More about Life

The Dutch don't tend to overdo many things, so one wonders why they have two Christmases.

Last weekend, a bearded bishop came to Amsterdam attended by a huge parade of grinning Dutchmen in black face-paint. This was the arrival of Sinterklaas, a manifestation of Saint Nicolas, the patron saint of pretty much anyone and anywhere.

Every year, Sinterklaas arrives on a steam boat from Spain with his Moorish servant (called Piet). Because Piet is never actually portrayed by anyone with any Moorish blood, he always looks like a Dutchman who has been playing in the coal cellar where he found a very cheap wig. In fact he alarmingly resembles a character from a very cheap and offensive sketch show from 1972.

Right now, "Sint" and "Piet" (he's singular in the stories but appears manifold at parades, etc) are in the country, and getting ready for the big day. December 5th, also known as Sinterklaas, is when kids wake up to find gifts in their shoes left by the dynamic duo. There's also a ritual of wrapped presents accompanied by a small poem somewhat dissing the recipient. The presents, the foot-related receptacle, the old man with long, white beard is all very reminiscent of "our own" Christmas. Which is no accident. This is one seed of what we know as Christmas. Sinterklaas went to the US and got fat on Coca Cola; the shoe became a stocking; and the blacked-up Dutchmen became reindeers and elves. And these got added to the fir tree, holly and mistletoe from the original pagan Winter Solstice festival, bundled in with a wild stab at the birth-date of one famous errant rabbi to create the glorious celebration of consumerism that we today call "Christmas." And over the last few years, the Dutch have been increasingly celebrating Christmas (in the presents-and-overeating fashion of the movies) as well as their own earlier, modest festival.

This is, of course, yet another example of the world's culture being thrown into the American melting pot and reserved back to the rest of the world and ultimately its original culture. Pizza is another great example. It's a highly interesting phenomenon that is almost certainly propagated by the medium of film.

So the question I guess we all want to ask is this: who would win in a fight, Sinterklaas or Santa Claus?
• Well, Santa Claus is old, but Sinterklaas appears much older and frailer.
• However, Sinterklaas is quite lean and Santa Claus has been pouring in the Coca Cola for quite some years and is, well, a bit tubby.
• Santa Claus has a well-trained team of reindeer with the kinds of hooves that could kick a man all the way into the New Year; Whereas Sinterklaas has a huge army of Piets, who have large bags of stone-like sweets to throw at children.

There is no obvious winner on paper, but in my head the battle would be fierce and Manga-like. It will probably end with both parties being mortally wounded, leaving the way for a sequel. The real battle between Christmas and Winter Solstice: Jesus vs Sol. A heavyweight bout between the Son of God and the God of Sun. The so-called Rumble in the Wrapping Paper. I for one am looking forward to this.

Your Sinterklaas Correspondent, Piet Moor.

PS Here is what a Manga Christmas would look like (from The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya by Nagaru Tanigawa and Noizi Ito). Happy Sinterklaas.

Labels: Americas, Christmas, Drink, Food, History, Netherlands, Religion, Sport, US

First order of the day was to check out. The conference being over today, we couldn't justify our luxury hotel any more. We left our bags and Cath went to the conference and the free coffee there whilst I went to a branch of Tully's, another local coffee outlet. I sat, read, wrote and listened to the eclectic mix tape the store played. One track was in Dutch by great Dutch band Bløf. It seemed unlikely to be listening to Bløf so far from Bløfland but I'm sure a local music journalist could explain it in terms of the local music scene.

I picked up some lunch-like things from a Chinese bakery and wandered through some more of the market. I watched some more fish being thrown, a giant squid being abused and tourists being scared with a monkey fish, before heading back to Tully's. While I was in there the second time, the chairs were replaced. Two burly, not-too-much-nonsense guys came in and replaced the chairs around as people sat and drank coffee. I assume they were official and not part of some elaborate plan to steal old chairs leaving newer ones in their place. I'm glad I was there when it happened, because even though the new chairs were quite different, I doubt I would have noticed whatsoever had I come back after the fact. I like to think I am that observant, but men don't notice the minutia like women do. Minutia like new chairs, new shoes, changes of hair style or colour.

