Rabba rabba Amsterdam

On Friday, I boarded a bus to the airport. Of course, this would have been so much better had I gone to bed at a decent hour. There I was, tired, bitter, and leaning on my backpack full of clothes that I didn't use. Why do I do that? Whenever I think I need less clothes, I always end up needing more, and when I don't, I end up with a chunky backpack.

I got to the airport ridiculously early, changed my money, and read Simon Pegg's autobiography all the way through. I love that man. So hard.

The first minute I stepped off the train, I had a kaassouflee. Angels sang. It's a grilled cheese sandwich dipped in batter and fried. Next, McDonalds. Oh, and BTW, McFlurries? Awesome. Stroopwaffel McFlurries? MORE AWESOME.

My arteries constricted three sizes that day.

As did my waistline.

We spent a lot of time chilling in her flat because it rained, but when we did go out it was fantastic. We went to several coffee shops where much merriment was to be had. We went to the Museum of Sex (where I saw things I cannot unsee) for kicks and giggles, and then, relating to the theme, walked down the red light district.

It was...unique.

Vicki had told me all about the various sex-related things that happened in Amsterdam history. Men would meet in the town square, then go off and have sex in a church. Prostitutes would meet men in the public urinals and would have sex with them there. When I saw the women in the windows, some posing, some talking on their cell phones, I realized that I felt a little uncomfortable.

I'm as liberal as you're ever going to get, but something about seeing women in shop windows--something to be consumed, something to look at, pay, have a roll in the hay, and be done with--it just made me wonder. They have regular clients. They work in shifts. It's just like any other 9-5 job, they just happen to be using their bodies. It made me wonder what it was like to hire a prostitute. And then I was distracted by a pigeon that NEEDED TO BE PHOTOGRAPHED.

America has such a puritanical culture. I saw what California could be (of course, the taxes are incredibly high, which people just won't have), and I wept. But then I went to a coffee shop and could not stop laughing.

And the nicest flatmates ever award go to Callie's new flatmates. I was sitting on my computer in the kitchen. Margaret comes in.

Margaret: Do you have dinner plans?

Me: Don't think so.

Margaret: Because there's a whole chicken in the fridge. I was planning on doing a recipe, but it said it feeds four, so it's perfect for the flat.

Me: ...

Margaret: Sounds good?

Me: ...MARRY ME.

Okay, maybe that last thing I said I didn't really say, but oh my Lord.