tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38004366443796874162024-03-16T14:52:48.473-04:00Two Beans Or Not Two BeansThe Mishaps of Two Human BeansThe Beanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09294653760778922184noreply@blogger.comBlogger383125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3800436644379687416.post-57842305158998642092016-01-16T04:56:00.000-05:002016-01-16T05:12:00.180-05:00The Abominable UpdateBarb the French Bean here. I wish you all a very belated Happy 2016, barring the recent passing of David Bowie, Alan Rickman and René Angelil.<br />
<br />
As for my own life, university studies and work have kept me at bay in terms of blogging; I've only just come out of finishing my finals for Fall term.<br />
<br />
Still, the end of my 2015 went swimmingly. I spent two weeks staying at a friend's house in Strasbourg, which gave me the opportunity to see its famous Christmas Market, visit the Alsace region, and to step into Basel, Switzerland and a couple of German border towns.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkhthq1_Gsu-RXoXuLin5nO5DorkHikcPI7C0t10FQmxpFbkTNMg7C1sAeUKHPkSZGZR2YJZAEzlGpvFuL1Ca5kwZEq8xlKt9qZ4YpmlOVa1uP34ReNZAi9XA_aAR-owN9TM5CiOQxLWE/s1600/DSC06668.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkhthq1_Gsu-RXoXuLin5nO5DorkHikcPI7C0t10FQmxpFbkTNMg7C1sAeUKHPkSZGZR2YJZAEzlGpvFuL1Ca5kwZEq8xlKt9qZ4YpmlOVa1uP34ReNZAi9XA_aAR-owN9TM5CiOQxLWE/s400/DSC06668.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The tree in Place Kléber, Strasbourg</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwMpYOXzGejL8gyyHFttG0f0-wqilxNYhhQ-zp9Z77VU1axBKpgZIy-e-UuToGjCKwsdKXPEeM13AIXHT4cLDXeO7A8tsBnRwVLgG8H_EpJf-gmRFpt8SI1_IxfsUIG5yYFhaG8c45TWA/s1600/DSC06465.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwMpYOXzGejL8gyyHFttG0f0-wqilxNYhhQ-zp9Z77VU1axBKpgZIy-e-UuToGjCKwsdKXPEeM13AIXHT4cLDXeO7A8tsBnRwVLgG8H_EpJf-gmRFpt8SI1_IxfsUIG5yYFhaG8c45TWA/s400/DSC06465.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the many Christmas decorations for sale</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL2gk4dQJXIO_DstZD2VOsQIhyBx6YINtIrEsw5IA84dbQVcIlqzWO9eI1MApHR3dngt_GqDX1o_r45td7DpgmM2Xy9biwK8H0eo3g0EX-hChEclnwTa5n6eYnXl5cFGrjNdWLUNsFUi0/s1600/DSC07188.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL2gk4dQJXIO_DstZD2VOsQIhyBx6YINtIrEsw5IA84dbQVcIlqzWO9eI1MApHR3dngt_GqDX1o_r45td7DpgmM2Xy9biwK8H0eo3g0EX-hChEclnwTa5n6eYnXl5cFGrjNdWLUNsFUi0/s400/DSC07188.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Colmar- La Petite Venise</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjequXZ_-DohoTN5NBV9w8VbDo9Jj6uf5nswvZsrQdqslnOOvoPjdEAJqJgXe1AoXerc1FwKT5ml6NFU1JVsYjwb-rtTd7JL_GOHyjtJIIsQXJKfSqaN99D2F5rtAaBK9DGNHapeCofxgA/s1600/DSC07181.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjequXZ_-DohoTN5NBV9w8VbDo9Jj6uf5nswvZsrQdqslnOOvoPjdEAJqJgXe1AoXerc1FwKT5ml6NFU1JVsYjwb-rtTd7JL_GOHyjtJIIsQXJKfSqaN99D2F5rtAaBK9DGNHapeCofxgA/s400/DSC07181.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In Colmar- La Petite Venise</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuzMCfDvdVyBXyXkXhxx6wcW5QPPHSUIj552Np3YpGWj27h2NsDhjEMOrX-v18d_iTeSALoWFUmURalYN0wIFw3lCDZNJc6wCLhqXrc5NMnKJ7wRtg8NnEsR4A1i2I_AP8OE9TRMyqC5I/s1600/DSC07420.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuzMCfDvdVyBXyXkXhxx6wcW5QPPHSUIj552Np3YpGWj27h2NsDhjEMOrX-v18d_iTeSALoWFUmURalYN0wIFw3lCDZNJc6wCLhqXrc5NMnKJ7wRtg8NnEsR4A1i2I_AP8OE9TRMyqC5I/s400/DSC07420.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Basel, Switzerland- along the Rhine</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1xlBQ-QHV-RZ22g9GkcZNKUg1RdMcdemLC-22lfnYZQ7TcSuoWMxtBiO7gnQ-yV22N9IaxjBkN7ByL7HrPxde5AEiKFajxYlux1oBaLYhdJNtVNzq6fOnwBQ0K4G4mw4yN7TnlHzWuqE/s1600/DSC07400.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1xlBQ-QHV-RZ22g9GkcZNKUg1RdMcdemLC-22lfnYZQ7TcSuoWMxtBiO7gnQ-yV22N9IaxjBkN7ByL7HrPxde5AEiKFajxYlux1oBaLYhdJNtVNzq6fOnwBQ0K4G4mw4yN7TnlHzWuqE/s400/DSC07400.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Basel town hall</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8a5rL6Aq5-839SYd1pDen5iVBHytnSndeQBHBIpbfJPRdFNlF9_9hvXX-JtcBtr4EgmwAIPTYGEJt7YDd6ZDXlG1ECNywnL34q1hqEsXaPeXjGm6uhc8H_oMIvP_o0KHWRQEBKWgnems/s1600/DSC07520.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8a5rL6Aq5-839SYd1pDen5iVBHytnSndeQBHBIpbfJPRdFNlF9_9hvXX-JtcBtr4EgmwAIPTYGEJt7YDd6ZDXlG1ECNywnL34q1hqEsXaPeXjGm6uhc8H_oMIvP_o0KHWRQEBKWgnems/s400/DSC07520.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The cathedral that overlooks the Rhine</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKHZb94Ub5QcEO01iTVFO7yBFwuKvrBwvat6beK97GSLyxI9Saz44xsSL0RLAj-1dAwAnyQk0IAhc2jvrHc4z_UmKwMoj5AuM8wjKKKVqtHTwVKpclaKjNsmSX0NI2FgB0bxYidMqXqGI/s1600/DSC07536.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKHZb94Ub5QcEO01iTVFO7yBFwuKvrBwvat6beK97GSLyxI9Saz44xsSL0RLAj-1dAwAnyQk0IAhc2jvrHc4z_UmKwMoj5AuM8wjKKKVqtHTwVKpclaKjNsmSX0NI2FgB0bxYidMqXqGI/s400/DSC07536.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Swiss public telephone booths look suspiciously like the TARDIS</td></tr>
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I wish I were kidding: I went to Germany literally to buy sausages. Mmmmmm...<br />
<br />
As of next Monday, I commence the second semester of the first year of the Masters program. I look forward to working on my thesis and keeping up with my Dutch lessons.<br />
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Oh, yes, I probably didn't mention that I am learning Dutch. To give you an idea of how hectic last semester was, the other courses that I took made Dutch the "easy" class. Now I'm going to keep learning the language for fun, even if it means dealing with the onvoltooid verleden tijd and figuring out which nouns are De- or Het-woorden.<br />
<br />
(Dutch Pro tip: MAKE EVERYTHING PLURAL.)<br />
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Also, if any Nederlands speakers can give me a helping hand in terms of conversational practice, I would be FOREVER grateful for it. It's not exactly evident to learn this language while living in France...<br />
<br />
Cheers,<br />
Barb the French BeanThe Beanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09294653760778922184noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3800436644379687416.post-31405344931875226312015-09-09T09:50:00.000-04:002015-09-09T09:50:38.679-04:00Sherlock-Style HiatusHello.<br />
<br />
After the riveting post about making Brioche from scratch, I practically disappeared from the blogosphere here at <i>Two Beans Or Not Two Beans</i>.<br />
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I just wanted to let you all know that I am not dead.<br />
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I am not dead and I will make an entrance sporting a fake drawn-on mustache and mimicking a cheesy French accent.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh_mUNrUxdvK2bCUPMk0S8ysZNjYultUzgA3jIAUhpvZFoqgutiw3qvSolCWNhzxOKt8qOxU8PJAuemXLkd7cydNBHFzVcOaOuRxnvi3iIHr88EBDUrfvzf4gGdg4Va6CWwVJMS0z65XQ/s1600/Sherlock+style+Not+Dead.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh_mUNrUxdvK2bCUPMk0S8ysZNjYultUzgA3jIAUhpvZFoqgutiw3qvSolCWNhzxOKt8qOxU8PJAuemXLkd7cydNBHFzVcOaOuRxnvi3iIHr88EBDUrfvzf4gGdg4Va6CWwVJMS0z65XQ/s400/Sherlock+style+Not+Dead.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">#FrenchBeanLives</td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
To be honest, life has been rather unstable for me since the year began. I won't bore you with all of the details, but I will explain the few key points.<br />
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After much deliberation caused by several months of unemployment, I, with the help and advice of close friends and family, decided to apply for a Masters program in France. This meant needing to amass a deluge of paperwork, photocopies and translated legal documents as per French university requirements.<br />
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That's when things started to go awry: my laptop started malfunctioning in which it refused to open any of my files or let me use Microsoft programs, including Paint and Word. Moreover, the wi-fi connection went down in my building and the then current landlord was unable to do anything about it. Seeing as how the university applications (not to mention posting blogs) relied heavily on the use of Internet, I found myself scrambling all over Le Mans to leech off the wi-fi in local cafés, dragging the nearly-moribund laptop.<br />
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This meant that blogging took a backseat to my real life priorities.<br />
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Despite all odds, I was indeed accepted to my choice university. It was such a wave of relief to have gotten my acceptance letter in the mail back in June. However, this meant that I had to move once again...for the fourth time in six years.<br />
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I said good-bye to Le Mans and, after completing the visa and student paperwork, welcomed Angers into my life.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD0NLgozNL2jjdBtIo0VuLbW5VB-BtFprAI6Rgn7yciwWiHMbucfdtNdhLfGFt1OV1PUeGPfzb-HSzZQen7bVkcv0U8vKF18IOEabmNfgNtmJaJSHgB4EOOjRap6tE9L8dUIJuJrD2p70/s1600/Angers+Castle.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD0NLgozNL2jjdBtIo0VuLbW5VB-BtFprAI6Rgn7yciwWiHMbucfdtNdhLfGFt1OV1PUeGPfzb-HSzZQen7bVkcv0U8vKF18IOEabmNfgNtmJaJSHgB4EOOjRap6tE9L8dUIJuJrD2p70/s400/Angers+Castle.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The famous Angevin castle </td></tr>
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Being accepted by l'Université d'Angers means that a certain aspect of my life has come full circle.<br />
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Back in 2008, while relishing the profound interest I have for the French language, I had contemplated in using my Alma Mater's study abroad program to do a summer semester of intensive French lessons in Angers. Except my university canceled the study abroad program for that very year. Dejected, I lamented not having been able to do my university coursework in France and in a city as lovely as Angers.<br />
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Now, several years on, I find myself in the odd situation of starting my Masters program there.<br />
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I'm absolutely petrified at the prospect of studying in France, yet for the first time in several months, I am hopeful that things are going to turn out just fine.<br />
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At least, things <i>will</i> turn out fine provided that I stay on top of the paperwork and photocopies...<br />
<br />
Barb the French Bean<br />
<br />The Beanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09294653760778922184noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3800436644379687416.post-16329436424321069152015-03-06T16:39:00.000-05:002015-03-08T04:23:31.504-04:00Adventures in Brioche-Makin' (with recipe)In the hectic side project that is dealing with my life, I have temporarily forgotten to update my little corner of the Internet.<br />
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Today, with my apologies, I offer you all a glimpse of the activity that I have been working at for the past month or so: brioche baking.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh3o54ELb4ImO-PRrjY8hPY58lxbhSUfMG-bX6SMPVkk1SMz7mTRvwnz0Ng4XeH4PLMJaOXoNANqsn-x3vN4tEsRspH-M64O_hcMkUioLoGgkG7G_wkdufrhI66O4IhBViR9ZuvCDPtac/s1600/For+France.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh3o54ELb4ImO-PRrjY8hPY58lxbhSUfMG-bX6SMPVkk1SMz7mTRvwnz0Ng4XeH4PLMJaOXoNANqsn-x3vN4tEsRspH-M64O_hcMkUioLoGgkG7G_wkdufrhI66O4IhBViR9ZuvCDPtac/s1600/For+France.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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The urge to make my own brioche started from mere curiosity. I wanted to embark on the journey of making this traditional French bread...and balked at the idea that the entire process would take around fourteen hours.<br />
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However, most of the time in question involved waiting for the dough to rise.<br />
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Making a brioche (without a machine, mind you) can at times be frustrating, especially when the result you envisioned is far from the reality.<br />
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I offer, as an example, photographic evidence of what I entitle Brioche #1. <br />
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I won't sugarcoat my actions: Brioche #1 was a failure from the very beginning. I had used too much liquid which gave the dough a very fluid consistency, even after having dumped extra flour on it.<br />
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According to some tips that I had read, the brioche dough needed to proof for approximately ten hours in the refrigerator. Since my fridge's capacity to chill items proves highly effective, I worried that the temperature would slow down the yeast. Despite my better knowledge, I covered the bowl with a damp towel and set it in the fridge.<br />
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Ten hours later, the dough had hardened and the stiff towel formed a statue making an interesting cloth interpretation of a small table.<br />
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After waiting four extra hours for the dough to de-frost, it became runny once again, albeit in double of its original volume.<br />
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When I finally deemed the dough ready for shaping (after fourteen hours), I greased a pan with a knob of unsalted butter and divided the dough. As I found the braided technique too daunting for the first try, I thought that I would instead make five pull-apart briochins. I covered the pan with some aluminum foil and nestled it into the mini counter-top oven that has the bad habit of burning everything.<br />
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I started out with this:<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirHVocoZGxgxkvgiDSu_ceaqoUi89mltKOfGpm-6GldadHulqa7T37TdQrhpS2vHLA2VTwk1yqWk4_WKH1fIMmS6wkiWGT4Bt-wyWol8HFzHWt8JR-FfWVHfqAu3g37c_7tir1kjlOSKE/s1600/Brioche+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirHVocoZGxgxkvgiDSu_ceaqoUi89mltKOfGpm-6GldadHulqa7T37TdQrhpS2vHLA2VTwk1yqWk4_WKH1fIMmS6wkiWGT4Bt-wyWol8HFzHWt8JR-FfWVHfqAu3g37c_7tir1kjlOSKE/s1600/Brioche+1.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If you look closely, the dough's appearance is not at all smooth...</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzy7yF2T_kcNGLZCCHpjhooLl2arhRDzrOYNYxI3MvF7lUU5yOEGv7Exr8WTjFPaWFIh2CgZccic9USKzCd7iwp9f5lVSy3-SshF7x3nU_M-hL0hFbXFbr2PmricwemGitFmwXm6KZbAE/s1600/Brioche+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzy7yF2T_kcNGLZCCHpjhooLl2arhRDzrOYNYxI3MvF7lUU5yOEGv7Exr8WTjFPaWFIh2CgZccic9USKzCd7iwp9f5lVSy3-SshF7x3nU_M-hL0hFbXFbr2PmricwemGitFmwXm6KZbAE/s1600/Brioche+4.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Three hours later: more rising and covered in an egg wash</td></tr>
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<br />
...And ended up with this.<br />
<div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeILmVuKc4DVBOomfyvWl4vFMbzh4pBWmqg8zBhJ7BRECWuRa0GJvQqoBCuaoJJdkWZa1b4k5J4vA9OqlVXepjSSwPGYZnV7lloTZRafduzBiUiK7L7knq4uPw1bF_Da8uglQo_2p4w0g/s1600/Brioche+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeILmVuKc4DVBOomfyvWl4vFMbzh4pBWmqg8zBhJ7BRECWuRa0GJvQqoBCuaoJJdkWZa1b4k5J4vA9OqlVXepjSSwPGYZnV7lloTZRafduzBiUiK7L7knq4uPw1bF_Da8uglQo_2p4w0g/s1600/Brioche+5.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I only *wish* that I could have had a photo of the look of disappointment on my face when I saw this brioche come out of the oven.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<i>C'est la vie.</i><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
However, this failure did not deter me from trying again. I made Brioches #2 (success), #3 (nice form, but the dough was too hard), #4 (pretty good), and finally #5 (success).</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I am glad to say that with Brioche #5's achievement, I feel confident enough to post a lesson on how to try to make your own brioche at home. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b><span style="color: #cc0000;">A fair warning</span></b>: I have the horrible tendency to eyeball the ingredients. I also learned how to make the brioche using grams and Celsius; sorry about that, fellow Imperial-unit users. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Brioche- no machine required</span></b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b>Ingredients</b></div>
<div>
200 grams of wheat flour<br />
2 eggs<br />
75 to 85-ish grams of softened salted butter<br />
30 mL-ish of warm milk<br />
2 teaspoons of cassonade (brown/turbinado sugar)<br />
1 sachet/5 grams of brioche yeast (regular dry yeast works as well, but the taste will change)<br />
Some salt to taste (but not too much since the butter already contains salt)<br />
<br />
<b>Egg wash + Pan</b><br />
1 egg yolk<br />
A splash of milk<br />
Some extra butter to grease the pan<br />
<br />
<b>Utensils</b><br />
Large bowl<br />
Wooden spoon<br />
Fork<br />
Damp towel<br />
Pan<br />
Basting brush<br />
A firm grasp of sanity<br />
Killer flexor and extensor muscles<br />
Time<br />
<br />
<b>Steps </b><br />
1. Divide the butter into little squares. I do this first to allow for the butter to soften.<br />
<br />
2. In a bowl, mix the dry ingredients.<br />
<br />
3. Add the warm milk and stir with a fork. The milk shouldn't be too hot; otherwise, it might kill the yeast.<br />
<br />
4. Add eggs and mix with a wooden spoon.<br />
<br />
The mixture will look very sticky at this point. If it looks/feels TOO dry, don't be afraid to add just a smidgen of milk.<br />
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5. Incorporate the butter into the dough in three parts. Use a fork to crush the butter.<br />
<br />
6. Try to mix dough with a wooden spoon.<br />
<br />
7. Give up and use hands. Thus commences the battle with the sticky dough to make it do what you want.<br />
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8. After a while, the dough will start form stringy strands but still remain horribly sticky. Keep battling.<br />
<br />
9. Get a stiff pain in your lower arm. Shake arm for a few seconds before you resume the battle to mix the enemy.<br />
<br />
10. Eventually, you'll notice that the strands will look more like a homogeneous mass as they start to cling to each other to form a ball. The dough will start sticking less and less to the surface you are working on (and your hands).<br />
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11. Knead dough and form it into a ball that has a slight even sheen from the glistening mixture of butter and wheat.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPvceY_fgjfxgSoG40ZPe1ey7uPA0ccbxNXCZzFT4aBj2EzNeDb9oOccd022TteRbEf_Sq6zNfbu6pZtIn7QcPBlK5unPwEsebf4QoYupTPhKR7uo35t29_wT17pjGsGtvPDUydOK6a5o/s1600/Brioche+2.0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPvceY_fgjfxgSoG40ZPe1ey7uPA0ccbxNXCZzFT4aBj2EzNeDb9oOccd022TteRbEf_Sq6zNfbu6pZtIn7QcPBlK5unPwEsebf4QoYupTPhKR7uo35t29_wT17pjGsGtvPDUydOK6a5o/s1600/Brioche+2.0.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kinda like this (this picture of Brioche #2 will have to serve as a substitute as I hadn't thought of taking a picture of Brioche #5 during this step)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
12. Cover the bowl with a damp (not dripping) towel and place it near a heat source/in a room with no drafts.<br />
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13. Allow for 7 to 10 hours for the dough to proof. Yes. Really.<br />
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14. After the 7 to 10 hours have passed, dump the risen dough onto a surface and flatten it.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7uaNJcrDr93CDjqv_KVXNYtDSuhelnJlUcx4smQ6nNOfVuhc5Mpk0eXwGJ6nMr0VcaUPgWJtz9jrjkiucC0wgS1Y9_PIW3cuOdq4Zq_eYh1gYcR_SjnpbaWLq_SnpK44j51ieE3KQUq0/s1600/DSC04711.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7uaNJcrDr93CDjqv_KVXNYtDSuhelnJlUcx4smQ6nNOfVuhc5Mpk0eXwGJ6nMr0VcaUPgWJtz9jrjkiucC0wgS1Y9_PIW3cuOdq4Zq_eYh1gYcR_SjnpbaWLq_SnpK44j51ieE3KQUq0/s1600/DSC04711.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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15. Divide the flattened dough into three segments<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD0PmXB3ypd9fsNcrInriry6pIf5XXSK6dx_0chqCv170wObaXliKwxW_tH4OEq8ggBxLGGcxxhNmq8GVHCEkr5KM7ZDkblcBcSWSLyMnbFDgUXfSEX6nPOUaPwF_NNlp4AlNAoHtnAKg/s1600/DSC04712.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD0PmXB3ypd9fsNcrInriry6pIf5XXSK6dx_0chqCv170wObaXliKwxW_tH4OEq8ggBxLGGcxxhNmq8GVHCEkr5KM7ZDkblcBcSWSLyMnbFDgUXfSEX6nPOUaPwF_NNlp4AlNAoHtnAKg/s1600/DSC04712.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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16. Roll each segment into a long tube.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlmXiOdqz9gi6vxd_Ymh_2Pc7EK1zSlQLXLED8chGXQBZFQ1Ml6VH-WfDcz99pgk0Z8jVp1BGr0bnNjxNeyt01omZhVEpYcaomPGh78bnrpkv-Y44Aoi6SR4TRdpOSBenk0ysgGv9WigY/s1600/DSC04713.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlmXiOdqz9gi6vxd_Ymh_2Pc7EK1zSlQLXLED8chGXQBZFQ1Ml6VH-WfDcz99pgk0Z8jVp1BGr0bnNjxNeyt01omZhVEpYcaomPGh78bnrpkv-Y44Aoi6SR4TRdpOSBenk0ysgGv9WigY/s1600/DSC04713.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiomdDx6kzVWUChJJKn1dPcQKmjvEfuo4QHR0Xqw2hvYkaXRLOd_q3__QIUTRwn-AtC2Bujnr7BxFA1pH8luKC1U8g0GHxRh3vG-bM3FzTSu-M61c5RtN4kIZQntSJR5uJqsxjtRPCNYu4/s1600/DSC04714.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiomdDx6kzVWUChJJKn1dPcQKmjvEfuo4QHR0Xqw2hvYkaXRLOd_q3__QIUTRwn-AtC2Bujnr7BxFA1pH8luKC1U8g0GHxRh3vG-bM3FzTSu-M61c5RtN4kIZQntSJR5uJqsxjtRPCNYu4/s1600/DSC04714.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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17. Align the three tubes to braid them.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhydi1zlEQb6DcT2su15IHoBt5uowbBS7pmWLbSEFAb_Ge2mVrcYRq79QAIvWkQ3Ov4HR0d_FsAmy2seqWKEEiodUB7KBTmlNit1WZ1I-yvOD6xqIitL3Vsn9pLYX2QO72fFC5v-UYuOp8/s1600/DSC04715.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhydi1zlEQb6DcT2su15IHoBt5uowbBS7pmWLbSEFAb_Ge2mVrcYRq79QAIvWkQ3Ov4HR0d_FsAmy2seqWKEEiodUB7KBTmlNit1WZ1I-yvOD6xqIitL3Vsn9pLYX2QO72fFC5v-UYuOp8/s1600/DSC04715.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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18. Braid as if it were soft, stretchy hair.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifAt6ws5e7f9UGjLFj_ZfwZ0yuscDLw9x60LMp1b2QGE66rPSra29Yrch9nvv54XgExDaE3h3xM2RamsNJJ7qutd4Os8Xrg0N1kyOvnHk3Eo81zB5WumtPE5b_nY_IbT0xjouzkhUnZBU/s1600/DSC04716.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifAt6ws5e7f9UGjLFj_ZfwZ0yuscDLw9x60LMp1b2QGE66rPSra29Yrch9nvv54XgExDaE3h3xM2RamsNJJ7qutd4Os8Xrg0N1kyOvnHk3Eo81zB5WumtPE5b_nY_IbT0xjouzkhUnZBU/s1600/DSC04716.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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19. Transfer the braided dough to the buttered pan.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik17wa4ctMPYAl6JCGLExwaYI5v9cTs3HONemstX4X2gqF97ywHdg5dFpUdVLN9Xzx3cJeYzfHJU_vnahKE10KxaeaP5OUHmANMpKaI7rAQpXHETHj3YpDeFENWYx28lse3yxzpea4qzc/s1600/DSC04717.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik17wa4ctMPYAl6JCGLExwaYI5v9cTs3HONemstX4X2gqF97ywHdg5dFpUdVLN9Xzx3cJeYzfHJU_vnahKE10KxaeaP5OUHmANMpKaI7rAQpXHETHj3YpDeFENWYx28lse3yxzpea4qzc/s1600/DSC04717.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgBQOqn3UWn73Jvzh10WL0xHlMS7aqrcgZ0pMmKjN8RPyMYLE4q1GHL8LZkfGz1QnwvAIS4e8Aq3Tws1Sv-Kq4bPZ2PgYYotjMOlYKcX0s3iZ2Gr5YQfFJ79SBHuivNOsKc0jRM-MuJiA/s1600/DSC04718.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgBQOqn3UWn73Jvzh10WL0xHlMS7aqrcgZ0pMmKjN8RPyMYLE4q1GHL8LZkfGz1QnwvAIS4e8Aq3Tws1Sv-Kq4bPZ2PgYYotjMOlYKcX0s3iZ2Gr5YQfFJ79SBHuivNOsKc0jRM-MuJiA/s1600/DSC04718.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilwGJ0mSqy5I72RPpit9rasj_8f3qiROESuiYFUg44N6MLjXVvIewwwK4BBjekRw3TDPWAje_ioiAnhBi3n8t_4pD64CKhcy_zvb3967yYRiO_UMDpBxHy4SbxlHFyJQJsVnsl0Mjsp_U/s1600/DSC04719.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilwGJ0mSqy5I72RPpit9rasj_8f3qiROESuiYFUg44N6MLjXVvIewwwK4BBjekRw3TDPWAje_ioiAnhBi3n8t_4pD64CKhcy_zvb3967yYRiO_UMDpBxHy4SbxlHFyJQJsVnsl0Mjsp_U/s1600/DSC04719.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's what I get for having a small pan that fits into the mini counter-top oven...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
20. Cover the pan with a damp towel and let the bread rise for three more hours.<br />
<br />
Yes. REALLY.<br />
<br />
Be patient.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3k5PT-U71ASRhMHktHgcpRIRYTVWHnpTjdPhgg1XPEKAIpP6wbScZRyMiRHIpXOKeh4B169BK225wYQS7ud4-8sZshUXrqVQJ9SibP1pbzZXmbLrpJPmtCVsmYlTi-81KzsGy0WxN078/s1600/DSC04722.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3k5PT-U71ASRhMHktHgcpRIRYTVWHnpTjdPhgg1XPEKAIpP6wbScZRyMiRHIpXOKeh4B169BK225wYQS7ud4-8sZshUXrqVQJ9SibP1pbzZXmbLrpJPmtCVsmYlTi-81KzsGy0WxN078/s1600/DSC04722.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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21. Once it has risen, cover it with the egg wash using a basting brush.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Ge7B34NJX5lplo_gAzuPw23VO035bgRmH8_T0o0IHnaHPUQvZTX6kZVgvX7zPkJHcDZYG56a4w3cu0LA3s9EbeqSZIDbAsdtGPL9C_I_rLKwRTvMHirHPe2n0C8qi1OdFS2jy1lLnSs/s1600/DSC04723.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Ge7B34NJX5lplo_gAzuPw23VO035bgRmH8_T0o0IHnaHPUQvZTX6kZVgvX7zPkJHcDZYG56a4w3cu0LA3s9EbeqSZIDbAsdtGPL9C_I_rLKwRTvMHirHPe2n0C8qi1OdFS2jy1lLnSs/s1600/DSC04723.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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22. Bake at 200 degrees Celsius for 40 minutes. </div>
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(For those of you using a mini counter-top oven like me, cover the bread with some aluminum foil and uncover during the last ten minutes to allow the bread to brown.)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWouxOZNawZlCxGRhWLq_01SyU4jyNayvYyBFkgN2U1e0mxrKoN7aDcibXTKoNtTk4wFwMl7KqISRT0sEY_hnacDrV-yHa6aGDyWRajpRorUfHIdoyrBWFZ_JGaYSqWYG5I4t94mH-7Sg/s1600/DSC04726.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWouxOZNawZlCxGRhWLq_01SyU4jyNayvYyBFkgN2U1e0mxrKoN7aDcibXTKoNtTk4wFwMl7KqISRT0sEY_hnacDrV-yHa6aGDyWRajpRorUfHIdoyrBWFZ_JGaYSqWYG5I4t94mH-7Sg/s1600/DSC04726.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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23. Allow the bread to cool off for two hours before nomming.<br />
<br />
24. Nom.<br />
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<br />
Barb the French Bean</div>
The Beanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09294653760778922184noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3800436644379687416.post-9163467611948685102015-01-08T03:38:00.000-05:002015-01-08T03:43:17.929-05:00Reflections on YesterdayFirst of all, I wish you a belated<i> Bonne Année</i> to everyone.<br />
<br />
Yesterday, the headquarters of the controversial <i>Charlie Hebdo</i> newspaper faced an attack which resulted in the deaths of twelve people, including four of the magazine's cartoonists.<br />
<br />
It took me nearly half a day to piece together that information before coming to the realization of what had happened.<br />
<br />
I received the news, shortly before lunchtime, that a police officer in Paris had been shot. I wasn't entirely apathetic to the event, but I needed to have my lunch and be on my way to meet someone in town. Moreover, coming from a cultural background saturated in gun violence, the knowledge of yet another attack didn't really surprise me anymore.<br />
<br />
I had my lunch, drank my coffee, brushed my teeth, and went to town.<br />
<br />
When I got home a few hours later, I slowly began to discover the extent of that violent attack.<br />
<br />
My recollections transported me to a time in September when I was a fourteen-year-old high school student sitting in the middle of her second period science class. The vice principal's voice echoed on the intercom and, in a couple of succinct lines, revealed the tragedy that had occurred that morning in our country. The confusion numbed me. Logic put forth a shield of disbelief. In the hours that followed, my teenager self would have to accept the reality.<br />
<br />
I also remember the global outpouring of condolences. To mark the solidarity, France's leader famously quipped "Today, we are all Americans."<br />
<br />
Yesterday, I didn't have a high school principal break the news to me. It happened via Facebook. Amid the barrage of links to news reports and of the video recorded of the attack, the all-too-familiar coping mechanism of outright denial disappeared instantaneously.<br />
<br />
This had happened in my second home.<br />
<br />
I couldn't remain alone. I needed to be around others. I walked to the centre-ville. In Le Mans, Place de la République became the gathering point for mourning. A sea of huddled dark coats surrounded by metal barricades greeted my eyes. So many people had come out on this cold winter's night.<br />
<br />
I then went to a friend's house to have dinner. The television reports shared intermittent images of candlelit vigils being held all over France coupled with the harrowing scenes of people fleeing death. I couldn't help but remember how the news back in September 2001 played back in a similar fashion.<br />
<br />
Coming home once again, I discovered that people had rallied under the phrase "Je suis Charlie." I am Charlie.<br />
<br />
I likened it to "Today, we are all Americans." I found it strange how people had chosen to identify as being Charlie rather than French. Why not state the nationality?<br />
<br />
I began to wonder what "Je suis Charlie" could mean. Yes, it could mean respecting those who were lost at the <i>Charlie Hebdo</i> headquarters.<br />
<br />
It could mean defending the freedom of speech for which the cartoonists had been slain. Freedom of speech knows no cultural borders or boundaries and, in an ideal world, remains protected. <br />
<br />
I myself may not have agreed with the manner in which the cartoonists chose to express themselves. I found their humor, while undeniably witty, to be far too crass, even offensive, for my enjoyment. But even in my disagreement, I recognize that the actions taken to silence them should not have occurred.<br />
<br />
The French are always ready to give their unabashed opinions and be vocal about the things that matter. Even if the goal is to start a conversation, they will tell you what they think whether you like it or not.<br />
<br />
They are, after all, Franks.<br />
<br />
In the wake of the heinous attack, I see a manifested threat to liberty. The <i>liberté</i> drenched in the blood of the slain. We won't stand for that.<br />
<br />
Today, we are all Charlie. Let us not forget it.<br />
<br />
-Barb the French Bean<br />
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<br />The Beanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09294653760778922184noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3800436644379687416.post-40296947792989248632014-11-17T17:30:00.000-05:002014-11-17T17:30:13.347-05:00Punishment for the Perpetually Late: The Red LightI've got a confession to make: I have a problem with being on time. In <a href="http://twobeansornottwobeans.blogspot.fr/2012/02/concept-and-reality-of-cuban-time.html">previous</a> <a href="http://twobeansornottwobeans.blogspot.fr/2014/05/tales-of-perpetually-late-no-luck-in.html">posts</a>, I have hinted at my tendency of never being prompt, but I have downplayed how chronic my condition is.<br />
