The Dark Knight

My freshman year RA had a roommate who watched the movie "Seven" for seven days straight leaving only to use the bathroom and eat a morsel or two. He was eventually asked to leave. I think the same thing is happening to me with "The Dark Knight". I am obsessed with Heath Ledger's character, the Joker. Somehow he personifies freedom. My nature is to view things in their most favorable light. The concept of freedom is no exception. I think of freedom as an eagle and an American flag and NASCAR, all positive and heartwarming. But, freedom has its dark side. The Joker is completely detached from the outcome. He does things for the experience, not for the end result. Death and failure are of no concern to him. That is the ultimate freedom.

Doppelganger Watch: Sheppard Smith and Troy Aikman

Heisman

I touched the Heisman, the original Heisman trophy. I fainted when my skin met its glory. The power of Tim Tebow, Barry Sanders, Andre Ware, and Charlie Ward coursed through my veins and I fainted. It has been said that you die as soon as you touch the Heisman trophy but I am proof that you become immortal. I'm pretty sure that I will live until a Heisman trophy winner takes my head in a sword fight.

Dutch Food

Jami and I met a couple of her friends for drinks last night. On the way I noticed a restaurant that served Dutch food. A Dutch restaurant! Sure enough, they served frites and croquettes and other nasty dutchiness. The world has officially gone crazy.

Brooklyn, what

Hasidic Jews do not shake hands with the opposite sex. When we arrived at the apartment building in Brooklyn to look at a place for Jami and Nicole, the broker apologized and said that they did not shake hands in his religion. It drove me crazy. I wanted to ask him a thousand questions.

Does this become a problem in business? Do you ever offend people? What the hell?

After he rushed us through three apartments I asked him about the handshake. That's when he told me that Hasidic Jews do not shake hands with the opposite sex but he would shake my hand. Dude would have been strange in anywhere else but he fit in just fine at this building. I loved the building, Jami hated it. It looked like a scene from "Factory Girl", the movie about Andy Warhol's muse, Edie Sedgwick. The doors were steel and each apartment had its own character due to the previous tenant's choice of wall location. There was one elevator that seemed perpetually full of extras from a David Lynch film. One guy was telling a story about bouncing somebody from a bar who was "obviously" on PCP. Not sure what people behave like when they are on PCP but apparently the symptoms are obvious.

Everyone was dressed all hip, not like members of the Strokes, more like each in their own individual hipness, as if they were the coolest human in Brooklyn which put them high in the running for coolest worldwide.

As I mentioned, Jami had strong feelings against the building but she is starting to fall for Brooklyn. If I end up in New York, I want to live in Brooklyn. It balances chic with edgy. The streets are lined with cafes, bars, record stores, and consignment shops, each with its own charm and all just minutes away from Manhattan.

FireJoeMorgan.com

As I grow older, certain assertions that I once accepted as absolute truth are exposed as either debatable or just wrong. One of those assertions is that Joe Morgan is the greatest announcer in the history of professional sports. I accepted everything out of Joe Morgan's mouth as a kid. He is a Hall of Famer, one of the greatest second basemen to ever play the game, his word must be gospel. Only in the last few years have I looked at him critically and been severely disappointed. He is arrogant and uninformed. There is no correlation between athletic ability and the ability to speak with class and intelligence about athletics.

It is with great pleasure that I introduce my newest discovery, a place where fans once gathered to lobby for an end to bad color and play-by-play commentary, firejoemorgan.com. Unfortunately, I learned of this site postmortem; its operators decided to focus on things like family and careers. But, they were gracious enough to leave the old posts up for our enjoyment. I am considering ripping off their idea and starting, firericksutcliffe.com. Who's with me?

Julia Smiles

I went to one of my obligatory holiday romantic comedies last night. Jami and I saw Four Christmases with Vince Vaughn and Reese Witherspoon. It was pretty Dutch (medium) with a few laughs delivered by Jon Favreau as Vince Vaughn's mixed martial arts obsessed brother and, of course, Vaughn himself turning mediocre lines into comedic gold.

Jami and I were crossing the street on our way home from the theater when a young woman walked up next to us. I'm not real good with the celebrity spotting. When you go to an airport with John Roberts, he will recognize at least four celebrities. Michael Jordan will walk by and I'll just think, man that guy is tall. Yesterday was an exception. Julia Stiles made eye contact with each of us and then smiled at Jami. I immediately recognized her. She's smaller than I would expect (aren't all celebrities?) and stunning. I love New York.

Amsterdam to New Amsterdam

The reverse culture shock is pretty much over. I am still slightly jet lagged but jet lag is a lot easier to deal with when you have gained six hours than when you have lost six hours. I am full of energy in the mornings but tire as the day progresses. Other than that and resisting the urge to say, dank u well, everything has returned to normal.

Jami is looking for a new place to live because one of her roommates decided to move home on the eve of lease resigning day. Since Jami and her other roommate have jobs, I am in charge of screening apartments. You get two types of brokers when apartment hunting in Gotham: rental agencies and private owners. Private owners are usually reasonable people who own a building and want to rent it to you. New York apartment rental agencies were apparently schooled in Obamanomics and will go out of their way to make things as difficult as possible. First they take a DNA sample and biometric photo of you at the rental office. Then you sign away your soul in blood and only after all of this has been processed will they show you an apartment. It's ridiculous. At one place I tried explaining that the apartment was for my girlfriend so all this paperwork was meaningless. She insisted that she was not allowed to leave the building with me unless I agreed to give her my first born son, and a kidney, for testing purposes. Another place refused to even talk with me and only reluctantly agreed to allow a maintenance man to let me in for a look around the apartment. Despite these annoyances, it has been a good experience. I'm learning a little about the city, getting a chance to explore, and getting a little exercise.

Freedom!

I'm home, cheesburgers, steak, and freedom of expression abound. Did you know it is illegal to give a Nazi salute in Holland? I have never and likely will never execute such a gesture but should be able to if I so desire. In New York I have the right to give a Nazi salute and then get my ass handed to me by the two hundred people who saw it. It is good to be home.

I noticed the difference immediately. At JFK International Airport I saw black people, Spanish people, fat people wearing dirty sweatpants, and Mexicans. It was amazing. At least five languages were heard within the first ten minutes, none of them Dutch. What I underestimated was the reverse culture shock. New York is, well, New York. It's the Big Apple, the streets are slammed at 2:30 in the afternoon, tourists and locals vying for position and relevance in the flow of traffic. I didn't notice it coming from Jacksonville to New York but Gotham is a dimension away from The Hague. The contrast is instructive. It highlights the "good" and the "bad", for lack of better words. I will miss bike travel, the people I met, the bar culture, and the pace of life. I will not miss the food, the Dutch, or the weather.

This is where I should probably talk about how much fun I had and what an incredible experience it was, etc. But, I think that is universally understood. You've read the blog. You know how much fun I had in Holland and throughout Europe. No, this is not some kind of farewell post. I am going to continue the blog if only for my own therapy and vanity. Thank you all for reading. Your comments helped me combat homesickness and keep my focus on the big picture.

Cheers.

In Limbo

I'm caught in limbo. I no longer feel like a resident of The Hague but I'm not quite home. These last few hours are strange, lonely. I'm in travel purgatory.

