Happy Valentines Day ??

God, I can remember when I was.....7 or 8?... in school in Canada, the teacher organised a big cardboard box covered in pink and white tissue paper, for our Valentines cards. The premise was, that we kids secretly placed our homemade cards into said box, which was then emptied on Valentines Day, and handed out to the lucky recipients. Imagine, recipe for disaster! All well and good for the lucky, popular few that got a card, (in some cases more than one even )but quell domage for the poor wee unpopular fekkers that had none! How cruel. Shit I hated school, even a good, progressive school such as Gracefield Junior School in Port Dalhousie was still fraught with oppression and torture. Mind you I was never the popular, compliant schoolkid either. My two older sisters were 'good girls' and of course I followed in their footsteps (and wore their hand-me-down clothes). They were, and still are, a pair, a self-contained unit. I was more of a tomboy, my wee brother Jeff and I got into mischief, a lot. Younger siblings often use humour or misbehaviour to attract attention, and we were no exception to that rule, we were holy terrors, always on the recieving end of Dad's belt, funny how the beatings didn't moderate our activities, at all really, we just got better at covering up the badness, better at lying,....'no Dad I swear I didn't take the money out of your pocket when you were lying blind drunk passed out on the sofa.' I also remember a few times ,being 'between' boyfriends on this particular day, and feeling like a right tool when the rest of the world seems to be composed of smug, loved up twats, intent on rubbing it in at every opportunity, 'What? You didn't get a card?? Oh well don't worry there's always next year...let me show you the gorgeous big, boxed one Barry sent me, oh he's such a love I told him not to bother, but you know what he's like...such a romantic!' Being a single mother at 16 has its advantages, let me tell you, one being I had a foolproof immunity to Valentines Days humiliation. I had my little daughter to think about, I sent her a Valentines Days card from whichever object of affection was current over the years. She's had cards from John Travolta (Grease), Corrie Haem (Lost Boys), Kenny Rodgers??? and many snotty nosed little beggars now long forgotten as well as the most delicious of all, Guess Who!! Did the same for my son and baby daughter growing up also. No fekking way were my kids going to face the pain of being the ones not to get a pink envelope, on the day. Nowadays, I don't have to worry, both daughters and even my big, shy, son have objects of mutual affection to protect them from Valentines Days blues. Me?? No... Darren and I didn't exchange cards, or even buy little token gifts we have in the past. We have achieved the seemingly impossible..we don't give a rats arse about a particular day, we are content in the knowledge that love isn't about a day a year, its everyday, every night, happy as a pair of porkers rolling around in the shit called life! Sorry, couldn't help a bit of a gloat....so.....to conclude, if you don't have a partucular warm body to snuggle up to when day is done...whats keeping you hun?? we were not meant to be alone. Believe me there is SOMEONE out there feeling/wanting/needing to be ying to your yang, don't delay, absolutely no excuse in this day of online dating  and chatrooms etc to be a miserable tosser alone if you don't want to be, but, just in case the heart at the top is meant especially for you, its from... Guess Who xxxxx Happy Valentines Day!

Sorry for neglecting you wee blog/ too many tweets !!

It has been 1 month since my last blog post, forgive me Internalised Disapproving Father, for neglecting this blog. The past 4 weeks have been a time of change, a time of self reflection. I always jokingly called myself a twitter addict, but it was not until I finally left, after much soul searching and a few lapses that I could actually admit that I have been addicted, not necessarily to the other twits I exchanged tweets with, as many I am in contact with via facebook, but the actual process, the immediate and exciting high of conversing with so many strangers, with so few constraints, no physical boundary apart from 140 characters limit. Towards the end of the Christmas break I drank too much wine and went off and created another twitter account. In the morning the realisation of what I had done was akin to wakening up in a strange bed listening to snoring coming from a fellow bedmate who's identity was completely unknown to me!!  Horror!! At first I couldn't remember my username or password, but eventually I worked it out. Guilty and facinated in equal measures I had a look at the account and the followerers I had already gained and the old ache to be a part of it flooded back. I kept it for a few days, dipping in and out, getting a rush from the secretive, guilty pleasure, but in the end, after significant cognitive dissonance, reason won out and I deleted the account again. This makes I think 4 twitter accounts I have created and deleted. How sad am I. As long as I can continue to delete and stay away from twitter, the better chance I have of beating this addiction. Oh I also managed to give up smoking. Giving up twitter was much more difficult. I am a serial stopper, so I hope on both counts that my period of abstinence will continue........... My name is Debbie and I am (still) a recovering twitterholic.

