Amsterdam I am.

As I write this, I am riding on a train looking out on the beautiful Dutch...grafitti. Colorful, at least.

I am sure the countryside will begin soon.

Well, this whole trip started with what I was dreading most. A 14 hour plane ride. The good news: I am terrible at math and the plane ride was only 8 hours.

The bad news: 8 hours was long enough. They didn’t even play movies until hour 4.

But it is so funny how small of a world it is. John Montgomery sat by two girls from Ole Miss on a plane going to Amsterdam with tons of other people. The ladies in front of us—Mississippi. I was very proud of my Mississippi gentleman. They all helped the senior ladies with their luggage on the carts. Apparently, it was some group that takes senior citizens around. What a trip that will be. They all were wearing fanny packs around their necks?

Speaking of fanny packs, Father Breland tried to get me to wear one. He said he could “arrange me a fanny pack”. This only solidifies my beliefs that my father is in a fanny pack mob. Arranges, Allen? Oh parents and their suggestions.

We arrived in the aiport dreading the customs and the passport line. We were expecting to fill out paperwork and being searched. In my imagination, I saw myself being put in an interrogation room and them yelling at me. WHY OSNABRUCK MISSY???

Uh. They only said have a nice trip . Stamped me. And off I went. Customs, I just walked through.

Not nearly as terrible as any of us thought.

Then came the fun part. Understanding Dutch signs. This is what they looked like.

Rykytlkennekt.

Next, was the part I was really worried about. After researching hotel rooms for 3 days, I was responsible for getting the room and the quality of them. The website said 1 double bed and 2 twin beds. With three boys, this was critical. Otherwise, we were about to get real cozy. Real fast.

The Best Western Amsterdam Airport did not disappoint. Were we cramped ? A little. And the twin beds were pushed together. I tried my best to push them apart.

Cooties are a serious illness.

Next we went back to the airport thanks to our free aiport shuttle (5 points for me) and we did the most frustrating thing of our trip yet.

We got lost in the airport train station. Like I said with signs that say this: ekljouetznkn. It is a little hard to know where you are going.

After going to three different platforms, we got on the right train. However, no one checked our tickets and there was nothing when we got off. We basically could have just jumped on one without going through the hassle of paying for tickets and then going on a train. But oh well. We can die knowing we did the right thing.

From the train station, we arrived in the heart of Amsterdam at Centraal Station. I nominated that we do a canal bus tour. This is a taxi/gondola that rides through the canals and has tourist destinations. Since we did not arrive in the ‘dam until 2:00, I thought it would be smart to buy a 24 hour pass. So that we could ride at night.

That was my thought process. Turns out the boat has nighttime excursions and you cannot ride it at night. So, we paid for a trip for Saturday. The boys were not happy and I got demoted to the role of “voice or reason.”

Regardless, we bought that one, the most expensive one of course, and we hopped on and enjoyed the most beautiful way to see Amsterdam.

I am now a photography freak. However, I was rivaled by an aggressive Asian threesome who literally would shove me out of the way to get their shots. Then, they would stand in the way of my shots.

At first, I just smiled and got out of the way. And then, as the ride continued, I got frustrated. So I started to not move out of the way. I am now in 2083508 of their shots. I know I will either be on their mantle or in their holiday greeting cards. I consider it a victory. And they just kept holding up peace signs.

From the bus/gondola, we moved on the Van Gogh museum. We were really starting to feel the jet lag. In hindsight, a museum is not really a rousing time to get your energy going. At the museum, we looked like we had just run a marathon or gone to a funeral. We were not pleasant.

Also, I am going to help spearhead a letter for Amsterdam that will go something like this.

Dear New York,

We would like to have Starry Night by Van Gogh back. You see, tourists come and pay a lot of money expecting to see Starry Night. It angers Americans to tell them, they could have stayed in their homeland to see their favorite Van Gogh painting. First class is acceptable to send it back. We knew you would understand.

Sincerely,

Amsterdam.

From above, you can see we were all dumbfounded to know that Starry Night was not there. Emphasis on dumb. Probably should have done our research.

We had our first “bier” on this side of the Atlantic. I heard it was cheaper than water but didn’t believe it until I saw it.

