5 february 2005
I danced last nite until 5 am. I woke up this morning at 11. For a dance lesson.
Today’s intro schedule started with a sample class at the CREA, a student arts consortium. During the year they host yoga, painting, ceramics, drama, and a whole menu of other offerings for students and the general public. Today we had four choices, and since I didn’t think improvisational theater would be so successful with an international crowd, I went with hiphop / breakdancing. This was easily the highlight of the intro period, especially the part where I got to do the robot thing. The head balances were marginally less enjoyable with my general fatigue.
The program listed the afternoon activity as “Formal Welcome Reception,” which sounded about as appealing as two more hours of head balances. I tried to convince my dance class to skip out, but they all seemed to feel obligated to attend. I found this unsettling. No one wanted to go, but they felt it was important to do what the program told them to do. So I skipped alone.
I went to the office of De Key, the housing agency that handles student flats for the university. Housing in Amsterdam is extremely tight – waiting lists for rentals are years long – so when De Key offered me accommodation I snatched it up. What they offered me, however, was one apartment for January and one apartment for the rest of my stay. This weekend I had to move.
I left behind my big single room with friendly neighbors and a canal view for the unknown. But the unknown, as it turns out, is pretty fab. I now live in a student building on the Prinsengracht, one of the three canals that surround the city center. It is in the Jordaan neighborhood, one of the coolest neighborhoods to live in in the city. The Jordaan is like the West Village or the Left Bank… lots of small stone streets with cafes, galleries, bookstores, and boutiques. The Jordaan has become more upscale in the past few years, so it’s losing some of its grit, and the artists, as always, are fleeing or fled. But it’s beautiful.
My building is a ten minute walk from Amsterdam’s famous Vondelpark, and for the landscape architects among you it is also close to Katherine Gustafson’s new Westerpark. I live one block from Anne Frank’s house. This is strange.
My room is on the ground floor – no more view – but there are huge windows. It is supposed to be a double, so there is a little loft-like balcony for one of the residents, but so far no one else has showed up. It is possible I will get to live alone. The woman I was going to live with, a Russian named Natalia, found out just last week that her request for a room change had been granted. Perhaps, since she is moving last-minute, they didn’t put anyone else in her place.
Natalia’s move was a close call for me. She seems friendly, but she describes herself as “pathologically clean.” As I was moving in, she excused herself to “go disinfect the new room.” As many of you are aware, I am rarely mistaken for “pathologically clean.” I find most cleaning products far more objectionable than the dirt they are designed to eradicate. I separate cleaning activities into the essential (taking out the trash, rinsing the cutting board) and the neurotic (mopping, laundering denim). I don’t like too many dishes in the sink, and I hate hair in the bathroom. But my things tend to congregate in small and numerous piles, and my shoes prefer to roam freely about the house. (It’s hardly my fault if my possessions are gregarious.) I like to live in a space that looks like someone lives there. So Natalia’s move was definitely for the best.
My small collection of personal belongings hardly fills the two-person space, so I did a little garbage looting. (I shutter to think what Natalia would say.) Brooklynites did this all the time, but I haven’t seen any Amsterdammers do it. But I could hardly help myself when I passed a small succulent plant in a terra cotta pot sitting on top of a pile of garbage bags. Little Sander now lives on my coffee table. I also found a small orange rug and three of those reed beach mats, neatly rolled and tied up with a bow on the curb. Home sweet home.
Today’s intro schedule started with a sample class at the CREA, a student arts consortium. During the year they host yoga, painting, ceramics, drama, and a whole menu of other offerings for students and the general public. Today we had four choices, and since I didn’t think improvisational theater would be so successful with an international crowd, I went with hiphop / breakdancing. This was easily the highlight of the intro period, especially the part where I got to do the robot thing. The head balances were marginally less enjoyable with my general fatigue.
The program listed the afternoon activity as “Formal Welcome Reception,” which sounded about as appealing as two more hours of head balances. I tried to convince my dance class to skip out, but they all seemed to feel obligated to attend. I found this unsettling. No one wanted to go, but they felt it was important to do what the program told them to do. So I skipped alone.
I went to the office of De Key, the housing agency that handles student flats for the university. Housing in Amsterdam is extremely tight – waiting lists for rentals are years long – so when De Key offered me accommodation I snatched it up. What they offered me, however, was one apartment for January and one apartment for the rest of my stay. This weekend I had to move.
I left behind my big single room with friendly neighbors and a canal view for the unknown. But the unknown, as it turns out, is pretty fab. I now live in a student building on the Prinsengracht, one of the three canals that surround the city center. It is in the Jordaan neighborhood, one of the coolest neighborhoods to live in in the city. The Jordaan is like the West Village or the Left Bank… lots of small stone streets with cafes, galleries, bookstores, and boutiques. The Jordaan has become more upscale in the past few years, so it’s losing some of its grit, and the artists, as always, are fleeing or fled. But it’s beautiful.
My building is a ten minute walk from Amsterdam’s famous Vondelpark, and for the landscape architects among you it is also close to Katherine Gustafson’s new Westerpark. I live one block from Anne Frank’s house. This is strange.
My room is on the ground floor – no more view – but there are huge windows. It is supposed to be a double, so there is a little loft-like balcony for one of the residents, but so far no one else has showed up. It is possible I will get to live alone. The woman I was going to live with, a Russian named Natalia, found out just last week that her request for a room change had been granted. Perhaps, since she is moving last-minute, they didn’t put anyone else in her place.
Natalia’s move was a close call for me. She seems friendly, but she describes herself as “pathologically clean.” As I was moving in, she excused herself to “go disinfect the new room.” As many of you are aware, I am rarely mistaken for “pathologically clean.” I find most cleaning products far more objectionable than the dirt they are designed to eradicate. I separate cleaning activities into the essential (taking out the trash, rinsing the cutting board) and the neurotic (mopping, laundering denim). I don’t like too many dishes in the sink, and I hate hair in the bathroom. But my things tend to congregate in small and numerous piles, and my shoes prefer to roam freely about the house. (It’s hardly my fault if my possessions are gregarious.) I like to live in a space that looks like someone lives there. So Natalia’s move was definitely for the best.
My small collection of personal belongings hardly fills the two-person space, so I did a little garbage looting. (I shutter to think what Natalia would say.) Brooklynites did this all the time, but I haven’t seen any Amsterdammers do it. But I could hardly help myself when I passed a small succulent plant in a terra cotta pot sitting on top of a pile of garbage bags. Little Sander now lives on my coffee table. I also found a small orange rug and three of those reed beach mats, neatly rolled and tied up with a bow on the curb. Home sweet home.
posted by tortaluga at 9:20 AM
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