Actual lunch was a plate of Thai food served by a Middle Eastern man. I had it with that exotic Thai drink, Dr Pepper. Actually I had the Dr Pepper because I never see it and there was a stage, when I was knee-high to something mid-sized, that it was my favourite drink. I am way taller than that thing now and Dr Pepper is just a quirky cola that you only find in unexpected places. Although I hear that in some quarters it is still popular and people even drink it warm. I kid ye not.

In full conference husband mode, I made myself feel better about not being the main bread-winner by visiting the hairdresser. My hairdresser (or barber, as he corrected, although he had been a hairdresser) was originally from Mexico but eventually found his way to Seattle and has been cutting hair for 25 years. Because of the length of my hair his first question was if I was a musician. Nope, lazy comedian. Being a Seattle barber, he'd cut a few rock star hairs, including members of Nirvana and, one time, Kurt Cobain. Were I the type, I would have said "wow" and been part-, full- or even over-awed. It was at least a cool thing to tell the kids back home. And to tell the truth there is a modicum of awe as it is my closest, if somewhat tenuous, connection to a dead rock star whose work I do admire. I guess closest connection apart from seeing his widow in concert.

The barber asked an innocent question at the end about if he wanted it cleaned up underneath. I said, "yes" expecting some clipping action under the back of the hair. Instead he got out the vacuum cleaner and hovered up the back of my hair! I'm not sure if it was just a local thing or something only he does to dumb tourists, but it certainly was a first.

Sporting my new post-grunge locks, I grabbed an iced decaf latte and skipped over to the conference centre and used the free internet until Cath came and only just recognised me.

We carted our stuff over to our new hotel on Pioneer Square. Coming from the old one with it's fluffy bears, four-poster beds and real coat hangers, there was a period of adjustment. Our view was now of a blank wall instead of Puget Sound (it's a kind of bay).

We seafooded at McCormick's and of course saw a rat on the way home. A gallery a couple of doors down from the hotel was preparing itself for something big. That thing, explained an emerging artist, was the next day's art walk. The artist added that he worked a lot with larva and insects and they seemed as much the creators of the art as he was. We said we'd try and come by, and maybe shake antennae with a few of them. We didn't make it.

Labels: Anthropology, Art, Drink, Food, Music, Netherlands, Travel, US, Wildlife

The main reason for our wee trip to Texas was to help celebrate Cath's parents 50th wedding anniversary. They've been married for longer than I've been and seen a lot of the world as well as some big shifts in the American socio-political landscape.

Unfortunately, preparing a shindig of this importance requires an awful lot of shopping. Fortunately, the US is a country designed around the concept of shopping. We went to Sam's Club which is a kind of wholesale warehouse where members (who pay the nominal joining fee) can buy anything from CDs to cakes. The Sam in question is the founder of Wal-Mart.

We next took in a pet superstore (the size of a large human supermarket in the Netherlands but just selling stuff for pets). Cath bought various cat-related things whilst I checked out the snakes and lizards. As ever the snakes and lizards were adorable. They sat in tanks surrounded by cheerily chirpy crickets. The crickets were of course oblivious to the fact their sole purpose in this new environment was to be a tasty treat for the reptiles. No lunch ever sang so contentedly.

Ourselves, we lunched at Schlotzsky's where they do Jewish-deli-inspired fast food. Every fast food place has to have a gimmick and Schlotzsky's is that is sells things like what a Jewish deli would sell, only made quicker and with more salt and sugar. The Mexican wait-staff only added to the air of authenticity.

Next we trawled around hobby and craft shops in buildings the size of aircraft hangers. The sewing and knitting sections of some of these stores are bigger than whole craft stores in the Netherlands.

In Hobby Lobby, whole shelves were given over to carved figurines all of which carried a label stating "for decorative use only." Really? What other use could there possibly be for them? I can only assume these were added after the store lost a law suit in favour of someone who tried to use one of their decorative objects for a dangerously functional task. The American legal system is a sort of Robin Hood apparatus, taking money from rich stores to give to the poorly intelligenced.

One quarter of the Hobby Lobby seemed to be given over to objets d'art that were inscribed with one of the following words: "Dream", "Hope" and "Faith." Apparently it’s a common thing in churches to have banners and things inscribed with similar things. Had there been one indefinable thing on which were carved large letters spelling "Object," I might have been tempted. But a box that says, "Hope?" What on earth would be in there. Now a little, black telephone book inscribed "Hope," that might sell.

