and roll eyes but things just don’t get better. But have pity on the ones with a severe case of Euro Gap, they don’t know any better. And one day they’ll be sorry.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> In N. America: Cowboy hats, Starter jackets and jeans</span><br />This is quite possibly the most embarrassing sight on a North American ski slope. Think U.S. riders are loud and obnoxious? You ain’t seen nothing until you’ve heard a man in a football jacket, cowboys jeans and a cattle hat from Kansas chat you up on a chair lift as he fumbles with ski poles. Tuning out his blubbering won’t work because he’ll poke you on the shoulder until you unplug and point your finger at some random mark on the ski map which helplessly flaps around his face. It’s ok though, because at the end of the day he’ll be the one with a wet ass mark the size of his lost ranching hat.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">4. Waiting For The Lift</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> In Europe: Confusion</span><br />As my English mate Bex would say, “There are two methods of getting on a lift. Push and Kill or Elbows Out.” The struggle to get on a lift in Europe is like being in a white trash heavy metal mosh pit – chaotic and violent – when it really shouldn’t be. It’s an endless cycle of impatient cut offs, avenged shoving and short, fearful breaths as thrusting neighbors play bumper cars with your gear. Pretty soon hairs rise and blood boils until eventually Hulk Hogan syndrome kicks in and you fist your way to the front. Don’t even think about trying to get on the same lift as your friend, it’s every man for himself at this social gathering.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> In N. America: Rows</span><br />It’s a simple solution to the above-mentioned emotional carnage, if you’re willing to wait about an hour for your turn. In North America we have a maze of lines to linger in for busy lifts, and there are people whose job is to bark out “FIRST ROW” when it’s time to move forwards. It’s a level playing field of slow-motion edging, and it gives you time to scope the base for hotties. Still it takes longer than the Euro way, and some ski areas have maps with blinking lights next to the lifts where lines exceed a one-hour wait. That’s what we get for not building amazing underground trains, like Switzerland.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">5. The Drugs</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> In Europe: Smoking spliffs on lifts </span><br />When I first saw someone rolling a joint with tobacco I thought I was getting ripped off. It wasn’t until after living in Amsterdam for eight months when I realized spliffs were the norm in Europe. “Why would you smoke only weed? You’d get too high, it would be impossible to function,” a wise friend on a chair lift once said. Made sense to me, and I nodded in approval as we sat there hot boxing on a lift under a plastic snow shield. It’s a great method for a good time, except that it makes me a smoker and I suck at rolling joints.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> In N. America: Packing pipes in slope shacks</span><br />Everyone knows about the grass-smoking laws canning people for life in North America, but that’s the South and snowboard life thrives Westward. Mountain towns love the pure, sticky bud, and since riding with a bong in your hand is tricky we opt for glass pipes. I’m talking handmade, swirling eye candy glass, not crack pipes five euros a pop in souvenir shops. And since we’re always paranoid of getting busted we sneak into tiny huts hidden amongst the trees in ski areas like Breckenridge. If someone knows of a shack like this in Europe please enlighten me, my email is Audrey@method.tv.<br /><br />Audrey, Elbows Out</span>Audrey Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15519248765101524805noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28560147.post-38192246069128309562007-08-29T18:23:00.000+02:002007-08-29T18:24:27.077+02:00My latest Craigslist postHi, this is an odd request to post, but that's what Craigslist is for I suppose.<br /><br />I'm looking for a car to cruise around Boulder, Denver and Fort Collins from October 10 to October 30. I'm 24, female, grad student with a Colorado license, a clean driving record and have NEVER been in a car accident. Not even a little one. =)<br /><br />I've been living in Europe the past two years and before I was in Ft. Collins at CSU. I had a Honda Accord for a few years but I sold it when I went to Europe. Before that I had a great '95 Jeep Wrangler that I still miss but could never afford.<br /><br />I will be in Colorado in October just to visit friends in Denver, Boulder and Ft. Collins. I thought I could get around via bus, but it's not looking good or convenient for going from one place to another.<br /><br />I thought this site holds a better chance than getting ripped off by franchise rental companies, so I'm giving it a shot. I can offer $200 for 20 days plus a full tank when I return it.<br /><br />If this sounds interesting to anyone, or you're just amused and sympathetic to a college grad's needs, please get a hold of me.<br /><br />Cheers.Audrey Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15519248765101524805noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28560147.post-32551532708499878462007-06-26T17:07:00.000+02:002007-06-27T00:19:49.992+02:00Letter to my friend Schuy<span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">I feel like writing. The thing is, I have a hard time bringing myself to actually perform the act. I type a lot faster than I write, and I can never keep up with my thoughts when I write. So I'll start writing, and then lose my train of thought. By the end nothing ever makes sense. So I type on my computer. It's sad in a way, I'd much rather bring that dreamy image to life -- that image of sitting down and furiously noting thoughts like the classic writers of the past. But as a pebble of a generation bound by new media and technology, well, typing is just better. In fact, I'm closer and closer to purchasing a typewriter I've seen at this antique store. It would be great, but the sound would annoy my flatmates I'm sure. So out of personal conveience and out of respect to my neighbors, I'm typing on a laptop. Or is it labtop, I've never known, maybe you can clear that up for me.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">So I'm going to write to you, because I've been thinking of you tonight and I prefer writing in the form of emails. I'm not going to re-read this, so excuse me for typos. I always have typos and my mom always gives me crap for it. "Hi mom, did you read my last email? What did you think?" "Oh yes it was fine, but you obviously didn't spellcheck, Audrey. As a journalist I expect you to at least not have any typos." Oh mom, the one person I unmodestly ask for praise from delivers nothing but cirticism. I should be thankful.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Anyway, I have a lot of things on my mind, so this email will be a ramble that I can only hope you'll read at least the beginning of. It's 2.30am and I'm awake. This is unexpected because I'm usually sleeping in a monkey bed by one. That's right, a monkey bed, or a bed on stilts that I climb a ladder to get to. It would be nicer if it was a rope ladder leading to a hammock where I swing myself to sleep. But since I live in an Austrian village in the Alps, it's just not as practical.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I drank coffee tonight and that's why I'm awake. Not the greatest idea, but sometimes you just need a good cup of coffee.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I should stay up this late more often, it's the only time where there's actualy peace. My windows are open and the only sound I heard is rain falling on the streets and rooftops. It rains here almost every day, in the afternoon or evening. I love the sound of rain, but most of the time I can't hear it because of the explosive noise pollution that bounces through my room (see mass email).</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I wanted to tell you that I thought about Paris on the Platte. Do you know this cafe? You must, and I've probably asked you before. I loved that cafe, near the Denver skatepark. It was a secret spot for Sarah and I when we were teenagers. After driving from Boulder to Denver to see a show, we would always end up there. We'd never tell anyone, and those who did join us, well, they were damn lucky. In our minds they had somehow earned the privilege to join us, but I can't remember the criteria the guest actually had to meet. I don't even remember how we found out about it. In all honestly, it was probably from some guy Sarah met off America Online. Sarah met lots of guys from America Online, and I always tagged along. Looking back on it, we met a lot of really cool people that way. One time we got lost and ended up at Rocky Flats because of some guy we were supposed to meet, but that's another story.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I used to work at Whole Foods in Boulder at the Jamba Juice section when I was 16. Sarah was a cashier. Once I went on a date with a guy who worked there. It was late and he didn't know where to get coffee, so I thought of taking him to Paris on the Platte. My date was a preppy guy from Nederland who, in the end, was definitely not impressed with Paris on the Platte or my "elite" knowledge of it. The mix of punks, snobby anarchists, indie kids and old weird people was not his scene. I was completely turned down at the end of the date, he high-fived me as he said goodbye. Ouch.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Being a Jamba Juice employee at a Whole Foods store in Boulder rocks, and I'm sure you can imagine the sort of people who work there. This was during the time of the Kava Kolada, a smoothie packed with pineapple, coconut, mango, and all the kava mix one could handle. Ever try one? Employees were allowed one smoothie per shift, and I chose this one most of the time. Kava is a strong herbal relaxer, and dumping a shitload of it into a smoothie filled with fruits that hide the taste is a receipe for a smooth shift. Maybe a little too smooth at times, and eventually the company took the drink and its kava off the menu because the effects were so strong.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I never was fired from Jamba Juice, but I was asked to leave on my last day because I showed up six minutes late. The majority who work at Whole Foods are the stereotypical laid back hippies, but there are always a few bad apples -- high-strung upper managers that have ten-foot poles up their asses. One of my bosses was like this, and he kicked me out as I was walking in. I never knew how much I really enjoyed there until he turned me away, I was sad to leave friends and such a cheerful environment. The people that work in those natural food stores are genuinely happy, they show it, and it's from good vibes but also good benefits and good pay.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Where was I going with this? Oh right, the next job. It was at another smoothie place in Boulder, right off of 28th and Valmont. I forget the name, and I began working there as the place was going under new ownership. Every single employee there was a high school friend of mine, so I loooooved work. Plus the new boss liked me and handed me a key before I should have had one. He and his family went on vacation once, and I decided to have a party there. Although my co-workers/awesome friends said it was a bad idea, which it was, there was no way I could back out on it. I had a reputation to feed, so the party pressed on. I spent hundreds on liquor and nothing on mixers because the smoothie shop provided it all, and walk-in fridges and freezers of extras if I needed it. I even got a few friends to run the bar after I slapped a giant tip jar next to them in place of a cash register.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">It felt like my own bar I had created just for friends to party at. I covered the giant glass windows in the front with big pieces of black poster paper, and it worked perfectly. There was a loud redneck bar a few places down, so the noise blended in with the next door barfights. And the barfights were an excellent distraction when it came to cop concerns. With a surround sound system and more than enough space in the front and back, it was a rager. I caught Sam Ashabi trying to steal a blue door through the front entrance, but that was it for damage. Visual damage. I cleaned until it opened the next morning. It was spotless when I left. A few weeks later I graduated from high school and quit. The smoothie place ditched the fruit drinks and soon morphed into Glacier Homemade Ice Cream The owner, I think his name is Mark, now makes a LOT of money from it. There are a few shops in Boulder still. The ice cream rocks.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Last week two friends of mine from Boulder came to visit, Lane Harlow and Chris Kerrigan. One time I was at DIA picking up a friend when I see Chris and his army of CSU volleyball players strut out the main terminal area. What a coincidence, I thought, so we both were shocked to see each other and asked what each other were doing there. He was coming back from some volleyball match. I didn't have time to explain myself because he began to launch into his latest experience on the plane.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"Hey, remember that smoothie place you and your hot friends used to work at, and you all threw that ridiculous party once?" Chris is always interested in my girlfriends and always says how hot they are. I said yes I remember, and for the record I threw that party on my own.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"Well I just sat next to the owner, his wife and two kids on the whole plane ride. I asked if he rembered you, and he said 'Oh the one who ruined my business and sent me to bankruptcy?' I said probably."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">In the end of it all, Mark had found out about the party. It was obvious from the drastic and dramatic gaps and falls he saw in the shops inventory and financial patterns. The party had left him with nothing, he really had no other choice but to start from scratch and start making ice cream in order to save the business, keep the family running, and keep (just like my teen-party reputation) his owner-dignity intact. It worked out for the best, he admitted to Chris, because there's much more profit and lucrative possibilities with homemade ice cream. Still, I felt guilty. And shocked, definitely shocked.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I took the escalator down to the fountain, the designated meeting point for my friend, still stunned from wha Chris had told me. And just like a movie, or a dream, I looked over to see Mark and his family take the opposite escalator up towards the exit. We stared at each other in total confusion -- he trying to piece together how his plane ride with Chris and me standing on the escalator could actually be happening to him at this moment; and me, well, the same. I'm pretty sure I smiled at him and his family, and he smiled back. I said, "How are you?" He said, "Great!" I said "You talked to Chris on the airplane?" He said, "Yes, I sure did."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We smiled at each other. I didn't have time to thank him for not bringing my ass to jail, to thank him for never bringing up everything he had always known, to thank him for keeping my teen-party reputation a legend in my memories of the past. He didn't have time to say I was welcome, that all along he was the true good guy in this scenario, that secretly it all worked out for him in the end, and that he could never thank me verbally but maybe every now and then he thought about it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Moral of the story? Escalators just aren't long enough to speak of the things you never had the chance in your life to say.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Anyway, that's what I wanted to tell you tonight. It's 3.30am now, and I'm still not tired. But I'm going to climb up that ladder to my bed on stilts and try to drift off. I hope you are doing well Schuy. This is your last week of class, right? You made it through your first year of grad school, just a few more days until the real adventure starts. Goodnight and good luck. And if you read this through, thank you, and thank you for your time.</span><br /><br /></span>Audrey Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15519248765101524805noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28560147.post-28536716235474034582007-06-17T19:42:00.000+02:002007-11-09T21:47:28.846+01:00Hardly a local<span style="font-size:100%;"><a style="font-family: arial;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZZZgt8IvlGyrjb9FCszTzgy1cZjhB2ZzQHiMH6_a5JR5RhHuN91aT6b6bIZ7KrG3ZrN0NH1k7SAptH1YvhMB-3-mJ31bseDXLo23xnxcqZ81KexrJ6qdSD4x9W9JQqTL6FBKhcA/s1600-h/Picture+043.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZZZgt8IvlGyrjb9FCszTzgy1cZjhB2ZzQHiMH6_a5JR5RhHuN91aT6b6bIZ7KrG3ZrN0NH1k7SAptH1YvhMB-3-mJ31bseDXLo23xnxcqZ81KexrJ6qdSD4x9W9JQqTL6FBKhcA/s320/Picture+043.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5077090447171867730" border="0" /></a><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">After three months of settling in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Innsbruck</st1:place></st1:city> and soaking in life as a local, I still suck at German. It's not that I don't try. I do.<br />It's not that I haven't taken lessons before. I have.<br />It's not that I'm not surrounded by German-speakers. I am. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">So what is it? </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Is it my pronunciation being so horrible no one gets me? It happens.<br />Is it those five-second pauses I take before pronouncing words like einbauschrankscharnier? It happens.<br />Is it the laugh I get by Austrians each time I order a verlangerter at a cafe? They always laugh.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I don't know, but I keep trying despite the ongoing realization that I sound like a baby...gah gah.