Amsterdam. Or, My Last European Adventure For A While.

So my last European jaunt c.2008-2013 is officially done. And it was delightful.

Gem and I started talking about a weekend away months ago, when her UK trip was first mooted and credit to us both for actually booking the fucking thing and not just talking about it as something we should totally do.

I’m not sure how we decided upon Amsterdam but I was happy to go, never having been before, and happy to look past the weed and porn clichés in the hope of experiencing something memorable for all the right kinds of reasons.

Let's Go to Arles, Darls

Today was incredibly moving. Just on the outskirts of St-Remy, a 20-minute amble from the centre of town, lies the Saint-Paul-de-Mausole asylum where, for 12 months in 1899, a deeply troubled Vincent Van Gogh was a voluntary patient. During his stay here, Van Gogh painted over 150 works, many of them now iconic and decorating the walls of the National Gallery in London, the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York and countless student flats around the world.

Vincent Van Gogh, Irises, 1899

Provence (and my 200th post)

The surest way to my heart is through a flea market.  So St-Remy and I are sure to become very good friends.

What a seriously beautiful town. Not a lick of lavender to be had anywhere in bloody Provence (seems the shitty spring weather wasn’t just restricted to London…) but there are poppies and wildflowers everywhere and in St-Remy, even without the constant sunshine (see previous point about shitty springs) there’s a lot to love, not least the fact that I see Van Gogh paintings in every field. But I'll get to that…

It feels like Christmas Eve

I’m not quite on holidays but I may as well be: the parents arrive tomorrow. Work’s been typically chaotic but with only two days left now until two weeks off I figure the stress is a small, preliminary price to pay.

I’ve been stalking them all day. It absolutely blows my mind that this blinking dot moving across my screen is in fact a Qantas A380 jet carrying 450-odd people, two of which are my Mum and step-dad, wedged up the back in rows 86 and just-call-this-hell.

They’re due to arrive at some ridiculous hour so Lovely Boy and I are going to meet them for breakfast and then tomorrow evening I’m bringing them to work, for dinner at the café and then a performance by the Irish artist Orla Barry. I’m a little worried how this will go down to be honest. Contemporary live art is one thing (LB is going to LOATHE it…) but contemporary live art after two glasses of wine and 24 hours of jetlag? Well, it’s going to be interesting.

The art of irony

There's something delicious about irony. Exploring my new neighbourhood over the last fortnight I've encountered all sorts of grotty-but-fabulous graffiti and poster art, none of which quite compares to the tree full of stuffed toy koalas I also discovered, but it's been anything but visually dull. Last week I spotted a poster for a charity auction called "Art Against Knives" that features the self-portrait of Vincent "sunflowers" Van Gogh. What I love is that also last week two crazy German art historians emerged from the library to claim that it was in fact Paul "travel to Tahiti and shag the natives before dying of syphillis" Gauguin who actually lopped off Van Gogh's ear with his fencing sword - and not Vincent as the story historically (Van) Goghs. Maybe I'VE been spending too much time in the library but hey, it made me giggle - and I prefer this kind of irony to a room full of 50 girls discussing Freud and penis envy.

Speaking of envy though - LB and I are off to Sardinia on Friday for five days and I. Cannot. Wait. Sunshine, Mediterranean seaside, sleeping and as many trashy books as our crappy Ryanair bag limit will permit. Happy happy days. My final essay went in today and after my slide test on Thursday the only thing left to do is come up with a dissertation topic interesting enough to stave off four and a half months of torturous procrastination that would then become two weeks of absolute hell. And there is definately not enough diet coke in the world to see me through something like that.