Dutch + English = Danglish

Reasons that I’m pretty sure my little brother is the most awesome person on the planet:

“I wish I was rich. I mean, I know money doesn’t buy happiness, but I think I could be real happy with a cool mil in the bank.”

"Is it On Demand? I'm going to watch and we can be samesies!"

“You should just write a fiction novel. I think you would get mad scrilla that way. Here’s an idea for you: a vampire boy falls in love with a non-vampire girl. In the meantime, there is this werewolf that is always gamin’ on her, crampin’ his style. It’s a carnivorous love triangle! I think you’d be rich with that one. Okay, okay…how about an orphan boy who discovers he’s a wizard and is sent to wizard school. There he discovers he is the chosen one, and the series chronicles his struggles to save the wizard forces against the mighty ‘he who must not be named.’” Even better…I work as a janitor. Sometimes I see equations written on the board and I just solve them. My best friend’s Ben Affleck.”

“Beauty is the eye of the beholder. Love is blind. A rolling stone gathers no moss. An apple a day. When in Rome.”

“Baldness skips a generation. You should see my curls. I look like a young Seth Rogan.”

“How are the brownies in Den Haag?”

“Can I get a shout out in one of those eventually, though? I mean, c’mon, man. Tell everyone about my novel ideas I have for you. Novel in the book sense, not novel in the let’s-eat-hash-brownies-with-a-clown-and-walk-through-a-hall-of-mirrors sense.”

I love you, PJ. Best 20 minute Skype conversation ever.

When I was packing for Paris, my shoes said, "Oh, Jen, please take us, please. Our box says we are comfortable and supportive and we will feel like pillows on your feet. Please let us walk around Paris on your feet. Please take us and not the others." And seriously, who am I to question the shoes, even if they are talking to me? These shoes were legit -- comfortable, supportive, and they spoke to me? Done, packed.

You guys. The shoes lied.

I spent two days walking around Paris, and I have spent seven days recovering. My left foot (and the developing tendonitis/stress fracture/strain/searing pain that shoots up into every nerve ending in my brain) feels like it got pounded with a meat tenderizer and then slowly put through one of those pasta machines -- you know, the kind we Italians used to use before Bertolli starting making dried pasta that was just way easier to throw in a pot. Okay, I might be exaggering a little (me? No...) but it does hurt, and despite trying to convince myself that I'm still a "great athlete" who can just "push through the pain," I remembered, "oh yeah, I'm almost 27, no wonder my body doesn't feel like I'm 16 anymore." (You guys, 16, that was already over 10 years ago, can you believe it?!)

The really short version of this story is that I'm not running the half-marathon tomorrow, much to the chagrin of the 16-year-old inside me that is dying to prove that I'm not getting older and that I'm not broken. I've learned how to be rational (sometimes), maybe that was the lesson of this little incident.

In my boredom of not being able to run all week, I've learned how to ride my bike to and from work with no hands, which is certainly convenient while I try to do other things while I ride, like text, or put on gloves, or eat. Now I'm just waiting for the universe to crash my bike into a tree while I'm texting with gloves on and a banana in my hand. And as I'm laying there on the ground, the universe is going to laugh and go, "Woman! Was your foot not enough?"

The moral of the story is that we must always trust the great poets that came before us. Nancy Sinatra said, "These boots are made for walking," not "These shoes in the bottom of your closet that you think are talking to you." GUY. Always trust classic pop songs.

After what felt like a nearly frenetic pace of life (busy with work, busy with school work, busy with travel), I was looking forward to spending just a few glorious weekends at home in my boring, little apartment, catching up on some much needed rest, relaxation, and reading. Yeah, that lasted all of five minutes. I spent one Saturday at home in Den Haag, grocery shopping, cooking, and watching movies, and I woke up the next morning and decided I was going to run a half-marathon on March 14. Because that’s what normal people do on their weekends off, right?

