Tempest in a teacup

I am currently working on organizing the Thea van Oosten's reference collection of plastic artefacts. I was a superstar up until yesterday. I had completed assigning numbers to each object, inventorying the collection and taking simple "ID" photos with the limited camera setup. I began my next phase which was to enter the objects and their photos into the database, along with descriptions and measurements. Simple, right?

Wrong.

Things were just hunkydory until I got to this one particular blue teacup (yes CCMers, I know this is an atrocious photo, but I am doing the best I can with no tripod and bad lights).

I did not know it at the time, but this teacup would be the undoing of myself and the database. When I entered the photo, it showed up in the database like this.


Annoyed, I tried to re-enter the photo. This is an approximation of what happened.

There thought it was best to shut the program down and re-start. So far over 300 photos had been entered without any issue. So once the program was ready, I thought I'd try to enter the photo one last time.

Cursing my fate, I was very close to giving up. Then I realized... maybe the file was too large for the system to handle. Ha ha ha. Silly me, I just need to resize the photo. I did, and this is what happened.

This is an actual photo of the database screen. Yes. That is a tiny image of a teacup. I had to call my collegues over to make sure that I wasn't losing my mind. Anna quipped, "let me know if a bowl of soup shows up. Then we know it's time to go home and have dinner." I'm holding out for a wineglass, but a bowl of soup will do.

A Supposedly Delicious Thing I'll Never Eat Again

Today I ate my first croquette. A croquette is a small fried roll with a creamy, minced inside. Although croquettes originate from France, they have spread to the Netherlands, and apparently are a very popular Dutch fast food. They are in bizzarre fast food vending machines everywhere, and also in our cafeteria. I had watched the lovely Marleen (another intern, and the posterchild for Dutch good looks: tall, impossibly leggy, blond) eat a croquette for lunch several times. She smushes hers on a bread roll and tops it with mustard. She always looks very happy eating this "treat" of hers. Perhaps this was some sort of Dutch beauty secret. So today I thought I would give in and give it a try. Horrible idea.

I understand that there is no accounting for taste, and that I like a lot of things other people find weird. But imagine, if you will, cheap mushroom soup left to congeal to a luke warm mass. Wrap that in the greasiest mix of breadcrumbs and sorrow. Deepfry in oil that was used to deep fry old sneakers. This is the croquette.

Never again.

P.S. The moody picture of the croquette is NOT MINE. I stole it from the internet (sorry internet) because I was too hungry to take a picture of the one I ate.

Sam's bike ride of TERROR

In which Sam abandons the clumsy "in which" pretense in order to fully express the HORROR of this experience...

I often remark to Leo that fear is my "default state." I am always in a constant state of low level terror. Many things scare me including:

children and babies (if you didn't know this, it's because I have been pretending so they don't take my Good Woman card away)

people

cars

speaking on the telephone

photography

straight lines

using big knives while cooking

people watching me cook

BIKES

This is a short list, not in any order. But if I was going to rank my fears, bicycles would be near the top. I was never much of a cyclist. I rode bikes as a kid with my sister, but my bike was more of a toy (for games such as bike polo) than a means of transportation. I rode on the sidewalks, never the streets and never very far. The first and only time I went on a Real City Bike Ride was with my dear friend Emma in grade 10. Emma seemed unflusterable and effortlessly street smart when we were growing up, and I was always afraid of letting on that I was a Big Baby Mc Cry Face. So I tried to be all casual when she asked me to ride my bike to school with her. We rode on the road, like real people, terrifying cars whizzing by as my thighs burned. Somehow I managed to get to school without dying. It was on my way home that my bike finally turned on me. While riding at a snail's pace in front of my high school, the wheel of my bike bumped over some invisible glophum, and I was thrown face first into the gravel. In front of a crowd of jeering teenagers. If my memory serve me well (and it always does, right?), the crowd was merciless. They circled me, shrieking, chanting, chucking hackey sacks and Dave Matthews CDs at my prone body. Even my former best friend Squirrel joined in, kicking small tufts of dirt at me with his tiny rodent hindquarters.

Please add teenagers to the list of fears above.

Anywho, it was horrible all-bruising experience, and I never rode a bicycle again.

When I found out I was going to Amsterdam, the second question everyone would ask me (after nudging enquires about the city's Crazy Debauchery) was "are you going to get a bike?" Strike that. It wasn't even a question. It was a statement. You are getting a bike. I'd nod happily and change the subject.

The bike pushers continued to harass me once I arrived in Amsterdam. There were recommendations of second hand bike shops. There were friends of friends who could probably loan me a bike. I was even tormented at work, if you can believe it. A fellow from a different department offered to lend me one of his spare bikes for my time in the city. The nerve! When he mentioned the spare bike again today, I finally gave in. I'd take the tram to his place and pick up the damn bike. I could always fabricate lies about carefree bike rides, and he would never know the truth.

But wait... how was I going to get the bike home? Bikes are not allowed on the tram. And his house was at an unwalkable distance from mine. I was going to have to ride the bike home.

And I did it! I managed to get terribly lost, despite the clear directions. And I'm sure the other bike riders were snickering at my slow pace and wobbly starts. But don't go thinking that this is a happy ending, that I've learned to conquer my fears. Like they say, "there's nothing to fear except A LOT OF HORRIBLE THINGS TO FEAR." I'm not sure if I trust this bike, and the bike probably does not trust me. It's only a matter of time before it turns on me. If you do not hear from me again, please avenge me.

In which Sam is happily moved into her apartment

Ahoy folks,

I realize my last post were a little on the somber and stressy side. Now it's all easy breezy sammy time. Everything's puppies. I've moved into my apartment. Would you like to see it, dearest readers? I'll give you a tour.