Everywhere we went, we encountered black crow-like birds. They seem to like to stalk around car parks. Or it may just be that in Texas the place you spend most time outside in is car parks. Anyway they do a lot of wandering around car parks, cawing noisily and threatening to gang up and menace in a Hitchcockian style.

Church of the day (seen on a sign on the side of a pick-up truck): "Shiloh Cowboy Church." I know nothing about this church, but I have a very vivid image of what the congregation and services look like.

Labels: Anthropology, Food, Netherlands, Shopping, Travel, US, Wildlife

What I know about the "twin" Minnesota cities of Minneapolis and neighbour St. Paul could be summed up by the twin words "Diddley" and "Squat." Although Minneapolis clearly means "The Tiny Apple" (an ironic reference to New York) and Minnesota means "tiny drunk." Also, the occupants of St. Paul are famous for having pen friends in Corinth, New Jersey, I believe.

I have since learnt that Minnesota is actually known for moose, bears, snow, Native Americans and ice fishing. We saw snow out of the airport window, moose and bears depicted in large effigies outside several stores and Native American artefacts for sale in several of the same. Of ice fishing saw we nothing. But we didn't venture out of the airport, so what did we expect.

One question we found ourselves asking of the same was: Why there are direct flights from Amsterdam to these two places when there wasn't even one to Dallas a year ago? The answer is surprisingly simple and nothing to do with customer needs: It's because NWA have their crib in Minnesota, and so it's really to allow executives to swan over to Amsterdam at a moments notice.

Because this was our place of arrival in the U. Ss of A, we had to queue and show our papers. My line was serviced by a jovial rookie for whom speed was not a pressing concern. Whilst we were queuing, we found an adorable puppy in our midst. A cute beagle pup who scampered around our feet dragging an officious woman behind it. Every now and again, the beagle stopped to sniff a bag. Mostly it would simply move on, but sometimes it would stay sniffing or put a paw up to it. One of the first suspects she singled out was Catherine. It gave her carrier bag a damn good sniffing. The trailing woman asked to look inside. Sniffer dogs let loose on passengers from flights from Amsterdam can only mean one thing, right? Right. Fruit!

We had foresightedly left our two remaining bananas on the plane as they had become an alarming shade of black. But the wee fruit-dog could still smell them on the bag. In fact even us humans could still smell them on the bag. Having got the all-clear, the dog scampered on and investigated other smells. He never found the banana bread we'd made a few days before in my bag, but perhaps he only smells for fresh fruit. One thing we did notice was how gladly people opened their bags for the cute little critter. No one can refuse a beagle pup. The fact he was the fruit dog also helped. I'm not sure what the penalty for inadvertently bringing in a banana to the US, probably confiscation of said banana and a stern tut-tut from the handler. Whatever it is, it's definitely far less severe than the life in prison you get in the US for living next door to a cannabis dealer.

It was also nice to see the dog was the one in charge. He went wherever his nose lead him, and his handler just jogged along behind ordering people lower in the chain than she to put their bags down for the pup. After some 10 minutes of sniffing around and a few suspect but innocent bags rifled, the dog lead the way from No Man's Land to the Front Line Camp. He presumable wanted a cigarette and a sit down.

It was after we'd got through all the checks and things, and picked up our luggage and then had it x-rayed again that we realised there'd been a casualty. Cath's fleece had been lost somewhere en route. We had to go back through the whole departure terminal to see if had been lost at the connecting bit from the international arrivals terminal. It was an epic journey, and at the end we did not find our quest. But the tale of Catherine and The Bluish Fleece is no doubt a tale the simple folk of Minneapolis will tell for centuries to come.

Americans, despite their love of life-simpling gadgets, make their ATMs quite hard to use. And expensive. We got a small bit of cash ($20) out of a machine owned by Wells Fargo. It charged us a $3 transaction fee. This, quite frankly, is highway robbery. Which is highly ironic given Wells Fargo's origins. But then these days bankers are far more likely to be like Jesse James than Messrs Wells and Fargo.