It’s true.

A water is 3 euros. My bier? 2.40 euros. And when they serve you, they served you water in a cup no bigger than a cup from the dentist’s office. Life is constantly an adjustment but I love it!

After that, we accidentally happened upon the red light district. That was an experience. I tried not to react so as not to me look super-American and because clasping hands over eyes and squinting through them may seem a tad elementary.

In Amsterdam, it does not get dark until 11:00 at night which we were not expecting. Although we arrived in the city at 2:00, it felt like a whole day due to the fact that we ate up the sunshine and explored for miles. My legs have not been this sore since cheer camp back in high school.

The gentleman got angry with me because I made them miss our bus because I was too busy taking pictures. The magic was all around me and I could not stop snapping pics. I am not the favorite tripmate. But I am not apologetic. I tried to comfort them with the fact that hey, we are only here once.

It somehow didn’t work. Cursewords and hand ruffling through hair ensued.

We ended the night grabbing dinner at a quaint little pub and trying a new bier that I have never heard before. I cannot even spell it but the waitress said it was Heineken’s mortal enemy.

We came home to our suite and passed out. This morning we did the most European thing possible for breakfast. We ate a croissant and got a coffee at this lovely little café a la golden arches.

We ate at McDonalds.

But it was lovely. It is 400x better than the American McDonalds.

After that we went back to the black hole aka the train station and now here we are. On a cozy little car on the way to Osnabruck.

Since writing this, we experienced excitement. The German police came on and kicked these two men in our car off because they did not have their passports. When asked what country they were from, they replied Afghanistan. Actually, we don’t speak German, so we don’t know the question. Just understood Afghanistan.

Just a day in the life.

The Story before the story.

Identity and heritage. Oh, how I have pined for those two. Growing up, I envied anyone with the last name that sounded one bit ethnic. I envied those who said, “Oh my Dad is half Italian. My grandparents migrated here from their orange groves.” Or, “Oh, tales from the motherland.” Or worse, those girls with beautiful olive skin that made me the dairy non-fat creamer to their coffee. Or people who can say, “My drinking problem? That’s the Irish in me.” And then precedes to tell a story about his great uncle that once wrestled in a pub after a fellow lad looked at his lassie the wrong way.

Granted, I made those particular situations up. BUT THEY DO HAPPEN. Just not those particular stories. But you all know the type of people I am talking about.

This desire for heritage has blown up into a desire to visit Italy, Greece, Ireland, Spain or any European country and for me to go into a town and be greeted by men with hats and pipes and women with aprons and smile lines. I imagined myself lean and dressed in black in France. Eating a baguette and wondering if my relatives ate at this very same bistro!

Or perhaps in Spain, dancing, with a rose in my hair, moving unnaturally good to the music for an American, and the locals smiling and saying, Aye Aye! Her ancestors were the famous flamenco dancers.

Or in Greece, baking side by side with a long lost cousin making a family recipe for food that is too local and too delicious for any American-Greek restaurant to replicate.

Thus, I always knew my first trip to Europe would be meaningful and the stuff that books and movies are made of. I knew it would be a trip of self-discovery , culture, and a new habit that would allow me to say, “Sorry, I picked that up in Europe.”

I wanted my first to Europe to special. I wanted to hold off until I knew where my roots where so that I can go visit the mother-land/home-land. So, I applied to go to South Africa for the summer. And that was that. Two weeks later I applied for my passport to go to South Africa. Everything seemed settled.

On possibly one of the worst days of my spring semester, I opened an email that read CONGRATS! YOU’VE BEEN SELECTED TO GO TO---GERMANY!!

Uh…pretty sure I did not make that my first choice…and pretty sure that is in Europe.

Germany-land of the beer (gross), bad history , and a wall. Those were the three conversation points that immediately popped into my head about that land whose flag was gold, red, and black.

Then, I saw the list of students I would be going with . Three boys. Awesome. Three sets of raging hormones, mischief, and no “asking of directions” for 25 days.

But that was me still bitter about not going to South Africa and losing my Euro-trip virginity.

Me, Now? Well, that’ s a different story.