Started training for the half, which has been going great, in general…the only that hurts are my knees, my ankles, my back, my hips, my shoulders, and my lungs. But yeah, sounds like it will be a really enjoyable experience. Life in Den Haag is generally “typical” in every sense of the word, but I had yet to feel like a local. So several weekends at home really helped me settle in. I went to museums, shopped, went to restaurants and movies, and biked my way around everywhere. P.S. Biking is my new favorite thing. Micol and I decided to bike to Delft, which is about 13 km away, and what Brad calls “just a crappier version of Den Haag.” But we wanted the exercise, and we wanted to explore. Delft was cute, and the poffertjes (my FAVORITE Dutch food) were amazing. The Dutch don’t “do” a lot with their food…it’s generally fairly bland, but there are a couple of things the Dutch do well, and poffertjes are one of them. Poffertjes are kind of a mini-pancake, about the size of a silver dollar, but much sweeter and less cakey than American pancakes. (For my Quinn relatives, they have the consistency and sweetness of frenchies, but are thicker and smaller. Still not as good as frenchies on Christmas morning, though.) The best thing about poffertjes (and my mother will love this) is that they are served fresh off the griddle, piping hot, practically swimming in butter and powdered sugar. Don’t worry Mom, I promptly purchased a poffertjes pan to bring home with me.

The weather has been, for lack of a better, more articulate description, totally crappy. Snow, ice, freezing rain, massive hail storms…I’m freezing my baguettes off here! And the Dutch still bike everywhere, it’s amazing to me. It really is their way of life. This is a boring entry, and I’m sorry for that, but sometimes life in Den Haag is just kind of…boring. Don’t get me wrong. This is a very cute, quaint, international city, and I’m enjoying my time here. But when life literally shuts down at 5:30 every day, there is not much to do. Except run and drink beer. And often, the weather is so bad that neither of those things sound appealing. So I read a lot, and watch Dutch television. Last season’s episodes of shows that are just beginning to play here. And try to prepare for real life after this. I can’t believe I’ve already been here for two months, and only have about two months to go. And then I have to get a real job, yikes! My evenings lately have been consumed with my Bar application, and scouring every job website I know of so I can apply for anything and everything.

Work at the Tribunal is amazing, but unfortunately, I can’t speak in great detail about what I do or the case I’m working on, because we are in a fairly compromising position in our jobs. I work in Trial Chambers, which essentially means that my team acts like a group of law clerks to our three judges on the case. We research legal and procedural issues and issue decisions on motions submitted by defense counsel and prosecution. Understandably, because I’m somewhat privy to the inner thoughts of the judges, that is essentially all I can tell you about my job. But I will say this…it is really, really awesome. And now I feel like a spy because I can’t tell you anything. Which makes it even more awesome.

I imagine the next few months are going to fly by quicker than I may want them to. I am spending this coming weekend in Paris, the half-marathon is the weekend after that, London at the end of the month, and then Istanbul, Turkey, right after Easter break to go visit Sinan and watch him play ball. And before I know it, it will be May, and my work at the Tribunal will be done, and I will be boarding that long flight back to where my heart is and always will be…Seattle.

Walking to work. The Dutchies bike in this kind of weather. No way was that going to happen.

In a wooden shoe in Delft. The good news is that I definitely don't look at all like a tourist.

My beach...Scheveningen. Yeah, you're not jealous now, but you will be once the temperature rises above absolutely frigid (that should be what an actual thermometer reads...because I'm telling you right now, anything below zero all feels the same...absolutely frigid).

Sunset at Scheveningen. Also note: sad day because it was my last weekend with Jess (remember Entry #1). I miss Jess.