<br />
Ever since I was a child and well into my adulthood, this self-imposed burden has at times rendered me a pariah among my punctual acquaintances. While they often assure me that arriving a few minutes late is no big deal, I know that in my heart of hearts, as they stare at me with their critical eyes, they lie.<br />
<br />
You would think the solutions to this tardiness would be simple. "Get a watch!" a member from the invisible audience suggests.<br />
<br />
But I've already got one.<br />
<br />
"Set the alarm for an earlier time than the actual designated time!" shouts another as a helpful proposal.<br />
<br />
Nope. Doesn't work. On the contrary, it's worse! Knowing about the extra time will further perpetuate the lackadaisical response on taking my sweet time.<br />
<br />
"<i>Well, then</i>," the frustrated audience member exclaims though gritted teeth, "why don't you simply stop being so lazy, get off your butt and just GO?"<br />
<br />
You are asking me to demonstrate non-existent motivation. Fat chance.<br />
<br />
At this point, the audience gives up on this hopeless situation of expecting me to arrive on time and instead decides to claim that I am simply "fashionably late."<br />
<br />
But there is no reprieve for the perpetually late. Trying to fight against what comes naturally to us is futile.<br />
<br />
Yet despite our stolid nature at habitually disrespecting opening and closing hours and respecting appointments, people can witness some rare occasions in which we make the effort to arrive on time by leaving our homes early.<br />
<br />
When those infrequent moments happen, an unfortunate circumstance will occur that impedes our otherwise timely arrival. It discourages us from ever trying to be prompt again.<br />
<br />
However, I do not believe that these circumstances are purely coincidental.<br />
<br />
Call it what you want: atonement, comeuppance, karma, just desserts, sweet vengeance. These earthly punishments are manifested in a variety of forms.<br />
<br />
Today, I shall cover the first form, which involves facing a delay while waiting for a pedestrian crosswalk light to change.<br />
<br />
Inevitably, on the one day you find yourself speeding to an appointment as fast as your legs can carry you, heart pounding furiously in your chest and your lungs strained to their full capacity, there will be a red light that brings you to a halt.<br />
<br />
To make matters worse, the nefarious soul who was in charge of programming the light has deemed that said light will display the crimson feature for an indefinite period.<br />
<br />
An entire lifetime can pass before your eyes as you wait for the little strutting green man to flash into view.<br />
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By the time the light changes to green, you'll have aged to the point in which your hypothetical future grandkids will need to assist you in crossing the street.<br />
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Realistically, this situation would never happen in France for the French are avid jaywalkers.<br />
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Barb the French BeanThe Beanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09294653760778922184noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3800436644379687416.post-40022954369298531862014-11-03T10:36:00.001-05:002014-11-03T10:36:19.979-05:00French-Time: A Guide to Dealing with the Subleties of the French TimetableIn the past, I have dedicated a post to discussing what "<a href="http://twobeansornottwobeans.blogspot.fr/2012/02/concept-and-reality-of-cuban-time.html">Cuban-time</a>" entails. This cultural analysis was only a warm-up aimed at the task of deciphering the rhythm of French life.<br />
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While living in France has its undeniable advantages, it's not all fun and games for any new Expat flung into the throws of this sometimes confusing culture.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoqrEonOsrXasQM6biawFn8_jvGGyuOOXxdO3Xqg8FFyD8WWCwKnG-a6ZAsboiKdo3szYuSK8lrcU_9d9tDxmiBJ8sNy5LSkrXMmfdyn0-YMQutvqm8LHeFHgYXq52fNYUUE7ii6QZCRk/s1600/French+Joke+Tourist+drinking+wine+at+caf%C3%A9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoqrEonOsrXasQM6biawFn8_jvGGyuOOXxdO3Xqg8FFyD8WWCwKnG-a6ZAsboiKdo3szYuSK8lrcU_9d9tDxmiBJ8sNy5LSkrXMmfdyn0-YMQutvqm8LHeFHgYXq52fNYUUE7ii6QZCRk/s1600/French+Joke+Tourist+drinking+wine+at+caf%C3%A9.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>*BADUM-PSSH*</i> (Seriously, though, wine is said to be reserved for lunch and dinner to complement the meal. Drinking wine outside of those hours makes you look like an alcoholic.)</td></tr>
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The general unspoken rules involved in what I call French-time can have some rather elusive features. However, thanks to sheer cultural immersion, I have through my observations learned the slew of nuances involved in French-time.<br />
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Throughout this post, I will make use of several acronyms, because that is the French way.<br />
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Let's start off with the most obvious of them all: "Bonjour-Time."<br />
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<b>1) Bonjour-Time* (BT)</b>: The small window between 00.001 and 2 seconds it takes for you to establish the vital greeting with a person from whom a particular service** is or may be expected (bus drivers, store clerks, cashiers, SNCF workers), acquaintances or friends**.<br />
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<i><span style="color: #cc0000;"><b>Failure to act within this brief time frame may result with the interacting French person to exhibit a silent, glacial glare or to state an ironic reprimand of how polite you are.</b> </span></i><br />
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<b>2) Au Revoir-Time (ART):</b> It must be enacted at all costs, preferably 3 seconds <i>prior</i> to leaving the premises. May be used, <i>at a bare minimum</i>, 00.001 second before exiting through the door.<br />
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The punishment for neglecting ART will result with you being shamed from ever showing your face again. For, lo, the French have a rather impressive talent for remembering every single person who has slighted them for not engaging in BT and ART.<br />
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<b>3) New Year Greeting-Time (NYGT)</b>: the crucial moment in which you wish your friends, family, work colleagues, potential lover, boss and pet goldfish "<i>Bonne année!</i>" the first time you encounter or communicate with them within the new year. This window of greeting is understood to occur during the month of January yet may extend well into February.<br />
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The <i>faux pas</i> of failing to enact on this expected duty will result in ostracism, broken friendships and lots of finger pointing at the village idiot (you).<br />
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<b>4) Apéro-Time (AT)</b>; The thirty to sixty minutes before dinner in which it is acceptable to have an alcoholic beverage and snack foods. Usually better if done in the company of friends and family at the end of DPT. Otherwise, it's just a little sad to be having a conversation about existentialism by yourself.<br />
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<b>5) Dinner Party-Time (DPT)</b>: Guests are promptly expected to arrive a minimum of fifteen minutes after the designated time. Try to avoid arriving early or on time lest the dinner host happens to not be French. AT will take place shortly upon arrival.<br />
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<b>6) Coffee Break-Time (CBT)</b>: occurs in two or three intervals throughout the day (10 a.m., after lunch and 4 p.m.). CBT may also finalize a wonderful session started by DPT.<br />
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<b>7) SNCF-Time (SNCFT)***</b>: The fifteen to twenty minutes it takes for the electronic boards to display the train's track number.<br />
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<b>8) Strike Season (SS)</b>: The period between September 1st to July 31st in which French unionists become disgruntled with government/company policies and remind them who's in charge by disrupting or withholding crucial societal functions (transportation, education, distribution of pharmaceutical goods).<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Pharmacy on strike." I can't make this stuff up. </td></tr>
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<b>9) Off-Strike Season (OSS), a.k.a. <i>Les Vacances</i>:</b> The period between August 1st to August 31st in which no-one bothers to go on strike because the weather is too nice.<br />
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<b>*</b>The same standard applies to Bonsoir-Time (not to be confused with BT) should you need to greet the French person within the evening hours.<br />
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<b>**</b>As a general rule, you only need to use BT once throughout the day, especially with colleagues. Repetition of BT will garner a series of funny, wide-eyed looks in which your fellow Frenchies will wonder if you are being rude, if you are unfortunate to have short-term memory because you forget that you already saw them, or, at a push, are irreparably brain damaged. </div>
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If, by some reason, there is a situation which requires you to return to see a particular person after you've applied ART, the phrase "Re-bonjour" may be used. </div>
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<b>***</b>Delays or abrupt cancellations with SNCFT are to be expected as the majority of the train schedules coincide with SS. </div>
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Learning this guideline by heart will make your way of navigating through the cultural minefield of <i>faux pas</i> a little bit easier. </div>
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Barb the French Bean</div>
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The Beanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09294653760778922184noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3800436644379687416.post-63052904605839062022014-10-30T07:02:00.000-04:002014-10-30T11:21:07.573-04:00Last-Minute Costume Ideas Need some costume ideas this Halloween? Are you in a panic to find a cheap, affordable, inexpensive, shoddy, half-assed, borderline offensive costume? Well, you've come to the right place!<br />
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<b>1) Stereotypical Frenchie/Insert Nationality You Wish to Insult</b><br />
Go to your local Forever 21/H&M/Marshalls/whatever cheap clothing store is nearby and buy a striped shirt and beret. Go to a bakery and buy a baguette. Carry the baguette as a prop.<br />
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If you are in France, merely recycle clothes from your closet and use the half-eaten bit of baguette that is still lingering from lunchtime.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Yes, I am being sarcastic.)</td></tr>
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<i><span style="color: #cc0000;"><b>Nota bene</b></span></i>: this costume is probably not <b>that</b> good of an idea if you are in France, as it would merely look as if you are just walking home from the <i>boulangerie</i> sporting a simple <i>marinière</i> and, for some quirky reason, a beret.<br />
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For those of you with a bigger budget who want to poke fun at us Americans, you have two Stereotypical American options: the Country/Cowboy toting a (hopefully) fake gun, or the poorly-dressed "<a href="http://www.peopleofwalmart.com/">People of Wal-Mart</a>"-esque American clutching for dear life to a greasy McDonald's bag (with Diet Coke) and riding an obesity scooter while holding a '<i>Murica #1</i> foam finger. The obesity scooter may be fashioned out of a bike and some painted cardboard boxes. Fat suit may or may not be required.<br />
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<b>2) Mummy</b><br />
Use white toilet paper to fashion a shirt and a pair of trousers for the mummy's bandages.<br />
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<span style="color: #cc0000;"><b><i>Warning</i></b></span>: While white toilet paper is available, be careful using French toilet paper as it comes in shades of pink, blue, yellow, lavender and orange. These colors may prove inadequate to fabricate a mummy costume.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgshkuiD8ZEExhpl-DLR_q55cLhTo-XxAzgkZK1bfSN1Edfc1MUjOkjo1zg6iQsQH5MvXOZKAqLqH_9cbP4m8NXdKFFXwpxKDp-tbXA41RWRMyDpHtFMFv_xiuz9E3-_m4x0F7K2Yt1sfw/s1600/DSC04047.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgshkuiD8ZEExhpl-DLR_q55cLhTo-XxAzgkZK1bfSN1Edfc1MUjOkjo1zg6iQsQH5MvXOZKAqLqH_9cbP4m8NXdKFFXwpxKDp-tbXA41RWRMyDpHtFMFv_xiuz9E3-_m4x0F7K2Yt1sfw/s1600/DSC04047.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Be jealous of my pink toilet paper. (It was orange last week.)</td></tr>
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On the other hand, you could potentially use the different colored toilet paper to be a gay-friendly Mummy.<br />
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<b>3) Fumbling 20-Something Who Has No Idea What to Do with His/Her Life</b><br />
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Wait. That may not be an actual costume. Skip this option.<br />
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<b>4) A SWAG-YOLO Bro</b><br />
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The clothing choices required are enough to scare anybody: wife-beater, '80s-style sneakers and an awkwardly-perched baseball cap with the not-removed shiny stickers are a <i>must</i>. Don't forget to accessorize with some fake tan, bling and those weird shutter sunglasses that probably only exist to impair your vision while giving your face the oddest tan lines ever.<br />
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This costume will prove to be highly-effective among your Hipster friends who know you are ironically donning the SWAG-YOLO Bro look for personal amusement.<br />
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<b>5) Hipster</b><br />
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This costume will prove to be highly-effective among your SWAG-YOLO Bro friends who know you are ironically donning the Hipster look for personal amusement.<br />
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Get a haphazard variety of clothes from a local Goodwill/Salvation Army. Or, at a push, steal the clothes off a homeless man's/Hipster's back for a more authentic costume. Don't forget to accessorize with dyed hair (preferably an unnatural color), a handlebar mustache and pair of black, nerdy horn-rimmed glasses that you would have never, <i>ever</i> dreamt of wearing twenty years ago for the fear of oncoming ridicule by your peers.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibEWO47ZIbmyPJ-lY9KPpwsWU2LIXx0k8WmJUAHVU5IJWltwiHoW8Lk951NNvnHV-sw-4a4rnHxCeS4HYezg86D3l8oX9BDzJSdVNgWUQjtlqCVOcThYpV72duNjxAb-fu1z9ExsWYfBM/s1600/Hipster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibEWO47ZIbmyPJ-lY9KPpwsWU2LIXx0k8WmJUAHVU5IJWltwiHoW8Lk951NNvnHV-sw-4a4rnHxCeS4HYezg86D3l8oX9BDzJSdVNgWUQjtlqCVOcThYpV72duNjxAb-fu1z9ExsWYfBM/s1600/Hipster.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>6) Zombie</b><br />
<br />
Stay up the night before getting absolutely blind drunk. Walk around the whole day plastered with a murderous hangover that renders you incapable of processing any cognitive thought and keeps you in a moribund, yet somehow still functioning, state. Accessorize with <i>fake </i>blood<i> </i>and a <i>plastic</i> severed limb.<br />
<br />
I feel that I must stress the <i>fake </i>blood and the <i>plastic</i> severed limb part of the costume lest you want to actually kill someone simply for talking to you.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>7) Nothing</b><br />
<br />
For those of you who really can't be bothered to dress up at all but would still like to update the social media, upload a childhood photograph of yourself in a costume.<br />
<br />
The more embarrassing, the better.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA1hxFZuHeFgmCGrPC_c7f7KTeaEl2-SvStauZnH2yPv-JYUwdxKwLCNhfGpxay8Oq28Wd1bV_KVSk8vp5lfrbR6XhlQw7umPzXwvrkNhg56FoM6P3R_XrM5Wu4FSEyI5VMy6Ec_prR9I/s1600/DSC04041.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA1hxFZuHeFgmCGrPC_c7f7KTeaEl2-SvStauZnH2yPv-JYUwdxKwLCNhfGpxay8Oq28Wd1bV_KVSk8vp5lfrbR6XhlQw7umPzXwvrkNhg56FoM6P3R_XrM5Wu4FSEyI5VMy6Ec_prR9I/s1600/DSC04041.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here's a picture of Bibi (Yours Truly) wearing a pumpkin costume accessorized with a pumpkin treat bucket. This photograph documents the origins of my hatred for hermetically-sealed furniture. Thank God the trend to wrap sofas in plastic went the way of the crimped, high-volume hairdo. (New Jersey, circa late 1989)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<i>Bonne chance</i> with the costume preparation.<br />
<br />
Happy Halloween,<br />
Barb the French BeanThe Beanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09294653760778922184noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3800436644379687416.post-64132733828493168382014-10-21T08:51:00.000-04:002014-10-23T18:04:57.207-04:00Super Charo, Huecazo, and Esquipi One of the greatest things about growing up with parents whose first language was different to the one spoken in my homeland is that there will inevitably be some misunderstandings when trying to communicate with each other, often due to pronunciation.<br />
<br />
My dear Colombian mother's first language was Spanish, and while she has certainly adopted a working knowledge of basic to intermediate English in the thirty-plus years of living in the good ol' U.S. of A., there have been moments in which a slight change in pronunciation due to her accent have led to some lost in translation gaffes.<br />
<br />
The following is a selection of some of the more memorable highlights.<br />
<br />
<b><u>Super Charo</u></b><br />
<br />
My mother once needed to go to the airport to catch an early flight and no one at the time could provide her with the lengthy drive from our Miami home to Fort Lauderdale International Airport to catch a low-cost flight. To solve her transportation problem, she enlisted the help of a service she referred to as "Super Charo."<br />
<br />
Her utterance evoked a mental image of the eccentric Spanish singer dressed in a Superman outfit.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB3cwZVj5RgbvaGIbEqfXte7CMc8cWi1VzSKVYTdBqwQxREbRRmCqrVE4YxnM6Ys5W6L_wJoJuPfohjaM5fFRM78aQUU6aqM-pVD0EnJF_5f7JOE6jYTHSiXA2XD5OxRXVchDjTb2W6Ko/s1600/Super+Charo+cuchi-cuchi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB3cwZVj5RgbvaGIbEqfXte7CMc8cWi1VzSKVYTdBqwQxREbRRmCqrVE4YxnM6Ys5W6L_wJoJuPfohjaM5fFRM78aQUU6aqM-pVD0EnJF_5f7JOE6jYTHSiXA2XD5OxRXVchDjTb2W6Ko/s1600/Super+Charo+cuchi-cuchi.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Super Charo: the most flamboyant superhero of all</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
For days, I was left perplexed thinking what the heck "Super Charo" could possibly be. I began to seriously entertain the possibility whether or not a red-caped Charo would arrive to our doorstep belting show tunes.<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/_IjYzKZShUo" width="459"></iframe>
<br />
(C'mon, sing it now! <i>Ervry meng/Han ervry hoomang/Want the same thing</i>)<br />
<br />
On the morning of her flight, as my mother busied herself with last-minute verification that she had everything necessary for the trip, my grandmother exclaimed that the transport service had arrived. I eagerly rushed to the window to satisfy my curiosity over what "Super Charo" could be.<br />
<br />
Lo and behold, I saw this pull up to the driveway:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcexnbF64Y-vAsCRPd2bR-8EXl4SeeAV1Jlp0i4kwwhLU3938QZ69C3qKywERzahYFmf1DparUtt-MFTmchHYjV1CbQ_LDaqGbjm2G21Gz-z7a4olfNZhfSov5Aj9kasAv7ow8laNP0Gs/s1600/Super+Shuttle.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcexnbF64Y-vAsCRPd2bR-8EXl4SeeAV1Jlp0i4kwwhLU3938QZ69C3qKywERzahYFmf1DparUtt-MFTmchHYjV1CbQ_LDaqGbjm2G21Gz-z7a4olfNZhfSov5Aj9kasAv7ow8laNP0Gs/s1600/Super+Shuttle.jpeg" height="288" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5sA5xipBypGRa4eR1c56uVgRkhz0eAOZUi2nVbomSZaqbu2R5CrnbWiYV4HSO0T0z_ZlKep-4hKhUmcC6PQHJmqut9UBBEGmt-kV-I3Ga2tOvlSCRaSjHYEwMfUVW_sjAOeTLcyFAKBUg/s1600/supershuttle_van+Jesse+Bluma+Pointe+Viven.jpeg">Link to image</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Cuchi-cuchi, indeed.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><u>Huecazo (Large hole)</u></b><br />
<br />
The Spanish word for "hole" is <i>hueco</i>. A <i>huecazo</i> denotes an impressively-sized hole, one large enough to swallow an entire village or, in the following case, a car tire.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv1f3PgpHz8ZeQa_8N7pGeeZzWElkowLobs6Vm6TQNnvpDl_92g7GmwqRya-AoHZTrb0KuZiXLO9sFNc8AKIGAtfLfDWIkb87y_22HlGQo4lhsv9h7mOWGmP6uTUK6KUJhZkjQayDh4Lc/s1600/Hueco+and+Huecazo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv1f3PgpHz8ZeQa_8N7pGeeZzWElkowLobs6Vm6TQNnvpDl_92g7GmwqRya-AoHZTrb0KuZiXLO9sFNc8AKIGAtfLfDWIkb87y_22HlGQo4lhsv9h7mOWGmP6uTUK6KUJhZkjQayDh4Lc/s1600/Hueco+and+Huecazo.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Driving across the parking lot of a nearby supermarket, I spotted a large hole in the road. I felt it was important to make its presence known to my mother so she could avoid it.<br />
<br />
"Mom, look out, there's a <i>huecazo</i>."<br />
<br />
"WHAT?! REALLY?! WHERE IS IT?!"<br />
<br />
I thought it was odd to see her so enthusiastic about a hole and decided to shrug it off.<br />
<br />
"It's right over there."<br />
<br />
"Where? I don't see it."<br />
<br />
"The <i>huecazo</i> is right there! You are about to drive past it. Watch out!"<br />
<br />
"But I don't see the <i>huecazo</i> anywhere!"<br />
<br />
"Don't worry, you just drove by it."<br />
<br />
"Hold on, let me drive around again because I want to get some burgers!"<br />
<br />
Huh? What? <i>Burgers?</i> What was she talking about?<br />
<br />
"What do you mean 'burgers?' Do you want to go to McDonald's?"<br />
<br />
"No! Not McDonald's! Didn't you say there's a <i>huecazo</i> around here? I can't believe they've brought them to Florida! I really miss their mini-burgers."<br />
<br />
That's when it clicked.<br />
<br />
Prior to moving to Florida, we originally lived in New Jersey, home of the famous <a href="http://www2.whitecastle.com/">White Castle</a> burger chain (and their sliders made infamous by the film <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cwP5E15VzRM">Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle</a>)</i>.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnGJrlrtafTlDrSmdkK3_bkjLqwRS3YYCe9eVahG3B6fGXyRVwfae9D_pRZCR-0hIQyu_3QNc7AqRX5L0xzQNYAtaP9UlmihOYynUxcq0lb_0WiKRQpFxekMkTW-HasKk5W2Ay_gICwUk/s1600/White+Castle.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnGJrlrtafTlDrSmdkK3_bkjLqwRS3YYCe9eVahG3B6fGXyRVwfae9D_pRZCR-0hIQyu_3QNc7AqRX5L0xzQNYAtaP9UlmihOYynUxcq0lb_0WiKRQpFxekMkTW-HasKk5W2Ay_gICwUk/s1600/White+Castle.JPG" height="193" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coincidentally, there will be no <i>French Bean Goes to White Castle</i>. I'm not high enough to make the journey from France to the nearest White Castle location (which is apparently in New York). </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Apparently, the way I said "large hole" was similar to the way she pronounced "white castle" with her heavy accent, something around the lines of "why-kasso."<br />
<br />
(<i>Note</i>: "<i>huecazo</i>" is not pronounced like "why-kasso.")<br />
<br />
"No, Mom, not WHITE CASTLE, <b><i>huecazo</i></b>, as in <i>a large hole</i>?"<br />
<br />
"Oh. So...there's no White Castle?"<br />
<br />
"I'm afraid not."<br />
<br />
"Dang it. I was hoping to eat some White Castle burgers..."<br />
<br />
<i>Huecazo</i> has become a bit of an inside joke between us and to this day whenever Mom mentions having spotted a large hole, I ask her where the burgers are.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><u>Esquipi (Eh-skee-pee)</u></b><br />
<br />
In late 2009, I moved across the Atlantic Ocean to live in Dijon, France. Being the first time since I had left the proverbial nest, it was crucial for my mother and me to maintain contact. Moreover, in my absence, I worried over how my mother would cope with a general lack of knowledge over all things computer-related.<br />
<br />
So imagine my surprise when she proposed a solution and announced:<br />
<br />
"You should get Esquipi! You can use it on the computer!"<br />
<br />
<i>Esquipi?</i> I thought. <i>What the heck is that?</i><br />
<br />
"Mom, what's Esquipi?"<br />
<br />
"You don't <i>know</i> what Esquipi is?"<br />
<br />
"Uh, no?"<br />
<br />
"How can you <b><i>not know</i></b> what Esquipi is? EVERYBODY knows about it! Even <b><i>I</i></b> know what Esquipi is!"<br />
<br />
In a rare moment of her one-upping my technological savvy, rather than letting her berate me further due to my ignorance of this damned Esquipi, I asked her to elucidate on what this unknown technology entailed.<br />
<br />
"Well, essentially, So-and-So said--You remember So-and-So, right?"<br />
<br />
"No, I don't."<br />
<br />
"Yes, you know who So-and-So is! How can you not remember them?"<br />
<br />
"Mom, I don't--"<br />
<br />
"Anyway, So-and-So told me that Esquipi is this thing that you find on the Internet (I don't know how that's done), that lets you call other people by telephone and have conversations with them. You can even see them on the camera."<br />
<br />
Her explanation caused the wheels in my head to turn. Back in 2009, this thing that she had described was still a bit of a novelty, but I had <i>certainly</i> heard about it. Putting the pieces together, I had to ask one more question to be absolutely certain on what she was talking about.<br />
<br />
"Mom," I started cautiously, "how do you spell 'Esquipi?'"<br />
<br />
"Hold on, hold on, I have to find the paper where So-and-So wrote it down for me."<br />
<br />
The phone clattered on a hard surface. I waited for her to retrieve the information. The silence from the phone ended with some rustling and her voice returned.<br />
<br />
"Okay, I got."<br />
<br />
"Great. So how is it spelled?"<br />
<br />
"S-K-Y-P-E."<br />
<br />
My palm crashed against my forehead, leaving a red, five-fingered silhouette.<br />
<br />
"Mom, that's pronounced SKYPE!"<br />
<br />
"Es-sky?"<br />
<br />
"NO, Skype!"<br />
<br />
"Es-sky?"<br />
<br />
"No, SKY-PUH!"<br />
<br />
"Ah, well, you understood me."<br />
<br />
<br />
Speaking can be a real hoot sometimes.<br />
<br />
Barb the French BeanThe Beanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09294653760778922184noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3800436644379687416.post-1627745695754568102014-09-17T09:01:00.004-04:002014-09-22T11:58:02.080-04:00The Death of a Duck(In case the title wasn't already enough of a spoiler for you, here's the story.)<br />
<br />
I grew up in a house that has <a href="http://twobeansornottwobeans.blogspot.fr/2014/03/home.html">a backyard adjacent to a canal</a>. During the spring, it was a common occurrence for me to see entire broods of Muscovy duckling waddling to and fro and paddling their way across the canal, their little webbed feet working furiously under the water in an attempt to keep up with their mother. Over the course of a few days, it was not uncommon to see a well-populated brood dwindle to only a handful of ducklings awkwardly tumbling behind the mother duck.<br />
<br />
Being exposed to not other wild animals besides the Muscovy ducks, I went through a period in my childhood in which I suddenly declared that ducks were my absolute favorite animals in the entire world, in particular the Pekin variety. And as it often is with children's desires, I wanted a pet duck.<br />
<br />
Naturally, my parents refused, stating that I could pretend that all of the Muscovy ducks belonged to me. In my child's mind, Muscovy ducks, with warty, red growths encroaching across their bills, were no where <i>near</i> the same caliber of finesse as the Pekin duck, but I was still content to provide them with bits of bread to eat.<br />
<br />
To further add insult to injury, my mother ordered me to never, EVER go near my "pet" ducklings.<br />
<br />
"Well, why not?" I huffed.<br />
<br />
"Because the mother duck with very over-protective, and if she sees you trying to go for her babies, she will attack you."<br />
<br />
I shuddered. Why would she attack the person feeding her bits of bread?<br />
<br />
"Ducks don't understand loyalty, Barbara," Mom explained.<br />
<br />
My curiosity had been provoked. "Then how would she attack if she's not loyal to her duckies?"<br />
<br />
"Oh, no, she's loyal to <i>them</i>. Not to us. She'd bite."<br />
<br />
"Do duck bites hurt, Mommy?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, I tell you this from experience. <i>Don't get close to them</i>." The severity in her tone suggested that I should heed her warning. I always made sure that whenever I gave the ducks bread, I would stay several feet away. It was difficult to see a number of fluffy, peeping ducklings and not be able to caress one of them. I wondered if I would ever get the chance to touch a duckling someday.<br />
<br />
That chance would come. Several years ago, Miami faced a period in which it rained for three days straight that led to floods. This continuous rain, oddly enough, was not related to a hurricane pattern. Still, this meteorological fluke ensured impromptu school closures and prohibited people from safely driving to work. It was great to be able to stay home with Mom and Dad and feel like I had somehow struck gold from not going to school.<br />
<br />
The novelty waned by the second day. During the rainstorm, I lamented being cooped in my room and dreamed about going outside to walk around the canal's edge, its presence taunting me from the window. All of a sudden, amid a strong gust parting the water, I spotted a flash of yellow.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9g8k8_YHzdFFF6OnlQPkTC7TvYh9yJr4_0ox4EcZPk_29S0bKtXrTPrFb2BPNGdihi23lFsxlumbSlriEm0uDKVbg6vdFjnmh7Lv2U2vt1pIT6IfCz30XItFrdVcWZlTttnaR4FUL9DE/s1600/Duck+in+rainstorm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9g8k8_YHzdFFF6OnlQPkTC7TvYh9yJr4_0ox4EcZPk_29S0bKtXrTPrFb2BPNGdihi23lFsxlumbSlriEm0uDKVbg6vdFjnmh7Lv2U2vt1pIT6IfCz30XItFrdVcWZlTttnaR4FUL9DE/s1600/Duck+in+rainstorm.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
With the rain's relentless pounding in thick curtains of water, it was difficult at first to decipher what the yellow bundle could possibly be when I saw it move!<br />
<br />
There was no mistaking the clumsy waddle. It was a lost duckling! I yelled for my parents to come look.<br />
<br />
"Mom! Dad! There's a duckling outside! It's all alone. What should we do?"<br />
<br />
Without hesitation, Dad slipped on his American school bus yellow raincoat and marched deftly into the pelting rain to save the duckling.<br />
<br />
I was so happy! My family would finally have a real pet duckling to take care of! For the time-being, Mom contrived a little home for the duckling using a plastic crate, a towel and some old newspapers. I thought the accommodations were too spartan for him and asked my mother if I could place a duck plushie to make him feel even more at home.<br />