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>Anyway -- everyone I'm still in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Innsbruck</st1:place></st1:city> doing what I came here to do -- write a thesis and work at Method Magazine. I'm still bunked at Method camp, though fortunately I've relocated to my editor's room while he's AWOL on a three-month surf trip in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">France</st1:place></st1:country-region>. Life is hard as an editor.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>To be a local in <st1:city st="on">Innsbruck</st1:city> you need three things -- a nearby cafe, a nearby bar and a nice view of the <st1:place st="on">Alps</st1:place>. I've managed to integrate all three of these necessities, but it's just like Poison once told us: Every rose has its thorn.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">My nearby cafe is Dreiheiligen (Three wise men) Cafe. I first waltzed in there because I thought the whale-sized piece of gold cake teetering over the sign was a sure bet of sweet times. Short lasting, my eyes glazed with icing curdled when I saw the cafe covered like wallpaper with coo coo clocks. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">That's right, coo coo clocks. About 50 on each wall, and they worked.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I stood in the doorway thinking, 'My God, I've walked into a time bomb the size of a house because the giant gold cake told me to.' </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">On closer examination, I noticed each clock was set to a different time. Even now, I don't know what's worse. Fearful yet intrigued I sat down and ordered coffee. My eyes wandered as I slumped into the seat. I waited for the sounds to make my skin crawl like nails on a chalkboard or a knife scratching porcelain plates.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">And you know what? It wasn't that bad. Alright, sometimes the clocks with pendulums as big as my head get annoying, but for the most part it's white noise. So I've become a regular and have gotten to know the Dreiheiligen crew. The place is run by a family -- the father bakes, the mother finances, the daughter serves. The daughter rocks, even if she wears a small glitter sticker next to her eye like a fixed body part everyday. The mother is nice, though her dog is more of a menace under my feet than a soft footstool. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">The father, however, frightens me. A man his size apparently needs striped pants that end above his ankles, a white apron to cover a beastly belly, and a big baker hat to look even taller than he already is (and it skims the ceiling when he walks, I mean stomps. He stomps). If he wanted to, he could just wait behind the corner each time I enter and jump out at me with his bear-like hands while shouting "HAH!” But no, he likes to prolong the intimidation.<br /><br />He sits at the same table, the table with an excellent view of the entrance. Hunched over and smoking, he watches each customer walk in and look at the cakes displayed behind the glass counter. And oh man, you better take a long hard look at those cakes because the Frankenstein who made them is right over there. And when the slice is set before you, pause for a moment as he watches you and expects an eye opening, mouth widening expression. And if your body movement takes a break from the "cake-eating" exercise, he’ll notice and wonder why you've stopped. Was his cake not good enough, or are you just not grateful? </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">All of this makes me nervous. I keep having to remind myself that the big Austrian man that could lift cars for a living, instead, builds fancy cakes. Ok, not so tough anymore.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">He must bake after hours because I never see him working. Cake ingredients cover his apron, his hands are stained with vanilla, yet he sits at his eagle’s nest and watches cafe life filter in and out with customers. Naturally he knows them all and talks with them despite how far they (purposely?) sit away from him. Most customers are men working blue-collar jobs. Construction crews, factory workers, old men with thick-lens glasses and canes -- they all love Cake Time. I enjoy my time there because I don't have to speak German to see what's going on. Enjoyable character needs no language.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">My bar is an Irish pub called the Galway Pub. Go ahead a furrow your eyebrows at the fact it’s not Austrian, but they pour excellent Guinness and it's a very cozy place. The owner and bar manager are both Irish. I've gotten to know them pretty well after my Kiwi friend Harriet and I stayed there all night once trying to get her a job.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">"You want a job here? Then you come tomorrow at 4 o'clock and pour me the best Guinness in the world. Then you'll get a job," he told us.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">My reply, "Yeah ok. Hey, why don't you put on some good Irish music?"</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">"You want to hear good Irish music?!"</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">"Yeah, play your most favorite Irish band, ever. Impress us all."</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">He played U2.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Despite the lack of authentic fiddles it's still my Cheers bar, where they know my name, if I know so and so and how work is at the magazine.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>And finally, my view of the <st1:place st="on">Alps</st1:place> is wonderful. It’s wonderful... as long as the windows are sealed shut. <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Innsbruck</st1:place></st1:city> is a city of 100,000 and sometimes I think all the noise produced here funnels directly through my windows. Cars like to drag race down the narrow street that begins at my windows. Double-long buses turn into space shuttles blasting off outside as they make sharp turns every 20 minutes. The church across the street likes to ring its bells very, very much. And very, very often. Every Saturday at noon there is a doomsday drill that sets off a siren echoing throughout the valley. Trains run nearby, above the streets, bringing the sound of wheels on tracks a bit closer to my second-story window. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>Vespas, trucks cleaning roads at 5am, garbage trucks, drunks yelling, off-tune piano playing at 1am -- it's a symphony of city life that makes my ears bleed and my nights long. What really acts as the grand finale is the youth center a few feet next to my flat. Kids come here four nights a week to do whatever juvenile delinquents do in Innsbruck -- get drunk, get routy, flirt, scream, fight, throw things. An encore came just last week when Lane Harlow and Chris Kerrigan came to visit. Some 16-year-old was going off about his driver's license, at six in the morning.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">"I HAVE A LICENSE TO DRIVE MY MOTORCYCLE!"</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">"NO YOU DON'T!"</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">"SHUT UP, YES I DO, I'LL GO GET IT NOW!"</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">"HOW? YOU DON'T HAVE ONE!"</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">"I DO TOO!"</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">My blood boiled. I had now become completely pissed off.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">"It's six and I'm awake, can anyone else in this room hear these fucking kids screaming?"</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">The entire room answered "YES"</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I rolled out of bed and shuffled to the window. The sun was shining, birds sang, the Alps were alive with the sound of music... and that kid was ruining it all by flipping out in the middle of the road like he probably had been all night. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>Motor skills slow and sleepy, I began to lift my arm and fully extend it out the window until the end came to my pointed finger. I leaned out and aimed right at a dot of black hair that furiously paced the street. I couldn't connect the required emotion needed for a sincere and full-hearted outburst in German. So I went back to my American roots, 100 percent, and gave it my all.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">"HEY, KID!"<br /><br />Silence. The black speck of heavily-greased hair revealed a teen with a disgruntled look. There was a brief pause as we saw each other's angry faces. </span><!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I fixed my stare, burned it into his eyes and belted out with a long American draw the heartiest word I thought to be most universal... and most fitting.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">"SHUT UP!" </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>He walked away. I went to bed… and awoke an hour later to the lovely sound of 16th century Austrian church bells calling the elders to service... for fifteen minutes straight.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>Love to all, someone send me some good hot sauce,</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>Audrey "Yodeling out to you" Sykes<br /></span></p>Audrey Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15519248765101524805noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28560147.post-48643962791447683972007-03-21T00:21:00.000+01:002007-04-21T15:14:56.486+02:00Method Mag Camp<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimUgUyAQt1wF4vgqHVkX6dUPTePGiEtcrGGPLvJcjYutlV7MF8-eR0m1Ihyphenhyphen8H3kPbRFPG9SwAdcVmI8UUp_fOrpMEO-1C9e8LDgd2BIaeg9T5G6tFyJq0VhC8-sc9txi8XkgTcew/s1600-h/Picture+105.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimUgUyAQt1wF4vgqHVkX6dUPTePGiEtcrGGPLvJcjYutlV7MF8-eR0m1Ihyphenhyphen8H3kPbRFPG9SwAdcVmI8UUp_fOrpMEO-1C9e8LDgd2BIaeg9T5G6tFyJq0VhC8-sc9txi8XkgTcew/s320/Picture+105.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5044151738913648274" border="0" /></a><br />Last time I wrote I was living in Hamburg, describing one of three unique features the city embraces -- the fish market.<br /><br />I told you my next email would move on to the second attribute, which I'll keep my promise to. It might be more difficult now, though, since I just moved to Innsbruck, Austria. With that in mind, I'll explain the current situation, and finish Hamburg's Top 3 Bests next time. Maybe.<br /><br />I'm staring at around 30 pairs of skate shoes in the hall. Right now, the second most breath-taking snowfall I've seen in my life is outside (somewhere in Norway is the first). My Dutch roommate Patrick is curled up in a small chair, concentrating very hard on The History Of Boardsports. It's a funny sight, Dutch people are the largest bone-structured white people in the world.<br /><br />An Italian flatmate keep shuffling back and forth in the hallway, passing our opened door each time and quickly turning his neck to catch a glimpse of us. We must seem boring -- well like I said Patrick might look amusing -- but I'm cross-legged and hunched over on my bed writing this email. Still, Italian flat mate Maurino is compelled to look over and smirk.<br /><br />Maurino:<br /><br />When Maurino smirks, he looks like a full-on Italian, and right now super blazed on ganja. Still, the slight peek of his teeth project classic character stains only a 30-someting snowboarder from Turin can display. I haven't talked to him much yet; he's been away filming snowboard comps across the European continent and just returned yesterday. This morning, around 9a.m., Harriet and I were brushing teeth in our cramped bathroom that somehow fits a sink, bathtub, two people and a washer. Maurino, over six-feet tall, was able to stick his upper-half in the room and sway his arms around the floor as he tried to work the washer.<br /><br />The washer. Not only is the door stuck and motor shot, but the cycle is locked on soak -- if one were to open the door I'm pretty sure water would rush out like a flash food. Maurino puts this together in his head as I brush, and pretty soon he's crouched on the bathtub wall yelling to the thing, "What the fuuuuuck! I need to wash things. Man, come on man." I can't turn around to look at the washer, I can just quarter turn and sit myself next to Maurino. Colgate foam in my mouth, I try to console the bare-backed Maurino as he cries, "I really have nothing clean to wear." In reality, I was really just trying to place my footing in the spaces to get out the bathroom.<br /><br />I left for work this morning and Maurino was sitting at his desk, still shirtless.<br /><br />Tonight, I always look up as he shuffles by. It's not because of Maurino per se, but because of what he's wearing -- the loudest, brightest, shocking yellow hoodie I've seen. From the corner of my eye, it looks like a giant yellow chick-a-dee is pacing through my flat.<br /><br />Ludi:<br /><br />When I arrived two weeks go, Ludi had no idea I was coming. It's problematic -- she's the one who more or less runs this flat. I stood in front of iron gates, nervously asking into a crackling speaker box, "Hi, um, I think I'm supposed to live here?" We met face-to-face in the doorway, both surprised to see each other. Her eyes gives me the once-over.<br />"Who sent you here?"<br />"...Ja..son?"<br /><br />Ludi nods, points to a door and disappears into the largest area in the flat, her room. I soon find myself standing in a room with three beds, a surfboard, a dresser painted in Rasta colors, the skeleton of a Vespa and two human-size duffel bags I've lugged from Hamburg. Soon after I walked into Ludi's room; I thought it was the living room. By the time I realize what was up, two massive rats with thick pink tails scattered across my feet. I stumbled back and gasped in shock.<br /><br />These rats scooting around the room were Ludi's pets, Siegfried and Roy. In fact, Siegfried loves daily outings and bike rides. "I'll keep him against my chest and he'll stick his head out because he loves the wind against his face," she once told me. "Wait, against your chest?" I asked.<br /><br />Ludi studies a sort of bio-chemistry I'll never understand. Paper scraps and backs of envelopes cover the kitchen table -- all covered in doodles of figures impossible to wrap my head around. She's tough, a worldly women with a perfect image of mountain-living Austrians. Minus the yodeling.<br /><br />Patrick:<br /><br />Patrick is my roommate. Yes, I share a room with a 24-year-old dude from Utrecht. He reminds me of a flatemate I use to have in Denmark named Potter. For example, he says things matter-of-factly. Like matter-of-fact, he has a girlfriend that was a little nervous about us sharing a room. Matter-of-fact, being able to say "Dui" and "Ein bierje" does not mean I know Dutch. Matter-of-fact, he was very sorry today that his dirty clothes stunk up our room.<br /><br />Like Pottter, he also stutters a bit on his English. Patrick doesn't say much, and often looks up as he talks.<br /><br />Patrick and I blend into one giant student who works and writes their thesis on the same company. We rise and sleep at similar times. So far, it's nice to have a pal in the same boat, even in a literal sense.<br /><br />In respect to his girlfriend, I look away when he strips down to his boxer briefs before bed.<br /><br />Also in this mix of tenants is Jason, my editor and an Englishman who has been on hiatus ever since I got here. He's in Europe somewhere, asking me how the bunnies are and others about mailing his monkey suit to him. Bunnies, we have two rabbits that live on the balcony. They go by many titles; each person who lives here has their own name for the furry duo. I've decided to call the one with mane-like front hair Keith -- he looks like Keith Richards when the wind wisps his hair a certain direction. The other, well I want to call him Coon because he looks like a raccoon, but I think I'll stick to the nonracist connotation of Rocky.<br /><br />And there you have it. This is mag camp -- Maurino, Ludi, Patrick, Jason, Siegfried, Roy, Keith, Rocky and I. For at least six months I'm based here, writing my thesis and working for the largest pan-European snowboard print and online publication, Method Magazine.<br /><br />Location: Innsbruck, Austria, a city surrounded by over a dozen ski areas, a mecca for winter sports, hasn't received one snowfall since December. It's almost April, and a storm expected to drop up to four feet on the slopes is underway. It's the warmest and driest winter the Alps have witnessed for over 1200 years -- and this weekend I'll be shredding pow lines deeper than, the size of me.<br /><br />Much love,<br />Audrey "Lights out at 9!" SykesAudrey Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15519248765101524805noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28560147.post-1169596535437074352007-01-24T00:50:00.000+01:002007-01-24T01:21:22.033+01:00The Fischmarkt Loons<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/4091/3027/1600/543490/Hamburg2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/4091/3027/320/331741/Hamburg2.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />Well hey!<br /><br />When I heard someone tell me, "I thought you dropped off the face of the earth" and "Are you still alive?", I knew it was time for a new post.<br /><br />The past few months I've been living in Hamburg, the second largest city in Germany (population in the greater area around 1.7 million) and located in the northwest part of the country (a four hour train ride east from Amsterdam). There are three points to make about Hamburg. I'll tell you the first one today.<br /><br />First off, Hamburg has the second largest port in Europe and is home to about 40,000 university students. Now, the two facts might not seem relevant to each other, but then there's the fischmarkt. The fischmarkt is German for Fish Market, held on every Sunday morning from 5:30a.m. to 10:30a.m and is one of the main tourist attractions of the city. The German's say it's popular because it shows the true essence of the city -- a bustling modern Europe with a taste of the historic past and hectic present. I say it's popular because you see people act like true lunatics -- together, in a historic German way.