OK, so I didn't stay off Twitter!!

I was absolutely determined not to go back on twitter, after all the agonising about how it had turned me into someone I didn't like or even recognise. I realised that like any utility it is MY tool, I am not a slave to twitter. I would say that I was addicted, I even had strong psychological cravings for the excitement, the banter, the people. The problem and also the joyful hook is that in everyday life we have interpersonal relationships with anyone we come into contact with, be it family, friends, work collegues, clients or just a fellow traveller on the train. We can 'read' those situations, given that 90% of communication is non-verbal, ie; someone's facial expression the tone of their voice, their hand gestures or posture, allow us to appropriately respond within any given context. Someone I'm travelling next to on the train for example would not expect me to warmly embrace them or describe the underwear I have on, well they may actually like it were they an hetrosexual male, but given the context of the situation it may well scare the crap out of them (remember Fatal Attraction???). In a different situation, maybe with my husband or a close friend those actions would not be unusual 'for me'. You may have a less intimate way of going with your friends. My point is without the NON-VERBAL clues, we automatically infer 'traits' to the other person we are communicating with online. We do this based on our past experiances, on our secret longings, or unconscious desires. We attribute them with personality traits they may or may not have, traits that we strongly like, or strongly dislike. Where the mind has gaps of information it tends to fill from our own imagination. This is why quite often a movie may be a big dissappointment to someone who has loved the book, ie;the director's imagination was too different or fell short of what the viewers imagination had already attributed to the charecters, when reading and enjoying the written word. As you read this you may well believe that you have a fair idea of what I am like 'in real life', but unless you know me personally, your ideas are based mostly on your own imaginings of what I am like, and those will be based on whether what I have written has triggered a like or dislike response. If you were to meet me 'in real life' you may be very dissappointed or suprisingly pleased. This is the psychological phenomena I experianced  when I was twittering away communicating with a host of people I don't really know, but believed that truely we shared a bond, a kinship, between us. Smoke and Mirrors! Of course the reverse is also true, in that some twitter friendships I enjoyed grew into outside of twitter friendships, and I still regulary communicate with some previous twitter pals. We may even meet at some stage, but outside of the frenetic, competitive world of twitter, there is time, to develope those relationships, which may or maynot grow into real life friendships. Who knows. So why did I go back to twitter? Something that suprised me is that as well as interacting with other tweeters I gained access to an emmense store of knowledge on twitter, I missed the regular news updates that are so much superiour to the telly news! I missed being part of a community that supports human rights, and opposes oppression, and makes me smile with silly quotes and jokes. I am a seasoned tweeter now, I am not in it to 'feed my ego' ( I have my blog for that! :), seriously only kidding! I will not go chasing after followers, or feel I have to be entertaining to justify their follow. I will not break my neck to be at my laptop for every friday #FF night!!! I may not #FF recommend anyone again. In short I ,will be a sensible twitter user, content to bottom feed, lurking and chatting to a few, other, small fry like me at the bottom of the pool,  I will leave the shallows for the colourful, pretty, amusing folk, with their vast shoal of followers, the ones we all aspire to be  like, I am content just to be me.