That there is my apartment building. I live on the second floor. It's in the Jordan area, which is very hip. Like me, right? It's about a 15-20 minute walk to work. Amazing!

This is my bedroom. I have many lamps. I also have two helmets. The staircase is very narrow and steep with small elven stairs. So if I am worried, I can wear one of the helmets for stair climbing. The other helmet is the guest helmet. I realize now that I should have taken a picture of the of the shelf to the right of my bed. It contains many treasures belonging to my landlord, including the helmets. He cleaned some of the stuff out the other day, but I told him to leave most of it. It makes the place feel homey. I have arranged these objects (helmets, lamps, drums, vases, old fax machine) as small mini-exhibits.

This is my shower closet. Basically you open the door and BAM, shower. The basin is there because my hot water wasn't working (it's fixed now) and I decided sponge bath was preferable to icy shower. If guests are difficult when they come to visit they have to stay in the shower closet for time out. With the light off.

That's my kitchen. To the right (the picture's left) is my stove and fridge. Don't worry, I have them! But the fridge seems to be unable to do anything other than freeze (yes dear reader, I turned the dial to the lowest setting). Tomorrow I call my landlord to fix this.

So I guess you're bored with my apartment tour. Don't go away yet! Let me tell you about work. It's great so far. To begin with, everyone is very laid back and nice. Which is off-putting, because apparently I'm tightly wound. They say "stop working for a bit, let's have coffee" and I panic. I am working with another intern, Marlene, in order to organize (inventory, number, condition report, identify) and hopefully clean the Plastics Reference Collection van Oosten. She's lovely, and is putting up with my gleeful brandishing of Chenhall's Revised Nomenclature so far. Besides Thea and Anna, there is Suzanne (who works with FTIR), Naomi (a student working on dye identification with FTIR) and Anna (the fabulous Italian plastics conservator).

I have important things to do now (I really want to eat an apple). So I'll leave it at that for now.

CCM Journal 1: In Which Sam Is Nearly Kicked Out of the Country

My cramped plane rolls into Amsterdam at 6:30 in the morning. Or 12:30 at night Toronto time. My seat mate is hammered, or so my other seat mate tells me. I smile tightly, afraid of setting off a drunken brawl. So this is the city of vice.

Everyone seems to think this is why I wanted to go to Amsterdam. Up until my departure it's been all nudges and winks and knowing glances. But I am actually here because of the opportunity to work under the supervision of Thea van Oosten, plastics conservator extraordinaire. Not only is she brilliant, but she's also terribly nice. She is here to pick me up at the airport and drive me to her house where I will be staying until my apartment is ready. Instead of going straight to her place we stop by the lab to start off Our Adventure in Bureaucracy and my personal Adventure in Jetlag.

Thea fills out forms for my internship and introduces me to several people. I stare at them blankly in my sleepless haze. It is now 3am Toronto time. All of the Official Rosetta Stone Dutch I've studied has proven worthless. No one wants to talk about red apples or running boys. Luckily everyone at the institution speaks English. Despite my haziness, I am overjoyed to be in the ICN lab. Wait, scratch that. I mean RCE.

There has been an official name change to go with the new year. A big cupboard of plastics against one wall of the lab. They are organized by colour. That little bit of un-sciencism touches shriveled little heart. Thea even tries to show me the FTIR machine and explain the readings she is getting for artificially aged cellulose acetate. I'm really excited about this, but my jet lag has brought my comprehension skills to an all-time low.

Our next stop is the Expat office, where I am to get my SOFI number. This is so I can get a bank account for the stipend I am (very luckily) receiving. We are told we need an appointment, but somehow we make our way to an office to start procedures. There are forms. In Dutch. Thea fills out most of them, while I sign where necessary. My passport and long form birth certificate (both authorized and legalized) is checked out. And suddenly our smooth sailing turns stormy. I'm missing a stamp in my passport. We're told we need to speak to the IND immigration official. We are led into another room where a stern and angry looking man flips through an authoritive looking book. The conversation between Thea and the official is in high speed Dutch. I catch something about working and about four months. Red apples or running boys are not mentioned. We leave the office SOFI numberless and stampless.

The next day after several calls to IND and RCE's HR department Thea and I find out I do not have the proper visa arranged. Although I thought this was being done by the institution, due to company upheaval (the change from ICN to RCE, the HR person Thea had dealt with leaving) and my Canadian citizenship (all previous interns had been from Europe, thus requiring very little paperwork) I am visaless. And since visas take months and months and millions of dollars to arrange, there is no changing this. I have to leave the country after 3 months or I will be clogged to death.

As if I am in a movie, whispers of my CCM Internship Manual dance in my head "Processing of visas can be time consuming," "Is extra preparation required in this area?" Luckily my program supervisors are understanding and willing to work with Thea and I in order to solve this conundrum. I will be logging in as many extra hours as I can... otherwise it's off to the canoe museum for a special 3 week internship!

ALTERNATE POINT FORM VERSION

(in case you don't feel like wading through my hyperbole)

-Hey international interns, double and triple check all paperwork needs. Even if you are assured that you don't need a certain form, get one anyway.

-Are you going to a different country? Practice, practice, practice that

foreign language. Otherwise it will slip away.

-Artificial light and heat aging of cellulose acetate samples is super cool

-Also amazing: the stress showing machine. I'm not exactly clear on how this works, but the highly stressed areas of the PMMA show up as rainbow coloured, while PMMA under less stress shows up as clear

-My English is an asset! As part of the popART project the polypropylene tapestry treatment will be featured on a website. I'm coming up with questions ("Would you like to learn more about FTIR spectroscopy?") and will be expected to help with phrasing/word choice issues.