My bags are mostly packed and I'm thinking about going to Amsterdam for one last time. Don't worry, there will be no repeat of Rome as I have already checked; the trains run all night and the luggage lockers are accessible 24 hours a day.* I think I'll pay Ronnie and Lisa one last visit at Cafe Zool and just sleep as much as possible on the plane.

My limbo status has prevented me from reflecting on the trip. Many of my fellow interns are also leaving and others are out of town for the weekend. Our trial is in recess and other trials have adjourned for the holidays. All of that coupled with the fact that the Dutch are staying indoors due to the cold weather makes the town feel empty. I will say that I am much more sentimental than I thought I would be. I'm ready to come home but part of me is kinda sad that I'm leaving The Hague. I have met some amazing people and had priceless experiences. My repatriation should be interesting. Please stay tuned, the blog doesn't end with my return to the States.

* At the tend of my study abroad Italy, I took a trip to Spain, couldn't get out of the country, and then got stuck in Rome because I had checked my bags at the train station. The luggage claim was closed when I got back to Rome and would not open until 6:00 the next morning. My flight was at 6:30. I ended up spending the night in the Da Vinci airport.

update: Exhale Jami, I'm not going to Amsterdam after all. I'm gonna have a nice quiet dinner in The Hague.

Check It

I played chess for the first time in about six years last night. Patrick Lahan thoroughly dismantled me sixish years ago. Last night Francesco made like Patrick Lahan. There is no question that I'm clueless when it comes to chess. I played a lot as a kid and was the champion of Eight Street Elementary School on at least two occasions. It's not like riding a bike. Correction, it's like Rhett riding a bike.

I'm not one for excuses but I hardly think it was a fair match. Francesco grew up in England. Chess has pieces named, bishop, knight, king, and queen. It's kind of like the argument that the SAT is racist because it talks about airports and Europe and other things with which minorities are unfamiliar. Prior to last night I would have dismissed this argument as ridiculous and racist in itself but I am reversing course. For the first time in my life, I was a victim of my upbringing. I can not relate to games involving knights, kings, and queens. In fact, my ancestors braved the freezing cold Atlantic and fought a bloody war to be liberated from chess.

What surprised me is how badly I wanted to win. I have been practicing yoga for nearly a year now. Yoga teaches that you should detach yourself from the outcome which is a really useful way to live your life. If you are focused on the process, rather than the outcome, each aspect of the process will receive its just due and the end result will naturally flow from that effort. All of that theory and training went out the window last night. I was tense and wanted nothing more than to defeat Francesco. This was my downfall. Francesco would have defeated me anyway because of his aforementioned Englishness but I know the game would have been more competitive if I hadn't been so competitive. I realized that I don't miss the feeling of having to win. I don't like the way it makes be think and feel. Yoga, first thing tomorrow.

Snow Plein

My conversation with Marie, from Minnesota, regarding the weather today:

me: Hey, Marie. I don't know what to do. Are you supposed to sit inside and enjoy the snow or get out and frolic in it?
Marie: it's holland, you stay inside cause it's usually wet snow
but if it's sticking, you frolic
me: ok
Marie: make snow angels and whatnot
being you're from Florida, you should probably frolic
me: ok, cool. I see some of it sticking so I'll commence to frolicing
Marie: put on a hat and scarf and go buy some oliebollen
sing christmas carols too
me: already singing but what is oliebollen?
Marie: the christmas carts that have appeared all over
me: oh yeah
Marie: warm deep fried dutchiness
me: by the way, are you or do you know if anyone else will be at the office later today?
Marie: Danny will at some point to take a Milan call
but if it stays snowing I'll probably stay here
me: ok, cool
Sent at 2:44 PM on Sunday
Marie: now go frolic
me: off i go

Hail Yes

Europe is giving me a proper send off. The weather has been horrendous of late. Prague was pretty nasty but Holland is not be outdone. It has been alternately hailing, snowing, sleeting, and raining over the past few days. I had intended to travel to some of the cities that are still on my list but I just can't get excited about them in this weather. I'm not built for this. Instead, I went to the two major museums in The Hague: the Mauritshuis and the MC Escher museum. The Escher museum is not much to see but I am glad I went because it gave me some exposure to an artist that I otherwise would have ignored. Everyone has seen his more famous works like the self portrait in a mirrored sphere. But, he also created some impressive landscapes of Italy where he spent much of his life. Most of his work was wood carvings which makes it all the more impressive. The carvings were then dipped in ink and placed on a canvas creating the images you are used to seeing at Spencer's or on introspective high school student's t-shirts.

The Mauritshuis houses two extremely famous works: Vermeer's "Girl with the Pearl Earring" and some other guy's "Goldfinch". "Girl with a Pearl Earring" is impressive. You see it on signs and postcards all over Holland where it fails to inspire. The original is considerably more moving. The Mauritshuis gives you a free (gratis in Dutch) audio guide that is well worth the frustration of dealing with the crusty old Dutchman manning the booth. I walked up to the audio guide booth, which functions only as a place to pick up or drop off an audio guide, and the guy just stared at me contemptuously. I asked him for an audioguide but if I had it to do over I would have asked for an ice cream. The audio guide said the Girl is an ideal, not a representation of some actual person. But, it also said that we don't really know who she is. I would like to believe that she was Vermeer's muse and that's just what I am going to do. That's the beauty of art.

The museum also featured a exhibition of Dutch cityscapes. I have visited many of the cities on display so it was a treat to see them through the eyes of the Dutch masters.

There is a concert going on tonight featuring the Black Keys but it is sold out. I didn't buy tickets because I expected to be out of town this weekend. The good news is, I can now watch them Gator boys in their tune up for Florida State. One week and one day until I return to the States.

The Velvet Hammer Celebrates The Velvet Revolution

Czechoslovakia split into the Czech Republic and Slovakia during 1989. Communism fell and the two republics peacefully split in what is now referred to as the Velvet Revolution, so named because its leaders were inspired by the band the Velvet Underground and the peaceful way in which it split. Monday, the 17th of November, was the anniversary of this historic sea change. I was honored to be able to experience the celebration. As a child of the end of the cold war, I still think communism is an evil ethos. People tend to have short memories and the ideals of communism are creeping back into the world’s collective consciousness. We should be mindful of the pain, suffering, and death caused by communism in its various forms. Society is doomed when the collective good becomes more important than the individual. Feel free to tear apart that statement if you wish, it is intentionally vague and subject to interpretation.

Jon had to do some work so I went on my own walking tour of revolutionary sites. My knee was throbbing from the mysterious injury suffered on day one but I wasn’t about to let that keep me from relishing history. I walked along Prague’s main thoroughfare to visit the Memorial to the Victims of Communism as well as a couple of other sites where Vaclav Havel, inspired by among other things, the band the Velvet Underground, hosted public discussions on the dangers and evils of communism. Havel would be elected the first President of post communism Czech Republic. During my journey I happened upon a demonstration. The protestors were holding signs with the word, “radar”, enclosed in a circle with a line through it. I noticed that another, much smaller, group was holding American flags in the background. Just to confirm my suspicion, I asked one of the flag holders what was happening. He explained that the radar people were protesting against the proposed missile defense shield that President Bush has been advocating. The guys with the flags were all for it. I don’t know enough about it to make an intelligent comment. A guy with a guitar took the stage and started singing about Meestah Bush. That’s all I could make out, Meestah Bush. I don’t think the Europeans believe us. Their like, yeah right, sure you had elections, we know Premier Bush is king for life. Two Bulgarians told me that McCain would have been George Bush’s puppet much like Medvedev is to Putin in Russia. That’s what the media tells them. This may be shocking but I set them straight.

