Amsterdam

A day trip to Amsterdam. Haha, why not? Sometimes I forget that one of the most infamous cities in all of Europe is just a three-hour ride away. Throughout the two and a half months I have been in the Netherlands, the closest I had gotten to Amsterdam has been its airport on the very first day. Finally, with Josh and Jessica, I would explore Holland's most diverse metropolis and try not to get too lost...or high. Both actually.

It's difficult to define what exactly Amerstadam is made of. Although the city is most widely known for its relaxed views on marijuana and prostitiution, there is so much more here for the taking. A certain vibe is immediately noticable once one walks along side the numerous murky canals here. It's a cool vibe, maybe like Portland, with an artsy, hip spirit rooted in hundreds of years of history as a port of every international commodity.

The day also contributed quite nicely to Amsterdam's chic personality. A perfect crisp October day, the air cool enough to sting the ears, but sunny enough to bring people outside so as not to waste one single ray. Which marks one major difference that I have noticed between America and Europe. It seems that generally people here spend more time in the outdoors, despite their cramped existence. Coffee--outside. Lunch--outside. A couple of glasses of beer or wine--taken outside. If there is a nice day, no matter the temperature, Europeans want to make use of it, enjoy it. Live their life, not have life live them. It's one of the most basic, if subtle differences that can be seen when you cross the pond.

We walked for a ways through the shopping districts and came to a square or open space (called the Dam) that Josh recognized from "The Bourne Identity." The square had some sort of twisted carnival, teeming with rides and vendors. Spinning rides, twirly rides, merry-go rounds, and that jackhammer ride that you see at a county fair. Except this one stood three times as tall as any I've seen before. We stopped at a grilling vendor, which was smoking every kind of meat imaginable over two huge barrels of fire. Next to it sat a seller of roasted nuts, each pile completely unreadable in Dutch. I got a bratwurst and watched the people rise high above the 5-story buildings surrounding us, pause delicately for a millisecond at the very top, and then plummet towards the street before swinging them back up again. Like a baton spinning between a twirler's fingers.

Naturally we next found a coffeeshop, this one surprisingly not geared towards tourists as many of them do. It was clean, laid-back, and nobody inside looked like they would pull a knife for all your euros. We had coffee, smoked, and planned our next move on our map. I know it's so strange to order weed like it's just something on a menu, but that's exactly how it works. You choose the "flavor," the method, and a drink to go with it. It's funny, but there are several Americans in our group back at school that have never smoked before and, even though it is legal throughout the entirety of Holland, don't want to see what all the fuss is about. I guess I just don't understand that mindset.

Feeling good, we ventured out into the sunny day, to see what there was to see. Amsterdam is a tricky town, primarily because of the way it is laid out, but also due to the five main canals that swoop down from Central Station and then, still evenly spaced out, all suddenly curve at a ninety-degree angle. Getting lost is something that can happen within a minute.

European streets are so different from American streets. There's no 67th and 42nd St. Each street has its own flair and personality, winding in any and all directions. Which makes navigating your way sometimes awkward and other times frustrating. And it doesn't help that every pathway's name is in a completely foreign language and usually quite a mouthful to say.

We rambled through different neighborhoods, stopping outside big churches and staring at the 17th century gabled houses gracefully assembled along the water. After a round of decision-making, we took a look at the Van Gogh Museum, filled to the brim with the paintings of the suicidal artist. He only painted for the last 10 years of his life, but still managed to churn out over 800 paintings and 1200 drawings. It was interesting to see how he improved at his craft as time went by. I had always thought of art as something you were born with, not something you can simply get better at. Practice makes perfect in all forms of life apparently.

More walking and more smoking ensued. As you would expect, both of these activities made us yearn for a great big plate of delicious food. The problem: none of us can make a fucking decision. Another problem: Amsterdam has approximately 1.6 billion restaurants of all varities. Solution: walk some more and hope to find something that we are all craving. Our heavenly answer came from a small pancake house that blew Waffle House out of the water. I ordered a huge "waffel", covered in banana, chocolate sauce, and whipped cream. All of us nearly passed out afterwards from the intense sugar rush. Easily the highlight of the day.

By this time it was dark and we mapped out our way towards the station. After an extra session in a nearby park we got back on the train for a relaxed trip home. Just another day en de Nederland.