<br />
"Absolutely not," Mom replied.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwhsb7rDsfl7zHEd1mUqQAIsig5J8Dn_U7sB4p2FSP9OrfX9YVG9D4FseZP6i-GTW0hZbuvo_rakn4vuG7yEfYtElV5AHV1P-w9mcHRwhU4NYdA-KBkG6NNwY3ckTNvLdXTecj0VFUT4c/s1600/Duck+in+crate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwhsb7rDsfl7zHEd1mUqQAIsig5J8Dn_U7sB4p2FSP9OrfX9YVG9D4FseZP6i-GTW0hZbuvo_rakn4vuG7yEfYtElV5AHV1P-w9mcHRwhU4NYdA-KBkG6NNwY3ckTNvLdXTecj0VFUT4c/s1600/Duck+in+crate.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
As the duckling cheeped and explored his relatively cozy confines, I hovered above the crate and watched his every move.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXjjSdzt3kKhutaDwh7aZg0bNHDINDDUYr5DiXYTYiLjgI6Gab2Yk1Fxi2PBqO-xg-xYtSwCwNGZZm95vyEf2HQhHNSYpEtjpghqXospavmIoknKs4UbXrU46Ta_yGaxxYmqOley8SOis/s1600/Crate+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXjjSdzt3kKhutaDwh7aZg0bNHDINDDUYr5DiXYTYiLjgI6Gab2Yk1Fxi2PBqO-xg-xYtSwCwNGZZm95vyEf2HQhHNSYpEtjpghqXospavmIoknKs4UbXrU46Ta_yGaxxYmqOley8SOis/s1600/Crate+1.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
My mind raced with what I would name the duckling, deeming "Quackers" as being a suitable option. Yes, I had only known the duckling for a few hours, but by naming it, I demonstrated a deep sense of attachment. In fact, the way I glowered at it prompted my mother to tell me to go off and leave the duckling alone.<br />
<br />
I didn't want to, of course.<br />
<br />
"For how long should I leave him?"<br />
<br />
"Oh...a few minutes. He needs his peace and quiet, too."<br />
<br />
I went to my room and stared at the clock, waiting for "a few minutes" to pass. Twenty minutes to be sufficient time to have left Quackers on his own. Thinking that he was probably hungry, I ran to the kitchen and scrounged for a slice of bread, betting that Quackers would love to eat what he found in his natural habitat. The spongy slice in hand, I made a beeline for his crate. I stood on my tiptoes and looked down at him.<br />
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<br />
<br />
Quackers laid on his side, no longer peeping.<br />
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<br />
<br />
I bent my knees and gently nudged his little plump body with an index finger, seeing if he would react to my presence. Nothing.<br />
<br />
His limp body rolled back and forth based on how poked him. Still nothing. He remained inert and silent.<br />
<br />
I couldn't understand it. <i>He was fine only a few minutes ago, and now he's not moving</i>, I thought.<br />
<br />
"Mommy? What's wrong with Quackers?"<br />
<br />
Mom peered over the crate and gave a sharp intake of breath. What she said next was uttered in a soothing tone, the one mothers reserve for when they are faced with the difficult task of needing to comfort while presenting bad news.<br />
<br />
"Oh...Barbara. I think he's died."<br />
<br />
Until that fateful moment, death had been a foreign concept to me. Yes, I was aware that it happened to other people and animals, and that it was met with sadness. In fact, when I was even younger, I wasn't able to understand that Charlie the German Shepherd from <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0096787/">All Dogs Go to Heaven</a></i> was supposed to be dead and escaping death throughout the whole film. (Huh. Another title with a spoiler.)<br />
<br />
This poignant moment marked the first true encounter that I had with the senseless loss of life. Not only had my hopes of finally having a pet duckling been dashed, Quackers wouldn't even have the chance for me to show him how much my family and I would love him in the comfort of a warm home.<br />
<br />
My child self was distraught and reacted by the only means possible: crying.<br />
<br />
But I didn't just simply cry. Oh, no. In that despair, it was if someone had opened the floodgates to my soul.<br />
<br />
I sobbed until my eyes ached and were reduced to swollen, red globules. My anguish made me inconsolable to the extent that my parents' voice of reason and attempts to quell my tears were deflected. Life became a blur.<br />
<br />
An hour later, my father coaxed me towards him to join him in watching a bout of television. Cuddling me closer to his side, he decided to embark on educating me about how life was not fair.<br />
<br />
"I'b gobing to miss the bucky, Dabby," I snorted thickly, my voice muffled with a heavy coating of snot. "Why dib he hab to die?"<br />
<br />
"Look, honey, I know it's not just to see something so small and innocent pass away, but death is another part of this life. And, yes, it is unfortunate, but you can't let it stop you from living. All you can do now is remember the good times you had with the ducky."<br />
<br />
His words probably would have had a bigger impact had my allotted time with Quackers surpassed more than a mere three hours.<br />
<br />
"But he dibbint deserb to die so soon," I bawled.<br />
<br />
"Think about this: at least he died surrounded by people instead of being all alone in the wild, right?"<br />
<br />
"Uh-huh."<br />
<br />
"We made sure he was comfortable in his final moments on this Earth. So, don't worry. He is going to be okay, as are you. Now, let's watch the T.V."<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
I don't recall which program we had sat down to watch. I gave a bleary glare at the dancing images bouncing off the screen. My raspy breathing slowed, the inhales steady, the exhales calm. The tears stopped.<br />
<br />
"Yes, that's it. You see?"<br />
<br />
A sniffle was my answer.<br />
<br />
"Here, let's just keep watching the T.V., all right? It'll distract you."<br />
<br />
"Okay, Daddy."<br />
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<br />
My poor father. Not even he could have predicted that <i>the</i> <i>very first</i> commercial to appear during the commercial break would be for a toilet cleaning product which has for a mascot... a small, quacking duck.<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/xW_YGMrLrTM" width="459"></iframe>
<br />
<br />
The following is a rough interpretation of how the commercial, with its unfortunate timing, sounded in my head.<br />
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<br />
Fast-forward a couple of decades and you will find me not only using "<a href="http://www.scjohnson.fr/nqcontent.cfm?a_id=1107">Canard</a>," the French version of said toilet cleaner, but also occasionally feasting on Magret de Canard without batting an eye.<br />
<br />
As it was, Quackers wouldn't be the only pet duck in my life, and that one led a more successful and happier time with us.<br />
<br />
But that's a story for another day.<br />
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Barb the French BeanThe Beanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09294653760778922184noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3800436644379687416.post-21066659720501504632014-08-31T11:28:00.000-04:002014-08-31T11:31:44.081-04:00Wisdom Tooth: Part DeuxThis past Tuesday, I had the opportunity to have my first dental appointment in France (with a <a href="http://twobeansornottwobeans.blogspot.fr/search/label/the%20Netherlands">Dutch</a> dentist, no less). While my visit was certainly not wisdom tooth related, the appointment reminded me that I needed to finish the second part to <a href="http://twobeansornottwobeans.blogspot.fr/2014/07/random-cartoon-wisdom-tooth-part-1.html">the Wisdom Tooth story</a>.<br />
<br />
And for those of you who may have been wondering: I had my wisdom teeth extracted between the ages of 14 and 15.<br />
<br />
Yes, really. I had one side of my mouth done when I was fourteen then allowed a month of healing before having the other side be done after I turned fifteen.<br />
<br />
I was a fairly early bloomer not only in puberty but also in getting bothersome teeth, much to the surprise of my parents and my former dentist who has since retired from her profession.<br />
<br />
<br />
Enough chit-chat. Here's "Wisdom Tooth: Part Deux."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9JxtE6E2o6vLJ2ki2fJY69s2QITUg7TbKYcgKU2r-IZBnwTAVDE0CDmzrmu2kNmGI-2VSkB31Sz_hyOhPjCEPBVfLSSBH9KqL3D6sIJAOD1ACB7wI2sGwfJFgfhh4j7-UT4rUG8r29uQ/s1600/Wisdom+Tooth+push+9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9JxtE6E2o6vLJ2ki2fJY69s2QITUg7TbKYcgKU2r-IZBnwTAVDE0CDmzrmu2kNmGI-2VSkB31Sz_hyOhPjCEPBVfLSSBH9KqL3D6sIJAOD1ACB7wI2sGwfJFgfhh4j7-UT4rUG8r29uQ/s1600/Wisdom+Tooth+push+9.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnJOjc1Gt22tnuG8StXT0NZhbt5f7TMK4hzUyGqtPL5DjiXIXauUo21dL4hr5ZOplyTL1G0aM89wpIqy8rYw1NTw0UBShGtkMdeRO0CgjIbddNGnB5aNqnTefIMKttMJdQS3-kYUBiOyE/s1600/Wisdom+Tooth+plot+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnJOjc1Gt22tnuG8StXT0NZhbt5f7TMK4hzUyGqtPL5DjiXIXauUo21dL4hr5ZOplyTL1G0aM89wpIqy8rYw1NTw0UBShGtkMdeRO0CgjIbddNGnB5aNqnTefIMKttMJdQS3-kYUBiOyE/s1600/Wisdom+Tooth+plot+1.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIJRdZu6xcdNk101q10ORC9dQNa7EB_B8AqevtgClxYrHv4E8WL2UDN4-V_rIMl_k6zNjy3DmuG2Oy30REDyUlcOvgghl_QK_cbKMtZpC2I44EJwOT1hCrsVJpP3GE7aZzBwwY8882lm0/s1600/Wisdom+Tooth+plot+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIJRdZu6xcdNk101q10ORC9dQNa7EB_B8AqevtgClxYrHv4E8WL2UDN4-V_rIMl_k6zNjy3DmuG2Oy30REDyUlcOvgghl_QK_cbKMtZpC2I44EJwOT1hCrsVJpP3GE7aZzBwwY8882lm0/s1600/Wisdom+Tooth+plot+2.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-b2PJTeHeyLki6ukA6UsWujdAeYxc8JqWG84ncA5NzXmJrgi-4mbX_GMsNQ_PM01dnpIuLJgxjw-C_gC_BBVXXMNwLKQe5mw2p2PcAOAdAstbuubvUztIiErRyL8cnsMn4zZ_lAYaWuk/s1600/Wisdom+Tooth+push+11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-b2PJTeHeyLki6ukA6UsWujdAeYxc8JqWG84ncA5NzXmJrgi-4mbX_GMsNQ_PM01dnpIuLJgxjw-C_gC_BBVXXMNwLKQe5mw2p2PcAOAdAstbuubvUztIiErRyL8cnsMn4zZ_lAYaWuk/s1600/Wisdom+Tooth+push+11.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ72NBdWpzc0SVqQwKBP0PElzFqcPOwzvsmS5Ggnuwkuq3VGCvLErZvnyi_qG9Z1DKv5PoCsyYB9USYXNllXTGGNiTiC8i9VMmPXSQnyWW8iE5VsAq4U5Wf8AZgb8C5QbUxcAqsM53oEg/s1600/Wisdom+Tooth+push+12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ72NBdWpzc0SVqQwKBP0PElzFqcPOwzvsmS5Ggnuwkuq3VGCvLErZvnyi_qG9Z1DKv5PoCsyYB9USYXNllXTGGNiTiC8i9VMmPXSQnyWW8iE5VsAq4U5Wf8AZgb8C5QbUxcAqsM53oEg/s1600/Wisdom+Tooth+push+12.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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Never underestimate a wisdom tooth.<br />
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Barb the French BeanThe Beanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09294653760778922184noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3800436644379687416.post-30323882735357089172014-08-06T22:13:00.002-04:002014-08-07T17:00:16.826-04:00The Potency of Café Cubano (Cuban Coffee)Returning to my roots in Miami as I do for one month every summer gives me the opportunity to re-examine the things that are in absence of my life in France. For the first few days of what will ultimately be a brief stay, I am lured by the bright blue skies frequently interrupted by spurts of intense showers and decent Cuban cuisine. Amid the comestibles to re-discover, <a href="http://twobeansornottwobeans.blogspot.com/2010/06/coffee-rhythm-of-life.html">Cuban coffee</a> is at the top of the list.<br />
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Being an avid coffee drinker, I'd like to believe that I have a good tolerance for caffeine. There have been times in which people have told me that they customarily stave from drinking any more of the liquid gold past four in the afternoon to prevent undergoing a sleepless night. I contemplate how I have never been able to understand this behavior as I drink my fourth cup of java at six o'clock in the evening.</div>
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I should mention that while I do have access to Cuban coffee while living in France, I ration myself to one cup of café con leche in the mornings and supply the rest of the intake with either soluble Nescafé or whatever is offered in the local bars in town. Be what it may, my resistance to caffeine is quite strong and don't have any issues going to bed at a decent time. </div>
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Or so I thought.</div>
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On one fine afternoon, I sought shelter from the dense humidity seeping the Miami streets like a suffocating wool blanket and found myself glancing at a menu selling several drink varieties of café cubano. As the time was nearing 5:30 p.m., I reasoned that a café con leche would be too much to drink and that its smaller cousin, the cortadito, would hit the spot. True, while the volume of the cortadito seems puny in comparison to the run-of-the-mill Starbucks latte giants, its power lies in the sweetened espresso mixed with just the right amount of milk. </div>
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I stared at the menu. I read the words "cortadito/colada." I made a mental note that when it would be my turn to place an order, I should say "cortadito" with conviction.</div>
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<i>Cortadito, cortadito, cortadito.</i> </div>
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The person in front of me left the line. I stepped closer to the counter. The attendant asked me what I would like to order.</div>
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My mind thought "cortadito, cortadito, cortadito."</div>
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My mouth uttered "colada." </div>
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In the haze of that silent chant, my mind didn't notice the mistake until I was handed a small cup filled with four shots of sweetened espresso. </div>
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My brain screamed "WHAT THE HELL?! THIS ISN'T WHAT I HAD ORDERED!!! SHE GOT MY ORDER WRONG!!!" In the moment I was going to make my musings vocal, a little voice that had played the past few minutes in vivid succession recalled that, actually, yes, I<i> had</i> indeed ordered a colada, that I was too stupid to have not realized the error earlier and that it was now too late to backtrack and ask the poor attendant to make me another drink.</div>
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I forced a smile, paid for the drink then slumped away from the counter preparing myself to face the fate of drinking four sweetened shots of dark espresso. With the colada in hand, I imagined that this was what a walk to the gallows must have been like. I had resigned myself to facing severe heart palpitations and possibly never sleeping again.</div>
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Both the mind and mouth pleaded for me not to drink it. I drank it anyway.</div>
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At first, it seemed as if the colada's potency would have no effect on me. Yes, I felt more alert than I had been some moments before, but as far as I could tell, there was no perceivable difference as to how I would have felt had I downed a simple cortadito. I was duped into thinking that I was the caffeine-resistant champion of Java land.</div>
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I didn't go to sleep until 4:30 a.m.<br />
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Now I know why people here refer to the coffee as "Cuban Crack."</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVJcngZVcFVEyxLdQmVR6nCEezSIyR1A4ORaW8dlvBW4sYibSWkZwg5XwlT4aEDLAZ8zbmrr5AJqU20D54U4ntQiuEQ0BJ1J9sKawFuK-gzq5ITeS6Dt4ABFmlM4T3cyU8SKEcCZIY7K8/s1600/Dilated+pupils.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVJcngZVcFVEyxLdQmVR6nCEezSIyR1A4ORaW8dlvBW4sYibSWkZwg5XwlT4aEDLAZ8zbmrr5AJqU20D54U4ntQiuEQ0BJ1J9sKawFuK-gzq5ITeS6Dt4ABFmlM4T3cyU8SKEcCZIY7K8/s1600/Dilated+pupils.jpg" height="400" width="398" /></a></div>
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Barb the French Bean</div>
The Beanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09294653760778922184noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3800436644379687416.post-44940788845913631992014-07-19T10:24:00.001-04:002014-07-19T10:24:19.195-04:00Random Cartoon: Wisdom Tooth, Part 1Occasionally, my funny little mind conjures crazy thoughts which eventually manifest in the form of a cartoon.<br />
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Here is one of those crazy cartoons.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlFVeRt4k_yYxqj7j5o1JwzI-cK2pnzf-3aFUR1X3hA6LY1QIh9BcCmFHOReZG3dWwoo2HM8EqWyXDT9QwHd4kPto6AclAAmbr0ltoFRoWcUf58-4XwhG69K1cprK2CX_aVjA9m5dXxvc/s1600/Wisdom+Tooth+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlFVeRt4k_yYxqj7j5o1JwzI-cK2pnzf-3aFUR1X3hA6LY1QIh9BcCmFHOReZG3dWwoo2HM8EqWyXDT9QwHd4kPto6AclAAmbr0ltoFRoWcUf58-4XwhG69K1cprK2CX_aVjA9m5dXxvc/s1600/Wisdom+Tooth+1.jpg" height="400" width="398" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2JzxG1Jb8CbLJNSdI6RfVg4UQ3ajyUZaLi5xGpv-cdJkLjsW3kffO7AUHrwFT6kfNyTKXpUn98LI5kDc35pS5hLuWo4ECJB_G7mlm2FX5zABh40GE1aGK_oCgDaMHIz0uPUg8Zftnb0Q/s1600/Wisdom+Tooth+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2JzxG1Jb8CbLJNSdI6RfVg4UQ3ajyUZaLi5xGpv-cdJkLjsW3kffO7AUHrwFT6kfNyTKXpUn98LI5kDc35pS5hLuWo4ECJB_G7mlm2FX5zABh40GE1aGK_oCgDaMHIz0uPUg8Zftnb0Q/s1600/Wisdom+Tooth+2.jpg" height="400" width="398" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7jcDhS1sIn20yiq9V4h1843DjgxLFQvAb2RuWvOWKMT7KSvbmHlzhmgke2vHXvoAFDNPB3BivWUh33gF9E7VsIbEoOyM8ZnzXO5qNbFyQvXai2fy4yUYxCt-B9qUfRd7YidxwlcgN7a0/s1600/Wisdom+Tooth+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7jcDhS1sIn20yiq9V4h1843DjgxLFQvAb2RuWvOWKMT7KSvbmHlzhmgke2vHXvoAFDNPB3BivWUh33gF9E7VsIbEoOyM8ZnzXO5qNbFyQvXai2fy4yUYxCt-B9qUfRd7YidxwlcgN7a0/s1600/Wisdom+Tooth+3.jpg" height="400" width="398" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSVzSFLQQZWHIQG5h-GXeUBdwFye7Ov8jcBBdX8c7Mh2iynmlpseRRXQ9V-c4v_vT0zbzyT0-86X5cB1lU5nsq9qh2ZSE3zy6wPXA0G3lLIXbzuLwzWqnpk3mfTli4vKnwasmsD3ph6e0/s1600/Wisdom+Tooth+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSVzSFLQQZWHIQG5h-GXeUBdwFye7Ov8jcBBdX8c7Mh2iynmlpseRRXQ9V-c4v_vT0zbzyT0-86X5cB1lU5nsq9qh2ZSE3zy6wPXA0G3lLIXbzuLwzWqnpk3mfTli4vKnwasmsD3ph6e0/s1600/Wisdom+Tooth+4.jpg" height="400" width="398" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKGeDdCzNEje_EFyBwSSPisPrh2KxSGQ3RmGRi0aTe90UYkLWEJHg8iQeKEC6jhNhdRA8lhpqgRWQhtIdjdxDS3YO3t-tCF0pr-dEtE5b1ymUe_ngNUwxC1idXnaVz_bJ422FcEEFJrSc/s1600/Wisdom+Tooth+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKGeDdCzNEje_EFyBwSSPisPrh2KxSGQ3RmGRi0aTe90UYkLWEJHg8iQeKEC6jhNhdRA8lhpqgRWQhtIdjdxDS3YO3t-tCF0pr-dEtE5b1ymUe_ngNUwxC1idXnaVz_bJ422FcEEFJrSc/s1600/Wisdom+Tooth+5.jpg" height="400" width="398" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX2iama0ijDvs8bS6Wog_VCHNHE9yt7un8v4PlHD-zhitoJNxkzpl7OKpoY7EvzYX3a1TR4G3Ysb-GN69ACFB3Xe1yu0FVhS_iB2PwrDT46RNqxvLVOKtwsHWWKqsUijUtUV1uTsjNBww/s1600/Wisdom+Tooth+6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX2iama0ijDvs8bS6Wog_VCHNHE9yt7un8v4PlHD-zhitoJNxkzpl7OKpoY7EvzYX3a1TR4G3Ysb-GN69ACFB3Xe1yu0FVhS_iB2PwrDT46RNqxvLVOKtwsHWWKqsUijUtUV1uTsjNBww/s1600/Wisdom+Tooth+6.jpg" height="400" width="398" /></a></div>
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To be continued.<br />
<br />
Barb the French Bean<br />
<br />The Beanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09294653760778922184noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3800436644379687416.post-52171119248130784082014-07-09T17:10:00.000-04:002014-07-10T02:52:12.924-04:00Good-bye, Neigh-bors (An Abrupt Alteration)My personal life has gone through a significant change within the past week: I am no longer living in Sablé-sur-Sarthe.<br />
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I have said good-bye to this:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGWegoBVVG5JnrAEJng41ko_HKva6y46TLxIxv4OkFLffEPQy0sONLV-EhwcN2S0mAqqYRjo8nNAddWz0nUptnrI-At9U60jueiWMw1WGGcwy0iGeYrg-v2VaodHxT98XchEWcXBcp968/s1600/DSC03281.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGWegoBVVG5JnrAEJng41ko_HKva6y46TLxIxv4OkFLffEPQy0sONLV-EhwcN2S0mAqqYRjo8nNAddWz0nUptnrI-At9U60jueiWMw1WGGcwy0iGeYrg-v2VaodHxT98XchEWcXBcp968/s1600/DSC03281.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Neigh-bors had a kid</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_1QIVjS_5JQfwYc-vUzwD_uCfWR4lBWuTRguLx0EfkoF1NEcoMpDI54VGVjz9u9px0RC6c5UsA4FU38eGLHLVIyVhXDS3uLJbp_zbAVn0rUYAfkv06AEvrBOluvpOc15uUdcRE_JBCQU/s1600/DSC03274.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_1QIVjS_5JQfwYc-vUzwD_uCfWR4lBWuTRguLx0EfkoF1NEcoMpDI54VGVjz9u9px0RC6c5UsA4FU38eGLHLVIyVhXDS3uLJbp_zbAVn0rUYAfkv06AEvrBOluvpOc15uUdcRE_JBCQU/s1600/DSC03274.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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And openly greeted the Plantagenêt Cité in Le Mans on Friday July 4th. The decision to move was coordinated on Wednesday July 2nd. Le Mans may only be 40 kilometers away from Sablé, but it is worlds apart.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivx7IkUkhXYG_o1jTyyL1oSRPWdzIWHeoUnrUds2DAn2SUsO2yvTvwe5-OPZ7lxAdaLusphQkf-Q7TS55H56y-Q1ssBtFaPBAQEojya1mih_zbPklaxBN_ZtGGNXGPllMdbEzOTojBOE8/s1600/DSC03382.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivx7IkUkhXYG_o1jTyyL1oSRPWdzIWHeoUnrUds2DAn2SUsO2yvTvwe5-OPZ7lxAdaLusphQkf-Q7TS55H56y-Q1ssBtFaPBAQEojya1mih_zbPklaxBN_ZtGGNXGPllMdbEzOTojBOE8/s1600/DSC03382.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Saint Julien Cathedral is Le Mans' shining architectural glory</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiph8Xdgc-lyJKqeccNSQSDBIn-SF8r8xDXVyawhWqoEOMvvNvcMFbrce3rzXuNtfTHPqidsXvhq48HVx1T5xIMGTRXQIivBlxAVBCpNVVYZ9G6YG9UTczgyblg_-1mAG-O_3gPACkJFrw/s1600/DSC03385.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiph8Xdgc-lyJKqeccNSQSDBIn-SF8r8xDXVyawhWqoEOMvvNvcMFbrce3rzXuNtfTHPqidsXvhq48HVx1T5xIMGTRXQIivBlxAVBCpNVVYZ9G6YG9UTczgyblg_-1mAG-O_3gPACkJFrw/s1600/DSC03385.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Le Mans, home of the 24 Hours of Le Mans</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
After two years of being surrounded by cornfields and horses, I had forgotten how noisy bustling cities can be. While I do find myself at times missing the peace and quiet of the countryside, the adjustment to having an efficient, reliable public transportation system with frequent buses and trams and to seeing people my own age makes the transition much smoother.<br />
<br />
Plus, seeing this store whenever I walk home never fails to coax a smile across my lips.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLIpVifk9AGm90FyMPH-8OBs3599RYRkkM6l4BQCiA5uFgJfWddpuZkrtmIIiGVrMBjSdFIlFrSF5kaif-tuUri2vQC26B_5BLiY_RjWkaRnUTqaMDVguiTTpgqqNGaU7sSat2sFGDewI/s1600/DSC03386.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLIpVifk9AGm90FyMPH-8OBs3599RYRkkM6l4BQCiA5uFgJfWddpuZkrtmIIiGVrMBjSdFIlFrSF5kaif-tuUri2vQC26B_5BLiY_RjWkaRnUTqaMDVguiTTpgqqNGaU7sSat2sFGDewI/s1600/DSC03386.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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Barb the French BeanThe Beanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09294653760778922184noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3800436644379687416.post-65038985998057071722014-06-19T10:23:00.000-04:002014-06-19T12:57:41.344-04:00More Signs You *May* Be Turning French<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipYUbL5nkt8EYYCC378ybEmo7bWx53wKViHV1xsG0pCe47cVzucQmhiCY2PAmO02Ad9jof5IvcDn8CLpqPPlxEae1BDjQ8OA79nti8TGhglV7KDQ4kIb1K8RYEtNNRvwQYYYrYrxUrjkk/s1600/France+and+the+USA+differences.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipYUbL5nkt8EYYCC378ybEmo7bWx53wKViHV1xsG0pCe47cVzucQmhiCY2PAmO02Ad9jof5IvcDn8CLpqPPlxEae1BDjQ8OA79nti8TGhglV7KDQ4kIb1K8RYEtNNRvwQYYYrYrxUrjkk/s1600/France+and+the+USA+differences.jpg" height="400" width="398" /></a></div>
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<br />
<br />
*Much thanks to Invader Stu from <a href="http://www.invadingholland.com/">Invading Holland</a> for inspiring me to make my own lists.<br />
<br />
-You no longer flinch at hearing the siren that sounds at noon every first Wednesday of the month.<br />
<br />
-You've stopped asking the French <i>why</i> it even sounds in the first place because the answer will always be "I don't know."<br />
<br />
-You've started to eat pizza and burgers with a knife and fork.<br />
<br />
-Nut allergies be damned, the Nutella Overlord is now a permanent presence in your house. Even if you don't eat it or know for an incontestable fact that <a href="http://twobeansornottwobeans.blogspot.fr/2011/03/speculoos-bastogne-cookies-my-diet-is.html">Speculoos</a> easily blows it out of the water, you will always keep the kitchen cupboards stocked with a Nutella jar (just in case).<br />
<br />
-You no longer giggle like a sophomoric adolescent over the fact that the Nesquik Bunny's name is "<a href="http://www.lefigaro.fr/medias/2012/08/20/20004-20120820ARTFIG00255-quicky-le-lapin-sportif-et-branche-de-nesquik.php">Quicky</a>."<br />
<br />
-You've stopped crying into your pillow at night and have come to terms that the toxic, sugar and chemical-laced and nuclear neon-colored foods that you used to enjoy from back home are now quite revolting to your palate.<br />
<br />
-In fact, the foods from back home downright <b>scare</b> you. (I'm looking at YOU, Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, you toxic, sodium-laced, neon-orange "cheese" sauce monstrosity.)<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2qKv_wV0CazhyphenhyphenrWm2XX-tbN1ebZlOCYSs0oh380Ts2vGAzUUHYPTfdzkaKU_KrDf5VSbkZ1lD8-bTwOeEk3hcTHy9HSvMUIJArwu0qn0vsUoIja69OVf5EILxOOGXcQECKdynqQXZMl4/s1600/Kraft+Mac+and+Cheese.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2qKv_wV0CazhyphenhyphenrWm2XX-tbN1ebZlOCYSs0oh380Ts2vGAzUUHYPTfdzkaKU_KrDf5VSbkZ1lD8-bTwOeEk3hcTHy9HSvMUIJArwu0qn0vsUoIja69OVf5EILxOOGXcQECKdynqQXZMl4/s1600/Kraft+Mac+and+Cheese.JPG" height="337" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"<a href="http://www.youknowyouloveit.com/Products/Style/sharp-cheddar">Homestyle</a>," mon oeil. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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-You can't fathom leaving the house without a scarf because you are convinced that it's against the law to not wear one, punishable by a 1.000 Euro fine and/or face calling jail your temporary address for one month.<br />
<br />
-The same goes for wearing workout shoes, such as trainers/sneakers, with clothes other than those specifically intended for exercising. (That's punishable by up to two years in prison.)<br />
<br />
-You start to forget that other people speak languages besides French.<br />
<br />
-When these people address you in your native tongue, you wonder if you are somehow caught in an episode of <i>The Twilight Zone</i>. <br />
<br />
-If you live in the provinces: You think Paris is an overrated Disneyland and is not "the real France." You could never imagine yourself living there (but secretly would like to do so, just to see what it is all about).<br />
<br />
-If you live in Paris: You think the provinces are quaint for a visit. ONLY a visit. Possibly to see Mamie and Papy. You could never fathom residing anywhere outside of la région parisienne and survive. No, not even in medium-sized cities like Dijon or Nantes.<br />
<br />
-You can name at least one French reality T.V. "star."<br />
<br />
-And despite never having seen a single episode of their show, you know for what they are infamous/what their catch phrases are.<br />
<br />
-You have a favorite French YouTuber.<br />
<br />
-The fact that <a href="http://www.lemonde.fr/economie/article/2014/06/18/les-deputes-ont-trois-jours-pour-amender-la-reforme-du-rail_4440376_3234.html?xtmc=sncf_greve&xtcr=5">the SNCF is on strike</a> is not shocking news to you. Rather, it's just an inevitable fact of life, much like birth, bowel movements, and death.<br />
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**********************************************************<br />
For other signs to see if you are turning French, click the link to discover the first list.<br />
<a href="http://twobeansornottwobeans.blogspot.fr/2013/06/signs-you-may-be-turning-french.html">Signs You *May* Be Turning French</a> <br />
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P.S.<br />
Our blog turned four years old on June 8th. Oops.<br />
<br />
-Barb the French BeanThe Beanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09294653760778922184noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3800436644379687416.post-61263895271343565652014-05-29T13:31:00.002-04:002014-05-29T13:36:13.462-04:00The Famous French Paperwork: Exchanging a Foreign Drivers Licence to a French One (and a Warning)Those who are fortunate enough to lead blissful lives of never having to encounter French documentation are probably unaware that any paperwork procedure over here requires a growing pile of photocopies, passport-sized photographs, several envelopes, stamps, blood, urine and stool samples, digital eye scans, swearing over your first-born child (with multiple passport-sized photos of said child), even, on occasion, selling your soul to the Devil. All of this documentation will take a minimum of six to eight weeks to process, if not longer.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxOrcOqdgpU1PBnqEDnVI4BR6nBdAg5mNR1lRpVmzhy04j7Cr-ICY_yGyxCr_CSO6ecEGEghz-YR0e0FpprV-0R7CrHLUEeir-wSBND0hV-P_u44UTuRb4qvjGCIlaOI_QGEEleocgfsg/s1600/French+Paperwork+sacrificing+first-born+child.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxOrcOqdgpU1PBnqEDnVI4BR6nBdAg5mNR1lRpVmzhy04j7Cr-ICY_yGyxCr_CSO6ecEGEghz-YR0e0FpprV-0R7CrHLUEeir-wSBND0hV-P_u44UTuRb4qvjGCIlaOI_QGEEleocgfsg/s1600/French+Paperwork+sacrificing+first-born+child.jpg" height="400" width="398" /></a></div>
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<br />
I've been here nearly four years now and have the worker visas and medical visits to prove it. In those four years, I've also lived a very car-less existence, relying on public transportation, trains or even my own two feet to travel anywhere. I can certainly expound on the pros of not owning a car: not having to make any monthly payments on a loan, not having to worry about it breaking down and taking it to a mechanic for maintenance or repairs, and not having to pay for gas/petrol.<br />
<br />
That being said, as a 27-year-old craving some more independence to be able to travel, I am beginning to seriously consider burdening myself with owning a car in France. I still have my old car in Miami, which I use whenever I visit my mother for a few weeks every year, and truth be told, I relish those days when I have my own car.<br />
<br />
It all started when I went to my bank to see if I could be approved for a loan to purchase my own car. I figured that with my American (Floridian) drivers licence and the International Drivers Permit, I could at least be able to invest in a vehicle of my own. My bank approved the car loan which also included insurance on any vehicle I wanted to own.<br />
<br />
But then came the hitch: "Do you have a French drivers licence?" I answered that I did not have the infamous pink paper known as the <i>permis de conduire</i>, only my Floridian one with the International Drivers Permit.<br />
<br />
"We can only provide insurance on the car if you have a French drivers licence." <br />
<br />
"Ah."<br />
<br />
"And if your car doesn't have insurance, you might as well not have the car at all."<br />
<br />
"Of course."<br />
<br />
Slightly deflated, I then asked my bank clerk what I would have to do to obtain a French drivers licence and was informed that any questions regarding exchanging a foreign licence to a French one would require visiting the<i> Préfecture</i>. I'm<a href="http://twobeansornottwobeans.blogspot.fr/2011/04/its-no-fun-being-almost-illegal-alien.html"> perfectly familiar</a> with having to visit the <i>Préfecture</i>. I even did so last summer when I had to renew my working permit visa in Le Mans.<br />