That night, we had drinks at a cellar bar called, U Sudu, one of the coolest bars I have ever patronized. We drank some Czech wine that was cheap and surprisingly good. I would put it up against many of the moderately priced California reds I have tasted. After solving the world’s problems, Jon and I went home. Thankfully, Jon had to get up and work the next day so we left relatively early. I could have stayed there all night. The place was that charming. Unfortunately, the Czech wine was good enough that Jon left his backpack containing his computer at the bar. We had to walk back to the bar because we just missed the tram and another wouldn’t be there for another thirty minutes. My knee wailed the entire trip. On the way back to his flat we caught a tram. This was bittersweet. You know how I always say that Americans get a bad rap abroad? Four American girls rode the tram with us and put on a clinic of how to be annoying and disrespectful in someone else’s country. The Czech people are pretty reserved. They aren’t noisy or flashy. These girls were the opposite.

Girl from New York:
“Like, you guys, like I don’t know if this is like the right tram!”

All four, including the girl who posed the question, trying to talk at once:
“Yeah, like, I don’t, like, yeah, no, like, wait, yeah, this is it, yeah, omg, yeah”

Girl from New Jersey, to me:
“Do you know where this tram like going?”

“No, I’m not really sure, Jon?”

Jon, annoyed, “No”

“Where are y’all from,” I asked.

“like Houston, like Long Island, like New Jersey, and Atlanta….like”

“How do you like Prague?”

“We like love it, we’re studying abroad, we party like EVERY night.”

“Have you learned any Czech?”

Girl from New Jersey:
“I can speak Dobry Den (good day in Czech).”

This Is SPARTA!

The Czech people love their hockey as much as they love their soccer. There are two professional teams in the Czech version of the NHL: Slavia and Sparta. Sparta had a home game on Sunday afternoon so, after sleeping in way too late, Jon and I rushed to the arena for a sampling of Czech fandom.

The arena is on the outskirts of the city. It looks and feels like an American high school gym built in the 1970's, complete with tiny concession stands and a merchandise booth no doubt run by the players' moms. We bought a couple of t-shirts and the lady just added up the total in her head; no cash register, only a money pouch. The whole experience including a ticket to the game, a sausage, and two beers cost me the equivalent of roughly thirty four U.S. dollars. What would the same kind of experience cost in America, eighty, one hundred dollars? The net result of this affordability is that the fans are die hard. When you keep the cost down, you draw the type of people who stand up the entire game and cheer wildly for their beloved team (see Bill Simmons article: http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/page2/story?page=simmons/partone/081121). Hockey is a fine spectator sport in general and if you haven't been to a game I suggest you remedy this omission from your leisure resume. It is violent yet graceful. Scoring is minimal but the action is constant.

Czech hockey fans behave much like European soccer fans. Fans in Europe behave a little differently from those in America. We have coordinated chants in the States but they are rarely directed at the other team's fans. European fans basically make fun of each other the entire game. The opposing team, Bolesvice in this case, will says something like, "Spartans are a bunch of sissy boys", and Sparta will reply with something like, "At least we aren't Jews." It gets pretty nasty and sometimes nonsensical like the above mentioned, supposedly true although I can't confirm because I don't speak Czech, example. They also universally do this thing where they clap their hands and then hold them apart in the air with palms facing outward in an attempt to make each fan look bigger thus more intimidating. Picture how you would react if you encountered a bear in the woods, at least how I have been told you should react. The truth is, if I ever encounter a bear in the woods and he or she comes after me, I will likely soil myself before crying and then passing out. I hope this helps.

Sparta was down 1-0 when we got to our seats because apparently the Czechs gave absolutely no thought to the organization of their stadium and did not expect that foreigners or non-die hard fans would attend any games. First of all, we got one ticket for two people. This must have been brand new to the high school kids taking our tickets at the gate. They wouldn't let me through the turnstile because I didn't have a ticket. We explained that the ticket was for two people and they looked at us like we were refusing to pay for use of the bathroom. Some broken English finally remedied the problem and I just walked around the turnstile. After securing some beers and sausages (breakfast) we set about finding our seats. We paid the extra dollar for the "nicer" seats, ones with a better view of the ice. Unfortunately, the stairs to the nicer seats are concealed behind a bookcase that you open by pulling the correct book halfway off the shelf while reciting the password. I'm not really sure how we got to our seats. Jon kept asking various employees who looked like ushers but all they did was point in opposing directions causing us to run around the stadium like an old silent film or a flashback scene from Family Guy.

Fortunately, Sparta (We) recovered from the early deficit to tie it up in the second period. The game was much like North American hockey except less violent and with more cheerleaders. The cheerleaders are not a distraction; they are active participants in the production. Every so often play stops, the lights go out, and four cheer leaders come onto the ice, two at one goal and two at the other. To the untrained eye, it looks like they are about to put on a burlesque show. They are wearing almost nothing with a spotlight on them and techno music playing. Alas, instead of a show, they just skate over to the goal, sweep the excess ice into a dustpan, wave to the crowd, and skate off of the ice. I like to call it, Sexy Abbreviated Zamboni. It has been a long time since I attended an NHL game but I don't remember anything like this happening and I'm pretty sure I would have as I was about twelve during my last live NHL game. If scantily clad cheerleaders arbitrarily interrupted play, I would have noticed.

We won the game 2-1. I really enjoyed the whole experience. After the game, we had another fulfilling dinner and then went home. We were both beat and I had three days left in Prague.

Dinner was average this time. We inadvertently went to a touristy place and overpaid for our meal. It did, however, provide a "Mom would have gotten up and left" moment. I had a view of the kitchen and noticed the cook was chain smoking cigarettes. Think that would pass health inspection in the States?

More Prague

A Taste of Prague in Photos

Meat me at Bukowski's

I am living like a king. The Czech Republic is not yet on the Euro; they use the Czech crown. Consequently, things are affordable for Americans. Beer is dirt cheap and food is comparable to or slightly less expensive than in America. The beer is incredible and the food is, wait for it, delicious. They even season it, like with spices and stuff. I feel like I am on a different planet. Every meal consists of sausage, ham, bacon, beer, potatoes, etc., set to the backdrop of gorgeous buildings and a seedy edge that you don't find in Holland.

On Friday night, Jon and I watched a U2 cover band at a semi-famous bar called, Vagon. Czech Bono couldn't sing but was adept at channeling the tool in real Bono, complete with hand gestures and dancing with a member of the audience during "With or Without You". We were both exhausted after the show. Getting up early and walking the town had taken its toll. We met his friends for a drink and went home shortly thereafter. The second bar had a mini Kentucky vanity plate that said, "rn4roses". Pretty cool.