With some of this money, bravely brought through the frontier of the world wide west by on highly expensive Wells Fargo packets, I bought a Caribou coffee. It's a local chain, before you ask. It was pleasant, but somehow let down by my decision to go for a cost-saving "steamed-milk" instead of a full-on "latte." (The irony is, I bet Wells Fargo directors always get their latte. In fact we'd just paid them enough money for them to give one of their executives a free latte.) To answer your other question, I like my coffee how my women like their men: weak and milky.

The airport stores sell a lot of local products, particularly faux and genuine Native American gear. We went to one that seemed more authentic. They even had full pelt ceremonial headdresses which were impressive, but bulky and impractical. However, having not bought one you know that in a week's time someone's going to ask me if I'd like to head up a rain curtailing ceremony but only if I've got the right thing to wear. They also had dream-catchers, tiny totem poles and genuine Native American back-scratchers (often in the shape of eagle claws). Many artefacts were clearly labelled with things such as "Made by Julie Smith, Navajo census #123456" (Name and number made up). As Catherine pointed out, having a census number is somewhat at odds with the ethos of the Navajo. We bought a couple of dream-catchers. These were gifts; however, something needs to be done about the fact that dreams, even if initially remembered, are as solid in the mind as morning mist.

Whilst we were looking at the dream catchers, we got a call that the flight, initially to be delayed and hour or two was boarding only 30 minutes late. We legged it back and climbed on board.

Labels: Anthropology, Drink, Netherlands, Transport, Travel, US, Wildlife

Having convinced the security guy our electronics were our own, we could finally get to see the plane. Although we booked our tickets with KLM, the flight was operated by NWA (who I am always disappointed isn't owned by rappers and doesn't stand for Niceguyz With Altitude (or whatever their name was)). And although the flight was operated by NWA, the plane was emblazoned with "Delta."

This all seams confusing until you realise that Delta now owns NWA and all three are members of something called SkyTeam, which to me sounds like a 1950s superhero collective.

SkyTeam

From More's Uncyclopaedia, the free uncyclopaedia
The three main members of SkyTeam were Kite-Like Man, Negro With Altitude and Delta, who - along with Aero Mexico, the flying Mexican; the clumsy Russian superhero, Aeroflot; and the seductive Alitalia - fought crime and generally made the skies safe until the mid 1970s when the comic series was stopped after allegations of racism.

The plane saying Delta was a disappointment to Cath who had vowed never to fly with them again after they were decidedly unhelpful at a time of family tragedy. However, despite saying "Delta" on the outside of the plane, on the inside all of the entertainment screens and staff uniforms said "NWA." So really they'd just borrowed their boss' plane. It was good to see the NWA safety videos again. They have gone for the inclusive approach of cramming in as many "minorities" as possible, including the minority groups of smiley old women and handsome staring men. After each long passage in English, there is the shortest possible summary in Dutch.

English: "Should it become necessary to perform a water landing, life-vests are available under your seats. Place the life vest over your head and tie the straps around your waist securely in a double-bow. Use the nozzle to top up the air and the whistle to attract attention. A light will come on with contact with water"
Dutch: "Er zijn Zwemvesten."

Whilst all this is going on there is in the background a soundtrack that was pure 1970s Jazz Pop. It is almost, but not quite, porn music. Were this music to be played over the top of the Singapore Airlines safety instruction video, most men would forget that their life was in any sort of peril.

After the safety rigmarole in English and Dutch, a map appeared showing the plane's progress. It was in English and German. And later also in French and Spanish. In fact anything except Dutch. But then, German with added English, French and Spanish IS, in fact, Dutch.

Take off took a long time due to, firstly, the "tug" breaking down and secondly, Schiphol's noise-reducing policy of having most of their runways in Belgium. But eventually we the ground was receding behind us and ready to save the world from SkyTeam's mortal enemies of Commies and the evil Count Von Lufthansa.

Labels: Anthropology, Language, Music, Netherlands, Transport, Travel, US

It has not been unknown for me to help KLM out with training their support staff to deal with angry customers, so it actually felt weird to call them several times in one day as a genuinely irritated customer. I was sorely temped to get really angry just to see if they'd learnt everything. But in the end I was too nice to get anything more than miffed.

I was calling because my names appeared to have been stuck together and wanted to check that this was okay. The girl said that because the US authorities were such sticklers for accuracy (even though highly organised terrorists are far more likely to get things like that right than the average Joa) it was best to get it changed.
• Plus side: they could easily have this done for me.
• Minus side: a change like this (adding a space as far as I was aware) takes several hours.
• Extra Minus side: we could not check in online until it was done.

