Google made me a hypochondriac.

Chills? Sore throat? Green toe?

Google knows what's wrong with you. Just type your questions into that handy little search bar, and you'll have technology-aided self-diagnosis in no time.

Cholera. Strep. Gangrene.

There, that was easy!

If life were a game of Oregon Trail, you might hear a few sad bars of music, and move on, leaving your fifth child Mary Sue who had succumbed to the disease behind by the creek bed.

In real time, however, you are left staring at a list of Web sites that all seem to predict your imminent death and destruction.

Stomach pain?

Tapeworm.

Yesterday and today I've typed in "chest pain right side hurts to breathe in."

Thanks to Google, reputable sites such as The American Lung Association, have informed me I could have tuberculosis, pleurisy, a pulmonary embolism, costochondritis or an anxiety attack.

You know, I may not have been having an anxiety attack before, but by the time I waded through that lists of diseases, I could definitely feel one coming on.

Another time, I noticed a strange rash on both of my elbows. Go ahead. Type "elbow rash" into Google.

Obviously, I had scabies.

As it turned out, I was merely allergic to the spray the graduate student housing staff had used to clean my couch. But by the time I had figured that out, I already needed a cure for my heart palpitations (started when patient read the word 'scabies.')

Thomas Gray once wrote, "Ignorance is bliss," and frankly, I couldn't agree more.

But, still, whenever questions arise, Google beckons. Does it have something to do with having a short attention span?

I know where I can find the answer...

If the shoe fits...

Oh, Holland.

How can you not love a country where giant wooden shoes line the streets? For me, it was, at the very least, infatuation at first sight.

But there are many other things to love about the Netherlands. Not the least of which is the fact that some of the larger-than-life shoes double as small pleasure boats on the city's many canals - I've found my ideal sea vessel.

Other wondrous Dutch inventions include the stroopwafel, a flat, caramel, chewy concoction that melts when placed on top of a steaming mug of tea. Now you see where that grad-school 15 is going to come from.

And did I mention that Nutella is easily (and cheaply) imported? Don't even get me started on the ready availability of falafel. Obviously, Holland is my mecca.

Luckily, people walk and bike everywhere here, which offsets any pastry indulgences. A downside to this mobility is the thriving bike thievery 'business.' I even had the seat stolen off of my rent-a-bike in Amsterdam, although the loss was covered by three-euro rental insurance. Still, the depth of my sorrow was evident (see above photo).

Holland also has a thriving elderly population (not to be confused with the thriving thieves...at least not until further investigations have been completed). Nowhere else but in the Netherlands will you be forced to jump to the side of the road to make way for a white-haired, rosy-cheeked granny on a bicycle. Trust me, nothing gets in their way.

Between Vermeer, Heineken, and (hopefully) surviving the granny-laden bicycles that hurtle through the streets, I should have no problem thinking of blessings for an stroopwafel-filled expatriate Thanksgiving this November.

The International Courts

Sometimes it seems like all of the headlines are grim. Yesterday, Russian journalist Anna Politkovskaya was murdered, death tolls are rising in Iraq and, every day, I read about war crimes and atrocities committed in the Balkans during the 1990s.

It's difficult to watch the trials go on and know that, while these men and women are being prosecuted for events that took place years ago, similar things are happening in places like Darfur and Chechnya right now and not enough is being done about it.

But I still think you have to have faith in the international courts. Maybe Zimbabwe's ruler, Robert Mugabe, isn't thinking about the possibility of prosecution later in life, and his people are suffering now. But there is something to be said for justice, and I doubt Charles Taylor expected to be awaiting trial in The Hague after his dictatorship finally crumbled.

The international courts need recognition from nations, like the U.S., who have yet to support the International Criminal Court (ICC), although the U.S. does help fund the tribunals. Because, although the courts currently provide justice and closure for victims, strengthening their presence might bring them to the attention of those committing crimes today.

In other IWPR musings, I wrote my first article (with a byline) for the site, which was published on Friday.

And, just so you don't think I'm totally enveloped in a cloud of darkness and news of war crimes, I also went to a Hungarian festival this weekend and checked out The Hague's nightlife. Next up: Happy Hour Wednesday with the ICC interns.

