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.