Saturday started with a breakfast of eggs, a bagel, grilled tomatoes, hash browns, bacon, and sausage. I was in heaven. With bulging bellies we rode the tram to a hill called, Vysehrad. The hill overlooks the Vltava river. The views are breathtaking. We settled in a beer garden for an hour or so, taking in Prague and drinking Pilsner Urquell. Do the aforementioned act before you die.

Jon's friend, Kelly (from Jacksonville, Florida) met us at an expat bar near the town's main thoroughfare where we watched them Gator boys beat up on South Carolina. Dare I say Florida is the best team in the country? Go Gators.

After the game, we went to a place called, Bukowski's, named after legendary author, Charles Bukowski. Bukowski was known for his decadence. He live much of his life homeless and broke so I expected a dive bar with a cloud of smoke. I was mistaken. The bar was really nice and the bartender was an American from California. She let us buy beers and cocktails to go at the end of the night, after last call. She even gave us what can only be described as a Mason jar to carry the ill advised Long Island Iced Tea that Kelly ordered. I love this place.

Today is a nasty one. I was spoiled by a crisp, blue-skied day yesterday. I think we're going to grab another huge meal (I still need to gain two pounds in order to meet my goal for the trip) and drink a couple of the delicious beers.

Pictures are forthcoming.

Be good.

Jon Praha

Jon Mann agrees. There are three stages to expat life. It begins with euphoria. This lasted about a month in my case, five days for Jon. The second stage is frustration. You grow sick of not having decent food, bored by the culture, and annoyed with the lack of access to American football. The second stage lasted about three weeks for me, considerably longer for Jon who is enjoying his first trip abroad. The third stage is acceptance. I can't get enough of Dutch idiosyncrasies. I no longer gorge myself on frites but I have found my niche, finally hit my stride. Jon concurs. Based on two test cases, this is a universal expat condition.

Prague is gorgeous. It looks like Candyland, the boardgame. I keep expecting to turn the corner and climb gumdrop mountain. Jon took me to some of the main sites today and we sampled the local beer. The Czechs are the supposed kings of beer. The verdict is still out but I'll say that the beers are damn good. The original Budweiser was Czech. Our Bud could learn a lot from the Czechs.

Cheers

Sea Dogs Part II

In order to understand the story of the Giant Dutchman (real name, Bernhard), you need some base knowledge of Dutch holiday culture. The Dutch have a Santa Claus. His name is Sinter Klaus. He is not fat and does not live at the North Pole. He is skinny and lives in Spain. The Dutch Santa is obviously way more intelligent than our Santa. Every November, Sinter Klaus makes his trek from warm, beautiful Spain to freezing cold, rainy Holland…by boat. He arrives in Amsterdam around the second week of November and parades through the town on a white horse with his Black Peters.

Black Peters were slaves from Turkey who helped Sinter Klaus travel throughout Holland until December 5th when he doled out either punishment (a kick to the butt) or reward (candy in your shoes and presents). Today Black Peters are white Dutchmen dressed in black face. Sinter Klaus no longer doles out kicks, he just acts like he is going to kick you but stops short of committing a battery.

The whole story seems strange to American ears but, as you can imagine, our story is equally strange to the freaky Dutch. Both traditions pale in strangeness to that of the Frisian Islanders. The Frisian Islands was an independent state until about 200 years ago (this according to Giant Dutchman, in fact, everything that follows is according to Giant Dutchman). They have a distinct language and unique customs.

Frisian Sinter Klaus day is actually a two day affair. The first day is a party where the kids get presents and the whole town drinks and dances. The second day is a bit more involved. All twelve of the town’s men get dressed in black robes with black gloves and shoes and black masks that allow you to see only their eyes. Women are not allowed to leave the house. All boys who are on the cusp of manhood, seventeenish years old, are brought into a dark room with the town’s men. The men are in a line, kind of like a receiving line at a funeral. The boys must shake the hand of each man. Just before the handshake, each man blows an African horn in the boy’s face. If any man senses fear in the boys’ grip he will remain a boy and must wait until the following Sinter Klaus celebration before he gets another stab at manhood, thus delaying his right to shoot a gun, take a bride, etc.

The reason for the African horn is not clear because Giant Dutchman spoke with a heavy accent and I was sitting three seats away from him. Regardless, the whole story left me speechless. He delivered it matter-of-factly and with a sense of pride. The Frisians are not going to raise no sissy boys. If you want to survive on an island in the middle of the North Sea, you have to have some cajones.

Sea Dogs Part I

Northern Holland is surprisingly different from Southern Holland. A huge majority of the population resides in the Southwest of the country. I imagine this population density contributes to the overall lack of courtesy I have experienced in Den Haag and elsewhere in the Randstad (the name for Holland's most densely populated area including Amsterdam, the Hague, and Rotterdam). The Northern Dutch are friendly and helpful. We ended up on the wrong train at one point because Dutch trains have this peculiar habit of occasionally splitting and going in different directions. The front half of the train will go to one city while the back half travels to a completely different destination. We did not know this. Chris, Jon, and I ended up in Groningen when we should have been in Leuwardden (or something like that). When the friendly Dutch lady in front of me caught wind of our mistake she slapped my knee and apologized as if it were her fault. It wasn't a simple, "sorry about that." She felt guilty about leaving me to brave Northern Holland by myself. "I should have told you", she said.

"No ma'am, you couldn't have known."

"Oh, but I should have asked to where you were traveling."

"It's ok, really, we'll just take the train to Leuwardden."

"Oh, I feel so bad."

Her reaction was refreshing, especially since, when I first sat down, she took about ten minutes to move her feet from my personal space. European trains (and maybe American trains I just haven't seen one like this) often have a group of four or more seats that face one another. I chalked her initial lack of consideration up to typical Dutch behavior; but in hindsight I think she was just completely engrossed in her book and didn't notice me.

The Frisian Island of, Ameland, is only accessible by ferry. The weather was nearly ideal although the wind blew pretty hard all weekend. Our first order of business was to rent bikes and then find a place to sleep for the night. The tourist office gave us some suggestions and we set about finding them. Ameland consists of three (maybe four) little villages. They aren't even towns. We found a bed and breakfast in Buren for 22 Euro per person per night. You would pay this for just about any hostel in Europe but you wouldn't receive a fraction of the amenities anywhere else. Our home for the night was the everyday home of, Bernadette Metz. Bernadette was like some sort of benevolent apparition who gave us a clean sheets, a spotless bathroom, and a typical Dutch breakfast in the morning then disappeared to her room or the mainland or wherever it is that she goes when she's not smiling and serving us food. It was one of my favorite European lodging experiences.