Faltering Steps to recovery: self confessed twitterholic

Ok, so its been a week now, 7 days since I closed my twitter account and instantaneously lost contact with all the tweeps I knew and loved, and so far I'm still alive....I have been trying really hard to get along with facebook but to be honest I'm just not feeling the love. I have withdrawal symptoms, as bad as any I have suffered from nicotine withdrawal. I think a lot about the twitter pals I tweeted with regularly, well I did tweet every day practically for the past 6 months with these people, and some, a few favourite tweeps. I have linked up with on facebook. One very special twitter pal and I have become penfriends! A shaft of light in the darkness! Its friday tomorrow, Follow Friday and for the second time in 6 months I will not be taking part. When you consider that I tortured Darren in our trip to Amsterdam to make sure that I accessed an internet cafe to ensure I posted my FF recommendations, you may understand, that this is not something I am finding easy. Work collegues have noticed that I am not quite myself, and when I explain that I'm missing twitter some have responded with either blank stares, or retort with "well it's probably for the best, you did take it all sooooooo seriously." Yes, thanks for that, as if I don't know I took it all too seriously, wouldn't I still be on, twittering away if I had just treated it as a laugh? Funny though, it started out just being a bit of a laugh, before 'personal dynamics' came into the equation. I have tried to be addicted to housework (big fail!) or focus more on my work and family, but alone, driving on the long trek home, in the dark, and lately the rain, my mind wanders to my tweeps, I worry a bit that something terrible may have happened to someone I care about and I don't know because of my self-imposed exile. The 'what if'....scenarios enter my head, and by the time I'm home I am washed out with worrying. So, in truth I have cheated, I have peeked in from time to time via Darren's account and searched some of my previous friends accounts, just to make sure they are still tweeting, still there. Lurking behind the curtains, finding comfort in familure words, faces. Yes I know I'm sad, I know I sound nuts, so it is with addiction. My name is Debbie, and I am a recovering twitterholic.

Twitter : Im out of the race

6 months ago I joined twitter, as many new converts do, I followed famous twits, Stephen Fry, Ashton Kutcher, Neil Gaiman , Alyssa Milano.  I didn't expect dialogue, with these people and of course, there was none. I was way too far behind the leaders. The formula 1 of the twitter race. I used twitter almost as a visible stream of consciousness, and along the way, I gained followers. I inturn followed these twits and so it went on. Relationships started to develop with these people, I discovered that, tweeting with ordinary tweeps, even if they didn't reveal their true identities was so much more rewarding than trailing behind the Twitter elite. I looked for people to tweet with that were involved in topics I care about. Nursing, especially mental health nursing, homelessness, human rights, and comedic writers. I stumbled upon a few fellow tweeters that I strongly identified with, and for a while was a member of our own elite gang. A member of a twitter subgroup. It was heady, exciting, and so, so addictive. Our leader, although he may not have recognised it, @willmarch was so irreverant, terribly funny (at times caustically so) and I thought so brave. Even behind the facade of a fake name and funny little animal avatar I kind of hero worshipped him and felt so privilaged when he seemed to find me entertaining also. I followed people he followed, and found such a diverse range of characters, who charmed and enthralled me. @AskJincCat, @destiny2711, @KatieMcCullough. I also found through a common interest in human rights, many courageous people tweeting to raise awareness of the terrible human rights abuse, torture and murder of Iranian election protesters. Good people all. @tonytrainor ,a fantastic reporter, became a twitter friend also. Some tweeters like Tony, the Iranian protesters group , Melvin, @traveldudes the well travelled, approachable guru of all thing travel related and and the irrepressible Katie McCullough, also, a lovely writer @natalieallan have become friends on my facebook network also. I stopped following the famous and also, eventually the not quite but aiming to be famous tweeps who would sometimes reply back. I spent every available on twitter and to be honest, not so available spare minutes (my house became a total shambles!). I say twitter is a race and the immediacy of the interaction can be frantic, and competitive. To have more followers than you follow became not so  much a goal, as a drive. I closed my account with 194 tweeps I followed, and 406 followers, and even though I'm a recovering twittaholic I still feel a measure of satisfaction at that level of success. (how sad am I? Early days yet, have some pity!) All human relationships can be complicated, even in the virtual world, and I have a very dodgy suspension of disbelief button (ask my husband or kids and they will tell you tis so very true) and so I wear my heart on my sleeve a lot, get over involved, believe in a level of shared imtimacy that is in my head rather than 'out there'. Three 'events' conspired to convince me to close my account earlier this week: my ex-husband expressed an interest in joining twitter, I have not shared a marriage for over 10 years with the man and so was repelled at the thought of him 'snooping' on my tweets, I got hacked in my DM (direct message) box and felt violated, and last but not least, I unforgivably offended Will March on Thursday evening, 12th November. He tweeted that he was closing his account. I had  been trying so hard to be 'entertaining' (look at me, I'm controversial and amusing), that I was actully cruel and insensitive. He got out of his 'twitter racecar' and quietly walked away. I was watching him in my rear view mirror, shouting, don't go I'm sorry, then I crashed and burned. End of. I moved to comparative safety of facebook, it is not as exhilerating or competitive (even the games are more friendly than cut-throat) more of a ramble down a country lane, with plenty of stops to look at the pictures than the furiously fast pace of the twitter highway, but, for now, I need to get out of the race and smell the roses. Also my dear, much put upon husband says he is glad to have me all to himself again :)

