I woke up in something of a baffling mood. I can’t accurately describe it, but sehnsucht seems to come closest (thanks to Rammstein for teaching me that word).

I thought nothing of it – it’s probably connected to whatever I was dreaming about that night. So, I logged onto Facebook, and saw a link by one of my school’s color guard members (color guard as in marching band and winter guard, not as in ROTC kids stomping across the gym with an American and Colorado flag) to one of Legacy’s winter guard shows, Dead or Alive. Legacy’s are among the best marching bands and color guards in the state (after Rampart’s, of course), so I figured I’d watch.

Halfway through watching, I was hit by a massive wave of nostalgia for marching band. This feeling of holy crap, a whole era of my life ended half a year ago and I barely even noticed, combined with the discovery the same night of my dad’s blog, no, online diary, especially an entry involving the death of my childhood companion, Daisy, set the stage for the day’s normally-trivial events to bring me to tears. They were flowing, fast and free, though silent. This, uh, “bawling fit” lasted a good 2 hours, on and off. I can’t remember the last time I’d cried before that. It’d been at least 5 years. To be honest, it felt really damn good (catharsis is the word my English teachers would love to see).

I was in band all 4 years of high school, and now that I’m graduating I can’t be a part of that anymore. Sure, I could join a college marching band, but that’s not the same. It’s more for show than competition. Then there’s Drum Corps. But that’s on the other end of the spectrum. It’s too competitive, too focused. High school’s struck the right chords with me, but I can never experience that again.

It’s odd that it would take so long – nearly 6 months – for the transience of that part of my life to have a significant effect on me. Every year, on the bus ride home from state, nearly all the senior girls and about half of the senior guys cried. I always thought they were silly; I won’t be one of them, I thought to myself. And I wasn’t, at least not on that day. It was just another last-performance-of-the-season to me. Sure, there’s still some emotion involved with realizing that the show you spent what felt like half your summer on, the show you devoted an ungodly number of Saturdays to, the show you poured your sweat, blood, and soul into, will never be performed again.

Some shows, like Hypar Effect, get recycled once in a while, but will never have the same vision, interpretation. They’ll never have the same pieces – marchers, guard, front ensemble, battery, director(s), coaches, and other staff – they’ll never have you again. Or, rather, you will never have the show.

*Yesterday being the day before I started writing this post, which was written on 2 separate days, about a week apart.

Me: yes, why wouldnt i? havent we already been over this?
Her: no we haven’t and if we have I don’t remember.
Me: way to contradict yourself
Her: what is your problem i didn’t do anything to you?

The problem lies in the last line.

Interpretation 1: This is a run-on sentence, consisting of both interrogative and declarative parts. The question mark is in the wrong place. It should be written, “what is your problem? I didn’t do anything to you,” expressing her frustration that I would point out a flaw in her reasoning, and then explaining that she did nothing to incite my obvious rage and anger towards her.

Interpretation 2: This sentence consists of two independent clauses. It should be written, “what is your problem, I didn’t do anything to you?” expressing her frustration that I would point out a flaw in her reasoning, and then suggesting a possible explanation of my “problem.” The suggested explanation is that my obvious rage and anger are due to her not doing something to me, most likely sexual.

Of course, the intended meaning is irrelevant; she signed off immediately after that message. Regardless of the interpretation, the question was rhetorical.

Disclaimer: My grammar-related terminology, such as independent clause is very loosely applied. I actually have no idea what I’m talking about.

If you didn’t figure it out yet, the last picture in Part 2 was taken in Madurodam, a miniature city. It’s built at 1:25 scale and includes traditional Dutch buildings as well as various landmarks. Here are some more shots from Madurodam:

When doing work on the models, they even make it look like actual construction.

Look! It’s the phallic monument again!

And the windmill!

Schiphol

These planes are pretty big, actually.

This souvenir vendor delivers the goods in a little truck. It’s designed to fit in with the models.

The sad invasion of commercialization.

These last pictures were taken from the canal cruise. The subjects didn’t turn out so well, but we liked the pictures anyway.

I kind of feel bad for my mom. After the first night, she got sick and ended up staying pretty much the whole time at the bed and breakfast. Then again, she wasn’t invited in the first place. Yes, that sounds mean, but she knew perfectly well that I could have really used a vacation from her. Well, I ended up getting it anyway. Karma’s a bitch. In a good way.

The Netherlands’ public transportation is far more developed than ours.

Arriving at the Keukenhof Gardens. Holland is famous for its tulips.

The park was really crowded.

Did I mention that the park was really crowded?

European sensibilities are quite different from ours. It’s odd, considering the principal this country was supposedly founded on.

My dad stands triumphantly in the middle of the hedge maze.

One of the last windmills.

This cool bell thing played several songs.

You know what they say about men with big feet…
…big shoes!

… I have no idea.

A college.

No, please, don’t get out of your … vehicle.
People ride anything onto the ferries – even small cars.