There is not much to do on Ameland which is exactly why we chose it. The small villages are bordered by farmland and natural dunes. We explored the island for two days, stopping only to eat, sleep, or look around on foot. After a lackluster dinner the first night we walked into the pub across the street from Frau Metz's. Our entrance was like the scene in Animal House where a bunch of white fraternity guys walk into a black bar, the music stops, and everyone stares at them. I'm sure I've told you this but the Dutch stare. They do it all the time. You just get used to it after a while. There's a difference between a Dutchman staring you down as he passes on his bike and a bar full of Dutchmen ceasing their conversations to stare at you. We ordered up a round and talked amongst ourselves before the giant Dutchman in the corner started a conversation. I will reserve the contents of this conversation for a separate post because it requires some background about the Dutch holiday season in order to fully grasp the story. The bar was cozy. I would guess there were about twelve patrons including us. We asked Giant Dutchman what time the bar closed. At this point it was about 7:30. The whole town was closed except for this bar and the hotel bar next door. Giant Dutchman debunked our assumption of early last call by telling us that the bar would be open until 4:00 but if we wanted more booze, we could go next door and if that was closed he had more back at his place. This was an enticing offer but it was completely contrary to our weekend goals. We wanted to detox and enjoy the outdoors, not drink all night with Dutchmen. I know what you're thinking. You think we drank ten more beers and then went to this guy's house and learned all kinds of crazy things about Frisian culture. If I had made the decision that night, your assumption would be correct. Chris and Jon were not up for a late night so we went home early. They would later confess that they did not understand what he was asking and, if they had, we probably would be out in the dunes hearing tales of Viking battles and the Frisian independence movement. It worked out for the best because I am now fully relaxed from the weekend and dude could have been some weirdo who wanted to pray on tourists.

Contest

I need some encouragement. I am looking for someone to cheer me up about Premier Obama. You don't have to convince me that he's going to be a good President, just provide a coherent argument outlining how he is not going to drive us into a second Great Depression followed by dictatorship followed by the apocalypse. That's all. First prize is a pack of peanut M & M's. Second prize, a pat on the butt. Third prize, a high five.

Frisian

We are having a quick lunch on the Frisian Island of, Ameland. The Islands are much different from the rest of Holland. We were lucky enough to find a bed and breakfast run out of a nice Dutch lady's house. Everyone knows everyone on the island and the people are uncharacteristically friendly. I'll post pictures and tell stories when I return. For now I must eat some fish. We are, after all, in the middle of the North Sea.

Balkan Hosts

I have some bad news. Willie Soft Spot was stolen last night. I enjoyed a nice dinner with Francesco at the same Italian restaurant that Rhett and I frequented. When I walked outside, Willie was gone. I played back the situation in my head a hundred times. Did I forget to lock the bike? Surely not, it has become second nature to lock my bike much the way you lock your car door. I’m less likely to forget to lock the bike because it is such an ordeal. Forgetting to lock your car door is a pretty easy mistake to make. All you have to do is push a button, from anywhere. You don’t even have to be next to the car. The bike is different. You have to unlock the chain, take it off of the bike, wrap it around the back tire, and relock it. Regardless of how it happened, it happened. The good news is the office has an extra bike which I am now borrowing until I can find a suitable replacement for Willie. The part that bothers me is that it wasn’t my bike. It was Brent’s bike. He was nice enough to let me borrow it and I lost it. I feel like a jerk.

In the meantime I have a pretty nice ride. The seat is not as nice as Willie’s and the color isn’t as awesome but the new bike is an upgrade in all other respects.

A lighter note:

My coworker, Jelena, went to Bosnia and brought back some of the local red pepper sauce, homemade by her mother. I raved about it when we went to the Bosnian restaurant and she promised to bring back the recipe when she went to visit. She did me one better. Apparently it takes eight to ten hours to make this stuff. The time spent is evident.

Leiden Pictures

Tuesday Night Fights

I went out looking for a fight last night. Not a fist fight because that’s not my style but a good ole fashion political debate. I have smiled and nodded when pressed on the election by Europeans. Last night I was taking no prisoners. Thankfully, the election was mentioned only once and it was by a very polite German who just wanted to know whether we were interested in the results.

Chris and I went to a bar that featured live Irish music. A six piece band played an assortment of Irish folk songs with a banjo and didgeridoo thrown in for good measure. The Dutch started smoking cigarettes as the band was packing up their instruments so we walked to another Irish bar around the corner. I poked my head in the door. The crowd was sparse and rough looking. They all turned to look at us and as we were walking away, thinking better of going in, they yelled at us to join them for a pint. The bar was run by a Dutchman but all the patrons were British and Irish expats. Dave was the most intoxicated of the bunch. He had a small town English accent, the kind that is difficult to understand sober and nearly impossible to understand when the accent holder is drunk. Everyone was incredibly friendly.

Dave’s buddy, Noel (father of Leon, true story), came into the bar carrying a guitar case. Dave was all over Noel to play a song. “Oh, frr fcck sake, Noel, jss play us one fcckin dune.” Noel finally relented and I am ever glad he did. Chris and I ended up staying out way too late; but how could we resist a free private show from an Irish folk singer? Chris knew several of the songs and sang along. I chimed in on "Sam Hall" and a couple of the more famous ones. They loved us. The bartender gave us half pints of Guinness and asked us to come back on Friday night. We’ll see. We have made plans to go to the West Frisian Islands this weekend. I’m sure we’ll have plenty of seal pictures come Monday.

The End of Freedom

Ladies and Gentlemen, the President of the United States, Barack Hussein Obama.

I don’t want to go on and on about the election but I’m a little queasy right now. I wish I could enjoy the historical significance of the first black President of the United States but I can’t. Chavez, Putin, and the like are going to eat him for lunch. It’s scary. But, worrying is not going to change anything. Obama is going to be our President. There’s no way around it.

Proud

Ridin' to Leiden and Delft Interest Part II

Francesco and I biked 14 km (8.7 miles) to the University town of Leiden on Saturday. Holland rained on us all day. We talked health care, philosophy, Obama, and freedom. The trip took about an hour because we took the long way. Francesco knew of a park that we decided to visit on the way out of town. This park illustrated how the Dutch, for all their faults, are prone to flashes of brilliance. I think it is where they put all the water that should be the ocean. As you know, Holland is supposed to be the floor of the North Sea (kinda like how New Orleans is supposed to be the floor of the Gulf of Mexico). It only exists because the Dutch don’t want to live in Germany so they pushed back the sea and created their own country, hence the reason for all the windmills. The park is full of canals and what looks like swampland. Algae and funk covers the canals and various deformed wildlife- seahorses, sharks, whales- roam about unfettered. We saw a local football game being played and I wondered aloud whether the local recreation league teams have hooligans like the pros do.

Leiden is beautiful. I have a few pictures but they will have to wait because I inexplicably left my camera at Chris’. Speaking of Chris, his mother was in town and she made a home cooked American meal. We had stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, fried chicken, salad, and a round of jump high fives. It was awesome. We (I) followed the meal by watching the Packers at the Titans. It was Thanksgivingesque. The dinner had been preceded by a second trip to Delft. Chris’ mom, Julie, had a little trouble adjusting to the bike culture but she caught on much more quickly than Rhett. Delft was just like the last trip aside from the fact that this time the square was not full of a carnies and death traps.

I faxed my absentee ballot today. If this election is as close as I think it will be, they will have to either throw out my ballot or get Bush’s lawyers on the case. Incredibly, you can fax your absentee ballot and have it counted just like all the others. The only caveat is that you waive your right to secret ballot. This is fine with me as I am willing to shout from the top of Mount Holland (the bridge that slightly rises over the canal down the street) that I am voting for John McCain and against King Obama. But I keep thinking that if hanging chads were an issue in 2000, what are they going to say to five-page-copy-of-ballot-faxed-from-Europe? What will they even call that?