Growing up in Belfast, amid bombs and testosterone: Chapter 1

I came here from Canada. If Canada was bright daylight and distinct seasons, Belfast was all drizzle and dangerous foggy nights. Canada was clean and healthy childhood innocence, Belfast was dark with an electric current of breathless anticipation. Teens for me lasted between the ages of 12 and 16 years. At 16 I ran off to get married. At 16 I became a mother for the first time.
I was restless, I was skinny, I had no breasts to speak of despite all the rubbing I did to promote growth. Someone in school told me Barbara McGee had big ones because they were hand grown,(SHE had a boyfriend) so I tried to coax some growth into my little fried eggs by regular massage. It must not have worked unless someone else did the coaxing. I always felt like life was something that happened to other people. It was there all right I was just not part of it. I mitched school, I started smoking. I hated school. Glencairn Secondary School for Girls was the Belfast version of St. Trinnians but without the slapstick homour. I hated being called snob from snobhill because we lived in a 'bought' house so I determined to be best at being bad. I was the best mitcher, the best smoker, the best at throwing my life away as fast as I could.
In first year I was voted by the class to compete in Miss Glencairn, by second year I was so out of it I don't remember much of what little time I spent there. Ballygomartin Presbyterian Church disco held a youth club come disco, where I and my little band of awkward youth spent every Saturday night. I can't remember who first introduced me to solvents, but one of my cronies, approached me in the toilets with a balled up tissue and dared me to sniff the contents. Lady Esquire, leather cleaner to the bootclad, sensible population, nectar of intense intoxication to each of us huddled in the cubicle.It became our drug of choice. It was cheap, it was easily accessible from the local Woolworths, it smelled nice. At first inhalation Beetoven's Fifth boomed in my ears, my brain, my surroundings. I swayed out of the loo, into the disco. Spirit in the Sky, "when I die and they lay me to rest gonna go to the place that's the best....." I was no longer a malcontent skinny schoolgirl, I was air. I was water, I was a living embodiement of the faltering lyrics. I was hooked

Mea Culpa my love/hate affair with smoking

I was 12 years old, cocky, bit out of control. I was sitting astride Phil's 750 worn but impressive Yamaha, chatting. Phil was 17, a friend of my older brother, long hair, leather jacket smelling of petrol and cigarettes. I asked if I could have a draw of his No 6, chuffed when he handed it to me, mostly chuffed that he and his mates were treating me like a was a teenager and female. I was attempting flirtation, smoking like I was an expert, confident that I looked older with my khol eyeliner and scarlet lips. We were talking about some obscure lyrics  from a band that I had not heard of but was pretending I loved. I felt the displaced air around my left ear before I felt the pain. My scarlet smile died, just like the easy going ambience. I fell forward and twisted into a spin jump,landing catlike, facing my father.' HOME ',he snarled. I ran ahead, fuck fuck fuck, I'm so dead, my feet beat into the pavement. At home I raced to the bathroom and locked the door. 'Give me a stick, ' my father yelled 'a big stick, I'm gonna break that wee girl's bones!' I looked frantically around the bathroom, I used to be able to fit through the small, uppermost window, but since*cringe* I had become a woman ( I hated the term menstruation) and had the beginnings of hips and baby breasts , I couldn't fit anymore. A row ensued outside the door, my Mum was demanding to know what the problem was and was drawing my Dad's fire. I unscrewed Dad's razor and thought 'Do it, end this fucking useless existence, I'm nothing but a pain to everyone anyway, I hated them all but myself much, much, more. He didn't kill me, I didn't kill myself, and smoking became a part of who I am.
Now, once again, I am attempting to turn my back on smoking, to convice myself, this is NOT who I am. It makes no sense. My mum and Darren's dad both suffer from a smoking-related disease. I have stopped so many times I have lost count. I am a serial stopper. I stopped once for 6 years, never smoked when I carried or breast fed any of my 3 children. Last time I gave up, I stopped for 6 months and felt better, looked better, had so much more energy. Then one of my homeless clients was murdered. Stabbed to death, in June of this year. I knew him for 2 years. I liked him. I ran to the newspapershop and greedily sucked the deadly fumes deep into my lungs, as if it was oxygen and I had been suffocating. Now I am starting to feel the minus health effects again, too frequent colds, using my asthmatic meds more often, post midnight wheeze. My Dad is not around to get a big stick to beat the evil out of me. I am my own judge, jury and executioner. 3 days.............and counting.

