It's official, it's happened, I almost got hit by an Amsterdam bike.

I crossed the street and he rounded the corner at the same time. He made no apparent move to swerve- the legend is true. This bloody cold makes me slow, which was good because I didn't freak out, but rather hopped quickly as I could onto the sidewalk, pulling in my behind- still barely enough space for him to pass. But he did. Pass.

A woman walking by, smiled, probably, I thought, because of the cute way I avoided collision.

I can still hear classical music sometimes.

Can I live here, please?

Maybe travel is bad for me. Through it, I imagine myself living lives, so many lives, too many lives I can't possibly live.

Though- maybe- it's a good way to collect ideas and ideals, so when/if they all come together some day, I'll know.

I wonder if there are people here who don't know that this is here. It is nondescript enough- hidden, discreet, surrounded by buildings of the same persuasion- looking just like I thought it would. The only indication of this monument- a small wee sign next to the entrance- symetrically opposite "263"- "Anne Frank Huis".

No brightly lit awning. No frilly archway. Just a small placard, no more than six inches by six inches.

I see some lights on inside and force myself back to the present.

There's a cafe just next to it- its red-and-white awning almost touching the "263".

I look into the water after hearing some ducks squeak. Maybe it's the nasty cold I'm working on, but I don't feel a whole lot. Not like I thought I would. (Maybe it'll be different once I go inside.) I'm just confused.

How many buildings with the same historical significance go unnoticed, their existence not etched in stone, that we pass by every day?

Someone's playing "Four Seasons" really loudly to drown out the bells of the South Church, which go crazy every Thursday between noon and one.

Reminds me of San Francisco, where we heard classical being played loudly, a refreshing break from the hip hop and Latino music we were so used to.

I kind of like not being able to understand what people say. It's not entirely foreign to me. (Ar-ar- mind the pun.)

Like the boy with the newspaper. He just wanted to sell me the bloody paper. I didn't know, didn't really care what he was saying, he could just look at me, and talk to me like that, he was cute, so whatever. God I feel like Jamie Lee Curtis in "A Fish Called Wanda".

PROST!

Will someone please tell me how ginger is red??

Dude. Five and a half weeks ago I'd never left America. Now I'm going to Amsterdam.

Staying with Collins. I find that rather amusing. That all those years in RI and I never visited him in Boston.

My pupils dilate at the thought of the Anne Frank-Huis.

I wonder how going to Amsterdam will affect my perspective on Scottish culture.

*

First thing I see, exiting the gate at Schipol, the Amsterdam airport: Murphy's Pub.

Paul asked me if I felt more at home, what with all the Americans who'd come in for this wedding.

To be honest, no, I had to say. Maybe because they were Midwestern.

One of the last nights they were here, however, they did prove comforting. After an intense political/cultural discussion that could have easily turned argument if I didn't know how to shut my trap, I went to two of them in the other room and we talked about our sometimes frightening encounters with defensive, American-hating Scots. I vowed never to discuss anything even remotely political with anyone here ever again.

Rachel was in all this past week. Fourteen, high school student, "work experience". A concept familar to most Scots.

Instead of going to school- for one week they go work somewhere, usually during school hours. (Which here is nine-ish to three-ish- me jealous!) They must fill in reports each day, interview an employee (me :)), fill out a self-evaluation, get an employer evaluation done.

Rachel thought it was kind of cool, kind of lame, just something you had to do,- but I kept praising it all week, I think she might have a different perspective after hearing from someone that doesn't take it for granted because there was nothing like that available during her own miserable public school experience.

Wednesday night I was watching "My Hero", as I do every Wednesday at 7:30 p.m. (my first and I think only steady tradition so far). Thermoman retired, so they had all these other superheros saving the planet- Temp Man, who quit, then all that was left was Work Experience Boy, who wasn't so great at being a superhero, but who could make a mean pot of tea, for three million people at a time.