Squatting

It has come to my attention recently that just around the corner from where I live, a group full of squatters has settled down. What is a squatter? you might ask. Well the answer is simple. A squatter is somebody who lives in old or broken-down buildings that no longer are used. I live in what from the outside looks like a long row of houses. Inside, we each have our own bedroom and share everything else. Around the corner is a similar row of houses, except these are all boarded up, painted with grafitti, and otherwise pretty unattractive. A group of guys, including a couple of students that go to my school, now live there. This is possible because of a Dutch rule that I was informed about last week. If a building is unused for a year, anybody can break in, change the locks or doors, then call the police (yes, you're actually supposed to call the police!) and you can legally live there. Crazy, eh? Now the owners of the building are obviously allowed to kick their newfound tenants out, but if they do so, they must utilize the building within 3 months or something like that. Apparently the owners of these houses must either not give a shit, or not have enough money to make the move worthwhile. In the meantime, these guys are living there free of charge. I'm pretty positive that they have running water and electricity, but even if not, does it really matter? They have found a way to live without signing a contract or approving some agreement. Legally. Shit, I could think of a hundred places to live if it was like this back home.

One last thought on the election

I know that everyone has had it up to their balls in politics lately and get physically sick at the mention of the word, but I feel the need to quickly put in my two cents worth.

Obviously this has been a historic election. Everyone on tv has told us this over and over. But outside of that, it has been for me, an election pulled straight out of a made-for-tv movie. The twists and turns have been ridiculous, like McCain boldly picking Palin and initially succeeding until she opened up her dumass mouth and Tina Fey got a hold of her. Add the fact that the financial crisis rocked the very foundation we were used to, and the race became almost overwhelming. It was hard to fathom the seriousness of it all. Each day the stakes grew higher, and the speculation grew more intense.

So I was partially regretting that I could not be back in the U.S. to see it all go down. Everyone in Europe, and the whole world for that matter, has been closely watching this thing. And everyone, and I do mean everyone, wanted, no needed Obama. In a recent poll, 85% of Dutch citizens said they would have voted for Obama. Everywhere I go, people want to talk about America with me, which I am more than happy to do. Most people genuinely love Americans, but fucking hate America. They can't understand how the most powerful country in the world could be filled with so much hypocrisy, and how its people could elect the monster that is George Bush....twice.

On election night, I went to a school-sponsored party. CNN was projected on the wall, the stage had bands playing through the night, and the bar was packed. Needless to say, I starting drinking heavily. Either way the race went, I needed to be drunk for this epic occasion. I was really nervous though, and I stayed there until 3 in the morning, waiting for a definitive answer. At 7 I awoke for a breakfast the school was putting on, and discovered the answer: Obama was our president. I was at a loss for words. The impossible had come true.

Watching his acceptance speech, I was struck with the feeling of pride. Never before have I been prouder to call myself an American. Never before have I felt this way about a leader. Never before have I felt that it is an amazing thing to be at this age, with this charismatic man as the leader of the free world. He is our generation's Kennedy, someone young, full of optimism, and ready to right all the wrongs that we have suffered in the last eight years. It was like Brandon said: a brilliant and amazing sunrise, showing us that everything can and will be alright. Shit, he has got a monumental mess in front of him. But I can't think of anybody that I would have more confidence in.

Sunday--Ferrari

Your kidding me, right? I said. "You only wrote down the directions there. Where's the directions back?! Brad gave me a sheepish grin. We're just going have to do everything in reverse order, that's all. Fucking great, I thought. We'll be lucky as shit to get out of this alive. I hadn't done any research before this whole trip had started. I didn't look at a map, didn't look up anything about Munich, nothing. The reason for this lack of preparation had been simple: Brad had already been to Oktoberfest two weeks previously. He knows his way around, I had thought. A weekend free from worry and solely dedicated to consuming beer. The plan was to leave Saturday night and have a day of recovery back at Brad's place. But when I had arrived in Maastricht to meet him, he unveiled a major overhaul to the entire journey. Somewhere in the nearby region of Germany, I was told, there is an extremely famous race track. Nurburger or something like that. And by sheer coincidence Sunday was the day they would host their annual Ferrari Day, when every Ferrari in existence congregated to show off how cool they were. But we don't have to go, Brad added. It's totally up to you. I was fully aware that one of Brad's greatest loves was cars. Anytime we've been anywhere so far, he points out every damn car that he likes. OOOHH look at that Porshe X739er over there! See how its body kit swoops up and out like that?! Telling him No to this convention would be like telling a four-year-old that Santa's not coming this year. I sighed and agreed to it, provided that he take care of all the necessary arrangements.