Go Gators!

I am going to watch the game on either, a) real television or b) Jami's webcam pointed at her television. Cheers.

This Whole Court's out of Order

What a day. I got go to court for the first time, met our client, and made tentative plans to visit Jon Mann in Prague. I’m pretty fired up. One of the witnesses was a Member of Bosnian Parliament. You can imagine my excitement given my recent obsession with the Balkans. Our attorneys were on point. The momentum is in our favor. I’m about to have dinner and drinks with my team. Life is good.

Positive Holland fact of the day: The Frisian Islands, off the Northwest coast of the country, are a haven for seals.

Cold

It has gotten cold here, butt cold, colder than a black steer's tuchus on a moonless prairie. Unfortunately this seems to make the Dutch even more rude than usual.

One of my pet peeves is when I am driving down the road, usually the highway, and the speed limit is, let's say, 45. There's a car behind you, all over your backside, who finally passes you just before the speed limit changes to, let's say, 55. This guy either: A) Doesn't see that the speed limit has changed, or B) Doesn't give a damn what the speed limit is. He doesn't change speeds so you are forced to stare at the back of his Passat until there is an opportune time to pass. Inevitably, the speed limit will change back to 45 just after you get past him and he'll get right back on your bumper because he didn't notice this most recent change either.

The Dutch do this on their bikes. It's not as annoying in Dutch because bikes don't go very fast so the obliviousness or rudeness of the person may only set you back a few seconds as opposed to fifteen minutes. They will, in typical get-in-everyone's-way fashion, pass you and then slow down. Now you have to wait until the coast is clear so that you can pass, or just slow down so that another of their countrymen can do the same thing to you, ultimately creating a line of slow moving Dutch to impede your progress.

I'm obviously not used to cold weather. Adjusting to it in a foreign country is even more difficult than it would be with central air conditioning. Dutch dwellings have space heaters (radiators?) that look like something out of, Black Snake Moan. I keep expecting to come home and find Cristina Ricci chained to my heater. I guess they are safe. I think I remember seeing them years ago in Kentucky. It seems like my Great Grandmother (Mawmaw) had them in her house. Or, maybe she just had a stove to heat the house. Either way I feel like the whole building is going to burn down if I leave the heater on all night. I keep expecting to wake with the smell of smoke and Samuel L. Jackson yelling at me, screaming that he's going to kick my ass.

It's Not That Bad

It has been brought to my attention that my blog may have a negative bent to it. I don’t want to give the impression that I’m not enjoying myself or that I don’t like Holland. I just like nearly everywhere else on earth more than I like Holland. But, Holland isn’t that bad.

I’ve decided to make a list of Holland’s pros.

Pros:
1. The ICTY has been an amazing experience- I’ve met some incredible people and learned A TON.

2. The beer is incredible- The Dutch beer is pretty damn good but the Belgian beer is out of this world.

3. The towns are beautiful- European cities are gorgeous. They have strict zoning laws that serve to maintain the historical integrity of the buildings. I like this.

4. The cops leave you alone- I have a problem with authority so I’m glad the cops aren’t breathing down my neck all the time (this one is a bit of a stretch since I rarely have trouble with the law at home).

5. I have fallen in love with the Balkans- This one should probably be a subtitle of #1 but we’ll count it separately.

6. Their drug laws are superior- I don’t take drugs but I think people should be able to if they so desire. The Dutch don’t understand why we criminalize marijuana. I agree with them.

7. The bars are charming- They are cozy, a quintessentially Dutch quality.

8. Soccer is actually pretty cool- I got into the game with the Euro 2008 and had my interest confirmed by a trip to a World Cup qualifier.

9. Proximity- Belgium, France, and Germany are very close.

10. Bicycles- This one is the best. Bike travel gives you a morning workout and a stress reliever on your way home.

Go Gators

.....and Cats. I just want to see a good game. I'm making a hooligan mimosa (Dutch beer and orange juice) and eating Burger King.

My Bad

I have another forgotten story. During Tuesday Night Drinks, I wandered to the door with designs of going outside because the weather was surprisingly pleasant and the bar was crowded. My friend Mitra was entering the bar as I was exiting so I greeted her with a hug. A few feet behind her was a local who opened his arms for a similar hello (I assume as a joke, an admittedly funny joke). I obliged and as we were pulling away he swung his drunken arm too wide, hitting my beer and knocking it and its special glass to the ground. Beer went all over me and all over the floor and glass littered the entrance. He gave me a predictably strange look before picking up the glass and asking if it was his fault. Not wanting to foster any conflict in a foreign country (or really anywhere in the world over a simple beer thereby defeating the purpose of drinking beer), I said it wasn’t anyone’s fault and gave him a pat on the back. We went together (me soaked, he dry) to the bar and he bought another beer. His English wasn’t particularly good, one of the few times I have faced this challenge in Holland. He smiled and then said, “It’s your birthday party, no?”, with a hearty laugh.

“No, not my birthday,” I replied unsure of what the hell he meant.

“Oh, happy birthday”

“Thanks”

I have no idea what this meant or how it related to anything at all. Freaky Dutch.

This guy was completely sure that he did not cause the spill. Perhaps the most perplexing thing about the Dutch is how they are completely sure of themselves. I see this country as a decent place with a lot of problems, like America but without good food, music, weather, topography, and bathroom facilities. The people are generally rude but they don’t know it. In fact, they think of themselves as the most polite civilization on earth. They will tell you as much. The only thing they will concede is that the Belgians make better beer, not much of a concession considering half of Belgian is basically Dutch. Maybe they really are that good. Maybe it’s a self fulfilling prophecy. Maybe this philosophizing would make more sense at the end of the trip.

Dude

I told you that Rhett, Francesco, and I went out last Thursday night and had a really good time. I forgot about this little nugget. The same Dutch bartenders who let us stay late so they could chastise us for individual gun ownership and the freedom to choose your doctor provided a funny story earlier in the night. The three of us decided we wanted White Russians. The bartender was not sure what that meant so we explained that it was equal parts vodka, Kahlua, and milk. She came back a few minutes later with tiny shot glasses full of White Russian. We corrected her and she confessed that she had never heard of such a drink. We told her about The Big Lebowski and how its protagonist (anti-hero? role model? god?), the Dude, drinks nothing but White Russians. That turned on the light bulb. “Oh, I know the Dude. Yeah! I like that movie.” She said something in Dutch to her coworkers. All three of them got excited and started walking around behind the bar saying,

“Dude”
“Dude!”
“the Dude”
“Dude Dude”

I wonder what they call a White Russian in Dutch. He orders it about five thousand times throughout the movie. I’m sure it translates to something freaky and nonsensical. The Dude probably orders bicycle grease or fritesauce. The Dude is a uniter. Never underestimate his ability to fuse cultures.

Diver Gingivitis

Today may have been the strangest day I have experienced thus far. By the time I got to work, I had pages worth of thoughts on the freaky Dutch but those nuggets have drowned in the rest of my bizarre day.