We walked about 3 miles across the city to get to this park. This statue was the most interesting thing in it. Ah well.

Lunch.

Lunch.

Nigga, please

Part of the zoo. It took us an hour to figure out how to get in.

Yeah.

Mmhmm. She’s blue. Move along.

Awesome Swiss girl working in a seed shop taught us all about Amsterdam’s squatting laws. Squatting as in living in abandoned buildings, pervert.

There were outdoor urinals.

Breakfast at the 2nd BNB we stayed at. Sprinkles on toast = yumm.

Backyard of the 2nd BNB. Both of the places we stayed at were in a town called Landsmeer; we rode the bus into Amsterdam each day.

A lot of the streets had these scenes on them. I imagine they used to be representative of the occupations of the residents.

Inside one of the Delft potteries.
Here we have an artist showing us what he’s working on. On the right is the model he’s basing it on.

Before glazing. The grey becomes the traditional “Delft blue.” Colored Delftware is also available.

How did we get this shot? No, not standing on a bridge. Look carefully.

So… um… yeah. It’s been over a year now since I posted about my upcoming vacation to Amsterdam. Hell, it’s been nearly a full year since I got back. I know I’m a superb procrastinator, but maybe this is a little much. Maybe “lazy bastard” would be a more apt label. In any case, here are some snapshots from the trip:

Arriving at Amsterdam Airport Schiphol

When we got to the bed and breakfast, all I wanted to do was sleep.

View from the massive window at the BNB.

Canal behind the BNB

For €15, you get a guided canal cruise, crappy wine, and awesome cheese. The tour language variety was impressive. Portuguese?!

Did I mention I’m a lazy bastard?

At first, we thought that the buildings were so old the facades were peeling off. We asked someone about it, and discovered that the faces actually lean forward so that when furniture is winched up it doesn’t scrape against the brick or break any windows.

The canal that serves as the spine of the Amsterdam

I want one.

The first coffeeshop* we spotted

Skeleton smoking a joint on a bike = win.

At the Cannabis College

We weren’t the only ones fascinated by the sex-shop/rent-a-bike combination.

I’m afraid I don’t remember the name of this cathedral. It’s very easy to find, though – it’s right next to the hooker windows.





Most of the tiles are graves. They’re worn down by centuries of footsteps.

…what?

Some of the windows aren’t finished.

Can’t get to the main organ; there’s some sort of work going on.

…what?!

There are a lot of bikes in Amsterdam…

… a lot of bikes.

Waiting for the ferry…

No, please, don’t get off your bike.

If that isn’t phallic…

*A café is where you go for coffee and food. A coffeeshop is where you go for weed.

• I am putting on my jacket to go out and shovel the snow. She asks me, “are you going out to shovel the garage?”
  Yes, Sara*, and the bathrooms too.
• We are having dinner. An assortment of Korean food covers the table, including a teriyaki-glazed salmon.
  “I love salomon [sic]!” she cries, “what’s on it?”
  “Try it and see…”
  She does. Satisfied, and with a tone of absolute finality, she declares “barbecue sauce.”
• For Easter, instead of the usual plastic grass for the baskets, my sister bought this edible candy-grass. We go to my grandma’s for dinner. Afterward, as we’re heading out the door, her glance falls upon the Easter baskets, sitting, forgotten, by the door.
  “Oh no,” she shrieks, “we forgot to do our grass!”
• We’re decorating eggs. Inspiration smacks Sara upside the head. “I’ll draw it like it’s hatching.” My mother likes the idea, and decides to do the same. While it’s certainly not gallery-worthy, it’s at least easy to tell what mom’s is supposed to be. Sara’s, on the other hand, ends up looking more like, well, like this.

* Not her real name. Obviously. Unless it is, and I’m only saying it’s not to throw you off. Blast! I just gave it away.

This morning I saw an issue of the Colorado Catholic Herald sitting on the kitchen counter, and saw this front page headline:

“A Growing Disease: Number of people becoming Catholic is up sharply from 2008.”

Of course, what it actually said was “A Growing Diocese,” but I find my interpretation more fitting. I’m sure most of my fellow freethinkers would agree.

This is an excellent opportunity for me, as he’s offered to pay a very significant portion of the travel costs if I join him about a week into the trip, at which point the work-stuff will be done, and we’ll be free to just enjoy Europe. The problem is, my passport’s expired. The last time I went out of the country was in the 2nd grade, to South Korea with my mom to visit family.

At first, we weren’t counting on me being able to go, because nobody had the money to pay for it. But my grandma has just bought a new car, and gave her “old” one to my dad, which seriously relieved a lot of financial pressure. But again, my passport is expired. The only way to get one in less than 11 days is for my mom to go to Denver to expedite the process. Of course, she’s not willing to do this for nothing… She wants to tag along. Half of my excitement for this trip was getting a vacation from her.

I still want to go, of course, but half of my original excitement was the fact that I was going to have a good, long break from my mother. So much for that. *sigh*