The thoughts & opinions of Sassarella, the Queen of Sass as she cavorts in 's Gravenhage & beyond. Brought to you by CES's (Chief Executive Slaves) of Big Skanky Ho Inc.
Argh. Have you ever done something and then immediately realized that you were a total idiot, but had no way of taking it back?
Welcome to my world. Welcome to my apartment.
In a two second span I picked an apartment, even though I'd promised myself that I would wait until the perfect place came around. Did I pick a nice apartment? Not really. Is it cheap? Sorta. Does it have a funny smell in the washroom? You betcha.
Right now I'm in the sole Internet cafe in Den Haag (I lie, there are actually two. But the other one closes at 6pm, so it may as well not exist.), listening to some Dutch folk music, recommended to me by the guy who works here. Basically it seems to be about a biting wind on a cold and grey day. Makes sense. Can't get more Dutch than that.
But the apartment, you say?
Yesterday, I moved in and I was in such hate with the place that I sat there and stared at the ceiling for a good hour. Then I put on Billie Holiday. Thankfully, I had to be at work, and hence had no time for goofy suicide attempts or even a mild depression.
CONS It's small. Real small. I don't have an oven or a microwave. All I have is a stovetop. It's all white. It lacks storage. It's on the third floor. The furniture is hideous. The sidetable in my bedroom is made of particle board and that's all. It looks like someone's unfinished shop project. There's a funny smell in the bathroom.
PROS It's in a charming neighbourhood. It's a 20 minute walk from downtown. It's close to a grocery store, and a flower shop. I can get to work in about 10 or 15 minutes with one bus. It's got a stereo. This is how I could listen to Billie Holiday and be depressed.
Something tells me that I'm going to spend a ton of time and money making this place habitable. Which is okay, cuz I guess I'll have something to do. And also because second-hand furniture, unlike second-hand clothing, is dead cheap here.
I moved my stuff there today, with the aid of a charming cabbie, who gave me his phone number (what is it with me and cabbies?) and proceeded to tell me about his friend who worked at the Scheveningen detention centre, and his other friend who was an inmate there. How did we get around to all this in a 10-minute cab ride? I have no idea. At least he didn't ask me about the Israel-Palestine situation. I think I would have jumped out of the cab.
The music has now changed to the Dandy Warhols. I have to say I'm pretty happy with this. These guys are huge here. They sold out their concert in Amsterdam like two months in advance.
Anyway. Nobody claimed the chocolates, so I guess I'll hang on to them. Oh well.
Tomorrow I'm going to Delft which is not only historically very important (William of Orange was assassinated and buried here), but also charming and full of scenic old buildings and canals. More importantly, there is an IKEA.
Oh Aleta, you sappy thing. Are you still Maritiming it? Maybe I will call you. posted by Alleen at 8:04:41 PM
Okay, to clarify a few points. Firstly, my night in Brussels was not spent in the arms of the guy at the desk, because he scared me, and because his name was Adolph. What happened was that the hostel was booked up, but there was still a bed available that had been reserved by credit card but had not been claimed. I slept in that bed, which was the top bunk in a two bunk room. Below me an irritable Dutch lady, to my right was an English girl named Anna, and below was an American whose name I forget. She was from Chicago and she was really nice. So, all I got from Adolph was an illicit free bed and an e-mail address.
Okay? Have we got it now?
Secondly, yes, Da Diepte does not mean the devil. I was fooled by the fact that the Da Diepte sign had Satan standing in hellfire on it. Da Diepte means the Depth. Which makes sense. Because if Hell is in the Depths, then ipso facto, Satan is also in the Depths. So it all makes sense. Thank you, my Afrikaans-speaking friend, for clearing that up.
Other than that, nothing really to report. Still planning on going to Antwerp this Saturday, and back to Amsterdam on Sunday to buy my tickets for Sonic Youth. I am also thinking of checking out the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club who get props for having a clever name. Now if they were playing in Da Diepte that'd be something, but actually they're playing the Paradiso. It all makes a certain kind of sense.