Until about 24 hours ago, I was heritage-less. I had lots of dreams and theories. But ultimately, I had no clue what I was.

My grandfather comes to see me off in Forest and send me well-wishes to Europe. Greg Breland is man full of caution. From bungee jumping to boiling water, he has some tidbit of caution to provide you at all times. He gave my father the biggest spanking that my dad can remember for not looking two ways before crossing the street.

Grandaddy in the midst of hugs and kisses said, Oh I have something for you. Now, I am the only granddaughter and my nickname is Sweet Baby. So I am used to this exchange.

He handed me a manila folder and just said this may interest you since you’re going to Germany.

I was prepared for a frightening book about all the things that could go wrong in Germany without the proper precautionary actions.

Instead, I found my family history.

I’m German.

From Northern Germany to be exact.

So, in one fell swoop, at the ripe old age of 21, I found my roots. And got my dream all at once.

Grandadddy, unbeknownst to him, rocked my world.

God, my ultimate Daddy, just smiled (probably) and reminded me how He could do so much with my failures and disappointments.

And now, I sit on Delta flight something something something, going to see the land of my ancestors, get some college credit, and learn what it would be like to grow up with three brothers.

It is fitting for my life really. Having some fantasy and then living it out, accidentally. And without my timing or my plans at all.

Here I go. Maybe I will run into some Briechlyns. (that’s my German family and where my name originates) And maybe they can teach me how to make the best bratwurst. Or maybe I will find out I inherited a brewery. Or maybe, my rich cousin will loan me his beemer.

Or maybe, I will just enjoy myself. And learn some German along the way.

But I can eat at a pub, and still dream about my uncle helping fight against the Gestapo, and meeting a spy at this very same pub.

Roots cannot stop this imagination.

Dinner Time.

Greetings from the district!

As I sit on my bed thinking of what to write, I instantly want to vent, complain, and relay all of my mishaps and crazy stories. I started this blog to tell everyone of the daily mishaps/odd incidences that only happens to me.

But just like an aroma that starts from a plug-in and fills a room, I do not want to make this blog a place of odor. I don't want to be a home for the negative.

So, despite the fact that I have no air conditioning right now (subtle complaint--I just can't help myself) or that I saw a rat twice tonight at dinner, I had a lovely evening. And really just a lovely time.

Tonight, the power went out at Richard's house ruining our attempt to make/grill/by grill we mean microwave some burgers. Our friend Chris (really Mary Alex's friend, but he is now starting to become ours) invited us to come share in his dinner party. Instead of our veggie burgers, we ate eggplant parmesan, outside in the backyard under twinkly lights, with mason jars filled with wine. It. was.perfect. And unplanned. Avett Brothers was playing in the background. It was like a hipster's paradise. We were just missing a fedora, jorts, and converse combo. (Imagine the photo above but minus like 30 cool points...but it was still perfect!)

Around the table were people from Cali, Philly (both MS and PA) New York, Chicago, the Mid-west, and of course, the one and only M-i-crooked letter-crooked letter-i-crooked letter-i-crooked letter-i-hunchback-hunchback-i.

All of these people have different stories, different personalities. Yet we all dined together. With plastic forks.

I think a table can bring people together faster than it takes water to boil. (which by the way-did you know is really not that long? I burned some water on Monday trying to make some Rigatoni. Then I singed a towel trying to clean up the hot water. reason #26 why I started this blog)

Despite the beautiful monuments, the museums, and the metros--the highlight of my week was sitting around a wooden table with good people and good food.

I would say that that is the Southerner in me. But honestly, I think that is just the human in me and in all of us. The need and want to be fed--both physically and emotionally.

God is good all the time. And all the time God is good. Peace and blessings y'all!

Going to the big apple Friday! Let's hear it for Mississippi in the Park...CENTRAL PARK!!!

Nations's Capital Y'all

I can see the Capitol from my house!-said in your best Sarah Palin voice.

For realz though, the Capitol of the United States of America is 2 minutes from my house.

I cannot wait to enlighten you on the zany adventures of Marianna Breland.