<br />
However, for me, going to the <i>Préfecture</i> in Le Mans means taking a train. So, I took a train, went to Le Mans, made a beeline for the <i>Préfecture</i> and took a number. Once it was my turn to be attended, I walked to the friendly <i>Préfecture</i> worker who asked me questions about my licence.<br />
<br />
"What country does it come from?"<br />
<br />
"The United States."<br />
<br />
"Ah, which state in the United States?"<br />
<br />
"Florida."<br />
<br />
"Okay. I have to verify if Floridian licences are valid for the exchange. Some states are allowed and others are not."<br />
<br />
<i>Uh-oh</i>, I thought. Could they know that I passed my drivers exam with a car with automatic transmission instead of stick shift? Would that discredit my licence? My heart thumped harder in my chest. The clerk typed the information on the keyboard and I held my breath for the verdict.<br />
<br />
"Okay, it's good. Florida qualifies for the exchange."<br />
<br />
I sighed with relief. The interview continued.<br />
<br />
"Are you a student here in France?"<br />
<br />
"No, actually, I work here."<br />
<br />
"Have you been here for at least six months?"<br />
<br />
"More than that. I've been here for almost four years."<br />
<br />
The smile fell from her face.<br />
<br />
"So, you've renewed your visa in the past?"<br />
<br />
"Yes."<br />
<br />
"Four times?"<br />
<br />
"Yes..."<br />
<br />
That's when the first bad news came.<br />
<br />
"I see. You were supposed to have made the drivers licence exchange within your first year of living in France. After that, your licence is no longer valid."<br />
<br />
I only wish I could have had a camera capture the stunned look on my face.<br />
<br />
"What?"<br />
<br />
"You needed to have made the transfer during your first year in France. You've been living here too long as a worker to have the process be done."<br />
<br />
"Ah."<br />
<br />
"A couple of exceptions would have been that you were here as a student or that you were a French person with a foreign licence. But you've been working here for more than a year. Therefore, the exchange cannot be done."<br />
<br />
"Ah."<br />
<br />
"Didn't anybody tell you this?"<br />
<br />
<b>OBVIOUSLY FUCKIN' NOT</b>, my brain screamed. <i>Because when you first arrive to France in CDG-Roissy Airport, the first question you're asked by the passport control officer isn't "Are you planning to remain in France for more than a year and, if so, are you going to drive a car?" </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I figured a sardonic remark would have worked against me in the situation and instead replied with "No, no one told me of this. I didn't know about this!"<br />
<br />
"Well, in order to get a French licence, first you'll have to pass the code and eventually the road test. The good thing is that since you have a previous licence, you don't have to do the compulsory twenty hours of driving school."<br />
<br />
Oh, joy.<br />
<br />
As an added note of irony, I have to point out that I have <i>always</i> been curious to see what it must be like to go through the whole process of getting a French drivers licence and learning the exam questions. Now I've got no choice but to do so.<br />
<br />
I wasn't going to let this bad news get me down.<br />
<br />
"I see. Well, at least I have the International Permit with me, so in case I need to drive--"<br />
<br />
"Oh, no," the clerk cut. "Your licence became invalid after the first year. That means that you cannot drive in France with it. At all."<br />
<br />
"Ah."<br />
<br />
"And if you were to do so, you'd be breaking the law."<br />
<br />
I died a little inside after being informed that my perfectly good forty-eight dollar rectangular piece of plastic acquired from <a href="http://twobeansornottwobeans.blogspot.fr/2012/04/my-trip-to-dmv.html">the DMV</a> had been rendered absolutely useless. I may not have had the opportunity to use it, but I liked at least knowing that I could count on it when the time to drive with it came.<br />
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<br /></div>
"Ah. Well, it's lucky for me that I don't own a car nor that I have driven in France with it."<br />
<br />
As it is, no thanks to sheer ignorance, I am faced with having to do the whole process from scratch. Looking at the bright side, at least this means that I will be very well-versed in French driving rules and will become even more integrated into the culture once I obtain my licence.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, my dreams of getting a car are on hold and I will have to keep using the buses, trains and my own two feet.<br />
<br />
Or maybe I should just get<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk-jlY9LE_2pKtqz10GwIno-fB2lc2B_HIMcFL52SVRjBqV8lU7iPaizNIV3sQqKz_3oURtA5oahboejWaDWbqwfbw83qG8u-qKPTH8GTnyE-O1H-d6MEJ-JVZKIa69qVT8eTEGbp0mV8/s1600/DSC02406.JPG"> a pimpin' Dutch</a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYp8iwuiiomfL3w_5GpYtvgNPHBl0N-e-3MXdvkHhdBY8DWfoON1Jsnc0OcYO8EtTy3vqyE1EHYUXTuJ7IFVh0p8uLT_r4BnEPOeAPVo8uC8V9Y7gBJc33KxiCQHNRpa8UWt7R5WyknTg/s1600/DSC02616.JPG"> bike</a> and call it a day.<br />
<br />
So, to any recently-arrived foreigners who plan to remain in France for more than a year, think about getting your drivers licence exchanged within the first year of your stay. Don't let the same thing that happened to me happen to you.<br />
<br />
<i>Bonne chance.</i><br />
<br />
Barb the French BeanThe Beanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09294653760778922184noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3800436644379687416.post-77908837572705771202014-05-21T15:52:00.000-04:002014-05-29T13:51:32.850-04:00High on Windmills and Benadryll (Visiting Zaanse Schans)After my down-on-visiting-museums luck in Den Haag and Delft, I decided that my third day of visiting the Netherlands would consist of something a little bit closer to Amsterdam while being miles apart from what the city is known. I made plans to see the Zaanse Schans in the morning and then pay a visit to Volendam in the afternoon. (I have to thank my former high school English and French teacher for inspiring me to go to Volendam, and it was with my research that I was able to come across the famous Zaanse Schans.)<br />
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Zaanse Schans is a preserved village that has original houses and functioning windmills intact. Being a responsible Minister of Transport, I needed to test to see if the buses did a good job at connecting the capital to the surrounding cities and villages. </div>
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It did. And it took me to the windmills. </div>
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(<i>TBoNTB</i> fact: below is the first ever video I upload on the Internet. Clearly, I am not ready to quit my day job and become a cinematographer.)</div>
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Once I snapped a few pictures, I decided to first head into the Zaanse Schans museum to learn more about the village's history. I found it uncommon for a Dutch museum to be open on a Monday, but I wasn't going to complain! </div>
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I went to the reception area, purchased my full-price ticket and...</div>
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...Discovered that HALF of the museum was under renovations. This only further fueled my belief that <a href="http://twobeansornottwobeans.blogspot.fr/2014/05/tales-of-perpetually-late-no-luck-in.html">half of the Netherlands is always under construction</a> and, in continuing to keep score with visiting museums, brought my total to 3,5 over 1,5. </div>
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So while most of the relevant historical portions of the museum remained inaccessible, I did manage to see some neat-o (do people still say "neat-o?") machines once used by the Verkade chocolate makers in Zaandam.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWQ2_ZZtxF2XoLwisSnxCNaOd4ukae6Jt8-6L7nCsrvLuj5TGQOMUpETZOUuZucLYDZ0f3CZoVWkRfu0MljV6RR2kyDQ9TxbCzueLlB4uCeqce3P9X1BBvFJ2zooAevUpMocY5bGwyhfY/s1600/DSC02507.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWQ2_ZZtxF2XoLwisSnxCNaOd4ukae6Jt8-6L7nCsrvLuj5TGQOMUpETZOUuZucLYDZ0f3CZoVWkRfu0MljV6RR2kyDQ9TxbCzueLlB4uCeqce3P9X1BBvFJ2zooAevUpMocY5bGwyhfY/s1600/DSC02507.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The only word you really need to know in Dutch.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNk-MAbURWeS7BicoiffqMTK0R7Y6aIdJSXoCo5_6nEcv3ciE4MuTW_w7D5X6vcFy7vPMktTPAf-CkJGqHUuWWjPEKRE26rM1RPVXmaZUlE9G96nVdaLsNMtTRc47mMKZUfqWp5xuH8l0/s1600/DSC02502.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNk-MAbURWeS7BicoiffqMTK0R7Y6aIdJSXoCo5_6nEcv3ciE4MuTW_w7D5X6vcFy7vPMktTPAf-CkJGqHUuWWjPEKRE26rM1RPVXmaZUlE9G96nVdaLsNMtTRc47mMKZUfqWp5xuH8l0/s1600/DSC02502.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigJyFClULGyn6kLReMfnr0Of40DrMpHxVIc3q24O_KPmHm6Wrz6uthp-b9fdqylvcRFykSKgLjJO5ZDuSntYGoal9QTCecLqZW_p0dBrvuL0TyVoJuCJZHq2cOc6Ndm2cARgddBbxEBd4/s1600/DSC02514.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigJyFClULGyn6kLReMfnr0Of40DrMpHxVIc3q24O_KPmHm6Wrz6uthp-b9fdqylvcRFykSKgLjJO5ZDuSntYGoal9QTCecLqZW_p0dBrvuL0TyVoJuCJZHq2cOc6Ndm2cARgddBbxEBd4/s1600/DSC02514.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_ZgXKixuMAsO-3s_KT60C5cmKfKSsiWXtDsaYjpfYzPtwsh8q_dOH1NPzFuVNqmDAZv6t7WRHAsoYVipbpUnUlXA5N4a38_C7ciAret4eBOut2ddYmXSogIVMu0o48cKMnNShOyWw7YM/s1600/DSC02505.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_ZgXKixuMAsO-3s_KT60C5cmKfKSsiWXtDsaYjpfYzPtwsh8q_dOH1NPzFuVNqmDAZv6t7WRHAsoYVipbpUnUlXA5N4a38_C7ciAret4eBOut2ddYmXSogIVMu0o48cKMnNShOyWw7YM/s1600/DSC02505.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If I'm not mistaken, these are packaging that once held chocolate letters, which are eaten around <a href="http://www.invadingholland.com/sinterklaas/the-sinterklaas-guide">Sinterklaas</a>-time. Pictured on the white chocolate box is Sinterklaas himself. And for those of you wondering who the funky black dude on the milk chocolate box is, his name is Zwarte Piet and he's one of many of Sinterklaas's soot-covered busy helpers. (GO <a href="http://www.invadingholland.com/sinterklaas/sinterklaas-and-zwarte-pieten">HERE</a> and<a href="http://stuffdutchpeoplelike.com/2010/12/05/no-16-zwarte-piet/"> HERE</a> to understand.)</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9LBVVBrRTFb7U-kw48iozOMVUqOUYmXmcfqZhOylQ9dBFgeqi4AMBzr-eppWnqYvYT29DVMViDcJ97ZLVe-wl3Rkvnvpr1sDXcvUPu5daM-fQ-OZrHtuDPILk1BqSD4wKnvFufJOI9nk/s1600/DSC02508.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9LBVVBrRTFb7U-kw48iozOMVUqOUYmXmcfqZhOylQ9dBFgeqi4AMBzr-eppWnqYvYT29DVMViDcJ97ZLVe-wl3Rkvnvpr1sDXcvUPu5daM-fQ-OZrHtuDPILk1BqSD4wKnvFufJOI9nk/s1600/DSC02508.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Verkade built its reputation for having women working on the lines, hence the feminine jumpsuits. </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsdx838MJo1yu8P_oKu9N4S0IEHRevvKdUJQFquS5g16Tbu6na-Jykr40F4xrrKb0-9Jj-RxHZtOvIxPIQ7hEojKk89mKb9rduekGWNj0wu3vabn_oWM9UdXHrTt9UJCH2Hc8egfgJJ6E/s1600/DSC02521.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsdx838MJo1yu8P_oKu9N4S0IEHRevvKdUJQFquS5g16Tbu6na-Jykr40F4xrrKb0-9Jj-RxHZtOvIxPIQ7hEojKk89mKb9rduekGWNj0wu3vabn_oWM9UdXHrTt9UJCH2Hc8egfgJJ6E/s1600/DSC02521.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Klompen en fietsen. How much more Dutch can it get?</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3rOiC5RJs6T5f5yVuv7iHlJW3JyAVBYjXds3698vYoOc0mMGd-Za30C0FBi4mL-A2SucFphirbE2-AcpXvzgl-5fiJEmdiam-6fq8DosnDBN77gHICJM3RGgkmAasA0EQi-qnmXUFNBI/s1600/DSC02526.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3rOiC5RJs6T5f5yVuv7iHlJW3JyAVBYjXds3698vYoOc0mMGd-Za30C0FBi4mL-A2SucFphirbE2-AcpXvzgl-5fiJEmdiam-6fq8DosnDBN77gHICJM3RGgkmAasA0EQi-qnmXUFNBI/s1600/DSC02526.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I quite liked this painting simply because of the juxtaposition of having traditional windmills with a backdrop of billowing industrial smokestacks. It's not something I see every day in art. </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvkRR-ynrQamX0MSOLLTDPqKfIFpvh5CeFy9pDpl_jDvp5VrOu6S8RWJzdegnzC0FVyNh9HbRd-ep9LrL45TSCW1bdzDFxekLCmlBzF9eOkW5MfZNhb3rInbv_kWBYD4GaD-TdsvjixmM/s1600/DSC02527.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvkRR-ynrQamX0MSOLLTDPqKfIFpvh5CeFy9pDpl_jDvp5VrOu6S8RWJzdegnzC0FVyNh9HbRd-ep9LrL45TSCW1bdzDFxekLCmlBzF9eOkW5MfZNhb3rInbv_kWBYD4GaD-TdsvjixmM/s1600/DSC02527.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Be careful when working around factory machines, kiddos. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguJsdI3FHTRxhObpdyVdGP4zXSAYFwEH0dDtucayh0S6bwaaTXKJtVdelgx_5z4aimd_BFf8W93-n5nacywgr7YvMLibTxWQvzQorJCwNV5wQW_GwLQLbNR2x_zRuP5gIJtKxNKx2vhws/s1600/DSC02530.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguJsdI3FHTRxhObpdyVdGP4zXSAYFwEH0dDtucayh0S6bwaaTXKJtVdelgx_5z4aimd_BFf8W93-n5nacywgr7YvMLibTxWQvzQorJCwNV5wQW_GwLQLbNR2x_zRuP5gIJtKxNKx2vhws/s1600/DSC02530.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just look at that untamed Dutch wilderness. </td></tr>
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I won't lie: going into Zaanse Schans set off some tourist trap vibes, and that was not just from all the tourists buzzing about. The sheer number of shops present were reminiscent of the times I would visit the very artificial Epcot with my family, and that feeling of familiarity brought upon by memories of Disney World felt odd. I normally don't experience this when I visit European cities and villages.</div>
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Still, I can't deny that the picturesque sights and the preservation of historic buildings were well worth the visit. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBI6LbxnTnWNMQLx2C8YBkCVulZoTYgZZm-TzURJ6N_0N9ASrLqzqEluoBpIXMb0Cvfr9q8-V6OdXXKdUNr7X-6FLo5UWMCvl5JWSQAEjpunYBsSEFRImN_EmQC4vbZuRE0XXT80ImoX8/s1600/DSC02533.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBI6LbxnTnWNMQLx2C8YBkCVulZoTYgZZm-TzURJ6N_0N9ASrLqzqEluoBpIXMb0Cvfr9q8-V6OdXXKdUNr7X-6FLo5UWMCvl5JWSQAEjpunYBsSEFRImN_EmQC4vbZuRE0XXT80ImoX8/s1600/DSC02533.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggf0c_GhjZS7iWBD_jCtr-aDQNMCaFWX5Olytq7UsuklRptagKnPKiazBVty1Pk02uXsR_d-IVcUelz9C8hXxk1ZkxXQyhy1kv1xm6Hh2o17W50h2jGfayorYxZbMWPLjcq3LHpv9YXtI/s1600/DSC02542.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggf0c_GhjZS7iWBD_jCtr-aDQNMCaFWX5Olytq7UsuklRptagKnPKiazBVty1Pk02uXsR_d-IVcUelz9C8hXxk1ZkxXQyhy1kv1xm6Hh2o17W50h2jGfayorYxZbMWPLjcq3LHpv9YXtI/s1600/DSC02542.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivD2NHGxKlLa6XssaFFCwGSL5ownIl1s0Sgn5XR1L2Dece8-EEy_e6-WIps0EWizs-u61QMM0yz65murCMmjwD_GzXlsqXt-dDectJpPp8mPws3IhJsvYcpPgRFdVBxyub_N5jPvluu40/s1600/DSC02543.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivD2NHGxKlLa6XssaFFCwGSL5ownIl1s0Sgn5XR1L2Dece8-EEy_e6-WIps0EWizs-u61QMM0yz65murCMmjwD_GzXlsqXt-dDectJpPp8mPws3IhJsvYcpPgRFdVBxyub_N5jPvluu40/s1600/DSC02543.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">For some reason, this dried mud reminded me of the turf I saw in Connemara</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtStrCop2Gzs4GMHkfRzrxr9j-2V9HNZ0QxrqI8TMl575ehblreR_6SefePY6Jry-mJ_H1w58-CtqrwUPBUpp8rU10wtid0aZ1YPlNNb2fET38opJrYQcgjW5bbnAermtsE5BOTVG59NM/s1600/DSC02544.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtStrCop2Gzs4GMHkfRzrxr9j-2V9HNZ0QxrqI8TMl575ehblreR_6SefePY6Jry-mJ_H1w58-CtqrwUPBUpp8rU10wtid0aZ1YPlNNb2fET38opJrYQcgjW5bbnAermtsE5BOTVG59NM/s1600/DSC02544.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chocolate moulds</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7lRQKDe7GTLnxby-t25WKYU4_QUrIxjTkzUvnDE-YlPdql8xqbisbCPFzJr4h73NyAvs0VogPjFrxWiw_wV8FcR-3jtBYuxrD6N_hOopDEDm-0IyCcsBFQeiXOv1ezZ-ewx_ClPa6TlU/s1600/DSC02546.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7lRQKDe7GTLnxby-t25WKYU4_QUrIxjTkzUvnDE-YlPdql8xqbisbCPFzJr4h73NyAvs0VogPjFrxWiw_wV8FcR-3jtBYuxrD6N_hOopDEDm-0IyCcsBFQeiXOv1ezZ-ewx_ClPa6TlU/s1600/DSC02546.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And cookie moulds and cutters </td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisNmpCiLmjtob7hBaSewn24tC5av1sgYauYmlFzqw_JB2W3HE7uNckGqFKNvzwlmJn8IXsiIuRGKFe7OeUxkFcuOaW0y_h72Z5Cfz9NG3oXNtEwDX8SrQkETGshABJc_fYH6zXvD-NYVI/s1600/DSC02547.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisNmpCiLmjtob7hBaSewn24tC5av1sgYauYmlFzqw_JB2W3HE7uNckGqFKNvzwlmJn8IXsiIuRGKFe7OeUxkFcuOaW0y_h72Z5Cfz9NG3oXNtEwDX8SrQkETGshABJc_fYH6zXvD-NYVI/s1600/DSC02547.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBp9b-c7bts565cM0yeglMwbwil6jMAdpSbB0Y3ZBKRDEVz58aqZE6r3LMKdh_mDq5dOpkhQFy6eK-YZVH4fuUWA0CYSK8xLg6Lr2XCGnL0XoV4-zxp6bHxptXLbSpoWkdD1SFnAtoRXc/s1600/DSC02561.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBp9b-c7bts565cM0yeglMwbwil6jMAdpSbB0Y3ZBKRDEVz58aqZE6r3LMKdh_mDq5dOpkhQFy6eK-YZVH4fuUWA0CYSK8xLg6Lr2XCGnL0XoV4-zxp6bHxptXLbSpoWkdD1SFnAtoRXc/s1600/DSC02561.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I adore the architecture here.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZFn9Oo7VzSBSw-arO_p3PzAfSIyEwH0-ig53Fr8bQhF_gmpoZSWKDjHJEEpzfBoeeUQCVxepCn98ulYEcmuap9xn5hZ8D6DFW1qytVWDn7YnvjJ6sZsJ91nZIlN3oy-F3NAa6UukNeq4/s1600/DSC02562.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZFn9Oo7VzSBSw-arO_p3PzAfSIyEwH0-ig53Fr8bQhF_gmpoZSWKDjHJEEpzfBoeeUQCVxepCn98ulYEcmuap9xn5hZ8D6DFW1qytVWDn7YnvjJ6sZsJ91nZIlN3oy-F3NAa6UukNeq4/s1600/DSC02562.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Kaas" is another useful Dutch word to know.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh58SfYwoOTBAkoGs36bQyMb6Xedkdb99QlukqXolHxqXs8Fa29l7jhrcBkyvCtT7OR0zUKR6XFvz9ke-7wVhMo2O4-N4cfjl7JJPkChXjuiX9isLZNAfyhJg1U243Rhvb166BjwtK3Dco/s1600/DSC02563.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh58SfYwoOTBAkoGs36bQyMb6Xedkdb99QlukqXolHxqXs8Fa29l7jhrcBkyvCtT7OR0zUKR6XFvz9ke-7wVhMo2O4-N4cfjl7JJPkChXjuiX9isLZNAfyhJg1U243Rhvb166BjwtK3Dco/s1600/DSC02563.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I tried a very nice bacon and asparagus cheese. It sounds so wrong, but it was so right.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSN8Zy-ePNGWTlz_AqXCC1MQFjpBtUGGQdBXD7i1uX-dtryh7_Q-tXPEsuD8dMCudN_XyhHQZUuMbyIjTdnVsHbQM0iyePNlyi1fg1kfCdB6hZ0m_wQ2TSyxSAKFZsbYKW3eZ94ukdefA/s1600/DSC02564.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSN8Zy-ePNGWTlz_AqXCC1MQFjpBtUGGQdBXD7i1uX-dtryh7_Q-tXPEsuD8dMCudN_XyhHQZUuMbyIjTdnVsHbQM0iyePNlyi1fg1kfCdB6hZ0m_wQ2TSyxSAKFZsbYKW3eZ94ukdefA/s1600/DSC02564.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizeIrc9w-LQBOeoUf2GMziaaIYkdddWQM2z4aBDNjZfGe00JAHuMECDuq7PsqD9K3x1OWHgfRP-KXdYgo2V07Rn20PAoIsBsGjTIreZohJU7gPF2ZSQncfyRNKdtRu1aAndZxguvAqbWs/s1600/DSC02568.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizeIrc9w-LQBOeoUf2GMziaaIYkdddWQM2z4aBDNjZfGe00JAHuMECDuq7PsqD9K3x1OWHgfRP-KXdYgo2V07Rn20PAoIsBsGjTIreZohJU7gPF2ZSQncfyRNKdtRu1aAndZxguvAqbWs/s1600/DSC02568.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyXJLr1LHFBduma1zsUEOAnIFinK66Qz9vbDAPFH5xeAEjb9gx3Foc57xxHPOlO3we-1T4P6O5zRJSf_92rpA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiClABhqaKEtlw33DgMcHy1xK8R8nytL4rhplJQZ9NmIDevnsS3uImOvSvcXsgLoYepfIZHhPU3uYpGAUCkZHOw3lcUY5tTGELyS8HfGPL66I28GTxUfYNZg4eb7JrfKhMwUULxK3C5Wd4/s1600/DSC02570.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiClABhqaKEtlw33DgMcHy1xK8R8nytL4rhplJQZ9NmIDevnsS3uImOvSvcXsgLoYepfIZHhPU3uYpGAUCkZHOw3lcUY5tTGELyS8HfGPL66I28GTxUfYNZg4eb7JrfKhMwUULxK3C5Wd4/s1600/DSC02570.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0bsyh3HDYry_C86DHDQr0LPr08iPep8BL1RkYUMkLncfjfPB-Wz5Xu4mCek1Sdun7ZTxxwmmcK-wR4cK6Ho6E8yUaRpfGdSA-Yk-BbmGQL2Q49X8Z5he4zNO4dBRr9HXiEhvq1kWiKvA/s1600/DSC02572.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0bsyh3HDYry_C86DHDQr0LPr08iPep8BL1RkYUMkLncfjfPB-Wz5Xu4mCek1Sdun7ZTxxwmmcK-wR4cK6Ho6E8yUaRpfGdSA-Yk-BbmGQL2Q49X8Z5he4zNO4dBRr9HXiEhvq1kWiKvA/s1600/DSC02572.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Only in the Netherlands have I been able to see a thatched windmill...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgooAyIuZJxdKXojcaMTtUkObwqHdI3dNltEMvMGQY-qfF6-gMt-to1P_eBtcn3LFP1c_B6CYt_DZpuXFdrNHYVjhiwwAQP0wkVqLs9Tu_c8aLCwHHlKQmzd9wsJ9snXT2dxAM4MOpBoxM/s1600/DSC02573.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgooAyIuZJxdKXojcaMTtUkObwqHdI3dNltEMvMGQY-qfF6-gMt-to1P_eBtcn3LFP1c_B6CYt_DZpuXFdrNHYVjhiwwAQP0wkVqLs9Tu_c8aLCwHHlKQmzd9wsJ9snXT2dxAM4MOpBoxM/s1600/DSC02573.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...That had its own mini-windmill. (Cue the Xzibit "Yo dawg" joke.)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk8ZVNmixJlJnJIhuDXVtwMVv0b5Ag56LWbQgq53Chy6VwqjLecwFJKL_yyUTTxTp6LDn2dt_10gfkN4uwAfCNVo8VfQt6sflB-DYMF-v-8j-MJIwOH_z7-wmxLA7w_apFp5DBVaer-3Q/s1600/DSC02556.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk8ZVNmixJlJnJIhuDXVtwMVv0b5Ag56LWbQgq53Chy6VwqjLecwFJKL_yyUTTxTp6LDn2dt_10gfkN4uwAfCNVo8VfQt6sflB-DYMF-v-8j-MJIwOH_z7-wmxLA7w_apFp5DBVaer-3Q/s1600/DSC02556.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Windmill with a billowing smokestack backdrop? Now, where have I seen this before..?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieqUOz2EuFerqA2GQbcING427iOz2hZsd7vPMuSW542qgt01HiHsG-MUEr_gEbzOMaaySlJtBALUDNJDjYgm1yEI95f1D_50FxdxLeyvRGrU2BHfr2AK0_rY4FqyYPsIRcTR_OXvnt6Fs/s1600/DSC02593.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieqUOz2EuFerqA2GQbcING427iOz2hZsd7vPMuSW542qgt01HiHsG-MUEr_gEbzOMaaySlJtBALUDNJDjYgm1yEI95f1D_50FxdxLeyvRGrU2BHfr2AK0_rY4FqyYPsIRcTR_OXvnt6Fs/s1600/DSC02593.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nijntje really isn't doing a good job at hiding. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
There was even an Albert Heijn museum! For one shining moment, I thought about visiting it...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiayrORrHWtJJLxPeEcXedbZede45ft4WBk6_FklNiVy6penazCKUQsHGyAonC6mdu5Wa3ORXBaLe4EUs75sRVGjXUgjMwxbEmyMpfEosJGu4GLYEGlKIp7JUH6J-G65kGGsQUyH418_Fc/s1600/DSC02600.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiayrORrHWtJJLxPeEcXedbZede45ft4WBk6_FklNiVy6penazCKUQsHGyAonC6mdu5Wa3ORXBaLe4EUs75sRVGjXUgjMwxbEmyMpfEosJGu4GLYEGlKIp7JUH6J-G65kGGsQUyH418_Fc/s1600/DSC02600.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqNJE-BWeWof7wyXS0LCy6wrcCWzbFLESJ8vfuM7B2xGFA8JdCc4wFE_7WJHjoIcsGBKtMG0QeK0TyGPYYjCqQdYV-GUyr2CBw-BKuQhia1ertpX8RLDlUdq8e9-m7kwIiwo4IkjjgPvc/s1600/DSC02601.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqNJE-BWeWof7wyXS0LCy6wrcCWzbFLESJ8vfuM7B2xGFA8JdCc4wFE_7WJHjoIcsGBKtMG0QeK0TyGPYYjCqQdYV-GUyr2CBw-BKuQhia1ertpX8RLDlUdq8e9-m7kwIiwo4IkjjgPvc/s1600/DSC02601.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Koffie" is definitely worth knowing, too.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
...Only to find that this museum clearly respected the "It's Monday, we're not open" rule.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNuees3xIATMDAMgj48QqqFiporiV4chtur4N8YzkNYl1WVa8N9igq2KtNCQZMFAoSG-TH9xvfxXtEDe8ah9z02J7bNAdwnxo6usNCx2WC1GyneEe8aVyy9rGnUr_uEzMUY49UdQa-cDQ/s1600/DSC02602.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNuees3xIATMDAMgj48QqqFiporiV4chtur4N8YzkNYl1WVa8N9igq2KtNCQZMFAoSG-TH9xvfxXtEDe8ah9z02J7bNAdwnxo6usNCx2WC1GyneEe8aVyy9rGnUr_uEzMUY49UdQa-cDQ/s1600/DSC02602.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Score: 4.5 to 1.5. Drats!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
I also saw daffodils.<br />
<br />
Or what was left of them.<br />
<br />
Because they were dead.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFOXnitgaWFbLxpT9Y1Mq7jNtnVek0VrdkH8_NxrwtGaN5ii4Ko-h-XjvkChIBylMBDfJ4-NsO4f9MXcreyX0E7J1soJafzVg6XibSHb6Ytm-xLTIyB6t7gD4x3Gd_hZaK6sqBn8CW7KE/s1600/DSC02606.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFOXnitgaWFbLxpT9Y1Mq7jNtnVek0VrdkH8_NxrwtGaN5ii4Ko-h-XjvkChIBylMBDfJ4-NsO4f9MXcreyX0E7J1soJafzVg6XibSHb6Ytm-xLTIyB6t7gD4x3Gd_hZaK6sqBn8CW7KE/s1600/DSC02606.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
DEAD.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN4Cu4sYclPMVT9iQnLNQnigTi1fpAtLd88SHi7cAvjorRmlC9sFB48f92ynklRF809SxWK17j9IKY-ZIRYMWA3VFtQ2VaqaPfSAmo61mFjURsOZm7wNkqI7AxKH2S5cIkyhvh51-JGSM/s1600/DSC02607.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN4Cu4sYclPMVT9iQnLNQnigTi1fpAtLd88SHi7cAvjorRmlC9sFB48f92ynklRF809SxWK17j9IKY-ZIRYMWA3VFtQ2VaqaPfSAmo61mFjURsOZm7wNkqI7AxKH2S5cIkyhvh51-JGSM/s1600/DSC02607.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I also saw the disturbing remnants of decapitated tulips.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOhGENLignZKf9k33Gzpagv7iyBmErPCjipwUhhFn8rpoPYlsHk8fE77A152nZxusN2V58Ra6qZF_AParq1OQc_mOcfI7wvUDyZtg3NPElO8eZhpkWTo9EffAurocG_VwNKAypKGBochw/s1600/DSC02577.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOhGENLignZKf9k33Gzpagv7iyBmErPCjipwUhhFn8rpoPYlsHk8fE77A152nZxusN2V58Ra6qZF_AParq1OQc_mOcfI7wvUDyZtg3NPElO8eZhpkWTo9EffAurocG_VwNKAypKGBochw/s1600/DSC02577.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Since I don't want you all to feel bad about seeing deceased tulips, I did this to cheer you up:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj-Rq4PbAVvwMyTU5QT_ra0_WaAXOfkFY9_HukBl64kr8g4T7Yl9F0lJwsrlKfBKvnl2d5yN7qP241iVje3cbg3m1383cwf-7vv9CcLEafbM54DyHlqsQP9ofRgCaPS1PzG-H-ua8-Z2M/s1600/Tulips.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj-Rq4PbAVvwMyTU5QT_ra0_WaAXOfkFY9_HukBl64kr8g4T7Yl9F0lJwsrlKfBKvnl2d5yN7qP241iVje3cbg3m1383cwf-7vv9CcLEafbM54DyHlqsQP9ofRgCaPS1PzG-H-ua8-Z2M/s1600/Tulips.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If you squint at just the right angle, you can pretend they are still alive. Go on. Try it. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I normally don't take pictures of other people's back yards, but I couldn't resist. This one had roaming chickens. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYp8iwuiiomfL3w_5GpYtvgNPHBl0N-e-3MXdvkHhdBY8DWfoON1Jsnc0OcYO8EtTy3vqyE1EHYUXTuJ7IFVh0p8uLT_r4BnEPOeAPVo8uC8V9Y7gBJc33KxiCQHNRpa8UWt7R5WyknTg/s1600/DSC02616.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYp8iwuiiomfL3w_5GpYtvgNPHBl0N-e-3MXdvkHhdBY8DWfoON1Jsnc0OcYO8EtTy3vqyE1EHYUXTuJ7IFVh0p8uLT_r4BnEPOeAPVo8uC8V9Y7gBJc33KxiCQHNRpa8UWt7R5WyknTg/s1600/DSC02616.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I really do like how pimpin' Dutch bikes are. </td></tr>
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With my entrance to the museum, I was given a ticket that granted access to visit a functioning windmill of my choice. Even though there was a windmill that ground paint, I decided to go into the windmill that produced oil. Now, when I cook, my oil of choice by default is olive oil, so upon hearing there was an oil windmill, my brain decided to push aside any logic and associated olive oil with said windmill's production. </div>
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Because, as we all know, the Netherlands is known for its balmy Mediterranean climate and olive trees. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Logically.</td></tr>
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Imagine my shock when I walked into the windmill and discovered that the oil it produced was, in fact, <i>peanut</i> oil. My brain reprimanded itself with a quick "oh, well, <i>of course</i> it's going to have peanut oil, you moron, DUH." Then, in an instantaneous moment, my brain had another realization that caused panic to sank in. </div>
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You see, I am allergic to nuts and peanuts, and the room in which I had sauntered in absentminded fashion was currently CRUSHING THOUSANDS OF PEANUTS INTO A FINE POWDER. It seems that I had a bit of a death wish for myself.</div>
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Not wanting to miss the moment of having the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity of seeing a windmill churn, I risked my life and held my breath to film a very hasty video. Then I ran straight out before the floating peanut dust particles could ensure that my once-in-a-lifetime chances remained decidedly at a single stolid shot. </div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dymk4LO11NIc-9bgyDC26xWYL1VX8YGt9rpj80TdSsSQlcvstVu8APoTC8uVVGNvy7SySaRWGMFNQQjHYuiFw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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(Forget filming nature documentaries about African wildlife in the savanna; peanuts are dangerous enough for me.)</div>
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Being cautious about my allergies and my desire to cling to life, I swallowed a couple of anti-histamine pills to settle any potential deadly reactions. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The breath of life has a different meaning for me.</td></tr>
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One of the unfortunate side effects of certain anti-histamine pills is the tendency to render the taker into a drowsy stupor. When I began to see double windmills dance before my eyes, I decided that it was time to leave the Zaanse Schans, fleeing far away from the evil peanut oil producing windmill, and take the bus back to Amsterdam so I could travel to Volendam. </div>
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But before I did so, I sat down and ate a freshly-made stroopwafel with some coffee. You can't beat the simple pleasures in this life. </div>
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Nodding on and off during the bus ride, the haze of having seen several windmills still fresh in my memory, my bleary vision gazed upon the landscape and transmitted a befuddled message to my mind: "there's a metallic windmill on the side of the road." </div>
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Now, I am familiar with the occasional modern wind pumps that dot the French countryside, but I had never seen anything quite like <i>that</i> "metallic windmill." Rather than being confused, I blinked rapidly and was awed by such a spectacular feat of human ingenuity. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They don't. (Yes, I <b>genuinely</b> thought this telephone tower was a windmill. <i>That's </i>how drugged up I was on Benadryll.)</td></tr>
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Kids, when in the Netherlands, go easy on the anti-histamine pills. Those are dynamite.</div>
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Barb the French Bean<br />
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<b>*UPDATE*</b><br />
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A discrepancy with the score on being able to visit museums/do certain activities has been noted. After the realization that the peanut windwill nearly killed me despite still being able to see it, the current score now stands at 5 to 2. </div>
The Beanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09294653760778922184noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3800436644379687416.post-82282744387304593222014-05-11T07:43:00.000-04:002014-05-12T16:23:53.914-04:00Tales of the Perpetually Late: No Luck in Den Haag and Delft (Complete with Score)After <a href="http://twobeansornottwobeans.blogspot.fr/2014/05/the-day-drunk-dutchman-grinded-on-me.html">the King's Day celebrations</a>, I decided that one euphoric day of inebriated and bitterballen rest was more than enough. As Minister of Transport for Holland, I find myself with the tireless duty to see how well the Nederlandse Spoorwegen do their job to ensure transportation for the Dutch.<br />
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On King Willem-Alexander's actual birthday, I took an early train from my base of Hoofddorp to visit the city known for prosecuting and sentencing crimes against humankind: the Hague.<br />