On the night train back from Munich, two Americans in their thirties shared our compartment. They were from LA, involved with the record business. Our conversation floated from celebrities to pit bulls, weather to medical marijuana. They offered us hash and described their European adventures. My body ached after only a day of travel, and I tried to imagine life on the road for a solid month. Instead, I curled up in a ball and dropped into a coma, and was only awoken by one of the Californians loudly whispering, Hey guys! this is your stop!

We stumbled off the train and took stock of our surroundings. Back in Koln at five in the morning, with about four hours to kill before the next one. Both of us were running on exhaust fumes still and starting to lose our battles with vicious head colds. We gave into the sweet calls of a nearby McDonald's breakfast and rejuventated ourselves. A few trains and one bus later, we stood outside the entrance of the track, already blasting with the rumblings of mean-sounding cars.But nothing could dampen young Bradley's spirits. He was the most excited I have ever seen, despite the constant drizzle and bonechilling winds. We came around a bend and there before us, stretching down hundreds of yards, were red Ferraris of every possible kind perfectly lined up at angles. Brad nearly had a meltdown. He half walked, half sprinted from car to car, taking pictures from seemingly every possible angle. The cars were all sorted according to their model, and we must have surveyed every kind. Brad darted into one of the big tents along the side of the parking lot and disappeared into the crowd. Inside were older, even more valuable, Ferraris as well as an F1 racing car. The racer had about fifty people around it, and when the crew started it, everyone immediately protected their ears. The sound of something close to a jet engine roaring next to you is not something you fuck around with.Keeping up with Brad was actually something of a challenge. I'm sure his shutter finger must have been sore the next day because I never saw him without his camera, cocked and loaded. And the rows of cars never ended. There were more red Ferraris just around a corner. In another parking lot were over a hundred more, these ones of all the other colors besides red. I wanted to go sit down and watch some of the races. But Brad had found what he had been looking for. Even I was blown away by the six Ferrari Enzos (each costs over a million according to Brad) parked just outside an exclusive lunch club, apparently only for Enzo owners. Each one was perfectly covered in mist, as if someone had brought them out of the refrigerator and let them condensate for a while. We spent a large amount of time there, along with other car fanatics who practically knelt in front of the holy shrine of these six automobiles.After touring almost all of pit road and the cars inside, as well as watching cars fly by on the wet track for nearly two hours, I was about at the end of my patience. Sure we had seen Michael Schumacher, the most famous F1 driver of all time, and had witnessed a huge collection of ridiculously expensive cars, but I was beyond cold, hungry, thirsty, and ready for a place to lay down. Brad's enthusiasm was still very high, however. I needed some leverage with him. At Oktoberfest he had stolen a huge one-liter glass mug and since I had the only backpack (he had been wearing the same clothes for two days now) I was the lucky guy who got to carry around that bulky goddamn thing around. So I threatened to break that glass right here, right now if we didn't head home NOW. Ok, ok, he said. Let's go.Once we left the stadium, I suddenly recalled our previous conversation. This entire thing was up to Brad--I had absolutely no responsiblity of getting us home and at that moment that thought terrified me. We starting walking aimlessly into the small town that hosts this ginormous thing (the track can be made to be about 24 miles long!). According to Brad, all we had to do is find the bus that would take us back to a train station and civilization. We came upon what looked to be a bus stop. Neither of us could make any sense of the German timetable, though, so we waited. And waited. It was getting colder as evening grew closer. Jesus fuck! It is such a hopeless feeling waiting for a bus that might not even come. My stomach gurgled, praying for a meal soon. After forty minutes of waiting, a woman came walking down the street. When Brad asked her, she told us that the buses stopped running on Sunday afternoons. FUCK! We're stuck in the middle of fucking Germany on a miserably cold and rainy day and I left everything up to Brad. What was I thinking...The situation was getting nastier by the second. Macias called a cab and 40 euro later we were there. Of course the delay had caused us to miss our train, which of course then caused us to miss every train after that. Delays and waiting plagued us the whole way back, and we finally dragged our way into Maastricht around 11:30. Brad's place is a forty-five minute walk away, and the thought of going one more step was intolerable. Brad directed us onto a nearby bus. Finally, I thought. I can pass out and never wake up again. But, unknown to me, we were riding on the wrong bus. This was the closest I have ever come to straight murder. The mistake was eventually corrected and I slept the night on Brad's loveseat, which is the size of a postage stamp. Three hours the next day back to Middelburg and I resolved never to travel again. Until I looked at the calendar and realized that in three days I was leaving on my fall break trip with Brad to Spain. Oh dear Lord...