A week is an awfully short time/ Tiny's story

I cannot believe it has been a week since I last posted on our return from Amsterdam, God that was a fast week! Work has been hectic, a lot of young homeless people with a host of complex needs. I have been working with homeless clients for over two years now, and it has flown by! No two weeks, or even, no two days are the same in this job. I talked with my eldest daughter about the stresses and strains of the job and she said I don't know how you can detach yourself from the plight of your clients, when you come home, and the truth is I can't. Not without my family, dogs, home, Rose Wine, and twitter to keep me balancing precariously on the sane side if the fine line. I don't let it go entirely, but I can't bring all my clients home to live with me, although every so often I feel like I want to. Especially the young ones. Kids really. Which brings me to the one time I brought home, not a client but his dog, Tiny.
I had been visiting this patient as his CPN for a few weeks. I called to see him more often than my role warrented, but I was very concerned about him.Tiny's owner, I will call him Tony, was in his 50's but looked more like 80. He smoked 80+ a day and had schizophrenia. He lived alone, except for this wee jack russell. Tiny. Tiny was his life. He also suffered from chronic heart disease. He had problems with fluid retention, due to his weakened heart function, and didn't have trousers that fit. So he sat in one room, unable to stand, trousers around his knees, unable to wash, or walk any distance. He spent all day/night watching a tv white noise screen( not tuned in for picture or sound) He refused to allow me to tune it in as he saw all his favourite movie screen goddesses, Marilyn Monroe, ect on the screen. He had a care package, carers called 3 times a day to help him wash and make him meals, but he refused their offers  to walk to the bathroom and they didn't argue. Just made him ready meals and pre-packaged trifle, and left. I logged their visits as lasting 6 minutes. He was so dirty I didn't know he had brown hair until he was in hospital. He had weeping leg ulcers that a district nurse called to dress daily, but as soon as she left, he undid the dressings to let Tiny lick, he thought the dog had a better chance of healing them. I tortured the Care Manager, and his GP with telephone calls. I was afraid he would die alone. His sister in law brought him groceries and cigarettes and managed his benefits but had her own burdens to bear, and couldn't spend much time. He wheezed, the dog wheezed, he smoked, so the dog smoked with him.The GP finally agreed to me at his home one evening and called an ambulance to take him into hospital. He agreed only if I would take and look after his beloved wee dog. I visited him in hospital and the staff kindly let me bring Tiny in to see him on three occassions. I gave him a photograph of her he kept at his side. When he died, within a matter of weeks the same photograph was buried with him. I brought Tiny to the funeral, and she was the centre of attention. Sometimes when I look at her I swear I see Tony's expression. She sleeps with us, is on my knee as soon as I am through the door (makes it difficult to manage on the loo!)and is the source of much happiness. She no longer wheezes, can run(almost) as fast as our collie, Rachel. I do not forget where she came from. As she is an wee old doggie, she may not be with us for too many years to come, but I know someone who will be very glad to welcome her to wherever he may be, and I sincerely hope Marilyn Monroe is also there to say Hi!