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(Note as a dumb American: during my <a href="http://twobeansornottwobeans.blogspot.fr/2014/01/the-minister-of-transport-for-holland.html">first visit to the Netherlands</a>, it always perplexed me to see trains heading in the direction of a city called "Den Haag," mostly because I had <b>never</b> heard of that city before. It wasn't until <i>after</i> I had returned to France when the fairly obvious truth sunk in: Den Haag is the Dutch term for... the Hague.<br />
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Oops.<br />
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How silly of me to be able to recognize the city's name in three other languages, the Hague, la Haye, la Haya, but not, oddly enough, in its original language nor that my brain could have made the connection and let it clicked. It seems that <a href="http://twobeansornottwobeans.blogspot.fr/2014/04/working-with-brain-minions-in-language.html">my Brain Minions</a> in the Language Learning Center were asleep at the wheel.)<br />
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I had a fine day cut out for myself, one filled with museums. I knew well in advance that the Mauritshuis museum had closed due to renovations and had a select number of its classic paintings transferred to the Gemeente Museum, and that the nearby city of Delft had the Prinsenhof and the Vermeer Centrum. My goal was to visit all three of them.<br />
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The only hitch was that I had miscalculated just how long it was going to take me to arrive on foot from the train station to the Gemeente Museum in Den Haag. Upon my arrival into the city, I noticed that its streets were deserted.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">*crickets chirp*</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSZziF6PJScwkFWAqHsS1Y9UiU6Mw2XyJqzslgnKOKpvBe-QmpO5UpTA8jb3o7hUkFVASGfl2K64SCP57tPX07tVPQjcfcfYc1KpQc7-G1lihWilJWoMKyFtarhrvpOiyU8VfQXZ3D7bU/s1600/DSC02223.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSZziF6PJScwkFWAqHsS1Y9UiU6Mw2XyJqzslgnKOKpvBe-QmpO5UpTA8jb3o7hUkFVASGfl2K64SCP57tPX07tVPQjcfcfYc1KpQc7-G1lihWilJWoMKyFtarhrvpOiyU8VfQXZ3D7bU/s1600/DSC02223.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">*tumbleweed rolls by*</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrwN_aYnFZDYpYmTfInHQCd7N0_-AxVHdMAxE919LuAFC3fnpK5e_j8p7RHRp8EdzUqVod4Rzmur9FcjnO_WUMANScnTe6Sc6OCXXVHFM2nUbrIVHKWZTy8RnkF_ntygwzTFyrJAPa7hk/s1600/DSC02230.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrwN_aYnFZDYpYmTfInHQCd7N0_-AxVHdMAxE919LuAFC3fnpK5e_j8p7RHRp8EdzUqVod4Rzmur9FcjnO_WUMANScnTe6Sc6OCXXVHFM2nUbrIVHKWZTy8RnkF_ntygwzTFyrJAPa7hk/s1600/DSC02230.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">*wind blows*</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>Eerily</b> deserted.<br />
<br />
Not that I was panicking but I've seen enough episodes of <i>The Walking Dead</i> to know where this was heading. No zombies then, BAM! You've crashed a zombie jamboree and they are wondering where the food is.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0viHeBlebogHmBNOJd-sBnJBbQxCih-LjsUHORTHurXB7xfTqSHFEu1_jszSIQwsQFbh3fzdLsZKTfbNB1Awy-D2wzCm8C1z5Ob-CkME788vojQ4xPlZPFly9VkeJKxaCiHxzcNCXcW4/s1600/DSC02235.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0viHeBlebogHmBNOJd-sBnJBbQxCih-LjsUHORTHurXB7xfTqSHFEu1_jszSIQwsQFbh3fzdLsZKTfbNB1Awy-D2wzCm8C1z5Ob-CkME788vojQ4xPlZPFly9VkeJKxaCiHxzcNCXcW4/s1600/DSC02235.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hey, Naked Lady, do you know where everyone is? No?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMYfjKQGbTyl7lXhUuMN5qYwloK1op4eRSy5gUiX4hzmq5c9SsNp6b_sDD_7DlB2ia77Pls99MuF7_jm24UW8lmY7BbU-gsxcOD7s_dmmX1OvaOr8x24SKjQYvHsXGXanR2a5_jDfaeZQ/s1600/DSC02240.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMYfjKQGbTyl7lXhUuMN5qYwloK1op4eRSy5gUiX4hzmq5c9SsNp6b_sDD_7DlB2ia77Pls99MuF7_jm24UW8lmY7BbU-gsxcOD7s_dmmX1OvaOr8x24SKjQYvHsXGXanR2a5_jDfaeZQ/s1600/DSC02240.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What about you, Imperial Lion holding a golden shield with an Imperial Lion? Oh, you neither, huh?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I had expected this sleepy, relaxed Sunday air of small French cities like Sablé-sur-Sarthe, but certainly not a bustling metropolis!<br />
<br />
Then I encountered a large group of <strike>zombies</strike> protesters and felt right back home in France.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0N-TZHYxyjnwL3XX-_XP7wKdgP1QRiW-qI79tUlUAe_95gBODzxedXtOzYRL3GlgBBadYcs18W9UwqMYa2NrsOwbL0Kj-4mKXv7kanakKEH_r9S4BjNMiEvrnztrguLG01GiKKGps5tw/s1600/DSC02244.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0N-TZHYxyjnwL3XX-_XP7wKdgP1QRiW-qI79tUlUAe_95gBODzxedXtOzYRL3GlgBBadYcs18W9UwqMYa2NrsOwbL0Kj-4mKXv7kanakKEH_r9S4BjNMiEvrnztrguLG01GiKKGps5tw/s1600/DSC02244.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
In my stroll around Den Haag, I also noticed the city had several storks scattered about it and decided to play a photographic stork scavenger hunt. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBd3W5Aa3_l1neD7HSJpGnzDWRjDuhi04MyDRCx4TDov-PS8eukwXUMSN5EeVVCdbtHJs2sjGhRjISNjlGW2PfHzk011-ypN5aARh4CtOFIPd4sQrGS2R1ugtGCY4DqzrhDC8TMWtYJ2U/s1600/DSC02248.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBd3W5Aa3_l1neD7HSJpGnzDWRjDuhi04MyDRCx4TDov-PS8eukwXUMSN5EeVVCdbtHJs2sjGhRjISNjlGW2PfHzk011-ypN5aARh4CtOFIPd4sQrGS2R1ugtGCY4DqzrhDC8TMWtYJ2U/s1600/DSC02248.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhywdTeVfgyqC_zlV2jYZmIG5TK2RkfAqzKy2mOav6g-4YgpWP4H46fMA3Ft2QUrbe46-ryCnqBd4r4NCLTGTm6yYUJT1nXBHRSkXMuHhk2dUjP4bm7q8hxNIMYshEKjpYONYmkDnk573k/s1600/DSC02251.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhywdTeVfgyqC_zlV2jYZmIG5TK2RkfAqzKy2mOav6g-4YgpWP4H46fMA3Ft2QUrbe46-ryCnqBd4r4NCLTGTm6yYUJT1nXBHRSkXMuHhk2dUjP4bm7q8hxNIMYshEKjpYONYmkDnk573k/s1600/DSC02251.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stork</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpl8Aa1ouJGAXQNBD816RuBqMFkGm9kkduHPSqIO3OrfMEJma_nkgbfe2jci9FviKiGxVjuhOH8Nd2O4pPeLHYlcyUKrd1onYsHRop4LLdAcC4uZWUJD27PE_j-FVJUkHBw8P7g4-yySQ/s1600/DSC02252.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpl8Aa1ouJGAXQNBD816RuBqMFkGm9kkduHPSqIO3OrfMEJma_nkgbfe2jci9FviKiGxVjuhOH8Nd2O4pPeLHYlcyUKrd1onYsHRop4LLdAcC4uZWUJD27PE_j-FVJUkHBw8P7g4-yySQ/s1600/DSC02252.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFuuemMo0o-JY5C0SXlj-AQkn5ZGsWbhQQMECD2pk34WYD7UxTuy9a-iVpkZKlZx-M4gfuJCQk-F4YU0tVP5siIQVvMZLsVR4vSTPBQr4JzIzvrVgfbvcCKHPbgTZ2gHQagwLtWKGoqjU/s1600/DSC02254.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFuuemMo0o-JY5C0SXlj-AQkn5ZGsWbhQQMECD2pk34WYD7UxTuy9a-iVpkZKlZx-M4gfuJCQk-F4YU0tVP5siIQVvMZLsVR4vSTPBQr4JzIzvrVgfbvcCKHPbgTZ2gHQagwLtWKGoqjU/s1600/DSC02254.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgocR6TiBOXxgP_uJ_YNvMlemvBeQ1JvpmeqcCwFsbt6SQSHadH1sxKynHQk8kmnEPillB4yasWl4O22TlAXvh6DuzAktPtKdnDTUD5yTQb464Lv1VeBa7wI3vyVJQT-c9-4PqzPvPmyRk/s1600/DSC02257.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgocR6TiBOXxgP_uJ_YNvMlemvBeQ1JvpmeqcCwFsbt6SQSHadH1sxKynHQk8kmnEPillB4yasWl4O22TlAXvh6DuzAktPtKdnDTUD5yTQb464Lv1VeBa7wI3vyVJQT-c9-4PqzPvPmyRk/s1600/DSC02257.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stork</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOS_AhvFxI4pQUP7yzXYCpMeLjICYlGAjzKodHXSslG7E8n74_VUlY3RrSIfOgnrb1Nlh1G-zeigIfg9Z89cbEvnBspNmxxCpv4xnC3KQA3W2RPQCq2VpK58hSDtL4UZiNcTHfBQO4i7c/s1600/DSC02270.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOS_AhvFxI4pQUP7yzXYCpMeLjICYlGAjzKodHXSslG7E8n74_VUlY3RrSIfOgnrb1Nlh1G-zeigIfg9Z89cbEvnBspNmxxCpv4xnC3KQA3W2RPQCq2VpK58hSDtL4UZiNcTHfBQO4i7c/s1600/DSC02270.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEielsklizfBjuP8NF4zrseR4tBfy3i9KmzikucRWRlHWGBdRdU4kXNXJ2RreYPhkNf6mALqmhna_ETtUzHNQOquE5PeXFUxZzTn0gGtk2jloAnxZqRw_g2F_vRseVs_jc-juYouOTHb_gQ/s1600/DSC02273.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEielsklizfBjuP8NF4zrseR4tBfy3i9KmzikucRWRlHWGBdRdU4kXNXJ2RreYPhkNf6mALqmhna_ETtUzHNQOquE5PeXFUxZzTn0gGtk2jloAnxZqRw_g2F_vRseVs_jc-juYouOTHb_gQ/s1600/DSC02273.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Hey, kid, d'you know where the Paleis is?" </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZkug2zkGIGkzjkdMTkcguLsjjHxyCYNhLugzGhYHTY9Ekzh3q-kQ1davqyPW7qGBjt_j79OUPNCzQOhO2mOqoYMo1onxkHx6QE0E8cbRPF1zcqUqG-fpaItSshSkZL4b9OCkUbWbAmrs/s1600/DSC02274.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZkug2zkGIGkzjkdMTkcguLsjjHxyCYNhLugzGhYHTY9Ekzh3q-kQ1davqyPW7qGBjt_j79OUPNCzQOhO2mOqoYMo1onxkHx6QE0E8cbRPF1zcqUqG-fpaItSshSkZL4b9OCkUbWbAmrs/s1600/DSC02274.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Oh."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3NITcKKgCOzrwnsiWAj0uKb9bqkaTR6pfIzVaDorgPEVG1Bb4gis0S5U9aoZfsYnKtk2IWYAFqbNCydaywFRwPzTlxmwkdANOrbhq0MrSgSFm5bchLHltMifl66CxSDCN6rOG29ADGlo/s1600/DSC02279.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3NITcKKgCOzrwnsiWAj0uKb9bqkaTR6pfIzVaDorgPEVG1Bb4gis0S5U9aoZfsYnKtk2IWYAFqbNCydaywFRwPzTlxmwkdANOrbhq0MrSgSFm5bchLHltMifl66CxSDCN6rOG29ADGlo/s1600/DSC02279.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some flags of the different provinces</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM8DLSsSs23_7w7hY3fAlUhwu6OPDCUiaPpGW1NruMuePGCL3vjgf6yB0mFBI3pwf_0QTeTjxjpWcbFXdB_T6Z7slxatreOc7XS86mmWwWN1-Je5L0QOfZKuXla42sMiwnrOe5Z8mF0Hw/s1600/DSC02336.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM8DLSsSs23_7w7hY3fAlUhwu6OPDCUiaPpGW1NruMuePGCL3vjgf6yB0mFBI3pwf_0QTeTjxjpWcbFXdB_T6Z7slxatreOc7XS86mmWwWN1-Je5L0QOfZKuXla42sMiwnrOe5Z8mF0Hw/s1600/DSC02336.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The courtyard within the Paleis, complete with cranes.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUI0K15EQVI_n_W9Ub8ilUll5gnAGjIyi7am0pIFsKxLfy0jSj73lI8GgrjfEzmhM-_Z_grX4KNUD4sIDHzFIu_Htp7WYydtIxmuQax1BIgOjh2cEZXlxhwX1zBIvYRO-HgjhQSUqciGI/s1600/DSC02348.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUI0K15EQVI_n_W9Ub8ilUll5gnAGjIyi7am0pIFsKxLfy0jSj73lI8GgrjfEzmhM-_Z_grX4KNUD4sIDHzFIu_Htp7WYydtIxmuQax1BIgOjh2cEZXlxhwX1zBIvYRO-HgjhQSUqciGI/s1600/DSC02348.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIA_2z-mnLVptSXak9svvq8HRD4hisk_32nviO4XeYDnt1P7RdidaJegzze6r-LW37zbCgcNZ83amFAfCyPEjKkVuqtXVgnItC6wxpWEmOPOS-YLnflgiUoWOMqgUzHVRZU0cpASaqr9k/s1600/DSC02353.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIA_2z-mnLVptSXak9svvq8HRD4hisk_32nviO4XeYDnt1P7RdidaJegzze6r-LW37zbCgcNZ83amFAfCyPEjKkVuqtXVgnItC6wxpWEmOPOS-YLnflgiUoWOMqgUzHVRZU0cpASaqr9k/s1600/DSC02353.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, I can confirm that the Mauritshuis is indeed closed for renovations.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-EshYQ5kPnYcDkMhlsEpZwg2krB1q9ZElsqIG-Eec1yFnUA61W0M5Ygw8V-3TJZn2zaSj0MN7mt1Udd5vVt564wRBA68dtmIWmmMIbhUAv974J6-LiJkpQnrrQuZ3OpncbY-nyKZzrxI/s1600/DSC02357.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-EshYQ5kPnYcDkMhlsEpZwg2krB1q9ZElsqIG-Eec1yFnUA61W0M5Ygw8V-3TJZn2zaSj0MN7mt1Udd5vVt564wRBA68dtmIWmmMIbhUAv974J6-LiJkpQnrrQuZ3OpncbY-nyKZzrxI/s1600/DSC02357.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">However, this wasn't the only time in which I would see this famous lady throughout the day.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPyLph0Zl8q0AmJm_2BdY0Dd-duJkNbNZRYn5pqHEsxczvG6LpYqDobRIW8zrqikaK0xYJyH9eWjAsH-dUoEllYIA3-U8bnFhb2qahejz5sCzjZbvKI9G7WCk_zytZM3xuVx7HS8JWtew/s1600/DSC02362.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPyLph0Zl8q0AmJm_2BdY0Dd-duJkNbNZRYn5pqHEsxczvG6LpYqDobRIW8zrqikaK0xYJyH9eWjAsH-dUoEllYIA3-U8bnFhb2qahejz5sCzjZbvKI9G7WCk_zytZM3xuVx7HS8JWtew/s1600/DSC02362.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAEqqPv_rKC5gb6Jd7Z3wEvFTBbwNHpQ_p5dPDMJqJz91bTIUpMG1ubAFFqxjOk2F_bExOfDgOAtfrlcT3ScIyoROJEXNUckqeGN3cK0dHHU03hpCl3UMp0TvvI3HC5Emw9B7oub9yHdQ/s1600/DSC02363.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAEqqPv_rKC5gb6Jd7Z3wEvFTBbwNHpQ_p5dPDMJqJz91bTIUpMG1ubAFFqxjOk2F_bExOfDgOAtfrlcT3ScIyoROJEXNUckqeGN3cK0dHHU03hpCl3UMp0TvvI3HC5Emw9B7oub9yHdQ/s1600/DSC02363.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stork</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo81-8oVk4hg-g7keqP3EfXgCo8Jkq5Lx0FHV2bPXlLqEdWzLyIiWd7DfOq61ShcM2NtUHZtbC6XQaaotjc6sJDXb5C3w7PMmIFmOnBJ1WeAtjPNlOXliLIQGqOAMQ7gYrRJjCxDTRJIo/s1600/DSC02293.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo81-8oVk4hg-g7keqP3EfXgCo8Jkq5Lx0FHV2bPXlLqEdWzLyIiWd7DfOq61ShcM2NtUHZtbC6XQaaotjc6sJDXb5C3w7PMmIFmOnBJ1WeAtjPNlOXliLIQGqOAMQ7gYrRJjCxDTRJIo/s1600/DSC02293.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Leftover King's day decorations in the city centre</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrGDJ4orq2r-hmJhyphenhyphen0F5aIQ_TTiBfm4LrW2p7VjCApQOR5ljJmbTUti0hx2LFxm84WyhZ3uS__IjZJwp12jaU6s0aoUglN-VLmygAbbsvRrCMRgSEDYulBoCLbZcCIbu17Po5j7_SklI8/s1600/DSC02303.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrGDJ4orq2r-hmJhyphenhyphen0F5aIQ_TTiBfm4LrW2p7VjCApQOR5ljJmbTUti0hx2LFxm84WyhZ3uS__IjZJwp12jaU6s0aoUglN-VLmygAbbsvRrCMRgSEDYulBoCLbZcCIbu17Po5j7_SklI8/s1600/DSC02303.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqthdIlaw8N5VE6xYGnSEBmkeNEkp7L6gEH3qRaUof3eDcMpewMAr7X0jLui7NODWepYamWdNWzXDJ7PLMeRp7jhNNKdrQI7UIox0pbPjAu3FmKRUnZsl2wmJI24yL0ejIU71zIQTkDcc/s1600/DSC02306.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqthdIlaw8N5VE6xYGnSEBmkeNEkp7L6gEH3qRaUof3eDcMpewMAr7X0jLui7NODWepYamWdNWzXDJ7PLMeRp7jhNNKdrQI7UIox0pbPjAu3FmKRUnZsl2wmJI24yL0ejIU71zIQTkDcc/s1600/DSC02306.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Great Church</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMOCDp9oz3p4wrBNDpPcg3tUv26svFUrVg2ivPPLkJo5SXgN0M-2nnDp1LcSFqHFHWjxetBw9c_dqb8BbFcck5J0ZENflS1AiYVABh-59788wD1NBAH-pydvOfnQsmSUClOKcPYayDzwY/s1600/DSC02315.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMOCDp9oz3p4wrBNDpPcg3tUv26svFUrVg2ivPPLkJo5SXgN0M-2nnDp1LcSFqHFHWjxetBw9c_dqb8BbFcck5J0ZENflS1AiYVABh-59788wD1NBAH-pydvOfnQsmSUClOKcPYayDzwY/s1600/DSC02315.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I spotted a seal for Cuba's capital as well as the French flag. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtF3vFLsZ1dfFv3m2wgPicblgq0Z_mAT_ZkdrZuG70InorWcmkaoDWhk4CFQnLYgy2V3uf9IKEmJoXtSXP9IpKJI9IebMhR59BtTgFTC6nlnkPiZOhySqhEuWfsbotP0znORqINIHNvzM/s1600/DSC02325.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtF3vFLsZ1dfFv3m2wgPicblgq0Z_mAT_ZkdrZuG70InorWcmkaoDWhk4CFQnLYgy2V3uf9IKEmJoXtSXP9IpKJI9IebMhR59BtTgFTC6nlnkPiZOhySqhEuWfsbotP0znORqINIHNvzM/s1600/DSC02325.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And this creepy lady death statue. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFoo4Xp8IDE2mNdMBpm0IoUEy6diWjowxNzgVsUwjRzPiTZ8ONBmNbXsmo8yVv7_nPH-OrFrpMuIoFwvssddrrjNZ3K9wQHZHEfIcvoMkTKE0qirn03mMWY0DKLW-F7jtM_nqMaWf8oZ4/s1600/DSC02327.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFoo4Xp8IDE2mNdMBpm0IoUEy6diWjowxNzgVsUwjRzPiTZ8ONBmNbXsmo8yVv7_nPH-OrFrpMuIoFwvssddrrjNZ3K9wQHZHEfIcvoMkTKE0qirn03mMWY0DKLW-F7jtM_nqMaWf8oZ4/s1600/DSC02327.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stork</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It wasn't until past midday that people emerged on the streets and that the city came to life. After another hour, I stopped playing my Stork Scavenger hunt and gave up trying to find the Gemeente Museum on foot. I decided that it was high time that I consulted with a local.<br />
<br />
"Excuse me, how far is the Gemeente Museum from here?"<br />
<br />
"Oh! The museum is far away! It's heading in the direction of the beach."<br />
<br />
"Oh."<br />
<br />
"Ja, you are better off taking the bus or the tram to get there."<br />
<br />
"Ah. Thank you."<br />
<br />
<b>[Dutch Museums and Activities, <i>1</i>. The Perpetually-Late Minister of Transport, <i>0</i>.]</b><br />
<br />
I can confirm that the buses and trams do indeed run on time in Den Haag. One bus ride later, I found the final stork of my scavenger hunt as I entered the Gemeente Museum.<br />
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<br />
I was so enthralled seeing the paintings of <i>The Anatomy Lecture</i> and <i>The Two Moors</i> that I forgot to take pictures of them.<br />
<br />
<b>[Dutch Museums and Activities, <i>1</i>. The Perpetually-Late Minister of Transport, <i>1</i>.]</b><br />
<div>
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As the time was nearing close to 4 in the afternoon, I decided that I needed to get my rear in gear if I wanted to see either the Prinsenhof or the Vermeer Centrum in Delft. The tram took me back to the train station and I went to Delft.<br />
<br />
I have to say, the joyous aesthetic beauty of the train station showed great promise to how the city would look...<br />
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<br />
<br />
...So imagine my surprise when I saw that half of the city seemed to be covered in scaffolding.<br />
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<br />
Living in France, I'm used to seeing projects to renovate streets and historic buildings, and thus accepted that Dutch museums would undergo some modifications themselves, but <i>this</i> was a whole 'nuther level.<br />
<br />
I set off on my speedy trek to find the Prinsenhof museum.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0uMQjMk6UFYLfmT5ZIh52fXCZtiMAMov4ipHvhTbUwKRoyL0etJ5fgIbvov-zv1dC3gXSGNNUyR7YmGaM_jFiHkXIux9SFVrME_CBQ3XpuvHKs8TSxonWyGn68aVdPye8LdX5vGRwjoU/s1600/DSC02387.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0uMQjMk6UFYLfmT5ZIh52fXCZtiMAMov4ipHvhTbUwKRoyL0etJ5fgIbvov-zv1dC3gXSGNNUyR7YmGaM_jFiHkXIux9SFVrME_CBQ3XpuvHKs8TSxonWyGn68aVdPye8LdX5vGRwjoU/s1600/DSC02387.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">4:20 p.m. Time was ticking...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEWlEXt_6QuBd3plezHQG_EiDQSLIEhgs2mpsg3wetZQ9DE0l0McDgGxvxySYe3_PxtZvFjdBa6rkQavF1490PCw1wmkRzjQ8sIV73SMeyhs5VFPQ7aAy54A89kvbpnSX1qLN26BIMYeM/s1600/DSC02388.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEWlEXt_6QuBd3plezHQG_EiDQSLIEhgs2mpsg3wetZQ9DE0l0McDgGxvxySYe3_PxtZvFjdBa6rkQavF1490PCw1wmkRzjQ8sIV73SMeyhs5VFPQ7aAy54A89kvbpnSX1qLN26BIMYeM/s1600/DSC02388.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Best streetlamp ever.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwv8rnbAoHBTRlRmyLTq6fP-Thue6ecsGOyiwgSd27eO5cKtWY4LfADtiE1Nf0KPoVQ1TI9uR7UHTgZL7e0_L7-Kzh9Be7z61Mq8FjDLYHUdAShdtOiGY08Y-IMHQtFVncHMb4wVWYHW0/s1600/DSC02392.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwv8rnbAoHBTRlRmyLTq6fP-Thue6ecsGOyiwgSd27eO5cKtWY4LfADtiE1Nf0KPoVQ1TI9uR7UHTgZL7e0_L7-Kzh9Be7z61Mq8FjDLYHUdAShdtOiGY08Y-IMHQtFVncHMb4wVWYHW0/s1600/DSC02392.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I found it.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzORNNeimAxsrAm3PeGfySH7EXlHrXhyphenhyphenTcJshIrGEBmEU67LnzQoEAqhMJBpsHSmKo7W77mF2VFQojb7XgvHMXCfqGHRqHoDVS8Sx4_MsKb_qehRpa6xQy6EOI9_Fbj_iwCGHtp5jjmcw/s1600/DSC02394.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzORNNeimAxsrAm3PeGfySH7EXlHrXhyphenhyphenTcJshIrGEBmEU67LnzQoEAqhMJBpsHSmKo7W77mF2VFQojb7XgvHMXCfqGHRqHoDVS8Sx4_MsKb_qehRpa6xQy6EOI9_Fbj_iwCGHtp5jjmcw/s1600/DSC02394.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1TTOJVwltdRMHMTfGiVAzLAQjmqMxUHflTKchOBzAjKuOqlsRUwLFCmdH3mH04mH6qc28g88TpcnUkkABA-qS9CZpUoPU3Gkz2gjh2fvuvwR3JflI3HcuDsJlBpEcU2EClAr02wNkBD0/s1600/DSC02395.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1TTOJVwltdRMHMTfGiVAzLAQjmqMxUHflTKchOBzAjKuOqlsRUwLFCmdH3mH04mH6qc28g88TpcnUkkABA-qS9CZpUoPU3Gkz2gjh2fvuvwR3JflI3HcuDsJlBpEcU2EClAr02wNkBD0/s1600/DSC02395.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">ALMOST THERE...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
...And saw that it was <b>closed</b> for renovations. I was prepared for the Mauritshuis, but not this!<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFHLVjIhXHgIM0wPLTWm-MeL45ZKf-KnvxKfzOPgtlIG-kpJ2Vsq0uafifHEFPz6l0Tp76w4bcXYZJ6MxUlWlsKEnEzhz0To-dSjWen5_9gs0qmcWLmmvclPqO8-2sQse9TGeCK_YWw-k/s1600/DSC02400.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFHLVjIhXHgIM0wPLTWm-MeL45ZKf-KnvxKfzOPgtlIG-kpJ2Vsq0uafifHEFPz6l0Tp76w4bcXYZJ6MxUlWlsKEnEzhz0To-dSjWen5_9gs0qmcWLmmvclPqO8-2sQse9TGeCK_YWw-k/s1600/DSC02400.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO</td></tr>
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<br />
<b>[Dutch Museums and Activities, <i>2</i>. The Perpetually-Late Minister of Transport, <i>1.</i>]</b><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<br />
<i>No matter,</i> I rather stupidly thought at 4:35 p.m. <i>I can always head straight to the Vermeer Centrum!</i><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyUsKRetSrMM3sOtYq2N3dHD3HEX3xRoFo-_tXOCfYaHjMoAGHicQoaC3eOv-t03p89AjagGOaglOjFtTikmGhCQJka6DmfgYJdzEOpXCU45fxYvgNhC0fSYfl8uL7-9hXIZNKvRwJnyM/s1600/DSC02404.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyUsKRetSrMM3sOtYq2N3dHD3HEX3xRoFo-_tXOCfYaHjMoAGHicQoaC3eOv-t03p89AjagGOaglOjFtTikmGhCQJka6DmfgYJdzEOpXCU45fxYvgNhC0fSYfl8uL7-9hXIZNKvRwJnyM/s1600/DSC02404.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And I probably would've gotten there faster had I not felt the need to keep taking so many pictures.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk-jlY9LE_2pKtqz10GwIno-fB2lc2B_HIMcFL52SVRjBqV8lU7iPaizNIV3sQqKz_3oURtA5oahboejWaDWbqwfbw83qG8u-qKPTH8GTnyE-O1H-d6MEJ-JVZKIa69qVT8eTEGbp0mV8/s1600/DSC02406.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk-jlY9LE_2pKtqz10GwIno-fB2lc2B_HIMcFL52SVRjBqV8lU7iPaizNIV3sQqKz_3oURtA5oahboejWaDWbqwfbw83qG8u-qKPTH8GTnyE-O1H-d6MEJ-JVZKIa69qVT8eTEGbp0mV8/s1600/DSC02406.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Now, that is one pimpin' bike.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiejcy_lvIei7Ebd_ZkB0s-Q1TQ-oOzJMSe2Y9SjrsbE2sLaGwXPVPMyd3GvZQIb-ON-akQ6uuwvsG8_VWEfILUWuZHHDsVNxi6i9UA0fJ2z7kCXXUm8YBmha7jjq9WPWgQrs8uY_f9Uws/s1600/DSC02411.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiejcy_lvIei7Ebd_ZkB0s-Q1TQ-oOzJMSe2Y9SjrsbE2sLaGwXPVPMyd3GvZQIb-ON-akQ6uuwvsG8_VWEfILUWuZHHDsVNxi6i9UA0fJ2z7kCXXUm8YBmha7jjq9WPWgQrs8uY_f9Uws/s1600/DSC02411.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU6kiEXXr96nOfqs8EMGsje-ovn0MSg-LvisUTrafrmF2DxX7lB4xt6Dud-mCxyQvC_YusOWw_LxruoCfT7roKhv_AW1uHLfxK3sh0RIFu9Y0VGl3Ay14V0I8svmCPZeMxwl_9x2H2-Xg/s1600/DSC02412.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU6kiEXXr96nOfqs8EMGsje-ovn0MSg-LvisUTrafrmF2DxX7lB4xt6Dud-mCxyQvC_YusOWw_LxruoCfT7roKhv_AW1uHLfxK3sh0RIFu9Y0VGl3Ay14V0I8svmCPZeMxwl_9x2H2-Xg/s1600/DSC02412.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nice try at hiding, Nijntje, but your ears are giving you away.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-3jWwWaytOb6uK-4cNC4eNkCzRfxcovWjaqMrXMFlTZxN-pdl-abLwE60fyb5zIEe4WBTz1mHyaB9doOV9buohWgqQSSYdyVSII3PhQVp4RPfh02xBv4k1pOt9Meh7H9S1iFs7xxbG5g/s1600/DSC02413.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-3jWwWaytOb6uK-4cNC4eNkCzRfxcovWjaqMrXMFlTZxN-pdl-abLwE60fyb5zIEe4WBTz1mHyaB9doOV9buohWgqQSSYdyVSII3PhQVp4RPfh02xBv4k1pOt9Meh7H9S1iFs7xxbG5g/s1600/DSC02413.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some of the prettiest graffiti I've ever seen.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiveKFEHEyfjCE28JaD7Ny0-okXnY0iJoprb0zA0-2p72qCy44WthJrEFtYhFF1ykY53rn-xK68YuyjVEJIp72s8sw2n1ZJBytxjivrdinTvXalNqAa7nshRX-R7HZD3DuCyfS7Ihg5CTA/s1600/DSC02416.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiveKFEHEyfjCE28JaD7Ny0-okXnY0iJoprb0zA0-2p72qCy44WthJrEFtYhFF1ykY53rn-xK68YuyjVEJIp72s8sw2n1ZJBytxjivrdinTvXalNqAa7nshRX-R7HZD3DuCyfS7Ihg5CTA/s1600/DSC02416.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh mah gahd, I got there!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Only I had not anticipated that I would arrive at its doors at <i>exactly</i> 5 p.m. sharp, which, as I have learned, is the national closing time for nearly every single museum in the Netherlands.<br />
<br />
<b>[Dutch Museums and Activities, <i>3</i>. The Perpetually-Late Minister of Transport, <i>1</i>.]</b><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Still, I decided it was worth taking a gander over what architectural wonders Delft had to offer.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyYnz_o3EFJrNZPlJuOoGa8ZxvDx44K3JVxUki1M-JHTMH44xp0a9f1bWilpDnXItJOMy5-K9pFGXBlv4TahTkujCyYiOlKiqdUPS95m9SZThCekoFRUdnz4qDygwrxfDMyTEZ_firGDI/s1600/DSC02423.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyYnz_o3EFJrNZPlJuOoGa8ZxvDx44K3JVxUki1M-JHTMH44xp0a9f1bWilpDnXItJOMy5-K9pFGXBlv4TahTkujCyYiOlKiqdUPS95m9SZThCekoFRUdnz4qDygwrxfDMyTEZ_firGDI/s1600/DSC02423.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilsKGYVllPcxvEarfIucOkHdF38rcrdiY77l22aXAtdXhPACjymQxIBL_M5TwpSo2v36zQLdWpZu2N8I1c6_QBzoFLcKv4N6sI8kkqd6cq0I2whuYXx_1ffboPBy9zpf2WqlouVRSWPM0/s1600/DSC02426.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilsKGYVllPcxvEarfIucOkHdF38rcrdiY77l22aXAtdXhPACjymQxIBL_M5TwpSo2v36zQLdWpZu2N8I1c6_QBzoFLcKv4N6sI8kkqd6cq0I2whuYXx_1ffboPBy9zpf2WqlouVRSWPM0/s1600/DSC02426.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Miami has canals, but they certainly aren't like Dutch canals.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZjRTydPy7HZFkItgb0-WG4jeFBUn09kEBk5_C31w691x57WmHQO9uzAplWAZJ4xXABBJr2ZtmDoh6PCM_ZFJuaepR-xW-eaUK1G48axgnqDtByySm_4ly5NI2wmOVviRAT67NIxdjxqs/s1600/DSC02427.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZjRTydPy7HZFkItgb0-WG4jeFBUn09kEBk5_C31w691x57WmHQO9uzAplWAZJ4xXABBJr2ZtmDoh6PCM_ZFJuaepR-xW-eaUK1G48axgnqDtByySm_4ly5NI2wmOVviRAT67NIxdjxqs/s1600/DSC02427.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If you look closely, you can see the girl with a pearl earring again...</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8TBJ4YslBHsdMrXfTbJfL8LG69Rj0fWduxX29VrR3_KosBzbn6zGk980WlhgkmFDvOzF_wgNvgxVpkRqeuHoHnTmo6aeCgPz-NMy_3yBk1nZzILqQ__Y4Ss9KIitywiJAh6pgcB9ANpc/s1600/DSC02429.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8TBJ4YslBHsdMrXfTbJfL8LG69Rj0fWduxX29VrR3_KosBzbn6zGk980WlhgkmFDvOzF_wgNvgxVpkRqeuHoHnTmo6aeCgPz-NMy_3yBk1nZzILqQ__Y4Ss9KIitywiJAh6pgcB9ANpc/s1600/DSC02429.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNlbt5Rqat09VQtKMhWna1v3lWkpzJkfExtUFBFqgs1EN65FijyhiUfsuuVCKP_yeiXeQ4NFwmbCgXmhP-7sYh48mSoswYneTSEinO_kpd1lfRWA2astocxQdOPtaO7HZkjksS8E0b5Cc/s1600/DSC02430.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNlbt5Rqat09VQtKMhWna1v3lWkpzJkfExtUFBFqgs1EN65FijyhiUfsuuVCKP_yeiXeQ4NFwmbCgXmhP-7sYh48mSoswYneTSEinO_kpd1lfRWA2astocxQdOPtaO7HZkjksS8E0b5Cc/s1600/DSC02430.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh51GrMnV0FguSRn_hE8ouWIb30GFUB84rCfI-hVRQ2S0Pfr_gr8BqNoRUOi2ZMtjJNxrhuiTAncM1rr3Gjg6Gw5uvieMEo8zrzl5adJ0czUtKuegL65Y4MyF7RUTRLMofU_IOFkJW-Rjo/s1600/DSC02432.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh51GrMnV0FguSRn_hE8ouWIb30GFUB84rCfI-hVRQ2S0Pfr_gr8BqNoRUOi2ZMtjJNxrhuiTAncM1rr3Gjg6Gw5uvieMEo8zrzl5adJ0czUtKuegL65Y4MyF7RUTRLMofU_IOFkJW-Rjo/s1600/DSC02432.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sculpture based on Vermeer's "The Milkmaid." (Nailed it.)</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx_rIiv1w9y-XO0lkL-aHTphnTNJPu2Q0b7hyphenhyphenrXYGOHSwq9PgP1KUx1vt44s9ddPrePa93Hl3KSmSvs8N4md_4pOgRC37KOWIC3eCIgeT3lsGSDr1vqT2owVjt-ECOjiOOETJUgRuVxOA/s1600/DSC02436.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx_rIiv1w9y-XO0lkL-aHTphnTNJPu2Q0b7hyphenhyphenrXYGOHSwq9PgP1KUx1vt44s9ddPrePa93Hl3KSmSvs8N4md_4pOgRC37KOWIC3eCIgeT3lsGSDr1vqT2owVjt-ECOjiOOETJUgRuVxOA/s1600/DSC02436.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOB8C3qMKvRZbaxUdf-nAy6CH-1LylsM-E-YEaIq5lYjgukz2uwFZm2HMEqEbDG22iFEobxfukpDuYKwvJl1VrjaugyCCei5Kh0xGW5aBQ3aN9qIYyhiC2ojhTisflJFFgXFjLSry_QMY/s1600/DSC02442.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOB8C3qMKvRZbaxUdf-nAy6CH-1LylsM-E-YEaIq5lYjgukz2uwFZm2HMEqEbDG22iFEobxfukpDuYKwvJl1VrjaugyCCei5Kh0xGW5aBQ3aN9qIYyhiC2ojhTisflJFFgXFjLSry_QMY/s1600/DSC02442.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The church. I wanted to go in, but Mass was being held at the time. It felt odd to interrupt. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5cCYrg_Vb6e5OmQ_b0O3cp1Q3gPiP_4MlA5U61Ol6uqQqvhxAmOSb2MBvkt6c27rLDqD8bXG8NG-IxYmzhzwHgCOsS180M2iY8toPHBaG735MVUl3xymGcb-k3PxEiILxjCicWeXaqRU/s1600/DSC02441.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5cCYrg_Vb6e5OmQ_b0O3cp1Q3gPiP_4MlA5U61Ol6uqQqvhxAmOSb2MBvkt6c27rLDqD8bXG8NG-IxYmzhzwHgCOsS180M2iY8toPHBaG735MVUl3xymGcb-k3PxEiILxjCicWeXaqRU/s1600/DSC02441.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hm. He seems familiar.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSSyKYQd1agzWne-xpW-C6VfNcRtd08JboEvBEgfX-UWcYiUoxjh4tWa67vIKePsrarPhyVbLZVPCrCS29DMQmXsJqZU8308LUYe8pI0uvyNMUdcYe1bXIAsORJdeYnlmtIPMt-J8C7Hc/s1600/DSC02447.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSSyKYQd1agzWne-xpW-C6VfNcRtd08JboEvBEgfX-UWcYiUoxjh4tWa67vIKePsrarPhyVbLZVPCrCS29DMQmXsJqZU8308LUYe8pI0uvyNMUdcYe1bXIAsORJdeYnlmtIPMt-J8C7Hc/s1600/DSC02447.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"The Old and New Church." Apparently, they, too, were under construction...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi74bArhFC_sBkLYTc0Kzgkv-2rWLAXkhHw4Cb1Fb4v5vYkVPx0fPDVHvq_ecDJ1eFRClDLhcgSe_9-j0egG8pkuijTD9GAcHzG49yK1qMfwKT_uds7oHKCRej-_Nzv08KgW50b-bfbKg8/s1600/DSC02448.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi74bArhFC_sBkLYTc0Kzgkv-2rWLAXkhHw4Cb1Fb4v5vYkVPx0fPDVHvq_ecDJ1eFRClDLhcgSe_9-j0egG8pkuijTD9GAcHzG49yK1qMfwKT_uds7oHKCRej-_Nzv08KgW50b-bfbKg8/s1600/DSC02448.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Blue Heart. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFoyJz-8155ySu3QMg9R-kx2O3LMDPNpdN1sEy8GCkRjm1KL1U3cJnPEmT_3GQ08mikJeNAxoftgt1QSm_-d_SvNrJHqhO-plJh-UezjdgTIZ_Fq7zoVyGUKnMQvoWd6clxMBsc_dQqLk/s1600/DSC02449.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFoyJz-8155ySu3QMg9R-kx2O3LMDPNpdN1sEy8GCkRjm1KL1U3cJnPEmT_3GQ08mikJeNAxoftgt1QSm_-d_SvNrJHqhO-plJh-UezjdgTIZ_Fq7zoVyGUKnMQvoWd6clxMBsc_dQqLk/s1600/DSC02449.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I suspect that this coif may not have originated from Volendam.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcYrQY4pIDZp2jchPxZniycUp8om_xKoHuBSLxLYXpD3Y5LSVQ-wuWSChSfMBDYs8mRZiRF7j-PXmeeLt4pWhLHBbT0hyphenhyphen1nrQ-ME9gqdaRC-8OK436I_DQdUiWt8bKjmyDD75XnCD8Igg/s1600/DSC02456.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcYrQY4pIDZp2jchPxZniycUp8om_xKoHuBSLxLYXpD3Y5LSVQ-wuWSChSfMBDYs8mRZiRF7j-PXmeeLt4pWhLHBbT0hyphenhyphen1nrQ-ME9gqdaRC-8OK436I_DQdUiWt8bKjmyDD75XnCD8Igg/s1600/DSC02456.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixRrC3ySkILJv-sJwLGIX0DcGXGu6tDp-fln6pIfRgVF6Ev7R8SlJEepMsNxNGEPqGGWvhflFSBXCujxtnyrX3emZmdtpoxLwoGeNaX0wQvmay0OAG20Pq8R6_pjgY3GAPVqEQrB108PY/s1600/DSC02458.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixRrC3ySkILJv-sJwLGIX0DcGXGu6tDp-fln6pIfRgVF6Ev7R8SlJEepMsNxNGEPqGGWvhflFSBXCujxtnyrX3emZmdtpoxLwoGeNaX0wQvmay0OAG20Pq8R6_pjgY3GAPVqEQrB108PY/s1600/DSC02458.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I sat down and had my favorite snack of bitterballen and beer. Yum.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4QoPhK2uBtLoQQjvJJ5YizSk79p4jGkfPI9kBg1HyYZpPk9vuzXbQR4E3HQZYod0keVT8SesR2U5ierXVFI5YUPIW_5EuBCS9CqmXoVjy4DzWNUSci8HJycIHECWDNmlkh34hyphenhyphenf9R58U/s1600/DSC02460.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4QoPhK2uBtLoQQjvJJ5YizSk79p4jGkfPI9kBg1HyYZpPk9vuzXbQR4E3HQZYod0keVT8SesR2U5ierXVFI5YUPIW_5EuBCS9CqmXoVjy4DzWNUSci8HJycIHECWDNmlkh34hyphenhyphenf9R58U/s1600/DSC02460.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Girl with a pearl earring in mosaic.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8coENZHKwRaoL54hpgEPOOJuNes-OZcNtHuMAh-T4gkloxObrGXtu9OkShrvTpiSaJfUT10johNu5WeZPUDTk2jJfV_S8vVMcc4lVeF5t4iXoH4yio_dXKw86qP3rYjZ0XjEtU4H1Kw0/s1600/DSC02461.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8coENZHKwRaoL54hpgEPOOJuNes-OZcNtHuMAh-T4gkloxObrGXtu9OkShrvTpiSaJfUT10johNu5WeZPUDTk2jJfV_S8vVMcc4lVeF5t4iXoH4yio_dXKw86qP3rYjZ0XjEtU4H1Kw0/s1600/DSC02461.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNpxT4F6v6VlNTmnL_YePw1pzV2FYAENQoPlPhRfC39Kx8pTNrGRp5wuMWfQfUCSjGc4tYdRRnkLEx7uQY-zhasV5-RKEOBAUs0mwFnujB7bhKaK6QCteAAOipGQ1vy1TNRk6y-bcT_7c/s1600/DSC02463.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNpxT4F6v6VlNTmnL_YePw1pzV2FYAENQoPlPhRfC39Kx8pTNrGRp5wuMWfQfUCSjGc4tYdRRnkLEx7uQY-zhasV5-RKEOBAUs0mwFnujB7bhKaK6QCteAAOipGQ1vy1TNRk6y-bcT_7c/s1600/DSC02463.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQa1sftHqA7ES7XXA-0q81eW0x4Ggy2EPgKRXIu0LKTSlApwWbdPtIiWEhPukPljHNiwdYR41NWDhlgW2CrdYNwH6aJ2u2cJlOciZJxBpDtHVOSziFu08AKwcbth7MOvffC8I97OyO2wg/s1600/DSC02466.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQa1sftHqA7ES7XXA-0q81eW0x4Ggy2EPgKRXIu0LKTSlApwWbdPtIiWEhPukPljHNiwdYR41NWDhlgW2CrdYNwH6aJ2u2cJlOciZJxBpDtHVOSziFu08AKwcbth7MOvffC8I97OyO2wg/s1600/DSC02466.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vermeer in Delft blue graffiti</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG2WLrUVF-QtkoydPthCcQWOL1AFviCvdfgZeuoUHPw0DiOtuY7S5MzCuYgRkcluU7cfh-0xwfFTuIQnEeX5SLbHKWFDJYCo45D4aX5UETPUWjIRrXnO80V4opEl57v_WZV79t6h35SNE/s1600/DSC02467.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG2WLrUVF-QtkoydPthCcQWOL1AFviCvdfgZeuoUHPw0DiOtuY7S5MzCuYgRkcluU7cfh-0xwfFTuIQnEeX5SLbHKWFDJYCo45D4aX5UETPUWjIRrXnO80V4opEl57v_WZV79t6h35SNE/s1600/DSC02467.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The girl with the pearl earring in Delft blue graffiti</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidpj4oRTADKKwDytOUGVZ_7c3FnTvUM26hSubcrJLuw0FRettbMyEDEETJegjd-MnvtyOZE3i1LklL3agQfK_KlPsbjRPEG4EW2_vclMuO3kvDHhwDDacTrn0ODDkcd4E0InpZTZFacjk/s1600/DSC02470.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidpj4oRTADKKwDytOUGVZ_7c3FnTvUM26hSubcrJLuw0FRettbMyEDEETJegjd-MnvtyOZE3i1LklL3agQfK_KlPsbjRPEG4EW2_vclMuO3kvDHhwDDacTrn0ODDkcd4E0InpZTZFacjk/s1600/DSC02470.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">As well as this pimpin' cow.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2LlJEazRipnTVgMYONz6jQpV_yAigkfY9gopF4ez2gLCXNfLEM8EzAhoJQWMWxv5SYHtSJDE8TmfTrrM356VzX21IejOfdLb7MmVdQLj_7_CI80htdt9dd8lSBSEcF0fVax9tboPtI_4/s1600/DSC02476.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2LlJEazRipnTVgMYONz6jQpV_yAigkfY9gopF4ez2gLCXNfLEM8EzAhoJQWMWxv5SYHtSJDE8TmfTrrM356VzX21IejOfdLb7MmVdQLj_7_CI80htdt9dd8lSBSEcF0fVax9tboPtI_4/s1600/DSC02476.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not as pimpin' as the previous cow, but still pretty pimpin'.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTY3bJtQQGuu6I4wLYkPG8Aqb7tfO4meldpbEL4zjR_dmfaOOfEogZ3i5TUdwe_yW4EZASMYY4w6kxajQwKZclP16893WT5lTnXyMwUTSk6WNI-jp6nvbjL4wgTcjaS4Xs3ioQXZeNmE0/s1600/DSC02487.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTY3bJtQQGuu6I4wLYkPG8Aqb7tfO4meldpbEL4zjR_dmfaOOfEogZ3i5TUdwe_yW4EZASMYY4w6kxajQwKZclP16893WT5lTnXyMwUTSk6WNI-jp6nvbjL4wgTcjaS4Xs3ioQXZeNmE0/s1600/DSC02487.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I was still in awe of the windmills that can be seen in the Netherlands. That would change after I went to the Zaanse Schans.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlU1SZRbdcJRL7-E31GjXgoVxSws82w0WrAw7TPZ4DPh4KBue37GAlrnNDOOk9niqeVshQH8T_widojE8KvZweK9Defixg6mNieHEZt2UIcZZMaEe5b2sjWDAm6CL1YoS2-2Iv1k-IHbs/s1600/DSC02492.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlU1SZRbdcJRL7-E31GjXgoVxSws82w0WrAw7TPZ4DPh4KBue37GAlrnNDOOk9niqeVshQH8T_widojE8KvZweK9Defixg6mNieHEZt2UIcZZMaEe5b2sjWDAm6CL1YoS2-2Iv1k-IHbs/s1600/DSC02492.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I found something that was right up my alley. Literally MY alley.</td></tr>
