Freckled Freedom

I never thought I'd spend Easter Sunday on my own, laying in the sun in a park in Amsterdam. So far, in this lifetime I've spent birthdays in Perth, Copenhagen, and hopefully my 23rd in the Dam, I've had Thanksgivings in Perth and Barcelona, the 4th of July on a plane to Costa Rica and Halloween in Fremantle. Crazy, ain't it? And today I blast my Dave Matthews as my freckles congregate, darkening into a cluster of ginger tan. It's so odd celebrating holidays abroad. Being so far from the family festivities and dysfunctional dinners make it feel like just another day... apart from the presence of the "Easter Tree" rooted at reception. There are no eggs decorated, no baskets to wake to full of mini Cadbury eggs and overpriced-edible bunnies. There is no mid-morning chocolate overdose (midnight is another story). I woke this morning to the ladies of the love cave staring in my direction. I rolled over in hopes that the 10am internal alarm would turn itsel...

The windows of Amsterdam have a completely different connotation than most places. Naturally, there are those that most people associate the Dam with, the windows of the Red Light District. From all hours of the morning until all hours of the night, tiny alleyways are lit up, lined with pink and purple lights. The purple clue you in, informing the street dwellers that the ladies inside are not actually not women. Within each, you will find women of all shapes, sizes, and colors, decked out in the skimpiest of lingerie. They perch on stools chatting on their on their phones or they press themselves against the glass, leaning themselves in prime- viewing stature. Their gaze remains focused, looming over the mixture of tourists strolling through for the spectacle and distinguishing their victims. They lock eyes with you, extending their fingers and urging you to let them open their windows for you. They are on the hunt, preying upon the horny men and women of the streets. But there is...

Mark Twain again? You bet. He knew what he was talking about... especially when it comes to riding a bike in Amsterdam. Cycling: It is a way of life here in the in the Dam. It is the most efficient and prominent way of getting around the city. It is a must do while spending your days breezing by canals, stuffing                                                      your face with stroopwaffle, stopping in the shops along the way. It does, however, come with heart palpitations and shortness of breath upon learning. You may sport a size-too-small spandex and have a helmet collection but that does not mean you are equipped for the Amsterdam bike lane. I've been forcing myself to cycle a bit every day. Get to know the tricks of the trade and flow of the traffic. Each day I hop on Meester Hercules. He is a beauty, a gem, my companion.  ...

Goedemorgen! Well, not technically. It's not actually morning but it's one of the few Dutch phrases I've got under my belt. I am currently sitting in the botanical gardens of Amsterdam. I parked my ass atop of a small bridge over a stream. It's a beautiful day. I've been building a bit of a life here in Amsterdam. It's becoming a home of mine. Life thus far? Before leaving NY, a majority of people heard my plan and immediately reacted with one of the following:  That is going to be a royal shit show.  You're going to smoke to smoke pot all day.  Taking up space in a window, eh? I'd pay money for a visit.  Ew. You're working in a hostel? Have you ever seen the movie "Hostel?"  That is fucking awesome, wicked, sick, or some variation of that.  Why in the world would you want to do that? You're crazy Kourtney.  Well let's recap shall we and begin with how I ended up in this glorious life. Back in November, I ventured out o...

So begins another chapter of my life.... another adventure consisting of world domination and freckle plantation. Last Monday evening I set flight, crossing the pond once again to spread a bit more of my color in Europe. I said goodbye to my El Salvadorian friends at Cirellas, each giving me an extra-tight squeeze in an effort to keep me in Melville. I sipped one last Cabernet with Sandy Ryan, my bartending partner in crime and gave the regulars their anticipated hugs goodbye, their vodka breath flowing a bit too close to my mouth. Instead of packing, I found myself watching Howard Stern's "Private Parts" and "Taking Woodstock." I rolled & stuffed the dapperest of clothing into ziplock baggies, purging them of any air.  Lola was obese, to say the least. Together we trekked off and made our way back to London. My crazy partner-in-crime, Serena Ray Ford, met me in the morning, the UK overcast shining down on me. Let me take a moment to tell you about this ...