MAASTRICHT. Summer Internship.

It was just one of those days. I sat down at my little desk, pushed into one corner of the office here in Holland. I had arrived bright and early in an attempt to get on the Internet to plan and book next weekend's side trip before my boss came in and realized I don't really ever have anything to do. I was just about through all of the required reservations screens when suddenly the phone rang and I was informed that I was "meant to be in training 10 minutes ago" ... oops. I quickly untied the sneakers that I was still wearing, slid my feet into one of the six pairs of heels hiding in my otherwise empty bottom desk drawer, and headed downstairs to the library.

For the next seven hours I was tortured into near submission, with only sheer will to get me through. No, it wasn't the physical pain one normally associated with torture, it was instead the mental anguish that accompanies the process of actually getting dumber. My "induction" training included such valuable discussions as Why Customers want Good Service, How to fill out a Package Slip, and my personal favorite and the finale of the show What to do if a Coworker is Taken Hostage (including helpful hints like: call the police, don't go near the hostage taker). When it was all over I was left confused, and afraid for any other people who might be put through that in the future but I was determined to put it behind me.

Apparently, their evil plot to make me dumber worked. At 6pm I left my desk and took the elevator down to the first floor where I hope to sneak out the back, equipped with an electronic revolving door. Let me give you some more information about this door, since I've never seen anything like it. It doesn't actually revolve. It is an electronic door that when you swipe your ID allows the door to go 2 "clicks" clockwise putting you onto the street. If you are on the street and attempting to get in then it allows you to go 2 "clicks" counterclockwise allowing you to enter the building.

Ok. Well I swiped my lovely ID card never looking up and was allowed to go 2 "clicks" clockwise only to look up and see a glass wall had been slid across and dead bolted into place blocking my exit. As I mentioned earlier ... this is like no other revolving door you're ever seen. Since I can't get out I instead try to click backwards (counterclockwise). WRONG. The door only clicks COUNTERclockwise if you swipe your card from the outside so I'm trapped. Yes, my dear friends and family your Lisa was trapped in a revolving glass doorway. Until, that is, I could get the attention of some random employee outside who could swipe their card and let me "click" back ... oh but it gets better.

A kind Belgian woman comes along INSIDE and tries to come to my aid by swiping her card and pushing the door. Unfortunately, that simply left me completely in "the dead zone" now, and the door was getting angry. It sensed someone in there and started to swing back and forth 1 click right, 1 click left ... 1 click right, 1 clik left, forcing me to walk back and forth, pacing like a caged lion to avoid the door smacking me on the head. And by now the crowd has gathered ... looking on in awe at the trapped American in the glass revolving door. Pointing and discussing how on earth to get me out all the while the angry door swings back and forth trying to cleanse itself of me. Feeling the beginnings of a panic attack coming on I found myself starting to gasp a bit just as a beautiful security guard approached with a magical and wondrous key to free me. And how was I to know it was only the beginning of my evening's surprises?

The walk home was uneventful. I stopped at grocery store, and even finally found some stamps (finally)! I got home tired and in a bad mood. Looking forward to an evening of cooking and relaxing I changed into my pjs and unpacked my groceries. I was 90% through cooking my pasta and sauce when the doorbell rang, immediately followed by someone entering and yelling "I'm coming in with a housemaid". I immediately thought, "what an odd time to bring in a cleaning service?" while I desperately tried to clean the disaster that was this tiny kitchen. But when the "housemaid" was introduced to me it became horribly clear that she was hear to stay. Yup, this lovely day was to be accompanied by the arrival of a housemate to my previously empty apartment. Now my food is smoking and I'm running all over the apartment trying to collect dirty clothes from the bathroom floor and everything else that had accumulated in my 2 weeks there. Could my day get worse?

Apparently yes, although at least I got a good laugh from it. As I sat downstairs watching the conclusion of "American Princess" (do you guys get that over in the states?). I hear this pounding and banging from upstairs. All I could think was, I hope she's not always this noisy --when suddenly "LISA!! LISA!!" came from the top floor (glad she remembered my name, because I was so confused at the time I missed hers -- yes I'm living with the "unnamed Dutch girl"). Anyway, I go upstairs to find my brand new housemate trapped in the bathroom. Oops. She'd broken the key off in the door. Yes, it was 9pm and my brand new housemate was trapped in the bathroom, and all I wanted in the entire world was to go, relax and see who was to move on to the next round of the "American Princess" selection process. Instead, the "housemaster" was called in and useing a hammer and chisel, removed the entire lock rendering the door powerless. "Free at last" (I knew how she felt).

