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.

Jump Around

I completely forgot to tell this story. On the Friday before Belgium, Travis and I went out with, Zheni, and my friend, Francesco, an Italian who grew up in England. He looks Italian but speaks with an English accent. We went to a real relaxed bar and then, when we should have been going home, Zheni suggested a bar that played American rock n roll music and served cheap drinks all night. I doubted her and was proven wrong. The bar was a bit of a dive with good music and friendly bartenders.

We were watching a black guy dance on stage with his white friends (European men dance with one another whether gay or straight, kinda the way girls do in the U.S.) when Francesco admits that he cannot dance. I have had a few drinks and announce that I can dance like a black guy. Francesco doesn't believe me. I'm feeling so bulletproof that I claim the black guy currently dancing on stage must be "whiting it down" for his white friends because no self respecting black man with any rhythm would dance so blandly. Francesco scoffs at this remark.

Minutes later we are being dragged onto the dance floor by an enthused Francesco because House of Pain's, Jump Around, is playing. Francesco wasn't lying about his dancing ability. He really cannot dance. His arms are flailing in front of him and to the sides with no apparent purpose or link to the song or anything else that could qualify as dancing. Wanting to stop the bleeding, I grab his arms and tell him to keep them at roughly a right angle. Don't mess it up, I say. Girls don't expect you to be able to dance, they just don't want you to mess it up. Flailing around was funny when you were in high school, maybe even college. That junk won't fly anymore. I finally get him to buy into my theory. He has his arms at a right angle with his hands pointing forward and isn't moving them very much.

"Like this?", he asks. "Oh you mean like John McCain?"

Yes, Francesco, exactly like John McCain.