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Despite my disappointment (mostly with myself) at not having made it in time for the Vermeer Centrum, I can say that I had a rather nice time visiting both Den Haag and Delft and sincerely hope to be able to visit them once more. Thus ended day two of my week-long trip to the Netherlands.<br />
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Also: I think that I'm not a very effective Minister of Transport. On the train ride back, I couldn't help but notice the filthy state of some carriages with garbage strewn about the tables and floor. So, while the transportation is relatively efficient, the cleanliness could use a pick-me-up.<br />
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Perhaps NS should undergo some renovations as well...<br />
<br />
Barb the French BeanThe Beanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09294653760778922184noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3800436644379687416.post-5560181053270028082014-05-05T04:24:00.000-04:002014-05-21T16:45:45.470-04:00The Day A Drunk Dutchman Grinded on Me (Yes, I know that the past tense of "to grind" should be "ground," but I'm talking about a sexualized dance move, not mince meat, and in the former's context, "ground" or even "grounded" sounds odd to describe the latter.)<br />
<br />
As a long-running-but-totally-serious joke here on <i>Two Beans or Not Two Beans</i>, those in the know are aware that I am on the Internet known as <a href="http://twobeansornottwobeans.blogspot.fr/2011/12/dear-holland-youre-lucky-im-not.html">the appointed Minister of Transport for Holland</a>. My fellow blogging pal extraordinaire from <a href="http://www.invadingholland.com/">Invading Holland</a>, King Stu, has since decreed himself as the King of Holland and thus felt the need to offer me the position of Minister of Transport.<br />
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<b><u><span style="color: #cc0000;">Nota Bene</span></u></b>: It should be mentioned that I use "Holland" here as a synonym for the Netherlands and am not solely referring the two North and South provinces, folks.<br />
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Back in April, the Dutch were going to experience a special day. A very special day, indeed. King's Day!<br />
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It being the first King's Day in since...forever...I wanted to look my Minister of Transport best. I put on a layer of red glitter on my eyebrows, painted my eyelids in white and blue, proudly sported my <a href="http://www.invadingholland.com/shop/tshirts/#dutch_people_tshirt">"I See Dutch People"</a> t-shirt and wrapped an orange scarf (every French person wears a scarf; it's against the law not to) around my neck.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj00zgzdJzvMiYVi__iYAESRz2_dV7U93tanzkGgiPi7G54RsuOseVjvT6gPc8bTzhjdlDXzLLczUh5c-gqMwqwphLIFidF4VoqlChTPcW6c99RBk4okBLe7vwnQIIg-fLgis_0kiseqQE/s1600/King's+Day+with+t-shirt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj00zgzdJzvMiYVi__iYAESRz2_dV7U93tanzkGgiPi7G54RsuOseVjvT6gPc8bTzhjdlDXzLLczUh5c-gqMwqwphLIFidF4VoqlChTPcW6c99RBk4okBLe7vwnQIIg-fLgis_0kiseqQE/s1600/King's+Day+with+t-shirt.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The "I See Dutch People" t-shirt is available<a href="http://www.invadingholland.com/shop/"> here</a>. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
I was ready to celebrate King Stu's first Koningsdag.<br />
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However, after I took the train to Amsterdam Centraal and prepared myself for a day of rambling about the city, (as the public transports would not run in the city for pedestrian safety), I noticed that there had been a mix up. The King in question wasn't Stu if not some guy named Willem-Alexander! <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTOMPKcJ8gEqnLfLn_HJjynRf991MZU-xBQrmnxfvo7mmDeOYT_fABWHWfW7H-Wc520fu7mR2Pku2ON0uIqpt031I3_jnUJArbZs4v0OPiz0ynCj13edAmHEktHgH7roIUaKWtjf2Nrxo/s1600/DSC02000.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTOMPKcJ8gEqnLfLn_HJjynRf991MZU-xBQrmnxfvo7mmDeOYT_fABWHWfW7H-Wc520fu7mR2Pku2ON0uIqpt031I3_jnUJArbZs4v0OPiz0ynCj13edAmHEktHgH7roIUaKWtjf2Nrxo/s1600/DSC02000.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even the M&M's were in on it! What more proof do you need? </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I huffed and, in need of a drink, headed down Prins Henrikkadestraat to try to find <a href="http://www.brouwerijhetij.nl/splash-page/">the Brouwerij 'T IJ bar</a>.<br />
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On my way, I saw stalls of vendors selling cheap beer<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMLyz1Jks6We6OWLaeNt5zGCpahiFM2B45CqG9k4ZV24Gx1Ma6LKpYovweDdl1pMsOAKnCXS1SjGMxne1WKX9swdG89BSB4pDNfo2zKBBDkbkaktmNyDr6f8pUjd3WKsR30jMHD1Bfno4/s1600/DSC02016.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMLyz1Jks6We6OWLaeNt5zGCpahiFM2B45CqG9k4ZV24Gx1Ma6LKpYovweDdl1pMsOAKnCXS1SjGMxne1WKX9swdG89BSB4pDNfo2zKBBDkbkaktmNyDr6f8pUjd3WKsR30jMHD1Bfno4/s1600/DSC02016.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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Doors decorated for the occasion<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVO_cHyAY32J6HlldKpsnGhVNvL2baKO-V8ByETSt5FxmPmNhOkaYgFsLrVsn7BT1vk7Rlyrft6lo1Jx0ML67mpBwzRahiQwf7dSuu5Bj16IiDYhozU8fnqFkxgn3tYiRV9bNFtZNuM8U/s1600/DSC02020.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVO_cHyAY32J6HlldKpsnGhVNvL2baKO-V8ByETSt5FxmPmNhOkaYgFsLrVsn7BT1vk7Rlyrft6lo1Jx0ML67mpBwzRahiQwf7dSuu5Bj16IiDYhozU8fnqFkxgn3tYiRV9bNFtZNuM8U/s1600/DSC02020.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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Party goers all clad in orange<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixN2XYu2ampw6DWYBcWEpr7aDkQjWedJZsJicZlPrVADEbZIGsqzqqxheez_e60clGkmxy0elcRx4mEALIkHEm-RIvtISGy4CrDFpkUAblO3arTkmMajpG4V_oQqvIK7gzKWsp3NfYLVM/s1600/DSC02044.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixN2XYu2ampw6DWYBcWEpr7aDkQjWedJZsJicZlPrVADEbZIGsqzqqxheez_e60clGkmxy0elcRx4mEALIkHEm-RIvtISGy4CrDFpkUAblO3arTkmMajpG4V_oQqvIK7gzKWsp3NfYLVM/s1600/DSC02044.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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People who clearly didn't speak Dutch<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAokZqA84siCybH0AzQ6Wz4DCYOPYKX7oeO3clopqb9R0f6l298nPnwncvfh9smpW13PTjXRBXiKkaAlKd2qqYXq8mTJv-WqVldaaNkvCpnUIoKtXjmEFyXsGymtRemYcz8rxr4NWt5Yo/s1600/DSC02026.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAokZqA84siCybH0AzQ6Wz4DCYOPYKX7oeO3clopqb9R0f6l298nPnwncvfh9smpW13PTjXRBXiKkaAlKd2qqYXq8mTJv-WqVldaaNkvCpnUIoKtXjmEFyXsGymtRemYcz8rxr4NWt5Yo/s1600/DSC02026.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"No bikes."</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid-K6RcQvNORGuh8XGntALheJwTJCOPK8DSmveL8-c1kOx5WZZySZDUenU8IVEyu6KvKEzedG6m9nXpDC_bDl4I5FLTQ722GaUVC2hWHyd7GVPPUllwTFZssPzKGQPg-HP8LIGHI_Sm1c/s1600/DSC02027.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid-K6RcQvNORGuh8XGntALheJwTJCOPK8DSmveL8-c1kOx5WZZySZDUenU8IVEyu6KvKEzedG6m9nXpDC_bDl4I5FLTQ722GaUVC2hWHyd7GVPPUllwTFZssPzKGQPg-HP8LIGHI_Sm1c/s1600/DSC02027.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Ik spreek geen nederlands, bro."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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And <b>the</b> single most pimpin' boat I have ever seen.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWhA9Ic5TzxR_l4Lh_hSFzolAwqM3NnQH-2EiTwJfpw9w32jDpcgtsQZbrCFA8txKe1EKII_5CEAkDQ_4WyrKoN2HVpjIs327GYPNRAkHr4XUmb_wbXDV2ntd_mwDn_IfOmo7KVx3tO-A/s1600/DSC02034.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWhA9Ic5TzxR_l4Lh_hSFzolAwqM3NnQH-2EiTwJfpw9w32jDpcgtsQZbrCFA8txKe1EKII_5CEAkDQ_4WyrKoN2HVpjIs327GYPNRAkHr4XUmb_wbXDV2ntd_mwDn_IfOmo7KVx3tO-A/s1600/DSC02034.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'Tis most pimpin', indeed.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNbtWinFlWWn_iALkFq_4hdZaYEeeF2ggZ0OyMmfFFOYgZwLhuRl3Geiz45itCSlbGGoJuY8w2BI7DpECPDm2WebhnPrCO6521k80Sig9VF0PsrJRHg26yl1IaHCnI_JgLFAPvxVHbXsA/s1600/DSC02037.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNbtWinFlWWn_iALkFq_4hdZaYEeeF2ggZ0OyMmfFFOYgZwLhuRl3Geiz45itCSlbGGoJuY8w2BI7DpECPDm2WebhnPrCO6521k80Sig9VF0PsrJRHg26yl1IaHCnI_JgLFAPvxVHbXsA/s1600/DSC02037.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sail on, good sir. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
But I soon realized after a 45 minute walk that it was probably too far to get to the bar on foot, and I still had a full day ahead of me.<br />
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My next goal was to take a relaxing stroll around Vondelpark to see the free markets. Everywhere I went, I was surrounded by the color orange, in all shades and styles. I saw children performing in the streets for money, the most clever one being a sibling team in which one banged discordant notes on a keyboard while the other younger sibling, dressed head to toe in a stifling monkey costume, danced under the hot sun. I felt simultaneously amused and sorry for the kids.<br />
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Some children, however, displayed great musical talent.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8AUvGWg5aPjumn77zJiz7H4FeNykfj0JrvbvpGGWqkOW_SX_xgmaEfPAJvnUxbMO64B3aw6nHosjFR0SyBBYJ8t0zU7wEX4JwZhRIpH1DP66Zllk8OZu5IUvCJufDJBUnNgGjLquqo_s/s1600/DSC02059.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8AUvGWg5aPjumn77zJiz7H4FeNykfj0JrvbvpGGWqkOW_SX_xgmaEfPAJvnUxbMO64B3aw6nHosjFR0SyBBYJ8t0zU7wEX4JwZhRIpH1DP66Zllk8OZu5IUvCJufDJBUnNgGjLquqo_s/s1600/DSC02059.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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So much that it made me wonder how worthless my life as an artist actually is.<br />
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Pushing through the vast orange cowboy hat-wearing crowds,<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiRHmgaspDHnuR3nqm7w5Kt0Fj2s-zvple1U_oVSYWeFbcdEHsh2ka-CXP3zrSUHVlyscpNriobqJ10-b5xgiThi7YgRjTcCfpDSECZ_BCanXZz1DKNe-9W9LUiDWYy_FpCf94OBjeA-0/s1600/DSC02060.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiRHmgaspDHnuR3nqm7w5Kt0Fj2s-zvple1U_oVSYWeFbcdEHsh2ka-CXP3zrSUHVlyscpNriobqJ10-b5xgiThi7YgRjTcCfpDSECZ_BCanXZz1DKNe-9W9LUiDWYy_FpCf94OBjeA-0/s1600/DSC02060.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dam Square became a fairground</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS65WiYAs7TeChVvb0DVpj_ioWRCJ2K_tanAKwPXxVzy6WAkew3n99oriHjo5k0LQXWzGGqdHk2-XUNTM63HLjuU545WHPmAZIyM6zqrDLjnXhWu9b0chxOLlWPwXnz6PD4mJgAoSM2Nc/s1600/DSC02095.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS65WiYAs7TeChVvb0DVpj_ioWRCJ2K_tanAKwPXxVzy6WAkew3n99oriHjo5k0LQXWzGGqdHk2-XUNTM63HLjuU545WHPmAZIyM6zqrDLjnXhWu9b0chxOLlWPwXnz6PD4mJgAoSM2Nc/s1600/DSC02095.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spot the Dutch person wearing an orange cowboy hat</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
And occasionally catching a glimpse of Willem-Alexander,<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNqt-fLreF9GjdLkqZ8e08xrF3O8AXvvu7VPlELhHmPKTpo4kI0Jb5UOoE-WrUHWQXDSsJdL6Fxs62RPMusrmcFRTFk1a4BzYgZJ5yxzBZVU_yVfa6DU7CfkyNdLPmp7CbmZWs8hXTAGw/s1600/DSC02083.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNqt-fLreF9GjdLkqZ8e08xrF3O8AXvvu7VPlELhHmPKTpo4kI0Jb5UOoE-WrUHWQXDSsJdL6Fxs62RPMusrmcFRTFk1a4BzYgZJ5yxzBZVU_yVfa6DU7CfkyNdLPmp7CbmZWs8hXTAGw/s1600/DSC02083.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Sort of)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I kept envisioning Vondelpark in my head and how I would be able to take a break from the masses swarming around the city.<br />
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Once I got there, I soon realized that I wasn't the only one who had had the same idea.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgad-btYaSoxMT4ACiM2VFpd9fQO2otz13oadlfbKAVm4hNtgrYx9d-CMIjbC7Ib0NpTxVAsp-v6SpQp1I0x1-QDv5IVUAO736f_EdL0JSKeAQqnbRGktpGply-irvnFkwq1Z99ZbCh9nc/s1600/DSC02104.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgad-btYaSoxMT4ACiM2VFpd9fQO2otz13oadlfbKAVm4hNtgrYx9d-CMIjbC7Ib0NpTxVAsp-v6SpQp1I0x1-QDv5IVUAO736f_EdL0JSKeAQqnbRGktpGply-irvnFkwq1Z99ZbCh9nc/s1600/DSC02104.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8XI0JuhHmRYPVGO1MMTwl4yFQWUQRVBjI8SFomLyq1gAVLx3CkcUD7yVsWiKOoMdDmT-6XTMp9YkX5VhjRdLT47Cc_KT497sIjhpsHMOlTJ9zO7_BY9UP0jtzQomz0C32rVTZ8EmLmwA/s1600/DSC02128.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8XI0JuhHmRYPVGO1MMTwl4yFQWUQRVBjI8SFomLyq1gAVLx3CkcUD7yVsWiKOoMdDmT-6XTMp9YkX5VhjRdLT47Cc_KT497sIjhpsHMOlTJ9zO7_BY9UP0jtzQomz0C32rVTZ8EmLmwA/s1600/DSC02128.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Walking around the gardens, I spotted a single orange rose in bloom.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEN_Fl5IorD-71xUKQr8m-jjzwFQDjkPsttdxEcufhEnnH_bqpoZf5HqoLhK8rZY0MztO8bCqeWBn6v7JzSYMdBSB5rAO0fR45DyErTjaSdD_jjMS70hx5f0g_qDvuqTcBHd-JSX9X51g/s1600/DSC02157.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEN_Fl5IorD-71xUKQr8m-jjzwFQDjkPsttdxEcufhEnnH_bqpoZf5HqoLhK8rZY0MztO8bCqeWBn6v7JzSYMdBSB5rAO0fR45DyErTjaSdD_jjMS70hx5f0g_qDvuqTcBHd-JSX9X51g/s1600/DSC02157.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw_wWkx099g_pfhPYTbcmnpJI2vv2lIasJBPZnPFhLzoCAzsnoa-OIGSUhp2TastFBglxinftRy2ECIP5GMOUIzInrYRgCiJC3cUgQpeMQPK9CXZut3K6i27EWLATgEbe1dEsDDDjm8d0/s1600/DSC02163.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw_wWkx099g_pfhPYTbcmnpJI2vv2lIasJBPZnPFhLzoCAzsnoa-OIGSUhp2TastFBglxinftRy2ECIP5GMOUIzInrYRgCiJC3cUgQpeMQPK9CXZut3K6i27EWLATgEbe1dEsDDDjm8d0/s1600/DSC02163.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tulips around the Vondel statue</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz6H4kkB-mLzOS3BxlZApXbIhQg6jAOYblNmthRrcKJiIHFsq0RXUe33UYcz4Hw_CpKPSoh0-MiPxXX9lQoGK0AozGh6-xwbAThNhVbFzShHRExa6Nyc21v2Xp5h4FlQgRWxgaB_rv5cI/s1600/DSC02169.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz6H4kkB-mLzOS3BxlZApXbIhQg6jAOYblNmthRrcKJiIHFsq0RXUe33UYcz4Hw_CpKPSoh0-MiPxXX9lQoGK0AozGh6-xwbAThNhVbFzShHRExa6Nyc21v2Xp5h4FlQgRWxgaB_rv5cI/s1600/DSC02169.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This was the first time that I had ever seen Forget-me-nots in real life.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
After a few hours, I got hungry and wanted to munch on that special treat that I could only get in the Netherlands: bitterballen. The last time I had some was back on January first. Four months is a <i>long</i> time to be deprived of bitterballen.<br />
<br />
I walked out of the park. I saw more inebriated people sailing boats groaning from over-capacity,<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9lCeNe2h0_KnY5sh9BvI0etW10vKvpWiHZdynnO4Qq_zU8Zgwo1bpSD27myZEO7CFzerT4Nx7h3DxcEo2aCwDsB8nSCTjn9EYDlJgPWZ47MOGd9l8FGM7zMJ1hI178rjQPXr-VhewQGQ/s1600/DSC02175.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9lCeNe2h0_KnY5sh9BvI0etW10vKvpWiHZdynnO4Qq_zU8Zgwo1bpSD27myZEO7CFzerT4Nx7h3DxcEo2aCwDsB8nSCTjn9EYDlJgPWZ47MOGd9l8FGM7zMJ1hI178rjQPXr-VhewQGQ/s1600/DSC02175.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
As well as not <i>one</i>...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
...But TWO imperial lions!<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgveLNG5eakN6rEqUh43C1hFC0XaAfKe0ZbVkaCTM9vpEm_hfV7UqA6PRCJgVh8Thu772o07wFgQs7dP9xttASu0WTM96Y8vhV1mnVE5vSer-huT6mS81Cql1XO-7v3SjKl8BxZ2p9GDYc/s1600/DSC02186.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgveLNG5eakN6rEqUh43C1hFC0XaAfKe0ZbVkaCTM9vpEm_hfV7UqA6PRCJgVh8Thu772o07wFgQs7dP9xttASu0WTM96Y8vhV1mnVE5vSer-huT6mS81Cql1XO-7v3SjKl8BxZ2p9GDYc/s1600/DSC02186.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Y'all can't handle my regalia."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
I knew exactly where I wanted to go to eat my bitterballen, but the problem was that the entrance to street where the brown café was located was inconveniently near Leidseplein...right at the very corner where the flashy Bulldog Coffee Shop was bound to have an immobile mass of tourists buzzing about it and streets littered with broken glass bottles and piles of rubbish.<br />
<br />
I wasn't wrong.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
Fighting my desire to punch, elbow, bite, and claw people out of my way, I snaked through the static crowd and, after two minutes that seemed to last an eternity, reached the street.<br />
<br />
Thankfully, the brown café in question was an oasis of tranquility from the chaotic atmosphere. I offered myself a moment's respite and nursed a Belgian beer with a half dozen of piping hot bitterballen.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
In my bubble of delicious treats, I felt that all was right with the world, at least for an hour. I then set myself the goal of trying to get to the Anne Frank House down Prisengracht. In retrospect, I realize now that it was a dumb move on my part as it was bound to be impossible to get into it on King's Day.<br />
<br />
I weaved and swerved down the long street, passing little groups of drunk Dutchies dancing, beers and cigarettes a constant presence in their hands. Despite the rowdiness of the atmosphere, it genuinely made me happy to see them having the time of their lives. I'm a people watcher, after all.<br />
<br />
It seemed that all would be going to plan for me to get to the Anne Frank House when I bumped into one of those drunk Dutchman.<br />
<br />
"Oh! Sorry!"<br />
<br />
He staggered, looked down at me, blinked a couple of times, smiled and placed a free hand on my shoulder, thereby stopping me in my tracks. He then slurred something in Dutch, to which I nervously said "<i>Ik spreek geen nederlands</i>." In a heartbeat, he effortlessly switched to English.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Damn it! </i>How did they know this?<br />
<br />
"Yes, I am."<br />
<br />
"Ahh! Where are you from?"<br />
<br />
"Miami."<br />
<br />
"Whoaaaaaa, Mi-a-mi!!!"<br />
<br />
How unfortunate for me that Miami carries with it the image of being a party city when I am the complete opposite of a party girl.<br />
<br />
That isn't to say that I don't like a good party, but being absolutely plastered while having loud music pound into your eardrums and enough flashing lights to cause epileptic seizures isn't my idea of "fun." I'd say there are two types of people in Miami: those who enjoy the party scene with its nightclubs, and those who want to get out of the city to see something else of the world.<br />
<br />
(Guess which one I am.)<br />
<br />
Upon hearing that I hailed from the most well-known city in South Florida, the Dutchman cheered loudly and proceeded to give me an odd Dutch greeting of pivoting his gyrating crotch towards my rear.<br />
<br />
To further understand how odd this move must have looked to the random spectator, it is important to remember that at 5'4"/163 cm, I am indeed quite a short person in the Netherlands, and the Dutchman in question <i>easily</i> surpassed the Dutch height average of 6'1"/183,5 cm.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div>
<br />
<br />
In order for his lower abdomen to have reached my rear, he essentially had to bend his knees to a level in which crouching clearly looked strenuous and painful to him. If we had been dog breeds, it would have looked like a Great Dane were trying to hump a really stout, short-legged Chihuahua. I stood frozen on the spot, too confused to even react to what he was doing.<br />
<br />
Let's get one thing straight: the fact that I am from Miami does NOT automatically mean that I want to be grinded on, all right?<br />
<br />
After he realized that his grinding was in no way turning me on, he stopped his backward and forward motion, stumbled a few steps and asked if I wanted to join him and his friends to party.<br />
<br />
"Maybe...," I diplomatically responded.<br />
<br />
"'Maybe?' 'Maybe' is not a good answer!"<br />
<br />
"Well, that depends. Where are you guys planning to go party?"<br />
<br />
He spread his long arms in the air, clutching a sloshing beer in one hand, and said "the party is here, there, everywhere! It's all over the place!" I think he was referring to the entire city centre. My gut said to get out of there, but then my adventurous side said "why the heck not?" His liquid courage was infectious and I decided to tag along with his group, which consisted of another guy and one couple snogging each other.<br />
<br />
As the group and I travelled down Prisengracht, our nucleus of party revelers increased by three other people: three Dutch ladies who never once said a word to me. One of the girls began to chat up the Grinding Don Juan and the other two began to discuss something to each other. I could tell from their body language, from the way their darting eyes looked at me up and down to the giggling that they were talking about me. All of this happened in Dutch, therefore I had no idea what they were saying about me. I did catch the word "wallflower" at one point.<br />
<br />
After a few minutes, the Dutch nucleus made a tight circle which, in their language, made me feel excluded. I didn't even know how to assert myself in their conversations by speaking in English. How odd it was in that moment, amid literally thousands of people, to have felt quite lonely.<br />
<br />
As I began to regret my decision of having stuck around the group, "our" nucleus increased by another couple. They approached me and began to ask me questions.<br />
<br />
What's your name? "Barbara."<br />
<br />
Ah, Barbara. "What are yours?" She said her name was Annette. As for the man:<br />
<br />
"Ah, no, you wouldn't be able to pronounce it," he stated, shaking his head. I retorted that I was always up for a challenge. "It's Joost." I repeated it perfectly and his jaw hung open. "Okay, you said it correctly."<br />
<br />
Did I know what King's Day was? "Yes, it's King Willem-Alexander's birthday. Prior to that, it was Queen's Day to celebrate Queen Beatrix, although, technically, April 30th was Queen Juliana's birthday."<br />
<br />
Joost's attention diverted to the two giggling girls. Did I know the two giggling girls from the group? Were they my friends? "No, I don't know them at all. I've only just met them, actually."<br />
<br />
"Ah, well, they are saying<i> really</i> mean things about you in Dutch. Not nice at all. I thought you should know that."<br />
<br />
So I had figured, but it was nice to at least have my suspicions confirmed. If anything, their behavior was a clear reflection on their poor character. Rather than getting to know me as a person, they had preferred to pass judgment whilst talking about me behind my back in a language I neither understand nor speak.<br />
<br />
I wasn't going to let those two girls ruin my day. In those occasions, it's better to ignore the petty things and let them slide, like water off a duck's back.<br />
<br />
Also: not that I'm spiteful, but I <i>did </i>make a mental note to have their bicycles' wheels be clamped and their OV-Chipkaarts revoked as soon as possible.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpz3k3kYXuTIBTTz4a-9LkGGRz_RCGDaEC8sGqObATFeGFc2hXTyisZVYM0WCRaQqxotwm-BM8nfDdZQwRveXqiiewabd-PWnAhNbnUkpfTlhPvOBRhA_2Ye2NTiwpwQ5bfBkbTF2ABiU/s1600/Evil.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpz3k3kYXuTIBTTz4a-9LkGGRz_RCGDaEC8sGqObATFeGFc2hXTyisZVYM0WCRaQqxotwm-BM8nfDdZQwRveXqiiewabd-PWnAhNbnUkpfTlhPvOBRhA_2Ye2NTiwpwQ5bfBkbTF2ABiU/s1600/Evil.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That'll teach 'em to mess with the Minister of Transport.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I diverted from my revenge fantasy and went back to my budding conversation with the couple.<br />
<br />
Was I here with anyone else? "No, I came here by myself."<br />
<br />
<i>What</i>? Why would you be doing here, in Amsterdam, by yourself? "Well, why not? I'm a pretty independent person."<br />
<br />
What did I think of King's Day, their biggest holiday? I quite liked it, I said.<br />
<br />
<i>Really</i>? They didn't have the impression that I was wholly enjoying myself. I insisted that I was, in my own way. (Perhaps I just wasn't overjoyed over having felt cast to the side by the others, but, oh well.)<br />
<br />
The man said that I looked a bit "blue." I asked him to explain what he meant by "blue," because to me, it is a synonym for "sad" or "depressed."<br />
<br />
He struggled to find the right words for the context and mentioned that it looked like I was there, enjoying the moment, but still hesitant to be present, as if I was keeping my distance.<br />
<br />
I think he meant I was being "reserved," which fits quite well with my nature in surroundings that I don't know. However, if someone proves themselves to be friendly, I open up easily, which was certainly the case with the engaging couple.<br />
<br />
"This isn't my first time in the Netherlands, either. It's my second time coming here."<br />
<br />
"Ah. By the Netherlands, do you mean Amsterdam?"<br />
<br />
"<a href="http://twobeansornottwobeans.blogspot.fr/2014/01/a-few-things-which-perplexed-me-in.html">Well, yes</a>, <a href="http://twobeansornottwobeans.blogspot.fr/2014/01/why-you-shouldnt-eat-venison-while-high.html">I have visited Amsterdam</a>, obviously, but I have been to a couple of other places."<br />
<br />
"Where?"<br />
<br />
"<a href="http://twobeansornottwobeans.blogspot.fr/2014/01/the-minister-of-transport-for-holland.html">Rotterdam and Heerenveen</a>."<br />
<br />
They stared at me. I might has well had just declared myself as an extraterrestrial visitor from another galaxy and sought to be taken to their leader.<br />
<br />
"You went to <i>Heerenveen</i>? I'm originally from Friesland!" Joost said. "What were you doing in Heerenveen?"<br />
<br />
"I went to see some friends there."<br />
<br />
"Ah! That makes more sense. Nobody goes to Heerenveen for the sight-seeing."<br />
<br />
"Well, I did do some sight-seeing there. I even the saw the windmill. I also know the city is famous for speed skating."<br />
<br />
At which point their jaws dropped in incredulous joy. Joost, in serendipitous disbelief, said that I was the<i> first</i> American he had ever met who knew about the speed skating. Then he proclaimed to be a speed skater himself.<br />
<br />
"Are you really?!" I squealed, thinking about the likes of Sven Kramer, Jan Blokhuijsen, Jorrit Bergsma and Koen Verweij.<br />
<br />
"Yes, of course! I am Dutch! We are <i>all</i> speed skaters!" I bit back my words to state that I thought he was talking about <b>professional</b> skating.<br />
<br />
"Do you like skating?" Annette asked.<br />
<br />
"Well, I do like to watch the execution and the skill involved in the sport, but, regrettably, I don't know how to skate."<br />
<br />
"Oh. Well, you can always learn how to ice skate."<br />
<br />
I shook my head. "No, I mean, I don't know how to skate."<br />
<br />
"If you know how to inline skate, on wheels, it's really easy!"<br />
<br />
I chuckled and reiterated more explicitly. "<i>I don't know how to skate</i>. <b>At all</b>. Neither on blades nor on wheels. I never learned how..."<br />
<br />
"Ah. Well, that'll be your next goal in the Netherlands! To ice skate!" she said cheerfully.<br />
<br />
Just when I was beginning to enjoy the conversation and was getting ready to ask them some questions myself, they announced that they had to go. Before I could lament their departure, they left me with a parting gift.<br />
<br />
"You look very <i>oranje</i> today, but hold on. You are missing something!"<br />
<br />
Joost reached into his backpack and pulled out a pair of orange sunglasses. "I want you to have these!"<br />
<br />
I declined at first but he insisted that I have them. "I want you to have these, because that is how we are!"<br />
<br />
I was very touched by their kind gesture and thanked them for it. Annette then bequeathed the sunglasses on my head, as if they were a tiara. It was then that I truly felt welcomed by the uniting spirit of King's Day and I will never forget their kind gesture.<br />
<br />
I walked around the city proudly wearing my <i>oranje </i>sunglasses tiara and watched the fleet of boats pass by on the canal.<br />