Saturday--Oktoberfest

It began with me taking a 3 hour train ride down to Maastricht, where Brad lives. Stupidly, I had gone out the night before, and got only five or so hours of sleep. After a lazy afternoon visiting his dorm and some of the city, we headed to the train station to catch our train to Koln, Germany. In our one bag (my backpack) we had a bag of oranges, 6 bananas, 6 energy drinks and a bottle of wine along with our leftover kebabs from dinner. We arrived in Koln around nine, and our night train to Munich didn’t arrive until eleven. I suggested we go outside and stroll around. As soon as we walked out the door, we were literally stunned to see a massive Cathedral staring us in the face, no more than a hundred yards away. Easily, one of the biggest churches I have ever seen, it towered above us, its intricate carvings and decorations disappearing into the dark, cloudy sky. To help us ease our way into sleep later on the hard train seats, we popped open the wine as Brad explained all the wine-tasting techniques he had accumulated in just a few short weeks in Europe. Finally our train arrived, and we settled in for a long ride into the heart of Bavaria and Germany. A few winks later, we rolled into Munich, approximately seven local time. Way too early for anything, especially a day of drinking, I thought. A ominous sheet of clouds covered us from above and I found it hard not to yawn as we trekked to the fairgrounds where the Oktoberfest Festival is held. Brad had met an Aussie on the train, and he joined us on our walk. His name was John, and he was a short but stocky ginger a few years older than us, who like so many, was tramping his way across Europe without a place to stay for the night or a care in the world. His accent was so thick that when he mumbled, it took a second or two for me to translate it. He worked on the oil rigs off Britain generally, using his time off to travel. But that didn’t stop him from settling down whenever and wherever he felt a calling, whether it be at a bar or because of some girl he had met.
We entered the grounds and a whole carnival awaited. Nothing was running yet, but that didn’t mean that there weren’t people already preparing for the day. We walked down the row of tents (which are actually huge “warehouse-size” buildings filled with tables) and found one of the most popular. About three hundred people were crowded outside the tent’s doors. Like a rock concert, more people smashed us into the mob from behind, until one could barely move a arm. Of course there was still an hour until the day officially began and so we waited, knowing we would be rewarded with a spot in one of the most coveted places at Oktoberfest. A steady drizzle dampened my spirits, but it was hard not to be excited. About nine, a group of people directly in front of us broke apart from the main crowd and began dashing around the building. Brad and I looked at each other and without a word sprinted right behind them. Navigating our way through obstacles and puddles, we circled around and found people jamming their way into the side door. We followed and came into the space inside, about the length and width of a football field. Everything was lit up and neatly decorated, with picnic-style tables crammed against each other in every spare space possible. There was a moment of pure madness where we desperately looked for some free seats. Everyone was practically clawing at each other to find one for themselves and their buddies. Luckily we shimmied our way into an ideal table, right next to a group of high school-looking kids. John had gotten lost in the commotion, and I jumped up onto the table to search for him. Amazingly I spotted him on the complete opposite side, and Brad and I screamed and waved our arms at him. Almost as soon as he sat down, a woman plopped down full liter beers for the whole table. It was so fucking early, but the beer tasted amazing: huge foamy head, no real carbonation, and full in taste. I said a secret prayer to God to help me live through the day, and the drinking commenced.
Once the second liter of beer had arrived, we were all starting to shake off the early morning cobwebs. The guys next to us were all 18-year-old Germans from Munich (how sweet would that be!), just about to graduate. They, like every other European, had a great laugh about the American drinking age, but I teased them right back, telling them I had been driving for almost six years. Every one of them was hilarious and they enjoyed asking questions about America just as much as I enjoyed asking them about their lives. On our other side, a group in their thirties asked if they could sit down, and so we all squeezed in, socializing and toasting anytime anything good or funny whatsoever was said. Every few minutes a chant or song would start in one corner of the tent, and pretty soon the whole place was screaming it, banging on the tables or standing up on their seats. Then everyone would yell “HEEEYY” and cheers everyone within arm’s length.
Eventually we decided to move on, especially because John had disappeared on a beer run. We came to another tent, but the line was already so long that it was virtually impossible to get in. So we sat down at one of the outside tables. We were meeting people from everywhere, and the conversation was getting increasingly drunk and belligerent. An Italian girl and her friends sat next to us and no doubt fueled by alcohol we began a long series of flirting and kindergarten fighting. She was very aggressive and really wouldn’t stop putting her hands on me. We laughed, messed around and playfully kissed each other on the cheek several times. Another half beer later we kissed for real, and Brad, ever the opportunist, snapped a picture. To this day, I have no idea where she vanished to, but hopefully I’ll remember her if I see her again.
There were quite a few Americans there, mostly in the military. I don’t think we realized that we were actually at Oktoberfest, something that all of us used to day dream about. One mousy guy was really excited, and for good reason. He had met a girl and taken her to the parking lot, where he put his “lucky rubber” to good use, haha. Others weren’t getting so lucky, and security had to carry out a few people on stretchers. This didn’t stop everyone else from having a good time. I was an idiot and in my drunken stupor completely forgot to take pictures like I should have.
Around this time (I don’t remember when or how) Brad and I got separated. What I do know, however, is that the next thing I recall is waking up underneath a tree in the early evening. Thank God nobody messed with me. Finding Brad was a complete lost cause, so I headed inside a nearby tent. I really was not feeling my best, and sat down on the ground near the entrance. I must’ve fallen asleep again because I was rudely awoken by two policeman “escorting” me out of the building. I quickly mumbled something about meeting my friend in a couple of minutes and they let me go. I power walked it away from them and found a new place to chill. It was almost time to head back for the train station so I coasted until then in order to find my train in a coherent manner. Everything went well, and I found a worried Brad there, glad to see that I was alive. He bought me a cup of coffee and we boarded our night train back to Koln. But our little weekend adventure was not quite over just yet…