My boss, Marie, put it best. Holland is the most developed third world nation on earth. We ordered pizza for lunch because things are getting hectic at work and none of us wanted to leave for too long. The Dutch love the internet so it was perfectly reasonable for us to expect that we could order a pizza online. Danny, who has lived in Holland off and on for over a year, ordered a pizza from one of the local pizza joints. His confirmation email said, in English, "Your order will be delivered in three to five business days."

I worked a pretty long day, deciding to stay at the office until our weekly, Intern Tuesday Night Drinks. The bar was quintessentially Dutch, weird atmosphere with delicious beers. I didn't like the vibe and left fairly early. My legs and ankles were hurting when I got up from the bar stool. I said this aloud because it came suddenly and kinda scared me. Had the Dutch poisoned my beer with ankle depleting juice? Were my feet going to fall off my legs? It hit me without warning. Jon, my Texan friend, had a diagnosis. "It's Diver Gingivitis, have it in my family."

"Diver Ginvi- you're not serious."

"Yeah, swear to God, Diver Ginginvitis. Sarina, tell him. It runs in my family. What are your symptoms?"

"It hurts, kinda like a bruise."

"Yep, that's it. Diver Gingivitis. You'll be ok."

Five minutes later the pain had subsided and I realized it was just a severe case of my feet falling asleep. Diver Gingivitis. Jon will keep you on your toes.

The strangest and most Dutch part of the night came from the bartender. He was unpleasant all night. They were all unpleasant but this one guy was just ridiculous. I had to wait for twenty minutes or so each time I wanted a drink and the only people in the bar were those in my party. It's not like these guys were overwhelmed with work. After waiting for a good twenty minutes, another bartender took my order and rude bartender walked over near me. Europeans have no concept of personal space so I wasn't worried about him standing almost on top of me. I had just finished drinking my beer and had set my glass on the bar. Without warning, the rude, weird bartender takes my glass and, instead of taking it away, chugs the remaining beer which consisted of a small puddle of my backwash. The Dutch.

Contradutching

One minute the Dutch drive you crazy with their unabashed rudeness, the next they live up to their reputation as the most polite people in the world. I just got through lambasting Holland for its lack of manners when the supermarket cashier did the unheard of; she spotted me 11 cents. This happens in America when you are two or three cents short. The cashier will just say, "I got it", and then hopes that someone leaves a penny later. This girl spotted me 11 cents.

Before you pack up and move to Holland with dreams of saving 11 cents a day at Albert Heijn (the tiny, crowded Dutch grocery chain), let's try to get some perspective. Europeans love coins. I do not understand this phenomenon. They have a one dollar and a two dollar coin and will do everything in their power to gain more. They always ask if you have the extra twelve or even thirty cents. If not, they frown and reluctantly give you the proper change with a longing look in their eyes as if handing over the last few M & M's. They know it's the right thing to do but they really want those coins/candy coated chocolate pieces.

Whatever her motivation, that anonymous Dutch girl put a smile on my face and curbed my homesickness for at least another day. Cheers, Dutch supermarket girl.

Workin'

Things are picking up at work. We will be starting our Defense case in the coming days. I did some work today in an effort to make up for time lost during Rhett’s visit. I’m glad that things are picking up at work. The next few days will be stressful but that will help take my mind off of how much I want a rib eye, a bottle of California Cabernet, an evening with my girlfriend, Wal-Mart, and a clothes dryer.

It’s not that I’ve given up on assimilating to Dutch culture but I have scaled back my efforts. I appreciate Holland but am further convinced that there is no better place on Earth than America.

In furtherance of my efforts to be more American, I am watching the final Presidential debate. I have watched about half of it and think both candidates are saying the right things for their respective campaigns. Unfortunately, I think most people are fed up with the way Senator McCain has lowered this campaign to the Democrat’s level. Both candidates are saying ridiculous things about one another instead of facing the issues directly. Obama is saying some borderline Marxist things but no one is calling him out on it. In fact, when asked whether Obama is a socialist (Marxism light), McCain said, “I don’t know.” He is. Why can’t we talk about this? Instead of dealing with this head on, the McCain campaign keeps talking about William Ayers. We are going to end up with a President who is a Marxist with a free pass from the media and unconstitutionally expanded executive powers, including control of the world’s largest banks.

On a lighter note, I am currently at work and my colleague just opened some kind of web page which immediately began blaring Van Halen’s, “Jump”. I also found out that the project I have been working on is much easier than I am making it. The day is looking good so far.

Fantastic Trip to Europe Light

R1 here: I just finished packing and this is one of my last things to do tonight before I get ready to leave. I want to first say that Teddy was the finest host and I had the greatest time here in Europe Light. I coined the thought Europe Light because the Netherlands has a great European feel but they all speak English (and enjoy to do so!). I imagine it would be uncomforable to try and stumble thru a language but you don't have to do that here. Just speak English.

The beer is also fabulous. There are all types of Wheat, Pale Ales, Dark Beers. And it's 8.5% alcohol which makes it extra good. 3 beers and you feel great. I also enjoyed re-learning how to ride a bike. It took a day or two but I really stepped it up.

The town of Den Haag was very charming and was a nice easy place to explore. Everywhere is really nice (except for the area I biked into) and really charming. The trip to Amsterdam was worth it. Just to see what goes on there. It is a little sketchy in some areas so go with a friend but the people and bars are really fun! It was a great trip to Amsterdam.

Lastly, Teddy was a great host which I think was the first item on the list too. But it can't be said enough how well he took care of me. It was great to just get to hang out with him and meet new people and just have fun. Not a care in the world, just 2 great friends hanging out. Dank u Well Teddy

So, if you get a chance to come visit Ted you should...especially Mr. and Mrs. Payton. You guys would really enjoy it. It was my first trip to Europe and I loved it! You will too.

Rhett

PS - I won't have anymore posts but I will make sure to make comments. Teddy really enjoys to get comments so we all gotta post some comments.

McCain = Bush = Worse than Hitler

I worked all day Thursday while Rhett gave himself a bike tour of the town. I asked how things went and he gave me his typical, "No sweat dude, no sweat", answer. After work, I met Rhett back at the apartment and we set about finding some food and having a few beers. Francesco was going to meet us at the aforementiond, Sheleighla, at 8:30. As you know, my record with meeting Francesco is not very good. I stood him up last time.

Rhett and I made some calls home and then set off to find dinner. The only problem was that Rhett's bike (nicknamed Traveller after General Lee's favorite horse) did not have a functioning light and it was dark. The politie do not like it when you ride around sans illumination. We took it back to the bike shop where the attendant refused to replace the bike. He wanted to fix the light. So I waited in the cold, Rhett in the dingy bike shop, while this guy puts Traveller on the rack and fixes his light. We are not going to make it to Sheleighla by 8:30. When Rhett and Traveller finally emerge from the bike shop, I start to realize something is not right. Rhett doesn't seem to know how to mount the bike and then, when he finally does, the bike is wobbling all over the place. Rhett has done the impossible. He has forgotten how to ride a bike. This is obviously very entertaining for me except that it is not helping my- meet Francesco on time- cause. Compounding Rhett's general biking ineptitude is the challenge of biking in Holland for the first time. Bikes are as much a part of the traffic as cars and you have to act like it to survive. It takes a while to get used to this. Rhett is not completely grasping the concept. When I go to make a turn, he ends up in the opposite direction. Turning is apparently a problem for Rhett. I'd love to seem him handle a motorcycle.