It took less than three hours on our first day at work for Micol and I to hear about Carnival, a celebration that takes place for several weeks leading up to the Lenten season in Europe. I would say that it is similar to a European version of Mardi Gras, but that would suggest that the German and other Europeans party for one day/night, and nothing could be further from the truth. It took us three hours and fifteen minutes into our first day to settle on Klon, Germany, for Carnival and book our train and hotel. I’ve never struggled much for words, but I’m finding this blog entry particularly difficult to write. There are literally NO WORDS that can describe what Carnival is, how the Germans party, and what an experience partying with the Germans is like. My lovely cousin told me that while she and her hubs were living in Germany, they often wondered in awe at the party habits of the Germans. So here’s the best way I can think to make this relatable for people who were not present at Carnival in Klon: Imagine you take a child with a high proclivity for hyperactivity, troublemaking, and mischief, and you deprive that child any food or water for months (hey, this is an IMAGINARY WORLD, so just go with it). Then, out of the blue, you offer the child copious amounts of sugar, shots of espresso, and a puppy, and you put him into a room with 4.5 million other children undergoing the same experiment, and tell them that for 72+ hours, they have the run of the universe and no rules apply to them. And you somehow give them a superpower that causes them never to tire or get injured, sick, or hurt. Now let your imagination wander to what a bunch mischief-causing, hyperactive, trouble-making, sugar and espresso laden children with no rules, and seemingly superhuman powers would do if let loose. Do you have an image? Okay, good, now magnify it by eleventy billion and you will have a FAINT (but only a faint) idea of how the Germans party. (Tricia, did I get that about right?)

We arrived in Klon after a long train ride next to two women who had no problem making it apparent in English, Dutch, and German that they did not like us. Fortunately, they were only on board for about half of our three hour ride (either that or they requested seat transfers, I’m not sure which). Instead, Micol and I were lucky to be joined by a young girl who was from Klon, but studying in Den Haag. She was going back just for Carnival, and regaled us with story after story of Carnival craziness and her love for Klon. One of those stories stands out distinctly in my mind. As we were coming across the Rhine, she pointed out padlocks lining the fencing of the bridge. She told us that Klon was a very romantic city, and that couples would come up on that bridge, fasten a lock, and throw the key forever into the Rhine, symbolizing their love and commitment to each other. I fell in love with Klon at that moment (because you all know what a romantic I am).

Micol and I found our hotel, a lovely place called “Hotel Good Sleep” (yes, I’m not kidding, and by lovely I mean cheap and convenient). Within moments of arriving, we had put on our costumes (a bright blue wig and sunglasses for me) and were promptly joined by Brad, Temi, and Andi who were way ahead of us in terms of German-style partying. The weekend for me could be summarized by this statement: lots of snow, lots of people, lots of cheap, bad beer, lots of loud German songs, lots of watching in awe as people did CRAZY things, and lots of realizing that I am not 21 anymore. But they did sell gluehwein for a euro on the street. And gluehwein for a euro out of a Styrofoam cup, watching all the people around you in full costume sing loudly and dance in the street, is priceless.

Temi, Andi, and I with the Rhine behind us.

I asked by more than one person if I had dressed up as Lady Gaga for Carnival. That wasn't really my intent but looking at the costume.....

…fall. A lot. Fortunately, it’s hard to complain when you fall face-first into a meter of fresh powder in the French Alps. Did I mention the powder? And the French Alps? And the hot, mulled wine. I forgot to mention the hot, mulled wine.

Toward the end of January, at the behest of my fellow Yanks, Tristan and Anna, I was convinced to throw some money into a weekend ski trip to Chamonix-Mont Blanc, France. Much to the chagrin of my more rational brain (and my check book), I gave into peer pressure. And let’s be honest: by peer pressure, I mean Anna going, “Please come” and me going, “I don’t know….okay.” Best. Decision. Ever.

By the time all was said and done in the planning process, we had a nice little group: Anna (from Boston), Tristan (from New Jersey – I tried to type in the phonetic spelling of “New Jersey” as a New Jersey native would say it, but there seem to be inadequate keys on my keyboard to achieve that sound), Alex (an Ozzie, NOT Aussie – they make fun of us for calling them Aussies, I learned), and Radz (no, her name is Maria, and she’s from Poland, but we call her Radz for short – it’s fitting, because she’s awesome). Tristan took care of booking essentially everything – a hostel, ski rentals, flights, etc. All I had to do was hand over the cash.