Be it ever so humble

Home safe and sound from our Amsterdam trip, no matter how nice it is to be away on a trip, it is always lovely to come home. Smooth travel thanks to Easyjet and the impressive Amsterdam transport options, we traveled on the tram to our hotel. My first time on a tram, although my Mum told me back in the day trams operated in Belfast. We dined in a Nepalese resturant on spiced lamb, excellent! Then went off in search of the Iran protest meeting in Dam Square. the arranged time, 7.30pm as posted on twitter, came and went. No sign of any protestors. I approached a group of people as I spotted one guy was wearing a green wristband, but no. He had not a clue what I was asking him about, and my gestures( waving my arms around) accompanied by shouting Iran? Protest? Human Rights? Soon had the lot of them scarpering in the opposite direction, they probably thought I spent too much time in the Coffee House! I was a little gutted but mostly sad for the tweeps supporting the protestors of  the human rights violations happening in Iran. So we did not let this setback get us down and headed straight off to the Red Light District, Scams was curious :) Again I was struck by how different Amsterdam is to Belfast. The prosititues are protected by law and have even formed their own trade union! Business was brisk and we saw quite a few 'occupied' booths. The atmosphere was good natured , and when we visited a sex shop I was suprised to see several lone female shoppers quite comfortably browsing the products on offer. We didnt know what most of the goods were, and did a bit of childish giggling, but I can honestly say that I am no longer a porn virgin, 3 TV's screened graphic penetration way too up close and personal. I did not find it a turn on, I think for a lot of women, the offer of a cup of tea, or I'll do the dishes tonight, you put your feet up, love, is much more of an aphrosidiac than the (painful looking) shagging going on there. No, we did not buy porn, we did make a modest purchase but I won;t go into too many details, except to say that we bought the same product for our Sons-in-law as a keepsake of Amsterdam(and they both were mightly pleased their pressies)! We did visit a coffee shop and Scams had coffee. I had one of the other 'goods' on offer, but kept it real, no over indulgence to regret. On our way back to the hotel we heard some shouting, and hopeful that the Protest was at last happening turned to investigate, A group of Belfast Boys singing 'the sash my father wore' were the culprits, so we did not join in the singing. Amsterdam memories? Bikes, everywhere, all over, coming from all directions, all the time. Beautiful canals,candlelit dinners, eaten outside, strolling along a particular canal back to our hotel, the long tall buildings luminious in the darkness spilling light and laughter onto the still water. Holding my husband's hand and feeling safe because he was there, celebrating our past 10 years of being in love, by remaining in love. We will go back to Amsterdam, maybe in a few years, and as long as I am with my Scams I am sure it will be just as special.

We are off to Amsterdam!!! Goddammit!

I love to travel, and now that my kids are no longer attached to my breast (youngest22!) the opportunities to travel are greater now than at any other time in my life. Last year Darren and I had a fantastic Road trip starting in Toronto(Canada)-Saint Catharines ( my birthplace)-Niagra-Buffalo-Salem (Mass.)-Boston-Mystic (Conn.)-New York. Before this trip I has preconceived idea's about USA and Americans, that, as I discovered were completely wrong! I loved being in Canada, and despite my protestations that I didn't miss Canada I had a huge emotional response to my place of birth, and when I stepped into the street (Mackie Avenue, Port Dalhousie, Ontario) where I spent the first 8 years of my life I felt overwhelmingly that I was home. I have always felt a bit of a 'blow in' in Ireland, I was brought up as a Protestant, but never felt in tune with loyalist, or Unionist traditions. When I made friends with Irish Nationalists, while studying BA in Fine Art, I had great sympathy with the Nationalist cause, and traditional Irish music did (and still does) make me wish that I had Celtic blood racing through my veins. I couldn't say that growing up in Belfast I felt different, infact ,I tried really hard to fit in,memories of my first year in a Belfast primary school and being asked to swear in a Canadian accent for the amusement of my P4 classmates,( I think they mostly turned into Loyalist paramilitaries, although 2 died in IRA bombs).

But, I felt at home in Canada, so much so, that on our return, I asked my kids to move with us( I still hold a Canadian Passport and my kids also qualify for one), but they were reluctant. So we will have to see how that goes. the dream is not completely dead. So, any way, where was I? Oh yes back to today, this morning in fact, Darren and I are heading to Amsterdam, he booked this trip to commemorate our 10 years of being a couple ( married for past 4).  Later discovered that we will be in the Dam in time to take part in the 'Free Iran' protest. Great! Darren says he is not protesting, but making sure I don't get arrested! If you follow me on Twitter you will know that the situation in Iran is one I have become passionate about. All those kids, murdered, raped and tortured! I look at those faces, innocents slain and I think, that could have been any of my children, is anyone above and beyond the risk of being a victim from  tyranny or oppression? Our past conflict is not so far away in terms of time or memory to comfortably believe that. So the ability to add my voice to the throng of others demanding the world take notice,and act to stop the horror that is happening on a daily basis, is not one I want to miss. Also a fellow tweeter @velvetescape is an Amsterdammer, and hearing we will be there tweeted me and offered to meet for coffee. So that is happening(if I don't get arrested ) on Thursday, all this and the unique Amsterdam culture awaits. So excited.