So we waited. Some time shortly before 4pm, a new e-ticket was issued.
• Plus side: a change had been made
• Minus side: It was even odder than before, with the Mr put in an odd place.
• Plus side: the (or another) girl confirmed this would be okay,
• Minus side: we now could not check in.

Although our ticket said "this is an e-ticket," and the My Tickets area listed it as an e-ticket, when we tried to check in online it gave us an error message, "This ain't no e-ticket, motherf***er." Or something to that effect. The (or another) girl tried to help, but clearly something had got messed up during the change. Computer records are annoyingly like vinyl, very easily damaged. The airline support fall-back was soon the only option – check in at the airport.

So with only 4½ hours sleep under our lids, we arrived at the airport at 7:30, dreading being given the worst seats on the plane. (The worst seats are usually those right at the back where they do not recline but the ones in front of you recline fully. Although once on an internal flight in China I and a colleague were allocated seats that didn't exist as they had been taken out to make the exit.) As things turned out, we had fine seats and check-in was relatively smooth except I couldn't be checked in onto our connecting flight; we had to do that once we arrived at our stopover.

As we waited in the long line for stuffy security staff to ask about our stuff, we watched the silent TV screens. It's intriguing to see what they show to people in airports. Most airports show you rolling news channels, but sometimes Schiphol likes to be different. Today they were showing curling.

Curling is possibly the world's worst sport. Yet somehow strangely compelling – like an incomprehensible foreign ritual. But as a sport it is, as I believe president Obama would put it, retarded.

Before you complain:

"Retarded, adj: Physics. Designating parameters of an electromagnetic field which allow for the finite speed of wave propagation, so that the potential due to a distant source is expressed in terms of the state of the source at some time in the past" (New Shorter Oxford English Dictionary).

If you don't know, curling is a kind of bowls meets lavatory cleaning on ice. One person bowls a large, solid blob along an ice strip towards a painted target. After this two enthusiastic moppers take over and clean the path (in front of) of the ball with brushes. As Newton's 4th law of Subthermal Dynamics states:

"The cleanliness of the ice is in direct proportion to the maximum speed attainable by an object travelling along that ice." (Old Longer Cambridge English Dictionary)

My main problem with it is that in other sports, the ball is what you use to play; in curling, the sweepers speed along preparing the way for the ball. They are the ball's bitches. The skill involved is the skill of being able to sweep really fast whilst skating. I agree not an easy skill, but at the same time not a useful, elegant, empowering, practical, cool, or indeed desirable skill. Participation has the result of making yourself less important than a large, solid blob of who-knows-what. It's a hard sport to play and keep any form of self respect.

Labels: Anthropology, Netherlands, Science, Sport, Transport, Travel, TV

As I may have mentioned before since shacking up with Catherine, I am the step-owner of two step-cats. I come from a long line of dog people, so cats were somewhat new to me. I knew about cats of course; At least the stereotype of independent, resourceful, ruthless creatures beloved of crazy old women, that merely exploit humans for food and show only patronage masking cold disdain in return. Dogs are the opposite and show unfettered devotion from which they only sway to maul the odd small children.

Cath's cats were shelter cats. The shelter they were from seemed to give their charges the names of countries. The male cat is still called Borneo, but the female was originally called Iraq, which isn't a great name for a girl. Sher'll only get teased at school and called Eye-rack. She was renamed Tenzin, after the first man to climb Mount Everest laden with another man's stuff.

They are apparently mostly Maine Coon cats which are hairy little critters: black and white like fluffy racoons. These are not to be confused with Caine Moon cats which look like Alfie's Arse. (This was a topical joke in 1966. For kids under 15 who have seen Batman Returns, read "Alfred's Arse.")

Far from being the stereotypical independent go-getters, these cats are needy, greedy and weedy. Weedy because the list of things they are scared of is immense. From vacuum cleaners and flushing toilets to plastic bags and spoons.

The list of what they like is: eating, sitting, sleeping, eating and playing with wool. When they are not doing these they are complaining that they want to eat or play with wool. Cats don't ask nicely, they can only mew irritatedly. In fact Borneo has a small language of about 8 sounds. All plaintive and irritable. This is not because they are American cats, in case that's what you're thinking, because then they would also have a "have a nice day" sound.