Today has been one of the best. Each new day is something different and cool, provided that I make it so. In other words, new experiences don't just come my way; one has to go after them. Today I took mushrooms for the first time in my life. By eating chips and salsa with mushroom on top (thanks Josh!) they went down pretty smooth. I didn't feel anything at first and after chilling for about an hour, decided to go for a walk. It is an absolutely gorgeous day out and has been for three days now, a rarity here. I strolled along the canal and came to a point where I had to decide whether to take the normal way home, or the route that I kinda knew the way, but wasn't too sure. Naturally I went with the road less traveled, and soon enough a gravel walkway alongside the beautiful canal curved in front of me, following the bends of the water underneath massive and ancient trees that dug their roots into the banks. Still feeling nothing, I sat down on a bench way up at the top of the bank and put on The Shins, which is a great feel-good band. From my seat, I had a great view of the opposite side of the canal, and I could watch everyone skipping along with their merry lives. A slight body high started to creep up on me, but at more than a hour I was partially frustrated that nothing more had happened yet. But the amazing weather and The Shins wouldn't let me not enjoy the day so I walked a bit more and sit down an even more picturesque bench. The same body high was still with me, but I could find myself into the music more and more. A couple of times I had to stop myself from outwardly moving to it, but the music was within me, trying to get out. I walked a bit more, all the while finding new views of this great town while the sun sweetly shone through the leaves, making patterns across the path. About half way home I realized that I was feeling it good (it just crept up on me) but that it wasn't anything heavy or trippy. I just felt incredibly happy, almost giddy. All I could think about was that I was in love with life...simple. I thanked God and whatever was around me that I was in existence, that I was able to see this day, and furthermore that I was enjoying this specific time in this specific place. It didn't matter me that I was just one zillionith of whatever this planet is made up of: I'm just happy to be a part of it.

So fast-forward to me typing this all. My mood is almost totally dependent on the tone of the music. As soon as it stops, I stop...but if it gets up and goes, I get up and go for it. I'm convinced that if someone watched me through the window they would think I'm an absolute nut, bobbing my head in all directions and grinning like an idiot. My face hurts from smiling so much, and I know people in the street must think I'm either insane or just a retard (prolly both!) for passing them with such a crazy smile. I'm going for another walk, maybe to show you what I saw earlier.

