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.

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.

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.

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.

Brrraving the Elements

I mentioned that the weather is unpredictable in Holland. Yesterday was sunny and about 65 degrees. Today is about 65 degrees and cloudy. It's a bit brisk. The interesting thing is that the Dutch are all dressed like we are in Siberia. They all wear heavy coats and scarves. I am supposed to be the cold one. I live in Florida, where we may get ten days a year below 65 degrees. By the time I bike to work, I am sweating and have finally learned to wear a t-shirt unless it is raining.