MAASTRICHT. I'm Going to Disney World!

Sometimes I get the sense that I may actually be working in Eppcott Center. It’s nearly four o’clock and I just walked through the thick haze of smoke and laughing French accountants lounging by the coffee machine in sophisticated casual wear and designer shoes smoking unfiltered cigarettes. Walking back I hold my breath through the six strides it takes to get across the “coffee” corner and I find myself again surrounded by the harsh calculated movements of Germans in their three piece suits barking orders to underlings back in Bonn. Perhaps of course this is a bit unfair given my lack of understanding of the German language, since to my untrained ear all the conversations seem unpleasant in nature, while in fact they may be speaking only of the weather in Munich.  As I sit back down at my desk I overhear two Englishman proselytizing on the many deficiencies of “the continent” including pushy customs officials and a lazy workforce. Only to myself do I comment that to Americans they are all Europeans. At this point in the day a allow the undercurrent of softly spoken Dutch to wash over me lost to understand more than a few of the anglicized words like “workflow” and “implementation.”

Lunch was a different story however, as I sat at a table in sea of accented English. Seven non-native speakers searched for commonalities and conversation in the only language they hold in common, English. With eight nationalities represented it was as diverse as the UN: Italian, Turkish, Singaporean, Finnish, Belgian, Dutch, Brazilian, and of course, myself your friendly local American. On the downside, while working at Eppcott would mean getting to enjoy Memorial Day and the 4th of July I’m left with the stingiest of holiday allocation combined with a timing of this internship leaving no remaining European bank holidays to enjoy during my three months here. It seems for the Dutch everything historically exciting took place in late April and early May just before I began.

European Sophistication?

I love the bicycles of Holland, unlike the desperation and poverty of the third world, the Dutch and their bicycles seem classic and joyful. In places like India or Africa , bikes are ridden by people in ragged clothes with a day's supply of wares strapped to their backs while here bikes are ridden by ladies in skirts , sitting up properly-their shoulders back , dressed in fashionable clothes alongside men in suits and leather shoes. Women with a baby strapped on the front and a toddler behind. In the developing world bikes seem to illustrate the determination and desperation of humanity to scratch their way out of poverty , here it is a sophisticated choice, an opportunity to bask in the sun and enjoy a beautiful day .

And yet this seeming sophistication lies in stark contrast to a local grocer's endless promotion of Hamstre Wekend ... who in the marketing department elected a rodent to represent their store? And as if just the name and the endless commericials featuring your favorite rodents weren't enough. They greet you at the door of everystore? Waving happily and pointing you inside. I may just be taking the imagery too far but I couldn't help trying to visualize a NYC grocer nomintating a Rat as the store mascot and forcing some unsuspecting 16 year-old summer temp to wear the suit, wave, and hand out coupons for cheese outside your average Manhatten Fresh Grocer.   

UC APPLICATION. For the Love of Diet Coke

I would imagine the sun rose just like any other day ... given my near certainty that there has yet to be a day where the sun has not risen - but I digress. On this particular day my life would be changed in a significant way. For the world, it was a day that would begin to reduce the value of morning coffee. This is the day that would bring forth the invention of Diet Coke.

Unfortunately, I can’t really be more specific in the whens and whos of this most monumentous event. Because this day, like hundreds of others, is shrouded in a veil of corporate secrecy. Over the course of my research I found many websites of dedicated fans such as www.jonsullivan.com, but for all their D.C. knowledge and resources, they offer no names or dates. Coca-Cola Corporation has built no monuments, given no credit. There seem to be no names at all associated with this most awesome creation, and the faces have been lost to time.

The creator eludes me ... who was this individual, or was it a group? Is there a small plaque dedicated to them in the Coke’s Atlanta headquarters? Did they understand the addictive qualities and the joy it would bring the world? For a product that inspires this kind of loyalty and dedication, how can we have no name to the inventor that brought it to us?

Am I merely a case of highly successful marketing turned bad? Do I suffer from an addiction? The signs are there. A material percentage of my weekly wages are spent in support of my habit. Every desk and workspace seems destined to drown in the sea of empty cans that accumulate behind and underneath. I need a can as soon as I wake up, and with every meal from there. It is as much a characteristic as my height and eye color, the red and silver can clasped in my right hand is just part of who I am.
And then there are the more subtle symptoms of addiction, including skillful avoidance of questions regarding the state of my health and diet, as well as consciously disregarding stories of its carcinogenic nature and the possible long-term damage to my liver.