We eventually made it to an Italian restaurant where I practiced my six Italian words, much to the delight of the Italian waiters and waitresses (not really, they were understandably indifferent). The food was good and affordable. The portions were more American sized than Italian sized so we got full and went to meet Francesco. Rhett started to get the hang of things on the way to Sheleighla. He was still slow to turn but the trip was decidedly less eventful. Francesco was pissed. He had only been there for ten mintues but he showed up fifteen minutes late, knowing I would not be on time. He only ordered a half pint, a very unEnglish thing to do. Sheleighla is an English/Irish bar; I'm surprised his countrymen did not attack him.

Sheleighla was dead so we returned to the Plein because the bars are cool and it is close to home. I made friends with the bartenders at the last bar. They invited us to stay after hours and talk politics. One of them compared Bush to Hitler and said that John McCain was exactly like Bush. They thought American hospitals denied emergency surgery to those without insurance. Just thought we let people die. And, don't even get them started about abortion. There is only one way to look at it and America looks at it the wrong way. One guy told me that America should be more like Holland because Holland is perfect. I run into this kind of attitude everywhere. Europe is perfect and America is wrong. It's amazing that we have the reputation for being closed minded.

They finally asked us to leave once they realized that we were not going to install Obama as Supreme Chancellor. On the way home I gave a ride to a Dutchman on the back of Willie, lost Rhett (twice), and bought frites. After scouring the town, Francesco and I found Rhett at my apartment. "Where you been? I took a shortcut." I thought we would have to exchange the bike for a tricycle but Rhett has morphed into Lance Armstrong.

In the Netherland

R1 here: I flew out of Jax yesterday, went thru Detriot quickly and boarded for Amsterdam. Big plane with 8 seats wide and no one sitting next to me so I got to try and sleep across 2 chairs (still uncomfortable but better than leaning against the window). I got into Amsterdam, after dinner and breakfast on the plane, 30 minutes early...SWEET!free 30 minutes of vacation. I made my way thru customs quickly and found the Euro ATM to get some money. Then I got my train ticket to Den Haag Centraal, grabbed a Starbucks Grande SL and headed to the platform.

I asked a young woman if I was getting on the right train and she said mine was next so I waited for the next rain. A guy from Rwanda came and asked if I was going to Den Haag Centraal. I said I was, so we started talking. On the train, he said that he was a Civil Engineer designing large 25 floor buildings. We talked about ordering construction materials and auger cast piles...normal construction talk. Then we arrived in Den Haag Centraal and went our separate ways.

I found Teddy right in front Burger King just like the plan. We hugged it out (editor's note: R went for the handshake and I insisted on a hug) and I was offically in Den Haag. We walked to his flat and I called to check in. Then Teddy went back to work and I went to wonder around. Bikes are everywhere and I kept my head on a Swivel to avoid getting run over. I went to a museum just to avoid the rain. There were some Rembrant paintings (editor's note: R originally posted, "Rembrant pics"); I'm not much of an art guy but it was dry. I met Ted after his work and we had some drinks. We bounced around and drank 8.5% beers. I'm feeling pretty good during this blog. It was great to hang with Teddy after not talking with him for about 2 months. Dude here.

I hope you are all doing well. More funny stories to tell but I can't type fast enough. Good night Folks!

Editor: This is a much easier edit than Travis' wandering narrative. Rhett may not be a wordsmith but his post is pretty coherent. Granted, this is just day #1. I expect that the weekend will yield countless more gems.

The Ope

The car we (I) drove through Germany, so big it doesn't fit in the frame.

Hand Wash Only

I finally set about cleaning my apartment for the first time in about a month. It was reaching critical levels when Travis arrived and went steeply down hill from there. Sunday was supposed to be the day that I tackled the mountain of dishes (I have no dishwasher), bought a new shower head, vacuumed, put all of the tickets and various papers I have collected in one spot, finished my book, started a new one, and actually sat in the park behind my house for the first time. None of that happened. I slept most of the day. The sleep was much needed but I could have used the other things as well. One thing I did accomplish was laundry...sort of. My washing machine now makes some strange noises for 45 minutes before delivering soaking wet, semi-clean clothes. I think it has stopped spinning, rendering it just slightly more useful than my bathtub and two hands.

My boss gave us the day off to finish ongoing projects and relax. She needed to get everything organized so she can make a list of things we need to accomplish in the next two weeks. We are meeting tomorrow to go over things and dole out responsibility.

Rhett's impending arrival provided the necessary impetus for me to clean. As most of you know, Rhett is much more relaxed than he was in college or even a couple of years ago but he's still considerably more high maintenance than Travis. I could have taken Travis to a tent out back and said, "here's your room". I did not feel compelled to clean the apartment for Travis. We just washed dishes as they were needed. Rhett will face no such obstacles. The dishes are all clean and I'm working on straightening up the place. The washing machine is a different story but he'll only be here for a few days so I'm not too worried about that.

Look for Rhett to contribute to the blog much the way Travis did.

Hup Holland!

I went to my first ever professional soccer game on Saturday night. Holland was playing Iceland in a World Cup qualifying game. The outcome was a foregone conclusion. Holland was arguably the best team in the world during the Euro 2008 tournament, a contest they lost because of the peculiarity of the tournament’s structure. Iceland is, well, Iceland.

The game was in Rotterdam. I was looking forward to seeing the city because of its historical significance (it was annihilated by the Third Reich in WWII) and its rebirth as an architectural landmark.

I have now visited two cities that I just do not like, Tampa and Rotterdam. At least Tampa has the Bucs, some good friends, and the Rays (sort of). Aside from the occasional interesting building, Rotterdam looks like any decent size city in America. It could be Tampa. The city is dirty and the people are rude. We had a difficult time getting to the stadium because of the behavior of the Rotterdam residents. We were to meet our friends at a pre-party at a mutual friend’s house. He lives in the Turkish area of town. Turks are roundly hated in Holland. I refuse to elaborate; delve into Turkish history and draw your own conclusions.

This guy’s apartment was terrible. It looked like an old dorm and was called, “In Africa hotel”. True story. He is from Florida. He grew up in Sarasota, goes to law school at FSU, and was the only person at his apartment. Apparently, the rest of the group decided to go straight to the stadium without telling us. There was no pre-party. Tristan, the Florida guy, was a saint. He welcomed us into his apartment as if we were long lost friends. As it turns out, he speaks Dutch because his family is originally from Holland.

The game was amazing. There were a few unruly fans in front of us but other than that it was pretty tame. No booze is sold at the stadium, much to our initial disappointment but ultimately a blessing. Soccer fans do not need booze to get excited. I expected the fanaticism to be more intense than that of U.S. sporting events but that was not the case. Florida football games are much higher octane than this. I realize it was an inferior opponent but even when compared with a Florida v. Western Kentucky snoozefest, the atmosphere paled. Still, it was an incredible experience and I really enjoyed it.