<br />
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I got distracted by some poffertjes and never made it to the Anne Frank House. I wasn't too worried, though, because King's Day had only been the first day of what would be my week in the Netherlands...<br />
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Barb the French BeanThe Beanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09294653760778922184noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3800436644379687416.post-24199900821207784312014-04-16T09:25:00.000-04:002014-04-21T14:16:01.030-04:00Working with Brain Minions in Language Learning Land<b><span style="color: #990000; font-size: large;">A fair warning: today's post features some rather colorful language. Read at your own risk.</span></b><br />
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Back when I was a middle school and high school student, I often heard my fellow classmates complain about how utterly pointless it was to even bother learning a foreign language and that the subject's sole purpose for existence was to give employment options to the optimistically deluded individuals known as "teachers." I was quick to point out to my classmates that their reasoning was unjust and simply not true. Taking a foreign language class surely had other virtues.<br />
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"Oh, you're right, Barbara. It<i> isn't</i> just about giving jobs to teachers; it's also about fulfilling the foreign language requirement to get a high school diploma. All this work for a damn piece of paper..."<br />
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"No, no, no! Guys, learning another language is great!" I expounded to these misguided teenagers. "You get to experience and learn about another culture from its grammar and ways of being. Plus, what if you travel abroad? Being able to speak another language other than English might prove to be helpful."<br />
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At which point, said classmates would demonstrate their unanimous agreement with my argument by rolling their eyes and yawning in my face. Years later, though, I am indeed very, very happy to have to have stuck by my principle of paying attention in French class because I found myself in the odd position of packing my bags to become an optimistically deluded individual in France.<br />
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While learning a language other than the native one you speak can be a fulfilling goal, at times, I think that language acquisition and cultural immersion should come with either a disclaimer, or a cautionary sticker or a warning label directed at those who embark on such an adventure, preferably found as a sign when you cross into another country's border.<br />
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The confusions that arise on a day-to-day basis would be enough to drive any expat insane, and this is ever the case regarding conversational exchanges. The expat or foreign speaker will think about what their want or need is in their native tongue, take a moment to translate it in the language-translation area of their brain, let the synapses process the meaning, let said words travel towards the mouth, and then finalize the journey by expressing what was on their mind to the native language interlocutor.<br />
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That action alone is a hazard for what is thought in the mind can occasionally be warped: crucial words go missing, grammar tenses and syntax become skewed, syllabic mispronunciations result in incomprehensible misunderstandings.<br />
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A recent example happened when some visiting friends of mine and I placed some orders for three coffees in a café only to then change one of the beverages for a bottle of water because my gal pal needed to quench her thirst.<br />
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<b>Waitress: </b>"So, do you still want the three coffees?"<br />
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<b>Me:</b> "Actually, it'll just be two coffees now and one bottle of water because my friend <i><b>is in heat</b></i>."<br />
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I <b>had</b> meant to say that my friend was "hot" (<i>elle a chaud</i>) and yet, in the Language Learning Center of my brain, my nearly 10 years of speaking French went out the window when I mistakenly said that she was "<i>en chaleur</i>." I noticed my error instantly and sputtered the correct words, but it was too late. The damage had been done and the waitress was chuckling at my basic A1 level French.<br />
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While I was still beating myself up about this incident, I began to wonder: why do these mistakes happen? Or, rather, what causes them to occur?<br />
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My theory is this: tiny, hardworking minions who reside in the brain are solely in charge of making sure that messages make it out of my mouth, and these minions, like all living creatures, sometimes make the mistakes which lead to misunderstandings.<br />
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I would image that the process of cooperating with minions goes like so. My body is presented with a stimulus and has to have a verbal reaction to it.<br />
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(This is <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l12Csc_lW0Q">an actual song</a>, one which I had caught my students "singing.")<br />
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French mistake to NEVER make: "<i>baisser</i>" means "to lower," whereas "<i>baiser</i>" means "to fuck." </div>
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However, if used as a noun, "<i>un baiser</i>" means "a kiss." Yet the proper verb that means "to kiss" is "<i>embrasser</i>." Be careful if you kiss someone and then proudly proclaim "je l'ai baisé" to your friends...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrCwUeLsIl_CNAmmWJu9QyvVojuk6PHEGojlqItuNQ6ntnl7Oz6qnU9R7UuOkETclazh65CwLH4anRzj7-hDF_tzVQSQGiHhyf00znLARXmElHzyH2LOHMkhyphenhyphenBgR7_H7pHUWbKrAhIsOk/s1600/Minion+failed+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrCwUeLsIl_CNAmmWJu9QyvVojuk6PHEGojlqItuNQ6ntnl7Oz6qnU9R7UuOkETclazh65CwLH4anRzj7-hDF_tzVQSQGiHhyf00znLARXmElHzyH2LOHMkhyphenhyphenBgR7_H7pHUWbKrAhIsOk/s1600/Minion+failed+2.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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I'm not angry with my brain minion team, but they have instigated some unfortunate incidents during my time in Language Learning Land.<br />
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To any expats who may read this: Don't worry or beat yourself up. Whatever throngs you've faced in Language Learning Land, just remember to enjoy the stay.*<br />
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<i>*Results and experiences may vary.</i><br />
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<br />
Barb the French Bean<br />
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<br />The Beanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09294653760778922184noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3800436644379687416.post-20425858606791607332014-04-05T12:49:00.002-04:002014-04-16T20:36:31.254-04:00Lessons in French: How to Say "Mullet"In my four years of living in Croissant-and-Baguetteland, I am happy to report that going throughout life isn't always a high fashion runway that requires you to look your absolute best. While French women certainly make a point to look slightly more chic and elegant to their male counterparts, one isn't obligated to look ready to go to a party. What is expected in French dressing sense is that you look presentable: never leave the house in pajamas, keep your bits covered with reasonably lengthy attire, don't look like you just rolled out of bed then went straight to the shower.<br />
<br />
Being someone who is <a href="http://twobeansornottwobeans.blogspot.fr/2012/02/concept-and-reality-of-cuban-time.html">perpetually late</a>*, I've been able to cut some corners and get away with wearing just a minimal amount of make-up (lipstick and moisturizer) and my otherwise unkempt hair is kept in a tight bun. I admit that cartoon me, who is always sporting flouncy, untamed locks, is not the best representation of my day-to-day existence.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn7Pc0R-q-bDr40iiXVEnC-fS3Jiqz56Z723UBHL7OS5guznDBF3b8GtWqXEex-4KKB-uSZipuqsWgNStsRYhpmlqVr7LAnIDVHsulnnWpCN-4m4JoPiuyF3CT8etTXM-NZWJB4VM32GU/s1600/Teaching+in+France+3+Good+Morning+Kids.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn7Pc0R-q-bDr40iiXVEnC-fS3Jiqz56Z723UBHL7OS5guznDBF3b8GtWqXEex-4KKB-uSZipuqsWgNStsRYhpmlqVr7LAnIDVHsulnnWpCN-4m4JoPiuyF3CT8etTXM-NZWJB4VM32GU/s1600/Teaching+in+France+3+Good+Morning+Kids.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sorry if I mislead you guys. </td></tr>
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*Unless I have to catch a train. I'm almost never late for trains. And if I AM late, its nice to know that I can always count on the SNCF to have my back with their own tardiness.<br />
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Still, living far away from the familiar American shores and all of the subtle cultural nuances from back home, I never, NEVER thought that I would see the day when I saw a French person sporting the dreaded Mullet. For those who are not in the know, the Mullet is a particular hairstyle that is reputed for being a "business in the front, party in the back" cut, meaning that it provides an odd combination of commencing with what would seem a normal short hairstyle that is abruptly tapered by a long mane.<br />
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When you look at a Mullet, you get the uneasy sensation that something is aesthetically off. Heck, when pronounced with an American dialect, the word itself is phonetically unpleasant.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbrTtiYinbPxBfAckcxGzUsvXIPePUit-VoBSw_21VsVrfmmf3R4Nn6yUZpx9S2hsy0eFMxpwBupep5BbnsGGNJFR7fwftYnG1Javh2Wwj-VL4WTTgI7pJWhCT7R5qEjUJGCBW3ogGORQ/s1600/Mullet+anatomy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbrTtiYinbPxBfAckcxGzUsvXIPePUit-VoBSw_21VsVrfmmf3R4Nn6yUZpx9S2hsy0eFMxpwBupep5BbnsGGNJFR7fwftYnG1Javh2Wwj-VL4WTTgI7pJWhCT7R5qEjUJGCBW3ogGORQ/s1600/Mullet+anatomy.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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I'd like to imagine that it was probably created by someone who was inept at cutting their own hair and, rather than admitting to their friends it was an accident, decided to convince them all that it would be the latest trend to rock trailer park communities.<br />
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Yes, the humble Mullet, with its short, spiky fringe and cascading rear, insinuates a stigma that the wearer is an uneducated, low-income loser who is probably addicted to beer and trucker hats, and terrible movies like <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FpHIIE9Lois">Joe Dirt</a></i> certainly didn't help to improve that stereotype.<br />
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Those who are brave enough to sport the Mullet effectively have placed themselves to be a laughingstock in American eyes and are portrayed as being as American as apple pie, bald eagles and Old Glory.<br />
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So imagine my <strike>horror</strike> shock when on one fine Saturday morning I encountered a Frenchman sporting this American hairdo.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg7br0KUDgi1TPa7YoTiUE0g5d1ui4sBNvukJxlXSeyxr23bl3gUWOAe1BjR-uXXNALeXzwc9X7K4vbJpQiV6_1f1XSY-sylO9jFyOMjrh4Q1Y_9CysMNfvmazJC4WCySU9rCOt_eCe2w/s1600/Mullet+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg7br0KUDgi1TPa7YoTiUE0g5d1ui4sBNvukJxlXSeyxr23bl3gUWOAe1BjR-uXXNALeXzwc9X7K4vbJpQiV6_1f1XSY-sylO9jFyOMjrh4Q1Y_9CysMNfvmazJC4WCySU9rCOt_eCe2w/s1600/Mullet+1.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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Then imagine my further<strike> urge to regurgitate my lunch </strike>shock when I saw that the Frenchman's wife also sported a Mullet.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsVPAY2P7dk8BgJOxAfDrrDQmrdsphlHSdXOySxOJtepTV0dyvqsbZL7KxDdCfbwgIlGVegAP8bJHU5ouC_yueiH7P6X9cIVPDsigqNHEc_KoYtp6YBL36k75W2ov8ARLAKFSh-hVL7Uo/s1600/Mullet+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsVPAY2P7dk8BgJOxAfDrrDQmrdsphlHSdXOySxOJtepTV0dyvqsbZL7KxDdCfbwgIlGVegAP8bJHU5ouC_yueiH7P6X9cIVPDsigqNHEc_KoYtp6YBL36k75W2ov8ARLAKFSh-hVL7Uo/s1600/Mullet+2.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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Then, dear reader, place yourself in my shoes when I <strike>resisted the desire to urgently call child services to report parental abuse</strike> saw that their two kids also had Mullets of their own! An entire French family with Mullets!<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHWuYyoqri9Y5Q3oUbKGjo6Tn7y3sDETdbSp53nJMlbUCx-kr46DQUeAX5xybEf0O416Oc6GAcWuwPt-eO-RZ2dPbpUC9Tyop4JKOutY0NQ6tAOeYrwhOdms4YBNEmkR8L7Zxz5yBPSng/s1600/Mullet+family.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHWuYyoqri9Y5Q3oUbKGjo6Tn7y3sDETdbSp53nJMlbUCx-kr46DQUeAX5xybEf0O416Oc6GAcWuwPt-eO-RZ2dPbpUC9Tyop4JKOutY0NQ6tAOeYrwhOdms4YBNEmkR8L7Zxz5yBPSng/s1600/Mullet+family.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Mulet Family Portrait</td></tr>
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I was struck dumb. Had American cultural invasion to surreptitiously integrate itself into other countries finally taken its toll? Was I going to start seeing more and more beer pong parties with red Solo cups being advertised on T.V.?<br />
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(Of course not; France doesn't need to advertise alcohol, duh.)<br />
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After the initial wave of confusion ebbed and flowed from my mind, I courted the idea that perhaps this little odd family was just a one-time fluke. But then I attended the town's carnival and to my surprise, I spotting some more children donning the hairstyle! <i>What is going on</i>, I thought. <i>This isn't right... </i>I tried to reason that this style couldn't possibly be on the rise in France. No Mullet-based craze had yet to hit the runways in Paris and even in my most dreary days in Dijon, I had yet to have spotted a local wearing said 'do. Maybe, just maybe, the Mullet was concentrated to the area I reside in the Sarthe département.<br />
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I decided to consult my theories with my hairstylist, but since she is French and I didn't know the French term for "Mullet" (nor if there even WAS a term for it), I resorted to describing the physical aspects of the style.<br />
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"Have you ever seen a very particular hairstyle in which the hair is cut short in the front and kept long in the back? Do you know what I'm talking about?"<br />
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Her serene features scrunched when she cringed and she nodded.<br />
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"What is that hairstyle called in French?"<br />
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"<i>Le Macgyver</i>."<br />
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I unintentionally paused for emphasis.<br />
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"<i>Le Macgyver?</i>"<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="218" src="https://static.squarespace.com/static/51b3dc8ee4b051b96ceb10de/51ce6099e4b0d911b4489b79/51ce61a0e4b0d911b449aa05/1352755976007/1000w/The-main-character.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That bomb should nuke Macgyver's Mullet out of existence. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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"Yes."<br />
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"As in...?"<br />
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"Macgyver."<br />
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"As in <b>the T.V. character</b>?"<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIsxJx2w9bi-8U3-bm6QxF_yW5WTtfH4f7kl2p8lREbOSs7EtzkjOdd7Alpxa3lbAmVwHmm2DNvjLyTzZqY9JnkNnWAXDVyroYEmZAZ9GtV3VbRo1WALt3HBfjRE3YcPf5U9FpOJcdd9Yb/s400/MAC-00017395.jpg" height="301" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No amount of string and paper clips will let you worm your way from my wrath, Macgyver.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
"Yes, that one."<br />
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I went to explain to her that I was extremely surprised to see the French sporting this hairstyle and had never seen one until I had moved to Sablé-sur-Sarthe. I mentioned to her the social stigma that the Mullet evokes back home and how people who wear it are considered to be very "<i>particulier</i>." She drew a sharp intake of air and said that a similar stigma also exists in France.<br />
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"Years ago, when the show aired, from its popularity, it started a craze and people wanted the same style. You see it less and less these days in France, but there are people who still have a hard time letting things from the past go."<br />
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Goddammit, Macgyver. Who knew you'd have this effect on deluded French people?<br />
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I then asked my hairstylist another question.<br />
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"Have you ever had somebody ask you for <i>le Macgyver</i>?"<br />
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Her brown eyes widened with the recollection of one woman who, despite my hairstylist's suggestions and pleas to consider other options, insisted on having her hair cut into a Mullet.<br />
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"I didn't even know how to go about this hairstyle! You see, haircuts are supposed to fit into a 'frame,' and <i>le Macgyver</i>, with its irregular combination of two different frames, made it very difficult to reproduce." <br />
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She then leaned next to my ear and, with utter scandal dancing in her tone, whispered,"Things about it just don't go at all because you can't distinguish when one part ends and another begins. It looks <i>so bad</i>."<br />
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<i>AH-HA! Eureka!</i>, I thought. <i>No wonder the Mullet looks aesthetically unbalanced; it's because the techniques to style it aren't even right in the first place!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>To console myself, asked my hairstylist to give me a non-Mullet cut for the special occasion of celebrating my last full day in my mid-Twenties*.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1-a2YUwGwbg9j2tAKuVijkrM8gHloMfCoA2ynaISVZDW1hKUIhVSXmLkwp5T8PipVcsjewn4lBsj1BokVDpgJLw7JdTW0_WQ-HVD8yKm9gjJlYY7NmCCc8_PG3JtV0NT7FM4F_BFr3fY/s1600/DSC01946.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1-a2YUwGwbg9j2tAKuVijkrM8gHloMfCoA2ynaISVZDW1hKUIhVSXmLkwp5T8PipVcsjewn4lBsj1BokVDpgJLw7JdTW0_WQ-HVD8yKm9gjJlYY7NmCCc8_PG3JtV0NT7FM4F_BFr3fY/s1600/DSC01946.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Take that, Macgyver.</td></tr>
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Barb the French Bean<br />
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*I turn Twenty-Seven on April 6th. As people back home in Miami would point out, <i>"Estás vieja</i>."The Beanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09294653760778922184noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3800436644379687416.post-86349471283960427122014-03-28T19:49:00.000-04:002014-03-29T23:27:43.368-04:00The Day I Inadvertently Pissed Off a Frenchwoman On the infrequent occasions in which I head outside of my 15,000 souls town of <a href="http://twobeansornottwobeans.blogspot.fr/search/label/Sabl%C3%A9-sur-Sarthe">Sablé-sur-Sarthe</a>, I often make a beeline towards the train station and grab a seat headed to the city of Le Mans.<br />
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(The former walled Plantagenet city of Le Mans, for those who are unaware, is most well-known for a motorcar race held in June known as the 24 Hours of Le Mans, in which drivers from all over the world race NASCAR-style for 24 hours straight. Lots of Brits descend on the city in groups and drunkenly buy rounds at the cafés.)<br />
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During a recent outing in Le Mans, I was minding my own business walking around the city's relatively calm streets when I came across something which caught my eye. In one of the parked cars, I saw a baby sleeping peacefully in the passenger's side front seat. All would have been right with this scenario had a responsible adult occupied either the driver's seat or if someone else had been sitting in the back.<br />
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Except the baby was alone.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDa9UtalJXJpZQEKBoIEf9SZTvHf9ug7jkI2InpMrlz_j3ctwl5T79KVtzU5kyclyV-jM8DN1TlbftJ86fR6EP-q4Ng9Kw9uF1zTYoPyIX5GZdPhdIgdI0gpYvvx6khNKV2vblHZ0aqqA/s1600/Le+Mans+Baby+in+car.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDa9UtalJXJpZQEKBoIEf9SZTvHf9ug7jkI2InpMrlz_j3ctwl5T79KVtzU5kyclyV-jM8DN1TlbftJ86fR6EP-q4Ng9Kw9uF1zTYoPyIX5GZdPhdIgdI0gpYvvx6khNKV2vblHZ0aqqA/s1600/Le+Mans+Baby+in+car.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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My deeply-ingrained Floridian instinct to never leave live creatures trapped in hot vehicles for a prolonged period of time raised a red flag at the situation and, for some reason, I began to panic over this unknown baby. I don't know why I panicked because the child's full rosy cheeks and calm demeanor signaled that she seemed well-cared for and relatively healthy and, quite frankly, it <i>really</i> wasn't my problem if someone had abandoned their child in a car.<br />
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And yet, I worried. I couldn't believe that someone would simply leave their child in a car. Was the baby even a <i>real</i> child? It seems silly to think about it now, but in that moment, my brain recalled stories about people who actually went out with<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xI7oRvpYhs8"> realistic baby dolls</a> and cared for the dolls as if they were real children. Had I somehow encountered one of those fake babies resting in the car seat?<br />
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I observed the child more closely, paying attention for any vital signs of life: a chest that heaved delicately, a muscular twitch in the face or the hands. Her tiny fist wriggled for a few seconds, which clearly meant she wasn't a doll.<br />
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Unless it was a remote-controlled doll? <i>Nah</i>, I reasoned, <i>that's just stupid</i>.<br />
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I found myself rooted to the pavement next to the car. Questions arose in my mind. Where was her mother? When was the mother coming back? For how long had the kid been in the car alone? Should I let someone else know about the seemingly abandoned baby? Who could I even tell?<br />
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Luckily, my questions were answered after a couple of minutes. Across the street, I spotted a blond woman who dragged her young son by the arm and they walked in the car's direction. I smiled with relief.<br />
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"Oh, good. I was worried about the baby," I said to her.<br />
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Rather than reciprocating my smile, she stormed towards me, glaring. She yanked the keys from her purse and fumbled finding the one to open the car's doors. Within seconds, I had the privilege to listen to a frustrated mother's explosive tirade.<br />
<br />
"I'm getting so sick and tired of this!" she exclaimed. "Every week, this happens to me! I have to come every Wednesday to <i>that</i> building--" she jabbed a raised index finger, keys jangling loudly, to the building adjacent to where we stood "--and this is the <b>third time</b> now that I've had to rush back to the car. My kid's asleep and it really made no sense to wake her up if I was only going to be gone for a few minutes."<br />
<br />
She wasn't apologetic with her words. She was angry. <i>At me</i>.<br />
<br />
"I'm a mother with three kids! And with no help at all! I can't do everything on my own!" she fumed. I looked at the son's blank face and wondered where the third child could have been and if the kids' father was out of the picture. My latent Fight-or-Flight response kicked in and I backed away from the mother and son. My intention wasn't at all to reprimand this woman. For reasons I can't understand, I just stuck around to make sure the baby was going to be all right. Upon the mother's return, the situation was now effectively out of my hands.<br />
<br />
"Right. Well...have a good day, Ma'am," I responded awkwardly.<br />
<br />
In a rather un-French fashion, she didn't return my civil reply of bidding someone good-bye, which in turn irrationally pissed <i>me</i> off.<br />
<br />
<i>Fine, lady.</i> I thought to myself. <i>I won't care about your kid again. In fact, see if I <b>ever</b> care about another human being again! I'm going to become a cold, heartless, insensitive bitch and then I'll be able to watch <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9gspElv1yvc">those smarmy Sarah McLachlan ads</a> about abused puppies and kitties and NOT feel a damn thing. I'll show you! I'LL SHOW YOU ALL!!!</i><br />
<br />
In retrospect, I realize now how much of a creep I must have looked standing next to the car and gawking at the lone child. I also feel fortunate to be a woman because given the context, had I been a man, I probably would have been accused of being a perverted baby snatcher and been beaten over the head with a purse.<br />
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<br />
In all reality, I probably won't stop being an overly sensitive empathetic gal, but I do need to toughen up and not get involved in other people's business.<br />
<br />
Especially French mothers who leave their kids alone in cars.<br />
<br />
Barb the French BeanThe Beanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09294653760778922184noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3800436644379687416.post-16385712439589032032014-03-17T23:47:00.001-04:002014-03-18T00:19:39.980-04:00The Joys of Jet Lag (And How to Get Back on Track)As a frequent traveler who makes it a point to cross the Atlantic ocean at least twice a year, I'd like to think that I've become a pro at handling the extreme changes of adapting suddenly to a new time zone.<br />
<br />
Granted, the six-hour change from French time to the American Eastern Standard Time isn't<i> that</i> drastic of an alteration, but it certainly provides enough inconvenience to perturb sleeping and eating patterns. On that note: I've found that even a minor one-hour change from France to the British Isles created some disgruntled moments as I debated whether or not to wait eating breakfasts, lunches, and dinners at a later time.<br />
<br />
Here are some tips.<br />
<br />
<b>1) STAY AWAKE.</b><br />
<br />
Did you leave at ten in the morning, take a ten hour flight, and suddenly found yourself at having lunch at two in the afternoon when your body was convinced that it was 8 p.m.? It may prove difficult, but forcing your body to remain alert is the quickest way to getting into your new time zone's groove. Generally wait until it is night time before catching some Zs. Supply extra shots of espresso when needed.<br />
<br />
And, if anything, think yourself a time-traveler whose mission it was to go back six hours in the past to relay an important message. Remaining awake is <i>vital</i> to this operation!<br />
<br />
<b>2) Have enough time to adapt. </b><br />
<br />
I can only speak from my experience, but I generally have required two to four days of adjustment before obtaining a sense of normalcy, regardless on which side of the Atlantic I'm in.<br />
<br />
<b>3) Be busy.</b><br />
<br />
Planning to visit some friends and family back home? Make an appointment for 10 a.m. sharp on the day after you arrive. Make dinner plans to be on the safe side.<br />
<br />
<b>4) COFFEE.</b><br />
<br />
I cannot stress how much you and caffeine will become BBFs in these crucial days. Oh, you don't like coffee? <i>Fine</i>. Get yourself some potent English tea or a nauseatingly-saccharine energy drink.<br />
<br />
I've usually had no trouble adapting if I applied these tactics. However, I had not anticipated how much my body would be thrown off by the effort of flying to the United States, adapting within four days, only to then face the change in Daylight Saving time (thereby subtracting one hour), ONLY to then return to France within a period of ten days.<br />
<br />
The weekend simply wasn't enough time for me to return to normal, which explained why I found myself cooking steak well past midnight (for my stomach said it was <b>dinner time</b>). My students also have the joy of having an escaped Zombie extra from <i>The Walking Dead</i> for a teacher. I am completely drained and plagued by a constant headache.<br />
<br />
And sleep? Forget that! I mistakenly took a nap at six p.m. Now, I am perky and alert.<br />
<br />
It is now 4:46 a.m. French time. No use in going back to sleep because I work within a few hours. Maybe I'll update this post with some cartoons later in the week.<br />
<br />
<i>*This post has been brought to you by jet lag.* </i><br />
<br />
Barb the French BeanThe Beanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09294653760778922184noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3800436644379687416.post-27356466810082679492014-03-04T13:06:00.001-05:002014-03-04T19:37:09.349-05:00HomeFor the past five years, I've become a bit of a nomad, alternating between moving to France, then back to the place where I grew up, then back to France. As each day passes in my life in France, I am reminded of how much of a foreigner I truly am, language mishaps and differences aside.<br />
<br />
However, with time, I've begun to slowly acclimate myself to the spoken and unspoken social cues the French have: always greeting store clerks and cashiers with a "Bonjour," acquiescing an agreement with a wispy, gasp-like "ouais" or a small "mhn" accompanied by a quick nod, always stopping to have the mid-morning "pause café," always respecting mealtimes and eating meals in small courses, hardly ever raising one's voice mid-conversation. The small things that used to trip me up and target me with some invisible bulls-eye have since become ingrained into my very being. I don't feel so out of place anymore.<br />
<br />
Every once in a while, though, I find myself longing for a slightly more comfortable and familiar existence, one which makes a little more sense to me. I find myself missing "home."<br />
<br />
Then arises the complex question that all expats face with discomfort: what <i>is</i> home, exactly? For those who have never traveled or lived elsewhere, that question is answered rather easily. It is not the case for someone like me.<br />
<br />