Buckets of Rain

I've been in the Netherlands for ten days now, and have yet to buy an umbrella that won't flip inside-out in the wind. My walks are like a scene from Mary Poppins gone terribly awry.

Today, on the way home from IWPR, it started to rain...not a downpour, but still a heavy, persistent shower. I had left my hapless umbrella at home, and proceeded to get drenched.

I can't remember the last time I've been caught in a cloudburst, but there's something about it that satisfies a small, careless part of you. I don't know if it reminds you of when you were younger, or if it just seems more natural to become completely soaked rather than fumbling with an awkward umbrella that leaves a cold drizzle dripping down the back of your neck no matter which way you maneuver it.

Then again, take that too far and you could end up forty-years-old, standing on a corner in a thunderstorm singing "Who'll Stop the Rain?" while strumming the air guitar. It's all a matter of degree.

Dear Catastrophe Apartment,

Catastrophe #1: Losing power on the first night in my apartment.

Catastrophe #2: Realizing landlord left behind a pair of navy briefs in my apartment. Awkward. May throw them away. Realized am writing in Bridget-Jones style. Will stop.

Catastrophe #3: Losing Internet on the second day in the apartment. Horrors.

The nomads must have been exhausted.

Six cities ago, I was in the U.S., saying goodbyes, forgetting to pack important essentials and purging my carry-on of any threatening chapsticks. A hectic four weeks later, I'm finally about to move into my apartment in the Netherlands.

Between the haze of jet-lag and whirlwind tourism, my week in Spain and two weeks in Paris seem to stand on their own, apart from ordinary measures of time. (The haziness, of course, had nothing to do with any trips to a Basque cidery (see above photo)...although I do highly recommend you visit one.).

I spent most of my time in Spain researching an article about language and politics in the Basque Country and trying to remember that saying 'tortilla española' (which I pretty much lived on for a week) is quite a social faux pas in an area where many want more independence from Spain. I stayed the first half of the week in Bilbao and Guernica, and, via a madcap bus ride through the hills, arrived in the coastal town of San Sebastian for the latter half.

One flight from Madrid later, I arrived in the City of Lights, and met up with the other Medill students participating in the Global Program.

For those of you who know my talent for managing to get lost in some, well, less savory areas of major cities, in Paris I had no such troubles. This was probably because one of these dealer-filled spots was right next to my roommate's and my metro stop, and I knew exactly where I was when I disembarked there each night.

This came as something of a surprise. On the first day, when I asked the landlord if there was anywhere we shouldn't go at night, he told me, affronted, "All of Paris is safe at night."
I didn't want to offend him, so I just explained that in some larger American cities you had to be careful where you walked in the evening.

"Yes, the most dangerous places in the world, I think, are the United States and Afghanistan," he replied. The next day, while perusing my 'Let's Go Paris' guidebook, I decided to read about our part of the city, 'Les Halles' (which is a charming, boutique-and-cafe-filled area during the day and early evening). At night, however, the area was listed as "Let's Not Go." This knowledge made getting home through the shadowy park at night all the more interesting (there was more light glinting off bling than shining from street lamps).

Our classes were held at Science Po, a university in Paris. Every day we had different journalists, who had reported for top publications in areas as diverse as Lebanon, Colombia, Iraq, Darfur and London, speak to us about reporting abroad.

We also squeezed in time for visits to Versailles (gorgeous), the Catacombs (a claustrophobic attack waiting to happen) and, of course, Notre Dame (pronounced the French way, for the love of God). I consider my pilgrimage to the cathedral the sole reason the Irish beat MSU that Saturday :)

Last Sunday, I finally arrived in The Hague, where I'll be interning for the Institute for War and Peace Reporting this quarter. And, after one week in a B&B, tomorrow I will finally settle into my apartment!

The Hague has been wonderful so far. The city is beautiful, quaint, and, most importantly, filled with lovely pastries. Is there such a thing as 'the grad-school 15'?

Work has already been intense, but will, I think, prove absolutely fascinating. On my first day, I attended a sentencing, and saw a former Bosnian-Serb government official, Momcilo Krajisnik receive 27 years for crimes against humanity, including extermination, murder, persecution, deportation and forced transfer of non-Serb civilians.

Next week, I'll begin covering trials and will write up what happens for a Courtside section on IWPR's Web site. On Friday, I wrote my first short article for the site's Briefly Noted section.