Even Tenzin, who is irritable, but normally silent has undergone a change recently. Since the rediscovery of wool, she has become a first degree wool addict. She needs her play and whines frequently to get it. I hadn't known she could make a noise until this painful little screechlet first emerged. It sounds like a word she picked up from Borneo.

Wool seems to be a sort of cat drug. From the moment Tenzin first got play of a strand of wool, she was addicted. For the first few days, she neglected her food, and now spends many of her waking hours pleading to have a fix. If she could steal to get a play on the wool, she most certainly would.

Cats do not understand mockery. Replicating their noises in exaggerated, mocking tones only makes them repeat their original noise. They do not understand that getting in the way of human legs means getting kicked or squished. No matter how many times this happens to them, they fail to understand that it was their action of moving in the way of the foot or leg in question that caused this kicking or squishing and regard you venomously as if it had been deliberate. I can honestly say, I very rarely kick the cats deliberately. I don't need to. Borneo spends 1/3 of his waking life getting in the way of feet. He thinks he's a feline football. Fortunately I have self control and have never to this date attempted to score a conversion (place kick) with this furry, fat ball. Although I can just hear his plaintive whine diminishing as he flies off through the open top window to score the full two points.


No cats were harmed in the writing of this essay.

Labels: Anthropology, Cats, Netherlands, Sport, US, Wildlife

When I was a teenager cycling to school, I wondered at those kids who could cycle no handed. Steering a bike without direct use of one's hands seemed to be a form of magical control over one's environment. As a clumsy, awkward soul forced into a stringy, uncontrollable body, a state where any form of movement didn't feel like it resembled an epileptic ape break-dancing on ecstasy was something unobtainable.

Some people walk effortlessly into a room and the room makes space for them. I would walk in, barely missing the door frame and often even the air itself wouldn't part for me.

Many years lie between me and that self-conscious Kentish boy. I now find myself walking foreign cobbles and, more frequently, cycling on them.

A couple of years after coming to Amsterdam (supposedly for six months) I felt for the first time in my life able to try cycling with no hands. Amongst the Dutch, born on cycles and able to perform things on them that in the UK would only be done in a circus, it was a basic skill, but for me it was still a mystical overachievement.

On the first try, my hands tentatively left the bars; there was a wobble and they returned. They were off for less than a second but long enough for me to realise, despite the wobble, there was some small chance I could master this. After all, I had not instantly fallen off and been crushed by a passing steamroller. I worked at it; the brief period increased, but rarely got beyond a whole second. It was frustrating. The more I tried the less progress I seemed to make. I watched intently the people who could do it to see what I was doing wrong. They didn't seem to put any effort into it as if they were mocking me.

It was one of those wonderful late summer days where the leaves are getting excited about autumn but the clouds are still on holiday so that for a short period the sun is allowed access to every part of the city. It rests itself on the dark canal water that hides surprisingly well-fed fish. It shines in the stained glass above the doors of once-notable narrow houses. It glints off the cycle-bestrewn railings and follows you as you rise and fall over the bridges.

I was "fietsing" along a canal on a bike I loved despite being more rust than metal and having a propensity for punctures. The cool wind was in my hair, the sun on my face and I was surrounded by that pleasing combination of canal, narrow houses and gentle bridges. Suddenly it occurred to me I felt more at home here than in any other city I had ever found myself. Not that I belonged, but that here was a place that would happily accommodate me and that I could feel I owned in a way you cannot with larger cities. I was elated that a place could be seemingly as welcoming as a family and that, by accident, I had found a place with air that parted when I cycled through it. I was in such a state of contentedness I barely noticed I had taken my hands off the handle bars.

When I realised, I fought the urge to put them straight back. I made myself take in the achievement I had began writing off as impossible for someone like me. I asked my body what it was doing and it shrugged. It didn't know. It took a few times of doing it to realise that the secret is this: not to try. Just be relaxed, not worry and let the bike do what it does best.

These days I take my hands off the bars every chance I get. Sometimes to show off, I wave them around. When the mood takes me I celebrate the new confident, contented me by gesticulating like an epileptic ape break-dancing on ecstasy, just so that I know I never really did look like that.

