A letter from the brink

Yesterday morning, I was in an airport bar with Liz and a handful of my colleagues from law school. It turns out a lot of us were on the same flight. So, we spent a couple hours drinking overpriced beer, chasing dramamine with Gin & Tonics, and then got on the flight to Philly. I'll put the flight in summary: I don't sleep well surrounded by people, the flight was overnight, it was hellish. However, we made it to Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam without any major malfunctions. There were six of us, which was a good thing: we managed to put together enough thought and coherence between all of us to navigate our way to buy train tickets, obtain Euros (that's money, for you folks playing the home game), get on a train, get off a train, find a taxi, get to the place where they handed us our keys, then make it to the dorm. I do not know why they didn't just hand out the keys at our dorm. Ours not to reason why.



By this time, I had not showered in nearly 24 hours, and I stank like Satan's shit. Here is a picture of my stuff on a train. I am not in the picture, but if I was you might be able to physically see the stench rising off of me. I have a good camera, it might have picked it up.
Anyway. I've made it in, I've unpacked. Here is a picture of the Dorm they put us in. It is nicknamed the Death Star. The exterior looks very rough up close. The common areas such as the lobby, etc., also all looked really rough and poorly maintained. The pod itself, though, with our kitchen, bath, dorms, etc, is very nice. In fact, it's probably the most welcoming dormitory I've ever stayed in. So, I cannot complain about my living conditions.

Okay. I have a phone. I am going to hand out the number for it, in case of emergencies or whatever. If you think you need my phone number: email me, or leave a comment with your email address in it that requests the phone number.