During my first week in Utrecht, I had seen this same banner hanging in a window in another part of the city. My Dutch tour guide said she had been to a couple of sketchy parties there. But, she assured me, the people would be enthusiastic to talk to me about their cause. I was mystified and made a mental note to check it out. By the time, I found myself in the neighbourhood again it had disappeared, effectively killing the remnants of my preteen dream to explore the world of anarchy. That was until the day after I came back from Paris, when I got new neighbours. About two-hundred numbers further up the street, a large banner announced their arrival.

In the Netherlands if a building is vacant for a year, legally, anyone is allowed to come in an occupy it. To me, squatters were mythical creatures that existed in affluent but liberal European cities and who I only read features about in the newspaper. Little did it occur to me that I now live in the affluent but liberal European city and could be living down the street from them. Granted, there are squats in Canada (not that I’ve come across any) but they don’t have the legal green light they do here.

As much as this is about having a place to sleep that isn’t the street, the anarchist, anti-capitalist sentiment is very much a part of it. This squat is not only a home but also a store that operates without money. People bring things they no longer want and can take the things other people have left. However, it’s not necessary to leave something in order to take. Nonetheless, my friends and I scrounged our houses for things to bring and paid a visit to the squat.

Inside, it was like a really lo-fi Value Village. It was organized almost as if it were a tiny department store. There was separate sections for homewares, shoes, books, clothing and electronics. When I wandered into a corner to join my friend, a woman with dreadlocks in her mid-20s told us we were in a private area that was not part of the “store.” The idea of private space in a squat boggled my mind. Wasn’t she squatting there in part to stick it to the man and his ideas of propriety?

The other most stirring experience at the squat was seeing two girls, both around the age of five. I first saw them when we first entered the squat, on the sidewalk play-washing it with water and soap. Initially I thought they were kids from around the neighbourhood but as they ran in and out of the squat it became clear they were part of it too. I’ve always thought of squatters as disaffected punks but thought they could be children too or that disaffected punks would have children. I’m not sure how I feel about this, but the girls looked just like any other ‘normal’ kids: healthy and happy.

These are the goods my friends and I got from the squat. I took the green and white plastic tray to carry my meals up to my attic with, one of the two orange shirts to wear to the upcoming Queen’s Day celebration and the Albert Heijn (the ubiquitous Dutch grocery store) bandana. I’m going to keep the bandana as a little inside joke and souvenir of the Netherlands, but the rest will rejoin the system when I leave.

posted by vicky at 4:00 pm under Europe, Netherlands
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Last weekend my parents came to visit me, officially marking the half-way point of my exchange. Along with them came my aunt and uncle visiting from Georgia. Together we did one thing I had been waiting for since the second day I was in the country, when I saw it for the first time.

The Sea Palace is a floating Chinese restaurant that rests on the Amsterdam harbour, near Centraal Station and my beloved Bibliotheek. It’s modelled after Jumbo Kingdom in Hong Kong. Coming from a place with more Chinese restaurants than there are people (Markham), I’ve been aching for cheap, good Chinese food since I got here. Unfortunately, neither can be find here. The former doesn’t come as a surprise but the unwavering mediocrity of the food does.

Since coming to the Netherlands I’ve developed a reputation as cheap among my friends. A few months ago, I’d be the first to tell you, it’s part of my Chinese upbringing. Bargains, coupons, haggling: they’re in my blood. (Well maybe not haggling in my case.) But halfway in, I’m reformulating my theory. As a North American, I find this country incredibly stingy. This is a place where you have to pay for condiments at fast-food restaurants, where they often deny you tap water at restaurants to force you to buy mineral, or better yet charge you 0.30€ for tap. I find these charges unreasonable and perhaps even offensive; it’s just not the way things are done.

So taking that sentiment a step further, Chinese people just expect more for their money. Usually when you go to a Chinese restaurant for dinner, you get a free soup to start the meal and free dessert of either fruits or a dessert soup. These frills aren’t expensive or especially good, but we’re just used to having them. So when we had to ask if there was any dessert that would follow our 100€ meal and the waiter had to check with the manager, we knew this place wasn’t legit. The overly Asian-themed interior decorations and lack of Asian people were warning signs but this confirmed it. We did get the fruit in the end though.

The food wasn’t bad but on par with the delicious $5 take-away meals I get back home. Granted, no one comes here for good food but rather for the view and novelty. If those are the only two criteria you have coming into the Sea Palace, then this place delivers. The interior is nothing if not grand with sculptures and fake pagodas dotting the premises. The panoramic view of the harbour is the perfect background for any seafood lover.

The staff did seem to take interest in us, since we were, like them, a table of Hong Kong ex-pats. My parents explained they were here to visit me on exchange to study journalism abroad. The waiter cracked a smile and asked if he was going to see me on TVB, the quintessential HK television station. I had to explain that I was a primarily an English speaker. Though in hindsight my English-accented Cantonese probably told him already.