I miss you, sweetie! Being in Toronto is just not the same without your sass-filled presence. Not! The! Same!
Scott gave me a picture of the two of us on New Year's Eve that I will scan when I get home. You look pretty. posted by Rocketbride at 5:48:58 PM
Monday, May 20, 2002
Okay, for the eight millionth time, Blogger has erased my post.
Since that one was a literary effort that can never be duplicated, you will simply have to settle for the reader's digest version.
I'm back in Den Haag, forced to cut my Brussels trip short because of a combination of a sleepless night, complete dehydration, and way too much Brussels coffee. I had intended to stay there until today (monday), but only managed to make it until Sunday around 1pm (next time I will pay for my accomodations and have a better trip). I slept for about an hour and a half on the train back here, drooling like a great big drooly dog all over my backpack. I'm sure the other occupants of the train car thought this was sexy. In some cultures I would be prized for my ability to produce so much saliva. It's very useful no doubt, as lubrication for blowpipes and what-have-you.
I didn't leave before checking out the Museum of Chocolate, which, for 5 euros, could certainly have included more chocolate, and more exhibits, and really it could have extended beyond its one room. I have made a vow not to be suckered by things called the Museum of Chocolate in the future. They did, however, have an enormous sculpture of a naked woman made entirely from chocolate. I could become a lesbian faced with temptation like that on a regular basis. Chocoholism can get me into all sorts of trouble.
I also bought myself a gen-you-wine Belgian waffle, which was right off the waffle iron, all sticky with sugar and wonderful. I was looking for a local specialty and I was forced to sample this when I found out that the moules et frites was not available, due to moules (mussels) being out of season, and the horse steaks being right out of the question. Anyway, I learned my lesson with the herring. When sampling local specialties, stick to the sweet stuff. You can't go wrong with that in Belgium, home of the Belgian waffle and more importantly, home of Belgian chocolate. Anyone who is especially nice to me this week will get a box of these things sent their way, straight from the chocolatier.
Let me start off by saying that I'm not in London right now. I'm in Brussels, which, actually, is a very nice city, what with the Tintin and the Mannekin Pis, but hell, it's no London.
Friday afternoon I ran to the airport in a complete panic, desperate to get to my flight. I was late because I had waited around too long for my rental agent to show up. So by the time I got the airport, I ran to the check-in counter in a complete state of disarray, ready to freak. There was a mob in the airport, an angry British mob of assorted tourists, businesspeople, and football hooligans. Why? Because all the air traffic control computers in England had gone down and all flights to England had been cancelled.
This irritated me so much that I went to the airport shopping mall, bought myself a litre of pudding and went home and consumed about half.
The next morning, I got up and went to Brussels. Brussels is really nice, but, like I said, it's not London. So far I've seen a lot of old buildings, the inside of a really tacky Catholic church (I've decided that it's tackier than Vegas, which means that I now want to get married there--so for all of you with sly intentions of carrying me off and marrying me, I will only say "I do" at the Eglise St. Nicholas in Brussels), several outdoor shopping streets, a statue of a little boy peeing, an antique/flea market in the middle of the Place des Jeux auz Balles, the inside of a charming cafe (but why were they were playing Chicago--is Chicago following me?), and the inside of an expensive restaurant with a lovely sorbet, the inside of my hostel and the inside of this totally ghetto internet cafe.
I'm having a good time, so I can't really complain. I stayed at my hostel free last night because the guy at the night desk was hitting on me and because they were completely booked. But I got a nice bed anyway, though I spent the night wide awake due mostly to the fact that I'm hooked on Brussels coffee. It's so good, and yet so very strong. I have a headache that I can't seem to shake because of it, but it's almost worth it.
Yesterday, I got hit up for money by gypsy children for the first time. Today I sat in a really traditional cafe for an hour eating croissants covered in butter and jam, drinking coffee and watching the bargain hunters at the flea market go by, while two old men at the next table drank their morning coffee and argued in broken French and Arabic. I think I will come back here sometime so I can feel more European. Either that or to go that hat shop that I keep passing but never seems to be open.