<br /><br />I say lunatics in general but there really are three distinct types of loons. The first kind I'll call the Classic Lunatic. These guys are sober, I think, and claim their insanity the classic way -- by shouting out nonsense to passersby and throwing things in their face, like fish. Yes, these crazy fish men point their sausage fingers in the air, brush their big bellies against cutting boards dripping with fish blood, wrap slabs of every sea creature imaginable in waxed newspaper and literally toss them into the hands of an onlooker.<br /><br />The toss can be a graceful swing or harpoon torpedo, depending on how much fish he has to sell. And his face turns red, and his forehead furrows, and he SHOUTS SOMETHING IN GERMAN!, and you have no clue what he said but for some reason there is a kilo of squid that just slammed your chest and now the man wants your money.<br /><br />There are dozens of them, their carts lined up and forming tiny allies on the harbor, each competing to see whose voice carries the furthest. If I stand back and watch them they remind me of those animals in small cages that can only pace back and forth, lashing out to those who watch them. Further down the market the men change their aquatic weapons to fruits and vegetables, not as smelly but there's definitely more weight in a giant, thorny pineapple.<br /><br />So you've got the Classics that echo nutty phrases across the market. In reality, their turrets-like blurts are quite entertaining. "If someone doesn't take this fish I'll SLAP YOU!" "Someone gets this mackerel for five euro because IT'S UGLY! HIDEOUS!" "Three cauliflower for two euro OR ELSE!" Or else what? No one asks.<br /><br />Then there are the Modern Lunatics, and by that I mean Drunk Sailors. When sailors get in the harbor after being away at sea for ages, they want the two things they've always wanted for centuries -- liquor and whores. Luckily for them, the Reeperbahn is a ten-minute walk from the harbor and meets both demands.<br /><br />Reeperbahn means Rope Way because it used to be a street run by sailors who, sold, sailing stuff. I guess that included prostitutes. Nowadays it's the central area for Hamburg nightlife, well-equipped with bars, clubs, concert venues and beer halls. Strip clubs, sex cinemas and sex shops are squeezed in between, but the prostitutes are scattered on the streets.<br /><br />These aren't your ordinary prostitutes. They have missing eyes, legs and heads. No, just kidding. I mean it in a sense where they don't dress scandalous. In fact, there's a dress code each one has to abide by. In the winter weather, it's a puffy pearl pink or powdered blue parka, paint-on jeans, fanny packs (yes, those fanny packs) and platform sneakers by Sketchers.<br /><br />Unlike Amsterdam, the girls aren't behind windows, they're on the streets. Which means groups of them attack men at once, like a full out feeding frenzy of hyenas clawing at their prey. It's crazy. They come from three directions, one grabs an arm, another grabs another arm, the third struggles and settles for stroking the chest, grabbing a waist or just following closely behind. Most of them have a superpower that can tell quickly if the man speaks German or English. So they walk a few yards with the man, whisper in his ear and hold on tight until the man pries them off with his hands.<br /><br />Anyway, I don't know how much they charge but they seem to get a lot of business after 3a.m., that's when I see more ugly men with pretty girls with parkas at least. And that's usually the time the Modern Lunatics come in from the port.<br /><br />So babes and boozing starts late for the Modern Lunatics, and naturally it carries on until morning. When the fischmarkt is up and running I can spot sailors dozing off on the sides of fish carts and on the harbor streets. Others stumble around and stare with red eyes as the tourist snaps a photo of their sailor hats, sailor overalls and sailor tobacco pipes. If they're not mumbling to themselves on the fish-juiced gutters, they're in nearby morning pubs that sell pilsner and schnapps, luring all lunatics in with the sounds of German folk bands and the clanking of beer mugs. This is where the Postmodern Lunatics come in.<br /><br />The PMLs, as I'll call them, are the youth generation that just can't stop partying their big German asses off. They are college students, 30-something-year-olds with first jobs and even young travelers in search of unforgettable European moments. They started Saturday night drinking at a friend's house. They moved to a pub. They moved to a bar. They wound up on the Reeperbahn and were attacked by prostitutes until they took shelter at a club.<br /><br />Drinks are cheap, the sun never rises, and five in the morning creeps up before the dance hall can finish Billboard's Top 40. The drunken craving for food kicks in, and wait a second, the fischmarkt has a LOT of food there! Awesome. Let's go.<br /><br />Thus, PMLs are completely wasted at the fischmarkt. Wait that's an understatement. PMLs look like zombies with humpbacks and glossy eyes. They claw at things like pretty tourists and fried fish sandwiches. They try to speak but their motor abilities already struggle enough from lifting one leg at different times in an attempt to "walk". It doesn't work well. The only thing they do well is eat fried fish sandwiches and scare people. Unless they're in the morning pubs, and that's where the lunatics come together to embrace each other for being so much alike on Sunday mornings.<br /><br />I've stuck my head into these morning pubs, but when I open the doors there's a fierce wind created from the sounds and smells of inside that always blows me away. Sailors and students with arms over shoulders, swaying their beers in hand and belting off-tune sin-a-longs to music I never wish to learn. Beer, fish drippings, body odor, salt, bad breath and tobacco mix together to form a swirl of nauseating musk that can only be favored by those who emit it. Basically, it reeks. Yet in a way, it's cute to watch a sailor smooch the cheek of a lawyer in a business suit. Maybe. If you look at it outside from a window.<br /><br />And there you have it. Somewhere within it all I find myself content and pleased with what Hamburg has to offer. Soon I'll move on. But for now I'm here, trying to find my placement in a city that can't speak my language but sure as hell can entertain me.<br /><br />Much love,<br /><br />Audrey "Ich sprekken die Deutsche, baby" SykesAudrey Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15519248765101524805noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28560147.post-1164276387911594962006-11-23T11:04:00.000+01:002006-11-23T11:06:27.923+01:00I'm Brewed Best at Oktoberfest<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/4091/3027/1600/95866/Picture%20038.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/4091/3027/320/698689/Picture%20038.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal">I left for <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Munich</st1:place></st1:city> September 24th, because contrary to popular belief, Oktoberfest actually is celebrated the last two weeks of September.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The festival started hundreds of years ago, when a Bavarian king decided to throw a big party for his daughter’s wedding. It needed to be the biggest party imaginable, so the king demanded that everyone MUST party VERY HARD as part of the celebration. No wonder why this tradition has been carrying on for centuries, right?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">On weekends, fest fanatics line up at beer tent entrances around eight in the morning. When the tents finally open two hours later there is a giant free-for-all rush to the benches. People leap over chairs like show jumping horses, slide across tables like they were waxed car hoods; it's a complete head to head, neck to neck, elbow to face battle for the perfect spot. It seems ridiculous -- the bier tents can fit up to 10,000 people, and there are 11 tents.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">With this vision in mind, Verena and her friend Astrid insisted we be at the tents by 9:30 (Verena is a friend of mine from <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Austria</st1:place></st1:country-region>, more than friends since we had spent the last eight months being roommates in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Amsterdam.</st1:place></st1:city>). Even though it was Tuesday morning with dismal weather and rain, I agreed. Even though I read weekdays at Oktoberfest did NOT mean hoards of people stampeding to and through tents, I agreed. Even though everyone in my hostel room, which was about ten, thought I was nuts and typically "American" for getting up at nine to drink beer, I agreed.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">No one was there when we arrived at Oktoberfest, except for the employees. The place was peaceful, like a calm before the storm, and I was thankful for the opportunity to have this festival of chaos all to myself for a moment. Oktoberfest is an actual fair, well-equipped with rollercoaster rides, fun houses, carousels, horse rides, souvenir booths and food stands. Lots of food stands. Food stands with brats, currywursts, whole chickens, fish sandwiches, fish on massive skewers, pomme frites, schnitzel, sugared almonds and nuts, ice cream, big ginger heart-shaped cookies to wear around the neck, human-size pretzels and more.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Verena had a friend who was working one of the tents as a beer server, so we spent some time with her before getting our drink on. Inside, beer tents don't have much of a "tent" feeling. In fact, it takes about 8 weeks to set up and another 12 to tear down these mammoth constructions. There are hundreds of tables and benches lined beside each other, and a balcony in the back reserved for classy friends and families. In the middle of all the tables is a platform on stilts, a floating island that produces oompa music all evening. There are full kitchens that take up an entire side of the tent, and four different corners that pour beer in steins. The floors are wood paneling as well as the walls, the roof has giant colorful sheets that drape down from above. It's much more than a beer tent; it's an elaborate beer hall for the king's daughter's wedding. Right!? </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">As a beer server you have to be two things: a female, and a female with Wonderwoman biceps. As you probably already know, there is only one stein size to drink from and that's a liter. The women that serve try to lug up to six full liter steins in each hand (After hearing this, I told Verena's friend to flex so I could feel her guns. Impressive!). The shifts are usually 10 to 12 hours -- a nonstop, on your feet fiasco of rushing back and forth to deliver hundreds of beers to thousands of drunk Germans. Not your thing? For 3,000 euros a week, the latter is easy to overlook.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">By 11a.m., Verena, Astrid and I sat down for our first round of beers. We had a prime spot -- right below the music stand. The beer tent was still very empty, a sea of vacant beer benches just waiting to be covered in sticky booze and brats. We belted a hearty "Prost!", held our liters of beer with our right hands, looked at each other straight in the eyes and took a drink of our first of many fine Bavarian beers. The southern part of <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Germany</st1:place></st1:country-region> is known for their weissbier, or wheat beer. Yet Oktoberfest doesn't serve liters of weissbier, each brewery involved in the festival serves a special autumn dark and flavorful pilsner. There is no beer menu; it's either a liter of special beer from the brewery or special beer mixed with sparkling lemonade for the weak ones. My friends and I were not weak ones.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The rest of the trip is really blurry for me. Hah, no just kidding. The important thing when drinking beer at Oktoberfest with thousands of Germans is to pace yourself. For every liter you drink, eat a human-size pretzel or mouth-watering bratwurst. The whole time I was there, never did I see people being dragged out, passed out or flipping out at others. Everyone is friends with everyone and happy to be singing lame German oompa songs while dancing on the benches. Every night, that's how it ended -- people dancing on the benches. It was a group thing, too, usually happened around 5p.m. When one person stands, everyone in the entire beer tent will stand. When one person sings a prosting song, everyone in the entire beer tent will sing a prosting song. Those oompa players on the floating island brought the term "crowd control" to a new level.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Apparently, this festival is one of the few times where Bavarians can wear traditional clothes. By this I mean leather trousers that end at the calves and are held by suspenders for men, called leiderhozens; or dresses with lace underneath that puff out at the bottom and give women breast boosts, called dirndls. Both outfits can cost up to thousands of euros, and are worn on rare occasions only. The rest of <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Germany</st1:place></st1:country-region> considers these outfits to be ridiculous and old-fashioned. I, however, though they were great and snagged the cheapest dirndl I could find.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">In total, five of us survived three full days at Oktoberfest. At one point, my friend from <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Denmark</st1:place></st1:country-region> turned to me as said, "I may have a SLIGHT drinking problem..." I thre in a "Whatever happens in <st1:city st="on">Munich</st1:city> stays in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Munich</st1:place></st1:city>," and then mumbled something about two weeks of healthy food and no beer might be a good idea.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br />Towards the end, Rikke would tell me, "Everything stay in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Munich</st1:place></st1:city> except for last night when you turned to me in your dirty dirndl after dancing to that stupid Robbie Williams song with some old grandpa pinching your ass as you yelled 'I LOVE BEEEERRR!', right?"<br /><br />"No," I groaned as I waited endlessly for my plane back to Amsterdam, "That should probably stay in Munich, too."<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">The one truly listening was my body -- my stomach gurgled, brain sloshed and eyed bled a unison "Yes it should.....SOS.....SOS....SOS!"</p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal">Audrey "Stein Me" Sykes</p>Audrey Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15519248765101524805noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28560147.post-1161617281578440492006-10-23T17:18:00.000+02:002006-10-23T17:28:01.583+02:00Aud Left Amsterdam<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4091/3027/1600/Plantage.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4091/3027/320/Plantage.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Well guys, this is it. Time to move on. I've spent the last eight months in Amsterdam running around like an obnoxious American woman, smoking weed in all 320 coffeeshops and drinking to a point where I'm found nightly wretching on all fours in rusted gutters at the Red Light District, surrounded by drug dealers and dirty, dirty prostitutes.... </div> <div> </div> <div><br />Come on! Don't be so quick to stereotype Amsterdam as the above description. Although, you should take pity on the weekend tourists -- they usually end up as the above description. This city is the heart of Dutch culture, and I was damn lucky to see it. The overall lifestyle here: do what makes you happy, and you'll blend in well.<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>Amsterdam was my playground:<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>Remember how I was a tour guide this summer? I was, and I was flippin good at it, too. Most summer days included me guiding young backpackers around the city, an attempt to open eyes and educate others on how the city is more than just smoking pot and indulging in the eye candy of the Red Light District. It was a three hour walking tour around the central area, and I would lead groups of 20 or 30, rambling on and on about Amsterdam's history. It was a free tour, however, so I worked my ass off for good tips. That means a certain level of entertainment was in order... It was more than joke telling, a tour was a three-hour performance.<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>I jumped on and off railings, steps, houseboats, tree stumps, really anything that made me taller. I shouted at Dam Square, and whispered at the Oude Kerk. At the Tower of Tears I pretended to cry. At the Rembrandt house I played Rembrandt. My hands would flail around for the Miracle of Amsterdam. My eyes would widen and arms would stretch for the story of Anne Frank. I was on an imaginary ship when telling the history of the East Indies Company. Each day I left physically and mentally exhausted.<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>I got real into it, and the feelings rubbed off on the crowds. Sometimes tourists would buy me beers, sometimes they would hug me. Sometimes they would laugh, sometimes they wouldn't get it. Other times they would applause after random stories, other times they would holler like sports fans. There was always a wide range of emotions on their faces, something I enjoyed to watch.<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>On average, I made 80 Euros a day -- for telling people how rad Amsterdam really is.<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div> </div> <div>Amsterdam was my music mecca:<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>Off the top of my head, bands I saw while here: Atmosphere, Black Crowes, Jack Johnson, The Darkness, Death Cab, The Decemberists, Bouncing Souls, Pennywise, The Presidents of USA, The Infadels, The Kooks, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Spoon, Flaming Lips, Gabriel Rios, The Weakerthans, GunsNRoses, Planes Mistaken for Stars, Buena Vista Social Club.... Rolling Stones... El Gran Silencio...