(Should a French person or foreigner inquire about my origins, I answer that I come from Miami. It's a quicker response and leads to the inevitable awestruck observation of wonderment in which the person in question cannot understand why I ever left Miami.)<br />
<br />
Is "home" the anchor of one's childhood and adolescence? It is the current mailing address where telephone bills and bank statements arrive? Is "home" the place where all of my stuff is located? Is "home" tangible, or is it a state of mind?<br />
<br />
Thinking to my own mother, a Colombian who grew up in Cartagena, Colombia, "home" for her was Cartagena. Except she left "home" at the age of sixteen only to move to Venezuela, Puerto Rico and then the United States. Throughout her adult life, she had not gone "home" for over thirty-two years, and by the time she did, the Cartagena of her youth was replaced by a more modern Cartagena that felt at once familiar and foreign to her. Things were the same and at once...unspeakably different.<br />
<br />
I decided that I needed to pay a visit to Miami to see for myself.<br />
<br />
I got the window seat. As the 10-hour flight neared the end, gliding over the sparkling turquoise and teal waters of the Bahamian islands, the pilot announced that we would arrive in Miami International Airport in approximately twenty minutes. It was then that after a seven-month hiatus I caught my first aerial glimpse of the land where I was raised. Flat lands intermingled by a series of dark, murky canals and of complex gray highways snaking in every direction, its streams of rapid transit zooming in quick fashion, various tidy sections of housing developments and coral gabled houses with pristine swimming pools in the backyard and, way in the distance, the unconquered swamps and marshes of the Everglades. This was South Florida. This was my old home.<br />
<br />
So what is "home" to me? Home is familiar. Home is where I can relax and breathe a little more easily. That can be in the comfort of my bedroom in Miami or in Sablé-sur-Sarthe.<br />
<br />
Home can be the place where people still refer to me as "La<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Ni<span style="background-color: #ffffe5; line-height: 21.735000610351563px;">ña</span><span style="background-color: #ffffe5; line-height: 21.735000610351563px;">"</span><span style="background-color: #ffffe5; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.735000610351563px;"> (the girl) rather than Madame. Home can be the place where people refer to me as Madame rather than </span></span>"La<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Ni<span style="background-color: #ffffe5; line-height: 21.735000610351563px;">ña.</span><span style="background-color: #ffffe5; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.735000610351563px;">" </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: #ffffe5; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.735000610351563px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: #ffffe5; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.735000610351563px;">Home is where I can have palitroques, pastelitos de queso and croquetas de jam</span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">ón for breakfast. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmqje1W9LurJUPPcm-xKcHla-PG2fsNkl7R-TtcYFlwG_JJVuKhBTNcBeqSfHyoyztOhwJigwvriuOCLla_Kusv6wYnVQqeqWL1bw56dZRfwzrC8NIbZNfm6usg2EijsxXXqu5H7wpuAM/s1600/DSC01462.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmqje1W9LurJUPPcm-xKcHla-PG2fsNkl7R-TtcYFlwG_JJVuKhBTNcBeqSfHyoyztOhwJigwvriuOCLla_Kusv6wYnVQqeqWL1bw56dZRfwzrC8NIbZNfm6usg2EijsxXXqu5H7wpuAM/s1600/DSC01462.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Palitroque: crunchy Cuban breadsticks<br />
Pastelitos: Cuban pastries<br />
Croquetas: Croquettes<br />
<br />
(This is also as close as I am going to get to 'Instagramming' my food. Enjoy)</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It can be the place where I have a café au lait with tartines or un croissant au beurre if I so choose. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Home, for me, is <b>both</b> France and the United States. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">However, as my current physical location is in South Florida, I will elaborate on what "home" is like in the United States. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Home is multi-colored<a href="http://twobeansornottwobeans.blogspot.com/2012/04/something-that-makes-me-happyand.html"> Surinam cherries </a>dangling off branches like early Christmas ornaments.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Home is bright, cloudless skies during "dry" season*.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfUMzRy-CQTXGnRqgnndfwcrSVgGcRPabEvLUMF-NZNeHq1kHMIDypkVZwHXoLa9dAK49qIQhdSxS3dgWKEM2bmLixI6tmCmSh60LR99mclc5vr3wOrNi7hoBSAJEsk3Iq7qAeRQ7p1V8/s1600/DSC01415.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfUMzRy-CQTXGnRqgnndfwcrSVgGcRPabEvLUMF-NZNeHq1kHMIDypkVZwHXoLa9dAK49qIQhdSxS3dgWKEM2bmLixI6tmCmSh60LR99mclc5vr3wOrNi7hoBSAJEsk3Iq7qAeRQ7p1V8/s1600/DSC01415.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">*Should you choose to visit Florida during "wet" season (mid-April to mid-November), I highly advise that you bring an umbrella and a hair straightener.</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Home is the large bougainvillea with magenta petals in the backyard. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
Home is where I find spiders relaxing among their gossamer threads.<br />
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Home is the canal where I would spend many an afternoon in my youth throwing pebbles to observe the expanding ripple effect on the water, gingerly tiptoeing on its edge and risking falling in just to peer at its length in the distance, and waiting, waiting ever so patiently for that one second to spot a fish breaking the tranquil surface to emancipate itself towards the sky.<br />
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Home is seeing a mother Muskovy duck leading her cheeping brood of fluffy ducklings and they make me remember fondly the Muskovy duckling that my family raised when I was ten years old.<br />
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But then, I start to notice things that are indeed different about home:<br />
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The mango tree's growth is considerably stunted, much smaller than I had anticipated. (Mom had had its branches trimmed to strengthen its growth).<br />
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The remnants of former trees are depicted by lone stumps.<br />
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The hole which was used as a shelter by brooding Muskovy ducks as their nesting ground has since been covered in dirt.<br />
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I find the people loud, boisterous. They cut each others' sentences to state their point. The driving is erratic. Repetitive chain stores dot the landscape.<br />
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Then, I realized amid my nostalgia that I was no longer even "home": the mundane details which escaped my daily existence and which I would have otherwise not even appreciated have been captured in photographs, as if I were another tourist visiting Florida.<br />
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Then, as further proof that things are indeed different, I took a good look at myself. How was I dressed? I had opted to go outside sporting not flip-flops (or, as I was accustomed to occasionally, barefoot) but rain boots because I couldn't bear the thought of having my feet being tickled by the blades of grass and its cold, morning dew.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgORniiPCHCP5B7YTVmHFqqVF808PFp4kCbWFphZ6v37n4OVUvCO_PtNms2cJD8DToNOwDhsyt3Y0VTkeS76FgxQWtR-x2AEA60EmqEsLtQBvFi-SDhMcp6q-7Jwylc1gz__XHv2dwKeZA/s1600/DSC01416.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgORniiPCHCP5B7YTVmHFqqVF808PFp4kCbWFphZ6v37n4OVUvCO_PtNms2cJD8DToNOwDhsyt3Y0VTkeS76FgxQWtR-x2AEA60EmqEsLtQBvFi-SDhMcp6q-7Jwylc1gz__XHv2dwKeZA/s1600/DSC01416.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small; text-align: start;">Living in the muddy French countryside has instilled an aversion to having wet feet. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
My obtained paleness provided further evidence that something was off about myself in correlation to my surroundings. Even indoor-dwelling Floridians who make it a habit to remain living comfortably in the air conditioning have a darker complexion.<br />
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Bumbling about my first home, where I vaguely remember the locations of various items in the kitchen, makes me start to miss my second home (and the knowledge of having enough rosemary and black pepper).<br />
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But I know the drill now: by the time I do make it back to my second home and settle into my daily routines, I will start to miss the first one with nostalgic familiarity. As an expat, I am in a perpetual home limbo, which I have since resigned to accept.<br />
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I wouldn't have it any other way.<br />
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Barb the French BeanThe Beanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09294653760778922184noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3800436644379687416.post-56572349582848864202014-02-12T04:40:00.001-05:002014-02-13T12:06:20.639-05:00Reflections on My Second Year of Teaching in France: Life Really Floors You Sometimes<b><u>Warning:</u></b> This post is quite long and not particularly funny. There are, however, a few cartoons to break up the monotony of pure text, so it's kinda like reading a children's book. Wheeeee! Cartoons!<br />
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<br />
Being a fairly new teacher who dove head-first into the French pedagogic world in Sablé-sur-Sarthe, it is not uncommon for me to have my thoughts be plagued by the notion that I am the absolute worst person in my profession.<br />
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Nearly daily, I convince myself that I am incompetent, that I am incapable of planning a structured lesson and, most importantly, motivating the kids to appreciate the subjects for which I am entrusted to pass on knowledge. As the minutes drag, I see the boredom in my students' eyes, their disinterest an apparent mask of disdain relaying what they think about me and my material. They judge. Even worse, they mock my accent, not realizing how deflating it is to have people not recognize the difficulty of how it is to communicate in another language. Some days are so horrid that I question why the hell I even care to do this job in the first place when I would rather much spend my days accomplishing my personal goal of becoming a published author.<br />
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(Ironically, even that goal is shot, for, lo, I am certain to be the worst writer in the world and cripple my determination by never finishing what I have started.)<br />
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Yet there are good days, or moments: a lesson went smoothly, the students grasped the material easily, they received good marks on an exam. Occasionally, when the bell rings, I'll even have a student break from his concentration, look up from his desk in shock, gasp, then utter that one spontaneous question any teacher loves to hear, "Already?"<br />
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I can't help but savor that delicious moment. I'll lock eyes with the student, smile and affirm "Yes, already. See you next time."<br />
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That doesn't happen often and I wish it did. Still, I suppose that one can't be spoiled.<br />
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The job also comes with the paralyzing jolt of the existential crisis. On the bad days, I wonder just how my teaching legacy will be, if at all, remembered. Will it be positive? Negative? Will nobody even care?<br />
<br />
Will<i> I</i> even care, or shall I simply resolve to become a bitter, complacent, apathetic individual?<br />
<br />
<br />
This week, I had a glimpse of what could be. My answer came in the guise of a large packet.<br />
<br />
Before I explain the contents of said packet, I will first recount the story of some former students of mine from last year.<br />
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Two sisters, both in different years, left the school where I teach to study elsewhere. The first one, a former 3ème (around 15 years old) graduated from collège (middle school) to pursue a vocational training to become a beautician. The other sister, a bright and passionate animal-loving 16-year old 2nde (high school) is currently studying dog breeding and grooming. I taught the former English, the latter, Spanish.<br />
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Ever since they left the school, I have on occasion have had the good fortune to have our paths cross, usually when I go grocery shopping. I'm always glad to see them for they are kind people. Their mother is always with them. It is evident from our happenstance meetings that she is the person who passed on the garrulous but kindhearted traits to her own daughters. Our encounters are always memorable.<br />
<br />
Prior to my going home for the summer holidays last year, my students <i>begged</i> me to send them a postcard from Miami. The United States is an impossible thing for them, a place that is so very out of reach. For my former English student, her dream is to one day be a make-up artist for female professional wrestlers. I raised my eyebrows at that dream because, prior to her uttering it, I had heard none quite like it before.<br />
<br />
"But it'll never happen," she sighed.<br />
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"Don't say that," I retorted. "I <a href="http://twobeansornottwobeans.blogspot.fr/2014/01/times-when-never-say-never-backfired-in.html">never</a> thought that I would get the chance to live in France, and look where I am, standing here, talking to you. If you work hard at what you want, then perhaps you'll surprise yourself in the future."<br />
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"But Madame, you<i> will </i>send us a postcard, won't you?" implored my Spanish student.<br />
<br />
"Since you asked, my dear, of course I shall. I promise to do so. Please write down your address for me."<br />
<br />
I went home. While my mother and I took our yearly outing to my favorite spot in Miami-Dade county, <a href="http://www.floridastateparks.org/history/parkhistory.cfm?parkid=145">Bill Baggs Cape Florida</a>, I struck gold at the gift shop and found a postcard to send to my students. I wrote them a message, placed a stamp in the corner and mailed it. I also sent them one from Savannah, Georgia. I soon followed the postcards back to France in preparation for the days when my life would be marked by punctual, hourly bells.<br />
<br />
When the family and I had our next random encounter at the supermarket, the girls thanked me over and over about the cards. "They're so pretty! It makes me want to go see America!"<br />
<br />
"We've placed them in frames," their mother informed me.<br />
<br />
"Really?"<br />
<br />
"Yes. They make wonderful decorations and brighten our walls."<br />
<br />
Then, in an interesting turn of events, my Spanish student inquired if I had received their card in turn, the one that had been mailed to Miami. I informed them that I hadn't and that it probably arrived just after I had left. The girls looked slightly disappointed. But then:<br />
<br />
"No matter! I'll send you a postcard from where I'm studying in Brittany!"<br />
<br />
"Brittany? Ooh, I'd like that. I've never gotten a postcard from Brittany before, nor have I been there, which is silly when you consider how close the Loire Valley is to Brittany."<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhaMIDP3nWq4O37DzyUEJ7TSG17nS7VrWim5Y0JwtVP_nqtO-tHQic_WOSO3lFBBnv6tEuEEyiynFTWgyCtz6nPQDeYrxUVss-qMJMXuSgcu9XZzKLoKnOD8_8gEKbKSKiqUHI9xzFtoo/s1600/Happy+France+Sabl%C3%A9+sur+Sarthe+Brittany+map.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhaMIDP3nWq4O37DzyUEJ7TSG17nS7VrWim5Y0JwtVP_nqtO-tHQic_WOSO3lFBBnv6tEuEEyiynFTWgyCtz6nPQDeYrxUVss-qMJMXuSgcu9XZzKLoKnOD8_8gEKbKSKiqUHI9xzFtoo/s1600/Happy+France+Sabl%C3%A9+sur+Sarthe+Brittany+map.jpg" height="400" width="333" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seriously, it's, like RIGHT THERE.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
Sure enough, a few weeks later, I received my postcard from La Bretagne. It made me want to go visit there. Instead, I went to Ireland and sent my students postcards from Dublin, Kylemore Abbey, Galway and Giant's Causeway.<br />
<br />
They later exchanged a thank you letter as a sign of their gratitude.<br />
<br />
In December, I had a bit of a predicament. I needed empty cartons for a project that I wanted to realize with my collège students. It proved to be a bit of a hassle because wherever I went to find boxes, I was told by store employees that none were available. Moreover, if I had managed to find boxes, I would have had no means of being able to transport them because I don't own a car.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSmivJkM2hjgjOiSchCzhkjmt33NkcNw5ju056gGuL_ixCXsTIwjpSCb6THFJxiigXpbf5LuWP5kZeCZU8ogYHyovf3FRMvrhtsAEDL1CsHZzlEDWQj4q80dnoAInhGjRD2IEhN5yy8CA/s1600/Box+Tetris.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSmivJkM2hjgjOiSchCzhkjmt33NkcNw5ju056gGuL_ixCXsTIwjpSCb6THFJxiigXpbf5LuWP5kZeCZU8ogYHyovf3FRMvrhtsAEDL1CsHZzlEDWQj4q80dnoAInhGjRD2IEhN5yy8CA/s1600/Box+Tetris.jpg" height="400" width="370" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">But I've got playing Box Tetris down to an art.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
By great coincidence, just when I thought that I would not be able to carry out my project, I heard a voice call out my name.<br />
<br />
My<i> last</i> name, preceded by a "Madame." From this formality, I knew instantly that a student of mine had seen me. And as luck would have, it was my English student with her mother. They asked what I was doing. I explained.<br />
<br />
They knew exactly where I needed to go to find boxes and they offered to drive me to the place.<br />
<br />
"Are you sure? I mean, it wouldn't be any trouble for you to--"<br />
<br />
"Oh, of course not! If anything, we'd be more than happy to help you!" And help me they did: in choosing the cartons, in carrying the cartons, even in unloading the cartons into my apartment. I apologized for the untidy state of my room.<br />
<br />
"Don't worry about it, it's not a problem," they said generously.<br />
<br />
"Oh, yes it is, because whenever my room is spic and span, <b>no one</b> comes to visit me. But the second it looks like a hurricane swept through, people come to visit and I give them the impression that I live in a constant mess!"<br />
<br />
My student then noticed the flag hanging on my wall.<br />
<br />
"Oh, it's the American flag! Is it a real one?" By "real one," she meant if it was a sturdy, genuine article made in the United States.<br />
<br />
"Yes, it is. You can even see the stitching and each embroidered star."<br />
<br />
"It's so cool and so pretty."<br />
<br />
"I've always wanted a real American flag," her mother then said.<br />
<br />
As luck would have it, I happened to have in my possession a spare American flag. An authentic one with careful stitching and embroidered stars. I had brought that flag from the United States as a request from someone who I would unfortunately never see again. It had since become a nomad in my room.<br />
<br />
I reached into the bookcase where it had taken residence and presented it to the family.<br />
<br />
"Here. I'm giving it to you."<br />
<br />
"No, no, we can't accept it."<br />
<br />
"Please do. I am very grateful for what you have done for me. I would want nothing more than for you to have it."<br />
<br />
"Are you sure?"<br />
<br />
"Yes!" I insisted. "Didn't you say you wanted a real American flag? Have it!"<br />
<br />
<br />
They thanked me for the gift. The mother mentioned that, if I agreed, she would speak with her former Spanish teacher to see if he could give me tips on the profession. I said that I wouldn't mind if she did.<br />
<br />
The end of December approached. I flew off to the Netherlands to celebrate the New Year. The very first postcard that I sent on January 1st 2014 from Amsterdam was to my students. I came home to find a Christmas card sitting in my mailbox from them. I thanked them for their card and they thanked me for mine.<br />
<br />
<br />
It seemed to me that my little game of postcard badminton had reached a draw. I already began to think about from where I would send them my next postcard. Possibly from Key West in March or maybe the Netherlands again in April.<br />
<br />
Teaching resumed. Weeks passed. Lessons were taught. Students misbehaved. I lost my patience with them. Lessons were planned. Hours were slept with unease. Planned lessons failed. Students became bored. And I became dejected with each day. I questioned for the umpteenth time why, at the risk of losing my sanity, did I still do this job.<br />
<br />
<br />
Then the packet came. The packet from my corresponding family.<br />
<br />
I admit to being a bit perplexed from the size and weight. I felt inside the tawny envelope and determined that it contained something rectangular with several pages. My deduction was that a book was hidden inside! My heart leapt. I do so love books.<br />
<br />
I carefully opened one side of the envelope and peaked at its contents.<br />
<br />
There was no pristine book. Yet there were indeed pages.<br />
<br />
In fact, there was something that resembled a book. One that had been in poor state with yellowed, stained pages. I removed the book-like item and glanced at the faded pastel green cover. The tattered cover was missing a corner and seemed to be on the cusp of losing yet another. On the other side, it had a black and white picture of two smiling Guatemalan boys dressed in haphazard fashion.<br />
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<br />
Since the picture had lost its glue foundation, I could read the French text on the back to determine that it had been taken from a newspaper. Even after so much time, the clipping clung onto the delicate cover. I opened the book-like item, realizing the cover had since become detached, and looked through the pages. Pools of a burnt ochre marked where the staples had been.<br />
<br />
I recognized the French format for notebook paper. I glanced through the pages and was struck by a careful, somewhat familiar handwriting that had etched so many years ago lessons regarding poems, vocabulary and verb tenses. In Spanish.<br />
<br />
I set the frayed notebook gingerly on the table and then turned my attention to the card that was also included in the envelope. Tucked inside it were a more recent newspaper clipping, another letter and the family's words. My former students said hello and expressed a hope that I am doing well and that they would see me again. They were so happy to have received my card.<br />
<br />
The mother, on the other hand, explained what exactly was in my packet.<br />
<br />
"Madame,<br />
<br />
I have indeed received your beautiful card from the Netherlands, for which I thank you.<br />
<br />
In exchange, I <u>am giving</u> you my Spanish notebook from my 2nde class. You will also find the letter that my former Spanish professor sent to me. Sorry!<br />
<br />
I hope to see you again very soon."<br />
<br />
"Sorry?" I thought. What was she apologizing about?<br />
<br />
I read through her former professor's letter. In it, he eloquently joked about how kind it was for a student to remember an old "dinosaur" teacher. He mentioned that the frequent interactions of friendship he's had with former students was comforting and that one of his granddaughters also became a Spanish teacher in Paris. She loves this beautiful profession, which gives him great pleasure to know, yet she often realizes that it's sometimes difficult to do...sometimes with secret tears.<br />
<br />
He remarked that times have indeed changed because his students gave him only nothing but happiness, every confusing generation. Yet those generations were educated by society, and especially by their parents. This is no longer the case.<br />
<br />
Then, to my surprise, my name came up in his letter. He mentioned that while he doesn't doubt that I am a nice person, he cannot "honor" her request to contact me because it has come at a bad time. He is selling the house, he won't live in Sablé, this failing city. He also has family to look after.<br />
<br />
I can't blame him for denying the request, for such is a life, I suppose. The older you become, the less time you'll have to dedicate it to anyone outside of family, and you'll wish to cherish every fleeting second granted to you in this ephemeral life.<br />
<br />
Then, as a final shock, I read the newspaper clipping. It was dated from December 2010 and it featured a colored article interviewing the former Spanish teacher. He had just published his second novel and despite having had a life-long passion for writing, he had only published his first book at the age of seventy.<br />
<br />
Seventy!<br />
<br />
I sat there, a twenty-six year old, thinking that my life will never amount to anything, and was confronted by a hidden lesson that floored me. Here was history repeating itself. The mother exchanged letters with her teacher. I had unknowingly continued the tradition with her own daughters. And as a sign of appreciation, she bequeathed me a treasured notebook which, according to her, was a memento from her best year.<br />
<br />
I wondered if I had been a part of her daughters' best year as well.<br />
<br />
My limbs went numb and my mouth lost all sensation of being in a perpetual humid state. I wanted to cry.<br />
<br />
Instead, I tucked the treasured gifts back into the packet, placed it in my pigeon hole, then, with secret tears, went to teach my 4ème students with a more emboldened outlook.<br />
<br />
<br />
Barb the French BeanThe Beanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09294653760778922184noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3800436644379687416.post-2060781206539532072014-02-07T19:56:00.000-05:002014-02-11T16:00:05.596-05:00Things I've Learned While Abroad: T.V. WatchingIn the past four years living my French life, I discovered over time one rather life-changing epiphany: I don't need a television to be happy.<br />
<br />
Yes, from <strike>being absolutely broke</strike> <strike>living on my own with no space</strike> <strike>having access to the Internet/buying DVDs to get my T.V. watching fixes</strike> changing one country for another, I have since learned that I can dedicate my valuable free time for other lofty activities such as cooking, exercising and browsing the Internet for hours on end.<br />
<br />
Still, on the rare occasion in which I do have access to a television set, be it from visiting friends or staying at a hotel room, I've noticed that, for some reason, American T.V. shows are very popular in France provided they are dubbed, and it seems that the homegrown French programming is limited to French "Dancing with the Stars," French "Master Chef," French "The Voice," and French "Un Dîner Presque Parfait."<br />
<br />
Oh, wait. That last one is probably 100% French.<br />
<br />
From what I have noticed, it seems that as far as French programming goes, the most popular or memorable "shows" appear in the evenings as short sketch comedies that are meant to take up space before the major dubbed American ones and the eight o'clock weather forecast are aired. Sketch shows such as the famous <i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jOdyF47YnLc">Un Gars, Une Fille</a></i>, <i>Very Bad Blagues</i>,<br />
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<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/cqqwuX0YECI" width="480"></iframe>
<br />
<br />
and <i>Scènes de Ménages</i> (which I discovered is also available in a Dutch version called "Ik ook van jou") are often the highlight of French T.V. watching.<br />
<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/Xx2RE9EMmpY" width="480"></iframe>
There is also a brief, nightly political "news" show featuring rubber puppets mocking French politicians and world leaders (Guignols de l'info). I do believe this is similar to the British "Spitting Image."<br />
<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/NxlcsKmYhZM" width="480"></iframe>
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<br />
<br />
The French also have their histrionic soap operas (<i>Plus belle la vie</i>, which I once mistakenly referred to as <a href="http://twobeansornottwobeans.blogspot.fr/2010/06/life-of-garbage.html">"Poubelle la vie" in front of my students</a>) and mind-numbing crap reality T.V. shows (infamously, Jersey Shore-esque <i>Les Ch'tis à Wherever the Fuck in the World </i> or the even more cringe-worthy <i>Les Marseillais à Miami)</i>, but I fortunately never developed a taste for watching them. After a ten-minute bout of French reality T.V., I find myself with the need to purge the stupidities that I had placed before my eyes and gravitate to the more cultural and informative Arte channel. It's like PBS, and PBS is usually a winner.<br />
<br />
I've also come to realize that now that my T.V.-less life provides me with a limited access to commercials, I am more tranquil and less self-conscious about my flaws regarding the forced need to purchase make-up, clothes, perfume, shoes, cars, and erectile dysfunction pills.<br />
<br />
But I do have to say this: I like the French way of showing commercials as opposed to the American style. In France, you will more than likely watch an entire episode of <i>NCIS</i> <b>without</b> once seeing a commercial break. And when you <i>do</i> have commercials, they are all clumped together to be shown in one lengthy slot of time. I have to appreciate the lack of interruptions and the consideration shown from giving me a cue as to when I can take a comfortable bathroom break without needing to rush back to the couch within two minutes.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, I've discovered that without the commercials coming in seven-minute installments, American T.V. shows are actually quite short, particularly if it is an episode that is supposed to last at least half an hour. Really, a traditional 30-minute show just manages to graze the 20-minute mark, allowing for the remaining 10 minutes to be dedicated to advertisements.<br />
<br />
Every time I go home for a few weeks to visit my mother, I realize how bothersome it is to enjoy <b>anything </b>with an important plot and subsequent climax while it is constantly cut by repetitive suggestions bombarding me to part ways with my hard-earned cash.<br />
<br />
Allow me to demonstrate what it is like to watch a T.V. show in the United States, complete with commercial breaks.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
I never did find out who Shaneequa's Raxacoricofallapatorian baby daddy was.<br />
<br />
While I don't advocate living a T.V.-less existence for everybody, I can say that living without this one distraction has cleared up my general time and mental well-being.<br />
<br />
Still, I do like me some <i>Doctor Who</i> and am <b>still</b> waiting for France 4 to air the last Christmas special... *bawls*<br />
<br />
Barb the French Bean The Beanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09294653760778922184noreply@blogger.com5