Shit though, in just an hour the sky has gotten all cloudy. Welcome to Holland. Well just imagine blue skies.

Since the first day, the week has been a complete rollercoaster and a reminder that this experience is full of ups and downs. The second night, I went out and met the rest of the Americans. About fifteen in all, most of them are from CMSU and South Dakota. The Dakotans are shocked when I tell them that I’ve been to Vermillion—they can’t imagine anybody wanting to come up their way. We went to several pubs, and with us came two Dutch students. Owen and Noortje, who weren’t used to drinking, but found it entertaining being around increasingly drunk Americans. I had Noortje translate one of the newspapers there, and it was interesting to get her perspective on politics, religion, and the Dutch religion.

At one pub, we sat outside next to a group of about 15 guys. The guys started to whistle and catcall the girls we were with. I ended up sitting right next to them, the closest of anybody in our group. At first I was really annoyed, especially because they started razzing me about not being able to speak Dutch. But I was friendly to them at first and I discovered that they were all members of a lower division soccer team. Of course this fascinated me, and I began to talk to them even more. Their English wasn’t the best, and they wanted to ask out the unattractive girl next to me. So I wrote down on a coaster “What’s your cell number?” for them and they tossed it to the girl. They were delighted that I had helped them out and began to talk to me even more, teaching me dirty words in Dutch. “Pijpen” means a girl giving a guy a blowjob, and “beffen” is the same, except a guy to a girl. “Neurken en de kuerken” is the best: fucking in the kitchen. Oh, they had me cracking up.

The experience is very fun of course at times, but there have been moments at the opposite end of the spectrum. Sometimes I feel lonely and overwhelmed by the experience. A country that speaks a completely unintelligible language can be hard to get along in. Little things are difficult. Street names, menus, direction signs, signs on the shops are all in dutch and therefore bewildering. I have to guess a lot as to where I’m going or what shop is what. Or what the hell to order. On top of this, the Dutch government has been cracking down on immigration and are making us jump through a big series of hoops to stay here. I have to have a copy of my birth certificate, proof of insurance, passport size pictures which I’ll get here, and around 3000 euros in a Dutch bank account so I can prove that I’m not a bum. Seriously. Its ridiculous. Most students here are freaking out because they don’t have nearly that amount of money and never have in their lifetime. Then there’s the fact that my room still looks as bare as a nun’s and that I can’t stop sleeping for ten hours a night. Probably because I had to wake up at seven every damn day this summer J haha

Anyway last weekend I went to the nearby beach in Vlassingen, about a 20 minute train ride, if that. The day was cloudy and rainy, but it was cool to walk along the sea and tour the very cute and typically dutch town. There was even an old fashioned windmill right there on the beach. In the distance, you could see many, many modern windmills and for good reason—it is very windy there. I forgot my towel or I would have gone in the water. So its probably a good thing I forgot it…Tons of people were out walking, biking, rollerblading and seemingly every person was towing their dog along. The Dutch are absolutely obsessed with dogs. Big dogs, small dogs, it doesn’t matter. I’ve seen already two Great Danes and a couple of Newfoundlands. I can’t imagine how they fit these dogs in the tiny houses here. Many bikers actually had one of those compartments, generally used for toddlers, hauling behind them. But instead of kids inside, nine times out of ten it was a small dog loving the ride. To me, this kind of defeats the purpose of taking your dog outside, but whatever.
Then started Introduction week, where every student is given two parents, or older students who are supposed to help them through the first weeks and look over them. I have two mothers for example, who really are nice but very unhelpful. It’s a weird situation for me because I technically am older than my parents, but o well. All throughout the week there have been necessary events to get us situated in the school, but it really has been a bureaucratic nightmare. In the evenings however, there are social events, which has consisted of going to the student bar on Monday, a pubcrawl (so much fun) on Tuesday, and the anything-but-clothes party last night. Everyone was supposed to dress up in something not clothing. I went wrapped in a dress of gift paper, but everyone loved ripping my costume to find the present inside, haha. Don’t worry, I had shorts on, but I ended up shirtless for most of the night. It was my first rave, with bright lights, drinks everywhere, and techno blaring out of the club’s many speakers. It ended up being a great night (I actually got kicked out but then got back in, long story sorry), but a long one, and so I will be going to bed early tonight. Let me know how life is in Maryville, I’m sure its ridiculously exciting.