<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>These bands played at venues that were once maybe a Protestant church (the Paradiso) or a milk factory (The Melkweg) during the 1600s and 1700s. And the venues are incredible -- always more than one stage, a cafe somewhere, multiple bars around the club, and amazing acoustics, lights and architecture. Bands are always so ecstatic to be out here, they play only their good songs for the Dutch crowd -- though most are a good blend of locals and foreigners. </div> <div> </div> <div>Then there is the jazz that makes your ears bleed saxophone. Every night it echoes throughout the city from small brown cafes, large music halls and student buildings. Ex pats that once played with James Brown flutter around these bars, tooting out solos from the crowd when they have a surge of urge.<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>In Amsterdam, there are punk rock bars, heavy metal bars, blues bars, hip hop bars, reggae bars; all well-equipped with weekend nights of endless gigs. But there's even more on the outside -- amphitheaters in parks, street musicians in Dam Square, and the random households enjoying jam sessions as they sit outside on the front steps, drinking beer and slurping on fresh herring and cheese. I'm telling you, this city sings and has a soundtrack impossible to rival against.<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>Amsterdam was my middle man:<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>Upon my arrival back in February I was placed within international student housing through the University van Amsterdam. There were around ten people on each floor studying abroad from countries all over the world.<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>I shared a floor with students from Russia, Hungary, England, Austria, US... Dave, a punk ass kid from Detroit, who was perma-stoned, ended up with a prostitute in his room at his going away party because his friends wanted to "surprise" him. Luke, an Iranian jazz bassist from Brighton, England, took me off guard many times when I passed by his room as he chanted Buddhist phrases and clanked his chimes... then blasted the White Stripes.<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>The tourists I met, that's another story of it's own. Gappi, a "citizen of the world" who was really from Germany, and decided to change his pants in front of the entire tour as I was telling the story of Anne Frank. "You're a free spirit, huh Gappi?" I asked after the tour. Gappi smiled at me, began to wave his arms like a bird and "flew" away down the street, yelling "I was born free, lady!"<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>There was a senior citizen couple from Florida on my tour once. The wife was small, her skin shriveled and body hunched over. The husband, tall and his head was a glossy bald. It began raining, and the wife held a poncho, camo army pattern, pitched like a tent over her head while her husband let the rain bounce off his face. Neither of them had pleasant face expressions. They looked so ridiculous I laughed so hard I was crying, in front of the entire tour group. I would try to keep going, but every time I looked over there they were, and I busted out in giggles again which caused everyone there to laugh with me. Oops.<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>Three words that means fun: Large Spanish Groups (LSG). These people are STOAKED to be in Amsterdam, and they are even MORE stoaked to be on a free tour! Every place we'd walk to, would receive a round of applause. I would say "Ok, guys our next stop is that bridge over there" and the LSG would clap like lunatic fans."Alright, now were headed down the street, please don't take pictures of the ladies in the windows" LSG roars with laughter, applause, hoots and hollars. I felt like a street performer. In a sense, I was.<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>I led girl scout groups from Canada through the Red Light District, as well as boy scout groups from Ohio. I guided kids high as a kite, or tripping on mushrooms so hard I held their hand. I led a blind guy who had a giant bloodshot eyeball on the bottom of his walking stick that rotated as he walked. So many people with so many stories and so many different backgrounds. I can't tell it all in one email, and I can only hope I remember it all.<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div> </div> <div>Amsterdam was my muse:<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>These snippets of examples listed above will be everlasting stories. So many experiences to remember, write, share and reminisce. Enough to last my entire life. It's a satisfying feeling to have, this idea of bottomless material.<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>So I'll continue to write my experiences as long as you guys promise to remain my audience.<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>Audrey "A'dam is Awesome to the max, and beyond" Sykes</div>Audrey Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15519248765101524805noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28560147.post-1161616265915329382006-10-23T16:52:00.000+02:002007-06-26T17:18:36.290+02:00Danish Tales<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4091/3027/1600/Picture%20041.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4091/3027/320/Picture%20041.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: arial;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Odd Danish Tradition: Birthdays<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I was invited to a Danish 25th birthday last year when I lived in Aarhus, Denmark. The tradition is that if you're unmarried you get blasted with cinnamon powder all night long. So, as my friends and I approached the front door, an aroma of cinnamon stung my nostrils. Looking down I notice cement pathways showered with spice. We knock on the door and there he is, the birthday boy named Chris. It's traditional for the birthday boy to greet you at the door, look you in the eye and shake your hand regardless on how much cinnamon is caked on his skin and clothes, or how drunk he is. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Upstairs is the party, or a bunch of tanked Danes singing songs I can't understand at long tables that are covered with leftover food (we missed the dinner, which is usually really hearty sausage and potatoes). It was a great night because I learned how to open a beer bottle with another beer bottle, and believe me THAT'S impressive! Chris, the bday boy, was at war with cinnamon packets all night. He would take a shower, walk out of the bathroom and then BAM! his friends whack the poor sap with cinnamon again. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I got handed a packet as well, and my drunken friend Morton slurred, "We're going to get him outside now, again!" So we go outside and are standing around in a cinnamon cloud when I open my package and give it a whiff.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">"Um, Morten this isn't cinnamon, it’s curry powder." His face drops, almost in terror, like he had handed me a gun to blast Chris instead of cinnamon.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">"NO, you can't use curry! Oh my GOD! Who gave you that?" <o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">"You did."<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">"Well you CAN'T use it!" and he snatches it from me. (it's extreme bad luck and I would have probably gotten kicked out of the party.) I sit there baffled and Morton hands me another packet, this time cinnamon, and Chris stumbles outside with a "Please dear God make it stop" look on his face. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Unable to resist, I rip open the package and give him a high-class cinnamon dump on his head and down his back. Happy Birthday, BAM!<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p>-------------------------------------------- </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">GREAT Danish Tradition: Food <o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">When drinking beer it's all about peanuts and pretzels, but the meals here are heavy and everyone knows how to cook. Every month in my dorm (I live with 14 other Danes) there is someone who cooks for us all. This month it was Potter. I don't know his real name, we call him Potter because he looks like Harry Potter (see picture below). Potter puts on the white board: Pork Patties with a Bacon and Pork Sauce, and Potatoes. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Now I'm not the biggest meat fan, but I decide to give him a chance. All day he's in our kitchen making the sauce, cooking bacon, cooking pork patties, and it looks like a meat factory in there. Curious because I keep hearing the occasional "Shit!" being shouted, I cracked open the kitchen door: it's a sauna, the Beatles are playing and Potter is looking very serious with the pans. He’s cooking pork patties and very frustrated with the fact that his glasses keep fogging each time he checks the potatoes in the oven. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">"Uh, Potter, do you need help in here?"<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">"No, it's fine. Everything is just fine. It's fucking hot."<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">"Yeah, do you want me to keep the door open?"<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">"No! I need my privacy. I'm almost done."<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">And with that I close the door as Potter yells "Shit!" again and then something in Danish. A few hours later we eat, and the food, as grotesque as it may sound, was great. It was one of the best tasting meals I've had since I got here. That's the meal picture I have attached. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Besides Potter’s pork patties in bacon sauce, Danes love to make big breakfasts. I awoke one afternoon to two other roommates of mine, Jakob and Torsten making the most elaborate breakfast I'd ever seen (Jakob is a short stubby guy with a long blonde pony tail who wears a lot of black, plays a lot of video games and is really into medieval swords (he's got a collection in his room) and Star Wars. Torsten is a HUGE Hulk Hogan/Santa Claus of a dude with a long brown beard and long brown hair who plays a lot of video games and is really into zombies and Star Wars (his cell phone rings the Dark Side theme)). Crepes with butter, sugar or jam, bacon, sausage, toast, eggs with onion and tomatoes, potatoes, milk, apple juice and oj, three different cheeses. It was incredible. I followed the smell downstairs and saw the buffet. I asked Jakob and Torsten if this all was just for them and they said yet. Out of guilt and same for feasting in front of me, I think, they told me I could help myself. YES!<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:10;"><span style="font-family: arial;font-size:100%;" >Danish food rocks.</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">-<span style="font-family: arial;font-size:100%;" >--------------</span></span></span> <pre style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on"><span style="color:black;">Copenhagen</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="color:black;">:<o:p></o:p></span></span></pre><pre style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">With a weekend off and time to kill I decided to go to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Copenhagen</st1:place></st1:city> with a<o:p></o:p><br />group of students from my class. After lecture we headed to the train<o:p></o:p><br />station and arrived in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Copenhagen</st1:place></st1:city> that night. For those of you who don't<o:p></o:p><br />know, <st1:city st="on">Copenhagen</st1:city> is <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Denmark</st1:place></st1:country-region>'s capital, the largest city in the country on an<o:p></o:p><br />island called <st1:place st="on">Zealand</st1:place>. Yep.<o:p></o:p></span></span></pre><pre style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p>We searched for the Sleep In Green Hostel, a place known to be<o:p></o:p><br />eviro-friendly... but really offered nothing more than an expensive organic<o:p></o:p><br />breakfast consisting of bread and coffee. Still, we hadn't found the hostel<o:p></o:p><br />yet and the group of us stood there in an intersection, wondering what to do<o:p></o:p><br />next.<o:p></o:p></span></span></pre><pre style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p>"Are you looking for the hostel?" asked a guy from behind. He, his friend<o:p></o:p><br />and a dog had crept behind us and stood inches away from my face. Somewhat<o:p></o:p><br />startled but relieved I said yes and they offered to lead the way. Putting<o:p></o:p><br />all my trust in a few strange Danes was probably a bad idea, but I did it<o:p></o:p>anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></span></pre><pre style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">"So, I'm Audrey, and..."<o:p></o:p><br />"I'm Pick!" shouts one of the Danes, even though we were walking right<o:p></o:p><br />beside each other. "Or Dick, Cock, however you say penis in English," says<o:p></o:p><br />Pick. Pick dressed in black layers with holes in everything he wore. He had<o:p></o:p><br />is eyebrows pierced, his nose, septum, lip, ears, tongue; and a buzzed head<o:p></o:p><br />with long green bangs. He was my height, short that is, and never stopped<o:p></o:p><br />shouting.<o:p></o:p></span></span></pre><pre style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p>"I'm Michael, and this is Fleek," said the other Dane, pointing to his jack<o:p></o:p><br />russell terrier that ran in circles around him. Michael was taller, a softer<o:p></o:p><br />voice and wore a tie-dye vest that said in Danish "Take me, use me and abuse<o:p></o:p><br />me". Fleek, who is going on 9 in people years, never left Michael's side the<o:p></o:p><br />entire time we walked. the dog would always stay within a certain diameter<o:p></o:p><br />of Michael, walk in-between us, in front of us, behind us, but never too far<o:p></o:p><br />or on roads.<o:p> </o:p></span></span></pre><pre style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">They're both from Cristiana, a place in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Copenhagen</st1:place></st1:city> famous for many reasons.<o:p></o:p><br />It was once set up in the late 1960s as a place without rule, an actual free<o:p></o:p><br />market that developed into a village in the heart of <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Copenhagen</st1:place></st1:city> that has<o:p></o:p><br />seen itself a separate state ever since. Thirty years ago the main street<o:p></o:p><br />was filled with hippies selling marijuana, hash and hemp clothes among the<o:p></o:p><br />fruit and vegetable stands; now it's not so utopian-like though drugs are<o:p></o:p><br />readily available and taken anywhere in the village.<o:p></o:p></span></span></pre><pre style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">Legal drug use and Amsterdam-style coffee shops aren't the only reason why<o:p></o:p><br />Cristiana is popular, there is much more to it. The people that live there<o:p></o:p><br />try to preserve the hippie lifestyle to the best of their abilities: murals<o:p></o:p><br />on every building, music in every corner, organic and all natural products--<o:p></o:p><br />people visit for the atmosphere more than the weed, or at least it's about<o:p></o:p><br />equal.<o:p> </o:p></span></span></pre><pre style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">Pick and Michael are part of the Cristiana circus, Pick a flame thrower and<o:p></o:p><br />Michael the world's strongest man's assistant. On our way to check out their<o:p></o:p><br />circus that night, Michael tells me that many people live in the circus tent<o:p></o:p><br />at night and the perform during the day. Most of the kids are our age and<o:p></o:p><br />don't have much talent, so they all become clowns, which Michael admits,<o:p></o:p><br />they have too many of.<o:p> </o:p></span></span></pre><pre style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">"They even are going to have a clown party tomorrow night. It will be lots<o:p></o:p><br />of fun, a lot of people, but they will all dress up as clowns and there will<o:p></o:p><br />probably be more of them than normal-dressed people."<o:p></o:p></span></span></pre><pre style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p>Michael doesn't really live in a circus tent in Cristiana, he just pretends<o:p></o:p><br />to. He actually has a nice bed at his parents place, a cell phone in his<o:p></o:p><br />hand and an ATM card in his pocket.<o:p></o:p></span></span></pre><pre style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">Pick, on the other hand, does live in a circus tent in Cristiana, along with<o:p></o:p><br />six others we hung out with that night. When I asked him how much longer<o:p></o:p><br />will he be living in a circus tent, he replied, "It took me a long time to<o:p></o:p><br />throw fire down my chest without burning myself. Now I can put it in my<o:p></o:p><br />mouth, down my pants, anywhere I want without burning myself. Well, mostly."<o:p></o:p></span></span></pre><pre style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p>The shows are always free and open to whoever wants to come, but I told them<o:p></o:p><br />I never saw any fliers. "That's because we don't use any. Whenever we want<o:p></o:p><br />to tell people about the circus, we just go downtown to the main walking<o:p></o:p><br />area and yell 'Hey everyone! There is a circus going on tonight in<o:p></o:p><br />Cristiana! Free! Please come and watch it!" says Michael, hand cupped over<o:p></o:p><br />his lips.<o:p></o:p></span></span></pre><pre style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">"Does it work?"<o:p></o:p><br />"Yeah, actually, we have a full house every time."