It is for this reason that I hope that I can be boxed up and shipped back to the beginning of a new age, a time just before the world would come to know sweet cold refreshment without the 150 calories of guilt (only the distant ache of irreparable liver damage). I would find the person or people whose work has given me such happiness, and simply say, “thanks”.

MISSISSIPPI. Xmas Twenty-Oh-Three.

Dear family, friends, and random strangers,

This year has been another exciting chapter in my life. I’m finishing up with Teach
f[o]r America and moving on from saving the children in Mi[ss]issippi to adventures in business school. I was accepted at W[h]arton just a few days ago, and am about 90% certain I will be returning to Philadelphia to start the two year MBA program there in September. When I was confronted by my abandonment of good works in order to be "the man" I really had to be honest and admit that "the man" paid much better.

"The children" (14-20 year olds) keep me constantly challenged and entertained, because apparently I work them too hard and purposely keep my room "hot as an oven"... "Ms B! Ms B! Ms B I’m ‘bout to fall out. Why you keep it so hot up in here?," they shout. "To torture you, and make you miserable and hinder your ability to learn," I tell them. "What’s ‘hinder’?" ... ahh sigh.

Upon returning to the Delta this August I was greeted with a roster of 30 children in "Keyboarding" with a room of 6 working computers ... when I brought this issue to the attention of the administration I was told that perhaps they could "share". So I have a new technique for keyboarding that requires oversexed, sweaty teenagers to sit one next to another and type using one hand at a time.

In reality it hasn’t been all bad this year. My computers did eventually get repaired (I finally had 18), and I made nice with a counselor who magically makes all my bad children "disappear" into other classes ... when asked where, I have to honestly say ... I don’t care.

Along those same lines, in the news there was recently a case where two teachers in Florida were arrested for duct taping their children to a wall. Those of us in T[F]A were applauding those teachers for their restraint and ingenuity and really cannot understand where they went wrong (judgmental parents I suppose). I now take out the duct tape and often tell my students that story in order to inspire them to "be all they can be".

As far as a social life I am still trying to figure out where I can buy one at a good price. The mulleted hair cuts and gun racks of the Mi[ss]issippi Delta men has done much to encourage me to seriously consider lesbianism. Hopefully, the men situation will pick up at business school, where at least if I’m not financially successful, he may be. Please feel free to send any friends, family, or males of any kind my way. I’m single with low expectations.

Much love to all in the New Year!

Lisa

LONDON. Hostel Life

This lovely hostel definitely comes alive at night. Last night I walked into a scene of about 20 people chatting and drinking in the main stairwell (a.k.a. "the lounge"). Two locals had followed closely behind me and were walking in to yell at the night manager for the guitar music that had apparently been coming from upstairs in the hostel and driving them nuts next door for hours on end over the last two weeks.

The manager said it wasn't from our place but as I rounded the fourth floor I realized it was coming from my neighbors room, and as I walked into my overcrowded hole I was greeted by Robbie "the Scotsman". In his boxers on the top bunk smiling at me while smoking a cigar in bed he yelled out, "hope you like guitar music" to which he immediately followed up with a shout of, "stop that fucking noise!"

Introducing himself as Robbie, the Scotsman part became evident with his following comments about the "bloodiest ugliest fucking city in the UK, perhaps the world" (and London resident for the past 5 years). He was fairly quickly cutoff by Englishman Kevin whose eyes peered out from beneath the baby blue blanket he'd been issued upon check-in. "You just believe that Scotland is superior in every way" ... turns out Kevin is an ESL teacher who is currently trapped in this "shady shithole" due to his financing difficulties. Brad, "with the very American name", failed to join in the conversation, I do believe out of a fear he might say something that would lead the islanders to throw something at him. Basically, although Kevin didn't believe London was a "complete shithole" I was still definitely mistaken when stated that London was a great city.

Later that evening I earned back any points I'd lost when my feminine wiles made me a success with my 5 male roommates, because the party that was had previously been down on the ground floor "lounge" moved up to our neck of the woods around 2am. I was soon irritated enough to stick my head out the door and plead for them to move it back down to someone else's backyard (let them deal with it). I was thanked by the Spaniards for the "beautiful smile" I used to make my request (little did he know I was merely squinting to see in the bright lights).

Apparently this compliment was partly in reference to Robbie's previous attempts to move the Spaniards by opening the door and shouting "shut the fuck up you stupid wankers" ... In fact as a prize for my loveliness it was requested that I immediately join them in order for them to get to know me better. I declined, given my distinct lack of clothes and sleep and promised to join them this evening instead.

Well I'm off to see ... "Home Again", a new musical. I'll let you know if the Spaniards take me out on the town this evening.