We flew into Geneva, Switzerland, on Friday afternoon and took a shuttle bus up to the mountain. Our flight was eventful (and those of you who know me, and know how much I LOVE to fly *cough, sarcasm, cough*, know that an “eventful” flight is the last thing I want…I want boring, completely, nauseatingly boring flights). About twenty minutes before we were supposed to land, our pilot announced that the snow in Geneva was so bad that we would not be able to land, that the entire airport had closed, not to open for at least an hour and twenty minutes. As if that wasn’t enough to spiral my always-think-of-the-worst-case-scenario brain into a tizzy, he then calmly continued and told us we “definitely didn’t have enough fuel to wait that long,” so we would head back to Amsterdam. Now, I’m not a mathematician, but when I’m in panic mode, my brain calculates my fight or flight options pretty swiftly, and I realized that if we didn’t have enough fuel to wait an hour and twenty minutes for Geneva to open, then by my calculations, we likely didn’t have enough fuel for the TWO HOUR flight back to Amsterdam. Anna got to watch the full on realization and accompanying facial reactions. Just as I was debating whether I should charge the cockpit and inform the pilot that HIS CALCULATOR WAS BROKEN, I overheard the flight attendant explain that Geneva had cleared at least two runways and we would be able to land within the hour. Still cutting it a bit close for me, so I was contemplating in my head at what height I could survive a jump if I needed to (like I said, worst-case-scenario brain). People sometimes say I have trust issues. I don’t know where they get that idea.

Adding to the excitement of our flight was the, um,…company sitting next to me. I distinctly remember telling Anna about twenty minutes into the flight that I thought she was going through withdrawals. She was eyeballing my pretzels like she might chew through my arm to get to them. And after twitching and drooling for about ten minutes, she finally asked for one. I felt like I should give the poor thing the whole bag. She gobbled down a pretzel like it was the last thing she might ever eat. And then put back two mini-bottles of wine like it was water at the finish line of a marathon. I didn’t know whether to want to calm her down or call for medical assistance. Or hide. Toward the end of the flight, as I was preparing for my life to end when we ran out of fuel, I finally figure out why she was so twitchy – she was 16 and had told her parents she was spending the night at a friend’s house when in reality, she had boarded a plane to Geneva to meet six English guys who thought she was 23 for a weekend of partying and drinking. Now I have pretty amazing, understanding parents, but if I’d gotten caught with a stunt like that…yeah, needless to say, I can understand the effect the unsettling flight would have on this girl.

And on to Chamonix. We arrived at the hostel with absolutely no view of the mountains (it was pitch black by the time we arrived), and the boys greeted us with hot, mulled wine (called gluehwein in Holland and Germany) and I was in love immediately. I could spend the rest of my life with that drink. Sorry, boys. Went to bed early and woke up early to a meter of fresh powder and it was still snowing. The first day of skiing was a bit harrowing for me. The mountains, while beautiful, were daunting and intimidating, and I have fancied myself a lot of things during the course of my short life, but a skier was never one of them. Keep in mind, I had been on a mountain four times by the time we arrived in Chamonix and the gondola dropped me off and laughed and said, “Have fun getting back down.” It probably took me all day to get settled into a skiing, and I was exhausted by the time I was done (plus, the visibility went to s*** and I was afraid that, skiing above the tree line, on a blanket of white, staring out into a white sky, I was going to inadvertently ski off into nothingness). Thank goodness there was gluehwein at the lodge. We celebrated Radz’s 26th birthday that night over several bottles of wine and cheese, cheese, fondue, cheese, and more cheese. A great, great evening with wonderful food and wonderful company.

Skiing Sunday was much more enjoyable for me, and by the time the sun was setting and we were calling it a night, I was genuinely sad to be leaving Chamonix and what was probably my only chance to ski all season. We flew back early Monday morning, and I hauled my sore, tired, bruised ass into work and pretended to be productive for the rest of the day. Overall, one of the most enjoyable vacations I’ve ever taken, second only to climbing Kili last summer. The company, the skiing, and the scenery were more than I could have hoped for. I’m itching to go back. And Lisa, I didn’t cheat on you because I was thinking of you the whole time I was on that mountain. Thanks, coach.

Avalanche warning 4/5 -- we'll take those odds.

Pictures can't do the view justice.

View of the hostel.

Oh, heeeeeey...I almost look like I know what I'm doing. Could have fooled you!

Anna and I on the mountain. This is right before we start to tear it up and doing some gnarly jumps off a ramp we built.