<o:p></o:p></span></span></pre><pre style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p>Upon our arrival in Cristiana we passed St Cristiana's church, the place<o:p></o:p><br />where Hans Christian Anderson is buried, as well as Michael's mother. Pick<o:p></o:p><br />ran ahead of us, and a few meters later he had opened the circus gate and<o:p></o:p><br />was holding it back, pressing his fingertips together like Mr. Burns.<o:p> </o:p></span></span></pre><pre style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">"Welcome to the Cristiana circus, Enter if you DARE!" he shouts, again, this<o:p></o:p><br />time louder and with an evil laugh. What a weird guy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></pre><pre style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p>But there it was, a vintage-style circus tent, even with a little flag on<o:p></o:p><br />top, stars and red ball patters painted on, old ropes and canvas that<o:p></o:p><br />flapped to the Pink Floyd beat was playing from inside. Fleek ran in,<o:p></o:p><br />followed by Michael, then the rest of us. Oh, and then Pick and his evil<o:p></o:p><br />laugh.<o:p> </o:p></span></span></pre><pre style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">Instead of elephants, cotton candy, trapeze performers and tigers sat a<o:p></o:p><br />group of kids huddled around a heater on a small stage. Bare mattresses<o:p></o:p><br />covered the stage, dirty plates, empty beer cans and ashtrays full of<o:p></o:p><br />smokes, dead joints and broken pipes. It didn't fit right at all, although<o:p></o:p><br />things just aren't supposed to fit right in Cristiana.<o:p></o:p></span></span></pre><pre style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p>We hung around, talked to the locals about their fight to keep Cristiana<o:p></o:p><br />free from outside influence, about the circus, about how to roll the perfect<o:p></o:p><br />joint, about how someone promised Flick a beer and he hasn't gotten it yet,<o:p></o:p><br />about how Fleek is real good at fetching and how Danes are the best at<o:p></o:p><br />smoking anything put in front of them.<o:p></o:p><br /><br />The next afternoon we went to Cristiana again to look around. The<o:p></o:p><br />unfortunate thing about the place is that it can be dangerous taking<o:p></o:p><br />pictures there, people will literally grab your camera and destroy it if you<o:p></o:p><br />get a shot with a drug dealer in there. So I don't have any pictures of the<o:p></o:p><br />place, Michael, Pick or Fleek. But there is a website if you're curious<o:p></o:p><br />about the place.<o:p></o:p></span></span></pre><pre style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p>We stayed there that afternoon until the sun began to set and Michael had to<o:p></o:p><br />get to his clown party. And as the church bells in Cristiana rang Love Me<o:p></o:p><br />Tender by Elvis Presley I watched the sun sink into <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Copenhagen</st1:place></st1:city> skyline, wine<o:p></o:p><br />in one hand and Fleek in the other.<o:p></o:p></span></span></pre><span style="font-family: arial;font-size:100%;" >--------------------------</span> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Danish Beer-Drinking Skills:<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">In my Xenophobes Guide to <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Denmark</st1:place></st1:country-region>, the chapter about beer starts off with "Danes are Olympic beer drinkers..." ...that's putting it lightly. Danes don't go out to buy six packs, they buy crates of 30 bottled beers -- Touborg, Carlsberg, Royal and Ceres are the popular ones. And yes, all have more alcohol content than U.S. 3.2. Usually it takes three guys to buy the beer, one to load it up on the dolly and wheel it back home, and two to keep him company and get an early start on things. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">The beer shop might only be a hundred meters away, still two breaks are ABSOLUTELY necessary on beer runs. One right after the purchase to celebrate getting there before close or something I don't understand, and another midway between the shop and home. This midway stop can be treacherous -- sometimes the three beer amigos easily entertain each other for hours, from just standing on the sidewalk, and forget about the people back home waiting for them and their dolly.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Meeting a Dane that doesn't drink beer is NOT a respectable thing, it's an insult to their culture and he or she will probably never have any friends. Go to a bar and order Jack and Coke? Not unless you want to sit alone and be singled out as the jerk with the liquor drink. Wine? Screw you, what are you trying to be, classy? Beer beer beer, and sometimes suds flow down the streets. Literally.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">The first Friday of November is Jule Day, or J Day, <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Denmark</st1:place></st1:country-region>'s official holiday for beer. It's the yearly celebration for breweries nationwide (the size of <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Illinois</st1:place></st1:state>) to release the Danish Christmas Beer. Bottled in dark glass with holiday decoration, the Christmas Beer is available to all in pubs and on the streets at exactly 8:59p.m. I don't know why.<span style=""> </span>Exactly 150 free Christmas beers are given out -- the rest of the night every town in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Denmark</st1:place></st1:country-region>, every sensible Dane, goes apeshit.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Beer trucks decked out in Christmas flare fill the streets, spewing clouds of foam in every direction. The song Here Comes Santa Clause sings from the truck speakers. Hottie boom-bottie blondies prance around in Santa Helper skirts and tops, graciously giving holiday beer to all those present and following. It's an actual beer parade. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">And you know what? You don't even have to worry about beer bottles littering the streets -- the homeless follow close behind collecting every container because it's worth 3Dkk, or fifty cents.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Now this holiday used to be the first Wednesday of every November. But due to the DRASTIC lack of student and job attendance nationwide the following day, it was decided just to move the holiday to a weekend day. That way Danes of all ages (this includes grade school) can get wasted and not have to worry about school or work, and everyone is happily hungover.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Exactly, this would never happen in the states.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">A friend of mine told me that the only way Danes maintain a steady birthrate is from drunken hookups. I thought he was liar until last week when I went to a stoplight party.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">It's a stoplight party because, sadly enough, the color you wear indicates your availability. Red means you're taken, green you're single, and yellow is you're in between (whatever the hell that means, cheaters I guess). I wore brown and blue. But the color can be a big deal, some people who wore the wrong color by accident (so they say) and got into fights with their significant other at the party.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">But my friend is right. By midnight the place was covered with wasted Danes sucking face with anyone who looked their way. It was impossible to go to the bathroom because too many couples were waiting in line to use it...together. It was impossible to sit or stand, it was impossible to look. Danes would literally make their rounds, and I found the true definition of meat market.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">"Hi how's it going"<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">"Hi, no thanks"<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">The guy turns to my friend,<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">"Hi, how's it going"<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Another sneaks up from the side, "Hi, how are you" <o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">"Ah! Where the hell did you come from?"<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">"Oh, you're American, that's hot."<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">You get the point...I got the hell out of there. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">And then there are the Friday bars. Think your university was special because there was ONE bar on campus? HAH! At <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Denmark</st1:place></st1:country-region> universities, there are bars for each department. Yep, not each college, each department. Every Friday beginning around 2p.m. the eating areas turn into cheap beer bars. Fresh off the tap in your hands for 2 bucks a cup, the college streets lead stumbling wasted students to their bus stops by six. The best one I think is the Chemistry bar because it's really great to see Danish nerds get hosed, as well as Danish professors.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Audrey Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15519248765101524805noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28560147.post-1154773324448371382006-08-05T12:21:00.000+02:002006-08-05T12:29:26.196+02:00My Inner European and Beer selfThis is just plain sad, or exciting, either way I've been in A'dam too dam long... I don't like Heinekin! I swear!<br /><br /><table align="center" border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" width="350"><tbody><tr style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><td bg="" align="center"><span style=""><b>Your Inner European is Dutch!</b></span></td></tr><tr><td bgcolor="#fffafa"><center><img src="http://images.blogthings.com/whosyourinnereuropeanquiz/dutch.jpg" height="100" width="100" /></center><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br />Open minded and tolerant.<br />You're up for just about anything.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div align="center"><br /><br /><table align="center" border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" width="350"><tbody><tr style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><td bg="" align="center"><span style=""><b>You Are Heineken</b></span></td></tr><tr><td bgcolor="#ffffff"><center><img src="http://images.blogthings.com/whatsyourbeerpersonalityquiz/heineken.jpg" height="100" width="100" /></center><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br />You appreciate a good beer, but you're not a snob about it.<br />You like your beer mild and easy to drink, so you can concentrate on being drunk.<br />Overall, you're a friendly drunk who's likely to buy a whole round for your friends... many times.<br />Sometimes you can be a bit boring when you drink. You may be prone to go on about topics no one cares about.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div align="center"><a href="http://www.blogthings.com/whatsyourbeerpersonalityquiz/"><br /></a></div><br /></div>Audrey Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15519248765101524805noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28560147.post-1154468699844657562006-08-01T23:42:00.000+02:002006-08-01T23:44:59.930+02:00Stone Fever<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4091/3027/1600/20060731_pm4.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4091/3027/320/20060731_pm4.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><div class="RTE"> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Alright guys, here is another amazing rock and roll tale about how I kind of met the Rolling Stones today. Please, take some time out of your day to read this.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">-----------------------<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Preface: About 38 years ago my mother, Judy, and her sister, my aunt Geri, were hot catholic school girls gone 70s rock. They saw all the big names -- Hendrix, The Who, Elton John, Janis, Zeppelin, Santana, Rolling Stones, etc. It was easy, they lived in <st1:place st="on">South Florida</st1:place> and I guess it was a hotspot for big rock and roll festivals. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">One time Aunt Geri was working at one of these Woodstock-ish festivals, the main band was the Rolling Stones. Her job was at the hotel where the bands stayed at -- responsible for knocking on musician doors and informing them about when they played. Charlie Watts, the drummer of The Rolling Stones, apparently had been flirting with my Aunt Geri all day. I don't know exactly what was going on, but I do know when the time came for The Stones to play, Aunt Geri was there to let them know their helicopter was ready. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">The weather was bad, rainy, stormy, muddy -- not a place for babes to walk around in according to Cahrlie Watts. Especially babes like Aunt Geri. So, figuring there was room for one more lady in the chopper, Charlie Watts from The Rolling Stones swept her off her feet, carried Aunt Geri to the helicopter, sat her down on his lap, and she rode with the entire band in a helicopter to the concert.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">(Aunt Geri never tells anyone this story because now she likes to live the humble Christian life -- I heard it from my mom. In fact, I once brought it up at Aunt Geri's daughter's wedding. Just straight up asked her, in front of her three kids, if the story was true. Basically, her kids' mouths drop and they flip out (they're all big classic rock fans, too). The 26-year-old daughter didn't even know.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">---------------------<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Yesterday afternoon I was cooking up a mean chicken curry dish. I've become obsessed with curry, guys, really I can never get enough. But that's not the point of the story. See? I'm having a hard time writing this I’m so excited still. Haha, ok...<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">So I'm in the kitchen doing my thing and Roxanne, a law student on my floor from <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">L.A.</st1:place></st1:city>, comes in. I asked her what she was up to today. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Not much, she said, not much. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Me neither, I said, me neither.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Then Roxanne mentioned that she's been throwing around the idea of going to the sold out Rolling Stones concert tonight at Amstel Arena, just to listen outside and drink some beers...<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Now I am a big time life long Rolling Stones fan. But I've never been to their shows because a) they're expensive as hell, and b) they're in giant arenas which I never like because I think it's impersonal, the sound is never great, and there’s too many people in one place. Still, my mom has always told me that I have to see them once in my life -- you know, because she's seen them, like, 30 times.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">I felt that this could be the closest I could get to a Stones concert, so I decided to join her. Scottish, a girl named Diane from <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Scotland</st1:place></st1:country-region> so I call her Scottish, came along. The concert began at 7, but my work meeting didn't get out until 8. I biked as hard as I could back home -- we grabbed beers, towels, jackets, and headed for the metro.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">I started to get super excited. Like little a girl going to see New Kids On The Block excited. But wait, I wouldn't even be able to see the Stones because scalpers would sell tickets for hundreds of euros. Right? Anyway, Scottish was also freaking out, so together we belted out songs and played air guitar as we slammed our beers and waited for the 54 metro. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Scottish and I also decided to take a time out from air guitar to say a little prayer that we could maybe, somehow, manage to get in the concert. She crossed her chest for the Big Guy and said amen; I held up my beer for the Big Guy and said amen. Roxanne hoped that the luck my Aunt Geri had was hereditary...<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">The Stones concert Scottish and I were performing carried on to the metro, where a fat old Englishman joined in from the other side of the train car.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">"Yeah! No satis-FACTion! Duh Duh, da na naaah, na na nah!" Englishman sang, fists in the air and grin on his face. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Scottish and I turned around and hollered back, "Duh Duh, da na naaah, na na nah!"<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">He took this as an invite and sat beside us. The three of us finished our Satisfaction cover and I asked the man what's up. He was going to the concert, but running late as well, because apparently his son bailed on him. He explained why this came to be, but his accent was so thick Roxanne and I couldn't understand him, only Scottish could. But I knew where this UK-chatter conversation was going: he had an extra ticket, for the ground floor.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Yep, he pulled that baby out of his wallet and I just stared at it. We all did. We all were Charlie staring at a golden ticket to Willy Wonka's chocolate factory. He wanted face value for it, a whopping 117 euros. Roxanne had no money, Scottish had around 20, I looked in my wallet and saw 70. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">"I'll give you seventy for it, that's all I have, look," I said and showed him my wallet. "Englishman, I've never seen this band. This might be my only chance. If you give this ticket to me I will be the happiest person in the world right now."<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Englishman looked in my wallet, looked at the desperation on my face and decided to do the right thing. I hugged that man like a long lost brother. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">We had one ticket, we needed two more.