Labels: Anthropology, Europe, Netherlands, Transport, UK, Wildlife

SNCF is the French national train service. It is run, as far as I can see, for the benefit of its employees and as a cover for various fraudulent operations. One of its scams is the international ticket swindle and it works thus:
1. The website only allows you to order tickets for Thalys international trains, in this instance from Amsterdam to Paris.
2. The website gives you no option but to pick the ticket up before travel.
3. The only place to pick up a ticket bought via the SNCF is from the SNCF kiosk.
4. Whilst happily selling you a ticket from Amsterdam, the nearest SNCF kiosk is... in Brussels.
5. The con really kicks in here: Any form of cancellation only gives you a 50% refund.

So having ordered my ticket online via my slow work computer, and having tried to pick it up at Amsterdam station the day before, I found that I couldn't pick it up. I had to cancel it and order a new ticket from a reputable source. Believe me I had help to try and sort this out properly. The mother of a super-helpful French girl at work even went into a station in France on my behalf to argue it. It was a like a scene from "La Petite France," the French "Little Britain."

MOTHER He wants to cancel this ticket.
VACANT GIRL BEHIND DESK Why?
MOTHER Because he can't pick it up, because he is in Amsterdam and there is no Kiosk there.
VGBD I can give you the ticket.
MOTHER But he needs to have it in Amsterdam tomorrow.
VGBD He can go to the SNCF Kiosk.
MOTHER Do they have one in Amsterdam.
VGBD Oh, no. So what does he want to do?
MOTHER He wants to cancel this ticket.

In other words:
VGBD Ordinateur dit "Non!"

Anyway, despite the wonderful help from the most helpful French mother in the world, all she was able to do in the face of such faceless, circular bureaucracy was cancel the ticket (redeeming half the price) and give me the details to complain. I sent a complaint off, and have heard Sweet SNCFA. Next step is to use cyber-complaint techniques. More on this soon.

Anyway, with our new ticket we obtained entrance to one of the sleek Thalys trains. We were going first class because "first class" on Thalys trains is not much more expensive than "second class." This is because "first class" isn't really that much better than "second class" except they throw food at you and there are (sometimes) electrical sockets.

The staff are possibly the best in the world, except for perhaps Middle-Eastern market traders, at instantly determining someone's nationality and switching to it. They all speak French, Dutch, English and often German.

The train goes from Amsterdam to France via Belgium, which is the country in between in every way possible. To cater for tastes on both sides, breakfast included both hagelslag (chocolate sugar strands beloved by the Dutch on bread) and Laughing Cow (creamy processed cheese associated with the French, but actually seeming somehow more American).

Labels: Anthropology, Europe, Food, Netherlands, Transport, Travel

I have just cycled home in the rain and overtook a man on a unicycle. It's moments like these that make me happy to live in Amsterdam.

Labels: Netherlands, Transport

Despite its proximity and importance, I have rarely found myself in the city of Den Haag (The Hague). Den Haag is the seat of Government and home of the Queen. It isn't the capital and main tourist centre; that's Amsterdam. In between them is a large swathe of nothing much. Only an airport, Leiden (the town I worked in for about 6 years, on and off) and a lot of cows.

From the tram I got on at Den Haag central station, the first thing of note I saw was a building with a high fence and military-style policemen. It was obviously the US embassy as no other building in the Netherlands is as protected as this. In fact, nothing is ever as well protected as a US embassy. Even Bond-villain bases are easier to slip into.

Adoring Amsterdam, as one does, one forgets that other cities in the country are also beautiful; also have great architecture; also could be lived in.

Today's piece of employment was to have my voice recorded for a forthcoming animation. I play a guitarist in a punk band (which is one dream come true) and a nerdy keyboardist in an electro-synth band (another dream, obviously).

I walked back because it was a nice day and I'd had so much fun recording the voices no tram could contain it. I passed great music shops, some very impressive sand sculptures and, once again, the US embassy. Of the two guards behind the fence, one was on the phone and the other engrossed in sending an SMS. Guards are so easy to distract these days. They weren't this slack in James Bond's day.