He told us that he had a daughter my age and sighed that he was putting her through a degree in architecture. Finally, something I recognized! Lamenting the security of your child’s financial future is fundamental aspect of small-talk among Asian parents. Some things don’t change no matter where you immigrate.

posted by vicky at 8:21 am under Europe, Food, Netherlands
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This trip to Europe has been like one long open house. In the back of my mind in every city I visit there’s the lingering question of “Could I live here?” Yesterday I returned from four days in Paris and the answer is a resounding yes. French cities have an unquantifiable quality and back in Netherlands I find myself missing that je ne sais quoi.

The first time I was in Paris I was seventeen and humming the then-new Feist album ad nauseum in my head. I’m sure the power of suggestion had something to do with the music choice, Paris being where she hit it big and all, but it made the perfect soundtrack while I drifted wide-eyed through Champs Elysées.

Who knew that my next trip to the French capital would be on another school trip? Once again, I found myself wandering around the city iPod-less. Both were whirlwind trips and the exact opposites. This time I went to Musée d’Orsay and passed over the Louvre; I loitered around a lit-up Tour Eiffel instead of going up it during the day; I watched the sun set on the incomparable view from Montmartre instead of gazing over a city of lights.

This picture was taken during my first trip by my friend Bi Ying, who I will reunite with this summer when she moves to London. I’m wearing a new jacket and smoking my first cigarette in Les Deux Moulins, the café from Amélie. We were nervous as we wandered along a long road down to the café, praying we had enough time for a crème brûlée before we had to meet back with our tour group. I had decided prior to the trip that I would buy a pack of cigarettes from Georgette’s counter for a souvenir. I was gutted when I discovered there was no cigarette counter but settled for a pack of Lucky Strikes anyways.

As we sat there waiting on the fabled confection, Bi Ying remarked that I could smoke a cigarette. Her suggestion set off the poseur-rebel in me that delighted in the idea of a first smoke. I peeled off the cellophane wrapping and lit it with the tea light candle on our table. Delivishly, we took turns taking puffs and snapping pictures. On the long walk back uphill, I hacked my lungs out and swore I would never smoke again for comic effect. Back in my room in Markham, there’s still a pack of cigarettes with one missing.

Three years later, I went back still unable to smoke a cigarette without coughing and sporting the same coat, now dirty and well-worn. I lost one of its buttons during my visit but I’m not too sad, I was too drunk on warmth and beauty. It’s telling when you leave a city unsatisfied and wanting more–something that has yet to happen to me in any of my travels this time around. I left my heart and my button in Paris but it’s okay. One day I’ll go back to get them.

posted by vicky at 10:49 pm under Europe, France
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So my landlord knocked on my door about two minutes ago. He asked my roommate and I if we would be home tomorrow morning at 11 AM. Employees of the city tomorrow will be visiting every house on this street to see if they can hear the construction happening on the street behind ours from inside. If they can hear drilling, hammering or the mutterings of construction workers that I hear every morning, our landlords get money to install new, more soundproof windows.

What a country.

posted by vicky at 7:40 pm under Europe, Netherlands
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It’s Friday morning and I’m too lazy to drag myself out of bed and into town. This means I’m missing market, a crucial part of European life. Market is kind of like if the CNE ran year-round without the rides but with cheese and vegetables. Basically it’s a maze of white tents with merchants hocking wares for low, low prices.

Bike got stolen, got a new bike, need a new lock and don’t want to pay 16€ for one from the bike shop? Then head over to market find the appropriate stall and hand over 12€. Vintage hats, discount lingerie, bulk olives, fresh stroopwafels and 10€ shoes are all here. There are even fish stands a la Chinese supermarkets but sans the swimming tanks of live fish.

I thought Utrecht had the market thing down. Wednesday, Friday and Saturday it’s here for your needs. But last week after a mostly sleepless night in Rotterdam, I awoke to find a far superior market. Content wise, the Rotterdam market is identical to the Utrecht one, but with a larger number of the same tents. Somehow, the atmosphere is just unquantifiably better. I attribute a large part of this to stands selling ready-made food. I got this from this huge mother, or börek as the Turkish call it, to eat (and flake all over my jacket) while I trolled the market. It cost 2,50€, was filled with feta cheese and spinach, and worth every eurocent.

Probably the most puzzling and essential tent at the market is the one hocking American name-brand cosmetics. It reminds me of those warehouse sales constantly advertised in Canada. Probably most of these brands exist in the stores here but are they really that expensive to warrant their a tent at the market? And furthermore, why would would you want these products anyways?

Despite the fact that I’ve spent years making fun of weird/grammatically incorrect/nonsensical clothing from Asia, Europe has its own offenses. Case in point are the boxers pictured above found at the one of the discount lingerie and underwear retailers. One attempt at explanation is, apparently, French slang for penis is “souris,” or mouse. Either way this goes into a growing pile of evidence that the European life is not the romantic dream I always hoped it was.

posted by vicky at 12:08 pm under Europe, Food, Netherlands
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