Let me give you a preview:

-when you sign up for a 4 person house with the intern housing place....you really sign up for a house that 13 people live in...9 of which are boys. I have still not ruled out that we are being secretly being filmed for A) Big Brother: Capital Hill edition B) The Real World: DC ...Revisited. My living situation with my trusty pal and roommate Mary Alex Street is unreal.

-over-sized shirts...are over-sized. DC no likey...one of my many roommates asked why my shirt was so big....

-metros are mobile creepy convention sites for creepy men. insert man with a cane and African beads following you here. (true story)

-Everything is expensive. everything. Even the supposed mom and pop grocery store...dont support them! support the "man"! support capitalism! because if not, you end up with a $50 grocery bill....for two measly bags of groceries.

-business casual is the casual. all the time.

-my cool internship....is actually in a basement.

-made besties with real life Georgetown students. HELLO! BOSS! (and obviously learned their lingo)

-I saw John Kerry. no explanation needed.

-I saw and see my wonderful boyfriend every day. It's kind of the best ever.

more to come and more of my photos...because truth be told I just google imaged that one...

Just some sunshine for this rainy day

I found this lovely lady through one of my friends who epitomizes sunshine. (her name rhymes with schmelissa pamsey)

Look this girl up on Etsy! It´s called the Wheatfield by Katie Daisy. Your day will instantaneously be brightened. And, look at her states. I want a Mississippi one!

Just remember, April showers bring May flowers!

Fountain of Youth

Two weeks before my 21st birthday I wake up to discover a new cowlick that has formed on the right side of my head. Just mere centimeters above my right ear.

Did I drink from the Fountain of Youth by accident?

At my most recent trip to visit the mister in DC, I was stopped and questioned about my ID. She told me there was no way I was 20.

Yet, last December, I tried to pose as 14 for the role of True Grit. Yes, that's right, I auditioned for True Grit. Now let me review you. I was 20 years old. I was a sophomore at a University. But in my stardom filled mind, I thought I could pull it off.

Because let's face it. Lizzy McGuire. Grey's Anatomy. The OC. Anybody really believe they are the ACTUAL age they are portraying?

Umm...no. Gordo? Remember Lizzie's male sidekick? He was 17 when the show started. A 17 year old starring in a show about the trials and tribulations of a middle schooler.

So, I thought I could do it. Well turns out, the lady knew her stuff. Despite my efforts to look like a puberty stricken 14 year old who had a bizarre growth spurt (but let's face it, at 5'3"that's not really a growth spurt) they shot me down faster than you can say Hollywood. Their first statement to me was nothing of a statement but of a exclamation that had a question mark dangling at the end of it....HOW OLD ARE YOU!?

The moral of this story is that A) do not try to convince casting agents that you are in the 12-14 range and B) age is really just a number.

I think it is so funny how each year we are never content with our age. At 4, you cannot wait to be 5 (a whole hand!!!) At 15, all you can think about is will you be kissed by your sweet 16 (~~~LoLz, OmG~~~)? And at 17, you want to be 18 to vote (because you are suddenly so politically involved) and at 20, you just want to be 21.

Funny, because once you inch your way to 21, you turn into (or maybe just me) this character who lives in a dream requiem or a memory. Remember that cheer competition that we all fell in a stampede like fashion? Remember when I cried at Vacation Bible School for not getting the role as head lamb? Am I really almost a Senior? Remember that time...that once...

When does one stop balancing the tightrope of remember when...and can't wait until?

William Faulkner said," The past is never dead. It's not even past."

We live so much in the past that the past is never really...past.

I wish I could be really scholarly right now and explain that to you better. But that's the beauty. It's open-ended.

Regardless of my cowlicks, of my turned down roles ( that girl was freakin nominated for an Oscar!!!) or for the airline personnel who thinks I'm in fact 12 (if only she was working the casting call that fateful December day)....I am going to love my age. And its quirks. And its perks.

So, hair gel anyone? I think I am going to need some this year...and when I am 50.

The reality

This is what I wish I could be doing today. Every last bit of it all the way up to the o so cool headband/scarf mix she's got going on.

Instead....I am Tony.

I used to chant "that's alright, that's okay, you're going to pump my gas someday."

But now gas is totally self-service.

So looks like the joke is on me.

Here's to being a nerd. And to pumping my own gas.