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">The outside of the arena was abandoned, only mounds of trash remained from the thousands of people who were now inside. The Stones hadn't come on yet, we had about five minutes. I made signs for all of us and we set out looking for potential ticket sellers. I didn't really know how to do this, and we needed things to work out fast. So with one finger raised in the air I just started yelling, "One ticket! We need one ticket!"<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">On the metro escalator a woman turns to me and says, very nonchalantly, she has an extra ticket. I asked how much, she said 12 euros.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">"..........what?"<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">"I said twelve euros."<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">"Twelve?"<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">"Yes, twelve."<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">"Twelve euros?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">“Right.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">“Twelve euros for a Rolling Stones ticket?" Her friends start laughing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">"OHHH! No, I thought you meant for the movie theater that’s nearby!"<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Wtf?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Anyway, our search moved to the outside of the arena. Soon we found one; another ground floor ticket. He was selling it for face value, we said 70. He said no. We said we got this one for 70. He thought about it, and then said ok. Two was easy, and it gave us hope for a final find.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">We had two, we needed one more.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">Then people who were stuck without tickets began to notice what was going on, and started to follow us. Seriously. Around ten of them. I told Scottish we were being followed, she said to start running. So we did. And they ran after us!.... They ran after us! </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">So here we were, Scottish, Roxanne and I, being chased by a bunch of fans who wanted our luck and we're screaming for one ticket while running with fingers in the air! The music starts, and I can faintly hear Jumping Jack Flash being played. As SOON as the music travels to our ears a man stops us in our tracks. I don't even know where he came from; he just popped out from a pillar somewhere. He had one ticket, we said 70 but he hesitated. He saw all the people following us, yet still took pity on us girls and gave us the ticket.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">VICTORY! Holy crap we were going! This was the point where Scottish and I lost it. Roxanne took the third one and had seating while the two of us ran, skipped, hooted and hollered all the way to the ground floor. I was in shock. Complete, flippin, shock. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">This arena fits just over 51,000 people. At a sold out show the crowd looked unbelievable. And there we were, in the thick of one massive room where 51,000+ people stood together with the Rolling Stones. I was in awe.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">The set list:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Jumpin' Jack Flash<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">It's Only Rock 'n' Roll<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Oh No, Not You Again<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Bitch<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Sway<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">As Tears Go By<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Streets Of Love<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Tumbling Dice<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Night Time Is The Right Time<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Slipping Away<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Before They Make Me Run<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">B Stage<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Miss You<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Rough Justice<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Get Off Of My Cloud<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Honky Tonk Women<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Sympathy For The Devil (one of my top three favorites)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Start Me Up<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Brown Sugar<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Encore:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">You Can't Always Get What You Want (another one of my top three favorites)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Satisfaction<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">They had elaborate costumes -- Mick had a crazy top hat at one point. Scottish and I drank lots of beer from the guy with a mini Heineken keg on his back. The stage could detach in the middle and move up to the thick of the ground floor with the band on it, which was amazing. The lights and effects were well-equipped with fireworks and explosions. A giant screen with close-up shots of the band was of course the backdrop. Saxophonist Bobby Keys was there jamming. I sent text messages to friends from <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">England</st1:place></st1:country-region>. I called my mom and held up the phone during Get Off Of My Cloud. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Scottish and I rocked out harder than anyone had anytime before. We jumped on each others shoulders to get brief better views. I jumped, twirled, dipped, bounced, knee bent, sang, clapped, shouted, whistled, kicked, air guitar-ed, air drummed, air everything-ed, worked a sweat, drank lots of beer, did cheers to everyone around me, did cheers to Scottish, did cheers to The Stones about twenty times... really just an all around freak out that I never knew was in me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <div style="border-style: none none solid; border-color: -moz-use-text-color -moz-use-text-color windowtext; border-width: medium medium 1pt; padding: 0in 0in 1pt;"> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; padding: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p></div> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Before I knew it the show was over. I didn't even see it coming. I was expecting another encore, I think because I didn't even notice the first one even happened. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Even when the original members put their arms around each other and bowed in unison -- I still expected more. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Even when the lights turned on and people began to walk away -- I was the one yelling, "One more song! One more song!"<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">"It's over, ok?" said people as they passed me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">"No! Come on! Stay! If we all stay together they'll have to play more!" Ok, that sounded logical to me at the time, but now I realize now I wasn't making sense.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Scottish and I left, arms around each other's shoulders, including a random couple I thought would like to join us. I don't remember why, but they stayed and hung out. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Even when Scottish and I belted out the song "Roxanne" while we were waiting for Roxanne these people hung out.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Even when we went to get more beer from a stand and I, not looking at who was around me, accidentally rammed my backpack into an old lady... almost knocking her over... they hung out. (I know I know it's really really bad to knock over old people!)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">We missed the last metro back to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Amsterdam</st1:place></st1:city> central. Actually, we got on it, then got off because someone told us it was the wrong one, when it really wasn't. Scottish and I didn't care. Our minds were still stuck in the concert. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Even when we had no idea how to get back and we were sitting under the metro confused and clueless, I couldn't stop imitating Mick Jagger's strut and dance moves.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Even when the random couple left us and we rode in a taxi from I don't even know where, I still air guitared to whatever songs I remembered them playing. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">We got back, I passed out and awoke this morning without a voice. No tour guiding for me today. Instead I went for a long bike ride and tried to work off my hangover.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">BUT IT DOESN'T STOP THERE! GET THIS:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">As I biked along the <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Amstel</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">River</st1:placetype></st1:place>, I took a different route back home and wound up at the Amstel Hotel. The Amstel Hotel is the posh place where all the celebrities like to stay at. Well, I didn't know this at the time, so when I passed by a group of people standing outside the front entrance I got curious. I asked someone what was up, and he said The Rolling Stones were coming out of the hotel at any time.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Little did I know he had been saying this since his morning arrival. It still sounded interesting, so I stick around. Hell, my mind was still intoxicated with rock from the night before, I was useless today. So I stood there with about 30 groupies, or maybe just overly-obsessed fans. Most of them were over 40 years old. Some were families, some had brought their dogs. One woman was in her 50s with old, dry hair that reached her knees. Another man had an acoustic and played the set list from last night. His voice was so horrible, it sounded like a horse was being attacked by some crazy pissed off alien. Haha, no it was really really bad though. And sometimes I would just watch him and laugh, and try to cover my ears. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Every time a taxi would roll up to the entrance, the overly-obsessed fans would panic with excitement. I had never seen people's ears perk, backs tighten and eyes widen, simultaneously, before. Many would position themselves for picture taking by holding giant cameras close to their noses with two hands. It was weird to watch. And funny. The whole emotion of fandom amazes me. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">And then it happened, again and again. I stood there for one hour and saw The Stones walk out of the hotel, wave, sign a few autographs, take a few pictures with the fans, and walk into the taxi. But not all at once, and no, not Mick Jagger or Keith Richards. First there was bassist Darryl Jones. Second was saxophonist Bobby Keys. With those two guys I sat back and watched as the fans toppled over themselves to get to the musicians. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Then came out drummer Charlie Watts. Charlie was cool, a favorite among the fans because he was more personal. He hung out for a while, and I hung out in the back, standing on a tree stump so I could see what was going on. I said, under my breath, "You took my Aunt Geri for a helicopter ride!" Everyone around me took it completely the wrong way. Still, Charlie Watts looked up at the little girl on the tree stump as she smiled. And he smiled back.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Finally there was Ron Wood, one of the guitarists. Ron Wood was just recently released from rehab, so a lot of the fans were curious about how he was feeling. He moved quickly, and wasn't willing to spend a lot of time talking to these fans. I wouldn't want to myself. Frankly, the guy with the brutal horse voice was killing me. On top of it feeling just strange and awkward to stand in front of a hotel for an hour just to get a glimpse of these guys. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">I knew I wasn't going to be there much longer -- Ron Wood was as much rock star as I was going to see. With that in mind, I said screw it and leaped back on to my tree stump. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Now if you had one chance to say something short and sweet to The Rolling Stones, what would you say? You're awesome? You suck? You're old, please stop? You're old, keep going? Peace? I love you? Or would you just let out a shrill scream? I didn't know what to do. So being the cheesy music lover I am, I said the first thing that came to mind.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">"Hey, Ron Wood."<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">His head lifts and he looks at me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">"Thanks for rock and roll. I...love it."<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Ron Wood smiles, laughs a bit, nods in approval and walks to his taxi. He gets inside, the taxi leaves, the fans are surprised with the whole moment, and I walk to my bike. I hop on the seat, bike away, smile and wait until I'm away from the hotel and overly-obsessed fans and then scream,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">"WAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!"<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Someone pinch me,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">Audrey "If you try sometimes, you might find, you get what you need" Sykes</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">If you want to see pictures from my life out here in Europe, you can check them out at</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/AudAdventures">www.flickr.com/photos/AudAdventures</a></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"><br /><a href="http://www.thesykesstory.blogstpot.com/"></a></span></p></div>Audrey Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15519248765101524805noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28560147.post-1150138964621287682006-06-12T21:01:00.000+02:002006-10-23T17:33:01.106+02:00The Colo Euro<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4091/3027/1600/borrel.queensday100.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4091/3027/320/borrel.queensday100.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" >The other day a friend of mine asked me if I thought I had changed at all since my stay in <st1:place st="on">Europe</st1:place>. Besides calling myself "aud aud euro trash" on MySpace, I never gave the idea much attention. So last night I sat down with a notepad, pencil and bottle of wine and began to list any sort of contrasts I might between Colo Audrey and Euro Audrey. Here are my top ten:<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" > <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" >1. Rarely did I sit with a notepad, pencil and bottle of wine in <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Colorado</st1:place></st1:state>. It was usually a bottle of vodka.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" > <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" >Just kidding.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" > <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" >2. Colorado Audrey rocked out on her piano, or on any piano she passed really. Euro Audrey doesn't have a piano nearby, so she bought a harmonica and a kazoo, and now rocks out wherever she goes and whenever she wants – on her bike, outside of class, beside the canals, at the bars, at shows, one the sides of the street with the bums… <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" > <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" >3. I threw on snowboard clothes, band shirts and skate shoes when going out. Here I slap on tights, skirts and flats. In short, Colo Audrey would kick my ass and slap a Vans shoe in my face.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" > <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" >4. I was a high-fiver, but I don't even have time to raise my hand anymore, people go right in for the Dutch greet before I can stop them. This involved three cheek kisses, back and forth, and I can never remember which side to start from. Since I can't remember which side to kiss first, things gets awkward, I give up, give them a hug and say "Sorry, I'm American." For some reason they understand...<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" > <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" >5. <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Colorado</st1:place></st1:state> weekend nights meant going to indie rock, punk rock, really horrible rock, hipster rock, or just some kind of rock show. I'd try to get in for free, either by scoring a spot on the guest list or sneaking in through the back (and front), because shows are just too damn expensive. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" > <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" >In Amsterdam, shows are never expensive (9 Euros for Atmosphere was is the cheapest so far), but never mind if I can't get in because behind me sit about a dozen jazz and blues bars open til four. So now I go to shows where people snap their fingers, twirl their hands in the air and wear gangster hats.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" > <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" >Ok, I still go to punk shows, too.... but I'm not that punk...<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" > <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" >6. In <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Colorado</st1:place></st1:state> I drunk dialed friends, my grandmother... Here I drunk email... I don't know which one is worse.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" > <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" >7. Transportation: Back home I got stuck in the snow one too many times in a crappy Honda. I cursed at it when I scraped off the ice, kick it when it decided to house a wasp nest, and sometimes just leave it on the side of I70 when it overheated. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" >Here I get stuck in the rain on an old-school bicycle. I sing it songs when I wipe off the rain on my seat, pet it when its back light shattered to pieces, and sometimes just sit with it in a park.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" > <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" >Back home I would skate or longboard to class, here I bike.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" >Back home I would drive to the grocery store, bars, friend's houses, shopping areas, eateries.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" >Here I bike and am ten pounds lighter because I can't carry as much food as a car, and my legs are my bike fuel.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" > <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" >8. On a journalistic note, Colorado Audrey would write leads, inverted pyramid stories, read the New York Times and get down with the Triple S Mag. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" > <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" >Now I write academic essays on how and why journalists write leads and use inverted pyramids, read (a very left) Yahoo news online or (a very right) International Financial Times and get down with the ethical scholar articles. Not nearly as fun, but enlightening!<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" > <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" >9. Which leads me to my study habits: I have no more of them. I don't study here because I don't have exams here. Instead, I read and write academic essays. This gives me the freedom to go where I please without ever having to cram. It's a very stress-less lifestyle.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" > <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" >Ok that's a lie. Truth: Instead of pulling "all-nighters" to whip up a 2000-word piece like I did at CSU, I pull "all-weekers" to form an 8000-word argument. This leads me to say that I don’t drink coffee anymore, I drink espresso.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" > <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" >10. And finally, back home my weakness was three things: enchiladas, New Belgium and sushi (Hapa's Orgasm Roll, oh man). Now it's Belgian chocolates, Hoegaarden bier and falafels. Of course, this isn't some sort of replacement, more of a substitution. I’d kill for a Fat Tire, I’d kick for a chocolate.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" > <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" >Hope all is well back home, everyone. I'm in <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Amsterdam</st1:city></st1:place> until September; my place is still open to anyone and everyone. Think of you all everyday and miss you like crazy. I want to apologize for not being able to email each one of you individually. I wish I had the time to do so. I hope no one takes these emails as a lousy and impersonal attempt to "KIT", it's just not true. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" > <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" >I have TWO spaces left on my hostel reservation for Oktoberfest in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Munich</st1:place></st1:city> this year. The dates are from September 25 to the 29, I'm pretty sure. PLEASE guys, fill in these two spots! <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" > <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:9;" >Much love,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Tahoma;font-size:9;" ><span style="font-family: arial;">Audrey “time can’t change me” Sykes</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Audrey Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15519248765101524805noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28560147.post-1148335904664319272006-05-23T00:02:00.000+02:002006-07-10T14:20:00.053+02:00Heaven is Black<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4091/3027/1600/5_19.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4091/3027/320/5_19.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>A letter to the Mundus group:<br /><br />March 23 was one of the best nights in my life of rock and roll: front and center for a band I've tried to see for eight years, The Black Crowes. <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Attempt number one: </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I was sixteen and at the peak of my Led Zeppelin obsession. Jimmy Page had scheduled a tour with the Black Crowes, and concert song lists were a mix of Led Zeppelin classics and Black Crowes originals. The day tickets went on sale I bought one, for myself and only myself, fourth row, center. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>I spend my time leading up to the concert getting pumped by listening only to albums by these two bands. Then is all comes crashing down -- just a few days before the concert, Jimmy Page cancels the <st1:state><st1:place>Colorado</st1:place></st1:state> leg of the tour due to a strained back.<span style=""> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal">I proceed to boycott every album by these two bands. My only chance to have the slightest sliver of raw Zeppelin experience had been shot down due to Page's problems of being an old man. At the time, teenage bitterness was an understatement. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Attempt number two:</p> <p class="MsoNormal">At nineteen I had forgiven Page and The Crowes; still throwing in their albums religiously and recklessly rocking out in my car. <st1:city><st1:place>Fort Collins</st1:place></st1:city> friend's of mine would join me in weekly sessions of getting stoned and listening to Zepp and Crowes songs -- a pure college stereotype we thrived on.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>One night I was at a party, in a good mood, being nineteen had done me well thus far. I remember leaning against a small pillar in a house when someone turned to me and said, "The Black Crowes just announced a one night at <st1:place><st1:placename>Madison</st1:placename> <st1:placename>Square</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Garden</st1:placetype></st1:place>...it's going to be their last performance..." </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>A full body wave of joy then depression had never hit so hard -- I knew the scheduled date matched the date my mom was getting remarried.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Shit.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>So the Crowes broke up (or so I thought) -- my music side and senses devastated, defeated, convinced that living rock and roll had been killed!</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Attempt number 3: </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The Crowes reunite, I'm 21 and I'm ecstatic because not only are they coming to play two nights at Red Rocks, <st1:state><st1:place>Colorado</st1:place></st1:state>, but with Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers! I buy tickets a little less than a year in advance for <st1:date month="8" day="21" year="2005">August 21, 2005</st1:date>.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Nothing could stop me now!</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Except, of course, for Erasmus Mundus Masters Journalism within Globalization: The Audrey Is Screwed Once Again Perspective. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>And yes, I thought about not going to <st1:place>Europe</st1:place> because missing this band three times was ridiculous.... for about three minutes... long enough to realize I'm thinking like an obsessed fool.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Attempt number 4: Victory</p> <p class="MsoNormal">When I moved to <st1:country-region><st1:place>Denmark</st1:place></st1:country-region>, one of the first things I did was look for a <st1:place>Europe</st1:place> concert list (pollstar.com is a good one). Six <st1:place>Europe</st1:place> dates in March ’06 for The Black Crowes had already been announced and sold out. Three dates in <st1:city><st1:place>London</st1:place></st1:city>, three in <st1:city><st1:place>Amsterdam</st1:place></st1:city> at the Paradiso, all back to back performances.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>But, it was sold out and I was clueless as to any European way of getting tickets, if there was one.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>So I dealt with it in an adult-like manner: I wrote it down on my calendar and decided to make up for it by buying tickets to all those other concerts. You know, to make myself feel better about missing them for the fourth fucking time! Fuck me!</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>This “show replacement” method didn’t work, and yesterday when we all returned from our outing with Jan I was determined to see The Black Crowes play. For heaven’s sake, we were in the same flippin city…</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>I make it to Paradiso around 19.00, doors were scheduled to open at 19.30 and the show was to being at 20.30. I had never been ticketless or passless for a show before, so I didn’t have much of a plan. But I had my determination and 70 Euros in my pocket, which was the most I would allow myself to spend. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>I shuffled around the venue, trying not to look like a timid little girl without a ticket and surrounded by big black leather-jacket rockers; which was exactly my situation. I would slowly swing my legs forward and quietly mutter “Tickets?” and “Anyone with tickets?” I found one scalper, a bald guy with black everything and three times my size, offering a ticket for 100 Euros.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>“Are you serious?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Yep, there are too many tickets and too many people.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Wait, then wouldn’t it be less then?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I mean, there are too many people and not enough tickets.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I look around; not many people were there yet. Too intimidated to further question this guy, I give him a dirty look, like the way a dog would sniff and then snort out with his nose if he doesn’t like a scent, and I walked away.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>I mosey around Paradiso, over the canals until I complete a full hundred-meter radius of the area. Not many people were around and I still didn’t have a good plan. I went back to the scalper, still the only man who responded to my ticket cries. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I have seventy Euros.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Yeah?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Was there hope?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“No, sorry, one hundred,” he says. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">“You really think you can sell them for one hundred?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Yes, one hundred.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“No!” I shout and walk away.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Crap. I’d kick my own ass if I had to pay that much. So I walk to Leidsplein and sit myself at the bar inside the pub with all the classic rock décor. Black and White I think it’s called. I felt like it fit my situation. I order a beer, grab a pen, bust out my notepad and begin drawing thick block letters that say, “I <u>NEED</u> 1 TICKET, <u>PLEASE</u>!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>I set the note on the bar, drink my beer and contemplate my situation. I’ve tried so hard for so many years to see this band, and failed miserably each time. Why was I one of those people who had fallen into the 'Have Always Wanted To See Them' file? This story had to have a happy ending.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>“You need one ticket, huh?” says the man next to me.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Yes, you have one?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Yes I have one,” he says, but I knew what he was going to say before he even answered.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“But it’s for you, right?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Yes! But it’s for me!” he laughs.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I’ve heard that before, and it’s not very funny.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Well you shouldn’t be sitting here with that note. Time is running out, go to the venue.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I just came from there; one guy is selling them for a hundred Euros. After this beer, I only have sixty eight.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“But more people will be coming to sell. Then the show will start, soon.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I’m going to leave just after this beer.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>So I sit there another minute or two, and a woman comes up to me.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Wish I could help you, but we’re looking for tickets, too.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Well there’s a bald scalper selling them for a hundred outside the venue.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Really? Well the people I’m with are loaded so this won’t be a problem. Thanks!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Dammit, there goes that. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>So I slam my beer, attach the note to the strap of my purse so that it sits right below my neck and head out. I’m nervous. I’m nervous because I might pay too much for a ticket. I’m nervous because I might miss the Black Crowes play again. I’m nervous because I wish I had the balls to sneak in like I used to. I’m nervous because time is running out.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>But I was determined, and this story had to have a happy ending.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>People read my note, looked at my face and looked away – once, twice, again and again. I made it halfway to the venue where a cash machine was. As I was walking past the machine, a man was grabbing his cash and turning around just before I passed him. Just long enough for him to read my note as I walked by. I could see the Paradiso in front of me. More people were there now, which made my nervousness jump to a new level.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>“You need one ticket?” says the man at the cash machine. I turn around and looked at him. He looks at me. I look at his friends. They look at me. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">“…yes I need one ticket.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I’ve got one,” he says.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“You’ve got one for you? Or you’ve got an extra one?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I’ve got an extra one.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>I pause and look at him. He looks at me. I look at his friends. They look at me. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">“How much? I only have sixty eight Euros.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Nah, I’ll give it to you normal price,” he says.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>I pause and look at him. He looks at me. I look at his friends. They look at me. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Really?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Really.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“No, really?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Yeah, really!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“REALLY!?” I scream.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Yeah!” he screams with me.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>He shows me the ticket, we make the exchange, and I just stand there like an excited idiot jumping up and down, waving my hands in the air and hugging him and all his friends. I thank him a hundred times over, hug them all some more and float down the street to the Paradiso, perma-smiled and busting at the seams with happiness as I shout out YES to the sky, the venue, the people, the sidewalk, the air.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>I pass the scalper and show him my ticket.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“One hundred Euros my ass! Thirty five, because there are people in this world better than you.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>He gives me a funny look because he doesn’t remember me and probably is too busy counting his winnings. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Victory was mine, the ticket man ripped the stub and I entered Paradiso to see the Black Crowes. I grabbed a beer, waltzed to the front and waited for the show to start. Some 45 minutes later the lights dim and six of the most amazing musicians alive played a three and a half hour set. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p><u>Top 10 Best Things About The Show<o:p></o:p></u></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><u><o:p><span style="text-decoration: none;"> </span></o:p></u></p> <p class="MsoNormal">10. Dancing and getting lost in all my favorite songs.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">9. Hearing frontman Chris Robinson give a few words of wisdom, such as “It’s cold outside but it’s warm in here. Alright, let’s do this.” and “Thanks a lot to whoever knocked that drink over on stage. Real fucking cool, man. You know, an apology goes a long way in the year 2006… I guess we all should remember that.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">8. Watching Robinson jam out on the harmonica like a pro.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">7. Being able to say thank you to one of the guitarists.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">6. A kick ass drum solo that reminded me of Mr. Bonham himself.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">5. The guitarists whailing on the most fantastic collection of Fenders and Gibsons I’ve ever seen.