The day before I found out how well-known this "work experience" thing was because James (another hotel employee) said it when I mentioned the high school girl in working. I was so happy I could appreciate the joke; I told Rachel about it the next day, how I'd thought of her, and I called her that (regardless of gender) the rest of the week.

I do need to write more. Chronicling my life. Like in Ardal O'Hanlon's book, Francesca's mission of recording the good, the bad, and the ugly. Why do we do it? Why not? I do it for myself as much as for others- others today in what I choose to share online and the others of tomorrow, who can appreciate this as a time capsule- a dated, timeless one. Dated as all timeless things are, and timeless as all dated things are. Because seeing yourself in those that came before you is a universal experience which everyone should be able to experience, in some form or another. Be it by the oral traditions and folklore of elders which Western society has all but lost, to my writing this right now, on this day- September 11, 2004 in this place, Kirkcaldy, Fife, Scotland, in this existence, that of a transported American "New Yorker" who sounds to many people like a Canadian. A "ginger". With a grown-out buzz cut that struggles to find itself.

I couldn't understand a fucking word, let alone an order. Slight exaggeration. It got better the more I got used to it, of course- for example, he's saying Beck's, not Bass; Irn-bru, not Ambrose- but then they got drunker and drunker and even less intelligible.

The Fife dialect and accent is one of the hardest to understand- even for other Scots. I'm so glad I've had practice with some of the dialects of the regions- England and Ireland, anyway- so it's just the accent I've got to get used to.

Reminds me of my friend who's got the Scottish uncle. Her impression of what she can understand of him: "Glaw glaw glaw glaw bee-ah. Glaw glaw glaw glaw Guinness." Yea, pretty much. He must be from Fife.

Understanding Americans is hard enough with my bad ear. Now, I've inflection- really fast, almost Gaelic, and often drunken- to complete with.

The teenagers are the worst, second only to the drunken men. You know how teenagers are anyway, with their own private lingos. Toss on a heaping of Fife and watch them go. Whilst talking to Andrew, who's 17 and Paul, who's more intelligible at 21 (and anyway, from the Highlands), I felt the urge to record them to send back home. Had I brought a recorder, no doubt I would. I am considering a mike for my computer.

A number of men were quite taken with me. Well, with my Americanness.

"What's that accent?"
"American."
"Ooh. Where in America?"
"New York."
"Oooooh..."

One man kept flirt-hassling me about it, yelling to me about dollars and cents when I'd give others change. He'd tell everyone he could that I was from New York- "so watch out!"

One guy thought I was Canadian.
I said no, American.
"Really? Right near the border, though?"
I must still have the Kids In The Hall-influenced inflection.

Frances (co-owner of the hotel) told me one said to her- I never found out who- "I'm in love with the girl from New York." I got winks a lot and as I passed, some would nudge their companion- "Ooh, the American." somewhat lecherously.

My first or second order I got a wee tip, and that was about half my tips for the night. Wow. They weren't kidding they don't like to tip. I'd love to see them get away with that back in America.

I don't mind, not really, though. Tips should be an optional thing- and more importantly, an EARNED thing. We've all seen how things can get taken for granted, and the results- customer service quality plummets.

But the other extreme? Well, that doesn't necessarily inspire quality service, now does it? Come on people, we all live in a capitalist system, where we whore our labour power. Why not reward extra for extra, eh? Here, you get the same tip- zilch- when you're an asshole that fucks up royally as when you get it perfect and are charming and inspire a crush.

Two of my four tips over the course of the two crazy busy nights were the result of people forgetting their change.

Understandably, they'd get frustrated with me because I couldn't understand them half the time. I wanted to tell them- Look, I'm sorry, but take your frustration and multiply it by the amount of people I'm serving tonight and that's where I'm at right now. Work with me, here. Just like Anthony, though, Christ- I'd say "Sorry?" and they'd repeat it in the same low rumbling mumble. Now how is that helpful, I ask you? And forget the blaring music. Though, now that I think of it, that did help them to speak loudly and elucidate. Ha!