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">4. Dutch poet Jonathan Sinclair making a guest appearance</p> <p class="MsoNormal">3. Robinson grabbing the mic stand and holding it perpendicular to his body as he stomped his feet or kicked his legs up and down.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">2. Whenever a band member wanted to look out at the fans I was usually the first one they saw because: a. my face was right in the light, b. I was a new fan rocking out nonstop in the front, many others were band followers.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">1. Reminding myself that I finally saw the Black Crowes play, in Amsterdam, front and center! Wahoo!</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>It was a concert I truly didn’t want to end. But when it was over I grabbed another beer, walked upstairs and sat on the balcony just to make sure I soaked it all in. In one hand was a pick I caught mid-air, the other a poster some artist had made and was passing out for the three-day Crowes event.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>I took a deep breath and looked around me. Paradiso had emptied out quickly, and the next round of night clubbers began to make their way inside. The past three and a half hours were so unbelievable for me, I felt like the luckiest person in the world.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>I biked home that night, singing snippets of all the songs the Black Crowes performed that night. Every now and then I’d let out a little hoot and holler. As I crossed over the Amstel river, lights glistening against the canals, I couldn’t take it anymore. I threw up my hands, coasted down the bridge and yelled “I LOVE AMSTERDAM!” </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>The unexpected man on the bike behind me rang his bell and said, “Yes you do!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Happy Ending.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Audrey<span style=""> </span></p>Audrey Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15519248765101524805noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28560147.post-1148335176013966462006-05-22T23:54:00.000+02:002006-05-23T00:17:28.453+02:00Snowboard Fakie<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4091/3027/1600/Picture%20073.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4091/3027/320/Picture%20073.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">Without mountains nearby, I've gone through physical withdrawals knowing I can't snowboard. This sounds ridiculous, but at times my feet actually tingle, my eyes actually tear and my chest actually tightens. So I spend hours online looking for cheap ways to be mountain bound, yet plans have fallen through since January.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p></o:p>Until recently.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p></o:p>When I first heard of a two-week ski trip to </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-size:10;">France</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-size:10;"> I backed out -- too much money and too much class time missed. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p></o:p>When I heard about it again, I thought harder, my feet tingled and I said yes -- but I still backed out.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p></o:p>The third notice sent me into a state of indecisiveness. I needed this trip, but it would set me back hundreds. For the sake of my sanity I needed this, but I would miss my grad classes. So, what did I do?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p></o:p>I called mom.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p></o:p>"Hi mom. There's this ski trip to </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-size:10;">France</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-size:10;">, which is an area I haven't ridden yet. But it's almost two weeks. But I really need to go because I might die if I don't. My feet tingle and my chest tightens ...sometimes..."<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">"Is it expensive?"<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">"Kind of."<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">"And you're missing class?"<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">"Kind of." <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">Silence.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">"Mom?"<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">And I thought she would tell me to stay, save my money, go another time. I wanted to hear that moral rationale mother's are so good at. I wanted her to say this was a bad idea so I could lay it to rest.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">"Why are you even second guessing this, you have to go!"<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">"What! Really?"<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">"Yes. Jeez Audrey, this is a chance of a lifetime!"<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p></o:p>That's all I needed to hear. So I pedaled to the office, flew up the stairs, busted through the ISC (</span><st1:place><st1:placename><span style="font-size:10;">International</span></st1:placename><span style="font-size:10;"> </span><st1:placename><span style="font-size:10;">Student</span></st1:placename><span style="font-size:10;"> </span><st1:placetype><span style="font-size:10;">Center</span></st1:placetype></st1:place><span style="font-size:10;">) and practically shouted, "I MUST RIDE FRANCE!" The office response wasn't as enthusiastic as I had hoped, and a Very Tall Dutch threw me the sign up list.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">"Put your name here. You're on the waiting list. Number two."<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p></o:p>What?! No! I refuse! No really, I refused. I told the Very Tall Dutch he didn't understand, I needed to go, a waiting list wasn't good enough. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">"Can you feel my absolute need here? I'm trying to give you a 'matter of life or death' vibe, right now. Can you feel it?"<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">He wasn't feeling it.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">I said I would sit in the aisle. Very Tall Dutch said no. I said what about a bigger bus? Very Tall Dutch called around, and said no. I said what about another university, Very Tall Dutch called another university and gave the only open spot to Number One on the waiting list.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p></o:p>"Hey, what the hell? You wouldn't have called if I wasn't here!"<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">"Yeah, but she's number one," said Very Tall Dutch.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">"Yeah, but I deserve it more than this punk ass," I agued.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">"Yeah, but that's my girlfriend."<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p></o:p>Oops. Crap, blocked by the girlfriend. I had spent three hours in the ISC office, trying to find all possibilities available in my favor. Nothing was working. I was afraid. Afraid of losing. Afraid of a boardless spring. Afraid of Very Tall Dutch because I called his girlfriend a punk ass, and he's a lot bigger than me.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p></o:p>I would have walked out, head hung low and defeated, if it weren't for Barbara. Barbara knew all about my passion for riding -- because the week before I sat beside her for an hour and drunkenly slurred about it: <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">"Hey hey, ask me about 'shreddin the sick pow in my steeze' and hittin the asses."<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">"The asses?"<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">"No! The PASSES!"<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p></o:p>Anyway, Barbara came just in time and asked if I had ever taught snowboard lessons. There was one opening on the list for a snowboard instructor... <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p></o:p>Now, I've never taken a class on snowboard instructing. I've never been certified. I've never even been good at teaching others how to snowboard. But this seemed like my only open window so... I lied.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p></o:p>"Yeah I've taught for years!"<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">"Are you certified?"<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">"I used to be. But it expired. Those things expire fast in </span><st1:state><st1:place><span style="font-size:10;">Colorado</span></st1:place></st1:state><span style="font-size:10;">"<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">"Where did you teach?"<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">"...</span><st1:state><st1:place><span style="font-size:10;">Colorado</span></st1:place></st1:state><span style="font-size:10;">."<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">"Yeah, but where?"<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">"Ski Cooper."<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">"And you wouldn't mind teaching?"<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">"No, I love teaching!"<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">"Ok, well I'll call you tonight about it."<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p></o:p>That night the ISC offered me a spot on the trip. My expenses were fully paid for in addition to the 200 Euros I'd be given for instructing eight students how to snowboard. Victory was mine.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p></o:p>A few days before the trip I asked myself how the hell was I going to teach eight foreigners how to snowboard? I thought back to the days when I was a beginner, but it was too long ago. The night before I started to worry, so I called Sarah Steinwand, a great friend who taught at Crested Butte this season, for a few tips.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p></o:p>"Hey Sarah, give me a ten minute run down on how to be a snowboard instructor."<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">"Why?"<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">"Because tomorrow I'm going to </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-size:10;">France</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-size:10;"> to teach eight people how to ride."<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">"What?"<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">"And the only way I could go was to tell them I was an instructor."<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">"What!"<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">"So now I'm going for free and they're gonna pay me, so I need to act legit."<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">"What!"<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">"I know!"<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">"Audrey!"<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">"I know!"<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p></o:p>So I printed out the notes and memorized them on the 15-hour bus ride to La Plagne, France. Myself and 100 other ISN students arrived on a Saturday afternoon. It was raining below, which meant snowing above. While the rest waited to check into the condos (we stayed right on the mountain), I put my gear on and headed up. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p></o:p>It was one of those days where the snowfall is heavy yet silent. No wind. Fresh lines. Empty runs. I felt relief, at peace, excited, awe struck and really flippin lucky -- overall stoked as all hell. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p></o:p>The next day my act as an instructor began. It would last for five days, two hours a day, with nine students: Nacho from </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-size:10;">Spain</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-size:10;">, George from </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-size:10;">Portugal</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-size:10;"> and eight Dutch. None had ever been on a mountain before. Fortunately if I acted really excited all the time, hollered constantly ("Bend your knees! Heel! Toe! Awesome! Woohoo! Nice turn!") and used a lot of hand and body movement I could pass as an instructor.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p></o:p>And it worked. Out of the five snowboard instructors, I was the only fake. However, the only class whose students never got injured? Mine. My students progressed more than all the others because I ditched the bunny hill and took them on more challenging runs. By the fifth day, they were intermediate snowboarders who could ride powder. All of them. I was amazed. And so proud of all of us... <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p></o:p>I told them they're all naturals. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">They told me it wouldn't have been possible without my help.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">...I never told them I was an imposter.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p></o:p>The best part? I still had time to ride the massive ski area of La Plagne. Lessons were over by </span><st1:time hour="12" minute="0"><span style="font-size:10;">noon</span></st1:time><span style="font-size:10;"> and lifts didn't close until </span><st1:time hour="18" minute="30"><span style="font-size:10;">6:30</span></st1:time><span style="font-size:10;">. I had time to ride glaciers and off-piste powder everyday in the best conditions. Snow every night, sun and blue skies each day. The areas of amazing terrain and snow seemed endless- at times I felt like I was in my own snowboard film (soundtrack includes mostly RJD2, Queen, Jackson 5 and DangerDoom). Most of the mountain is above treeline, so runs were like a free for all. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p></o:p>I ended every day sweat-soaked and glowing from glorious spring shredding in </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-size:10;">France</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-size:10;">. I drank wine, ate cheese and sipped beer on lawn chairs. I partied hard and rode harder. Injured free. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p></o:p>The time of my life.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Audrey Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15519248765101524805noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28560147.post-1148333825116826072006-05-22T22:23:00.000+02:002006-05-23T01:04:47.166+02:00Label me Amsterdam<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4091/3027/1600/Picture%20005.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4091/3027/320/Picture%20005.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal">I was labeled today. In the same breath, a friend of mine told me I'm no smarter than a five-year-old child or Hillary Clinton.<br /><br />I didn't know exactly how to take this -- was it a compliment or an insult? I have defensive tendencies, so I chose the latter and argued that I'm definitely smarter than a child. He asked me how, I said something like there is no way I'm going to start a debate as to why I'm more knowledgeable than a kid.<br /><br />"Ah yes, perhaps you know more, but are you really smarter?"<br /><br />Welcome to <st1:city><st1:place>Amsterdam</st1:place></st1:city>, the place where adults can wax in circles about strange ideologies and get away with it, because, well, that's just what weed does to people. But all stoner talk aside, I've been living in <st1:city><st1:place>Amsterdam</st1:place></st1:city> for almost four months now and have barely written. I'm hoping this blog will keep my skills, however much skill I actually have, intact. So heregoes...<br /><br />---<br /><br />I was labeled a social butterfly. Again, I took minor defense to this. Let's face it, calling someone a social butterfly makes you think of a creature that flies in the air somewhat retarded like because they have poor sight. The creature also gets carried away in the wind, splattered on car windows and chased by dogs.<br /><br />Add the social aspect, and you have a creature that not only flies like a drunk, but also talks like one in an even more absent-minded way. Not to mention, butterflies are cute from afar, but the body is frightening, especially to children. I know it wasn't meant like this, it was just on my mind.<br /><br />Maybe it's true anyway. I can't see without contacts and lately the wind has been blowing me and my skirt around way too often. I've managed to avoid car windows, but there are many, many ugly dogs in <st1:city><st1:place>Amsterdam</st1:place></st1:city> that make me a little hesitant to walk next to. Plus, I've been known to slur out nonsense, which probably frightens children...<br /><br />---<br /><br />I was labeled a capitalist. When I'm in a situation, the first thing I think about is how to make a buck. It's because I'm American and have been brought up in a capitalist environment, unlike many Europeans. Supposidly.<br /><br />First off, when I'm in a situation, the first thing I think about it what the hell is going on. It usually never involves me making money, it involves me spending money, and so I'm a poor college student who needs a job. The last time I had an opportunity to make a buck was an hour ago when my flatmate Luke bet me five Euros Jamie Lee Curtis was a hermaphrodite. Which, I'm not so sure I won.<br /><br />I am an American, however, and maybe am more susceptible capitalist to thinking than others. For example, I'm learning the harmonica right now in hopes to one day join a bum on the street to jam with and experience what it's like to have coins tossed at me.<br /><br />---<br /><br />In the end, I guess what I'm trying to say is that I don't like being labeled. In a city like <st1:city><st1:place>Amsterdam</st1:place></st1:city> that thrives in individuality, I never expected to experience this very often. My name is Audrey Sykes, that's the truest label I know.</p>Audrey Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15519248765101524805noreply@blogger.com0