Labels: Netherlands, Politics, Transport, Travel, US, Voice

According to the calendar the longest day is about a month away. Calendars, of course, never take into account personal travel arrangements. Friday 30 May lasted something like 30 hours. A large chunk of the day was spent squashed into seats on a flight we very nearly didn't get. A combination of packing delays, tardy metros and a little bit of Cath's suitcase handle breaking mid rush meant we were arriving at about the time the baggage check should have closed. Fortunately the train was bang on time, and some random hero helped Cath up the rolupulator with her bag. (I know that's my job, but I was rushing ahead trying to save another part of the day.) Skipping the queue and blagging our way into the business class drop-off area, we came through and even had enough time to pick up some gift goodies. The panic was over. And believe me, panic it had been for a while.

A direct flight from Amsterdam to Portland, Oregon is about 10 or so hours. To pass the time in the tiny seats, the airline provides one of those new, impressively-featured entertainment systems that never work first go. After "what we call a soft reboot" which took 20 minutes, the system was up and running. It was handy because while Cath took the sleeping option, I took the barely-successful nap and two-movie option. I watched Bullitt because San Francisco was to be one of our ports of call plus you can't really get too much gritty Steve McQueenness. Then later Juno because nothing else looked remotely good. The latter was edited for content for airlines. Which usually means all references to plane crashes, hijacking, food poisoning are removed; as well as bad language, sex and violence. There were quite a few over-dubbed ridiculously mild expletives and sentences cut in half to remove bad words. It was a pooping shame as in many cases the whole gosh dagnagnit rhythm and sometimes the jigging meaning was lost. Juno is actually a love story following the cycle of a pregnancy and seems to say love is more important than babies. Which isn't biologically true, but may as well be given there is a baby mountain. This is probably one of those movies that everyone get's confirmation of their beliefs from. Like visiting Jerusalem: No matter what your faith, it'll get reaffirmed their. Certainly mine did, and I'm a cynical atheist.

Labels: Movies, Netherlands, Religion, Transport, Travel, US

More people had checked into the hotel the previous day in a post Queen's Day rush so the breakfast area was much more full. Today the ratio of young to old people was more like 1:3, so we were less concerned about being routed in a fight.

There were even some young kids, one of whom sat on the floor playing with toys, oblivious to the dangers of old and/or tired people carrying coffee above them.

We checked out, leaving our bags behind the counter, and took off on our bicycles for a last jaunt in the woods.

We first headed for De Koepel which several signs in the area refer to. The route took us past the Wildwal. The Wildwal, or Wild Wall, is a protective ditch from the late middle ages. It was used to keep out raiders who either could not jump or who were afraid of depths. The ditch can still be seen running through the woods and we would have missed it if it wasn't for the modern sign. I can only assume there was an ancient sign to alert the raiders of the ditch who might have just accidentally stepped over it in their haste.

De Koepel is a lookout tower built in 1913 by a banker or something like that. It wasn't open for going up when we were there so we sat outside and wrote and drew for a bit. We also wandered around it and admired the plethora of flies that it (or perhaps a bin) had attracted. (More on this later).


One of the first signs we had seen when getting off the train pointed to the Pannenkoekenhuis (Pancake House). In fact it featured on so many signs that we saw over our days cycling around - more even than the Koepel - that we began to think it must be an historic site. Perhaps during the middle ages King Berryred the Red had burnt the pancakes there just before the battle of Lunteren. Something of this import could not be allowed to pass us by, so we decided to at least pop our heads in.

The Pannenkoekenhuis turned out not to be very historic at all. Perhaps circa 1970. At the very best it was the site where Geert Berryred the hippy burnt the lentil soup just before the love-in at Gijs' place. It's a place to take kids and have them amused. It has a play area and a petting zoo for which you pay admittance to a very bored-looking schoolgirl in an ice cream booth. The booth cried "Ola!" (Dutch for Wall's) but she seemed to be crying inwardly, "oh no, not more kids!"

The menu, as one would expect, was stuffed with pancakes and seemed to be more for the adult's taste than the kids as the Pancake of the Day came with a free beer. As well as pancakes there was a selection of other Dutch classic meals. It isn't a place for people who care what they put in themselves. Sitting behind us were two young girls with a man who may well have been responsible for their existence. The girls were almost dwarfed by plates of chips and frikandel (a kind of sausage filled with dubious (often equine) meats). They looked down at them, daunted, whilst their dad casually finished off his own. Way to kill your daughters, dude.

Soon it was time to gather our things and make our way back. During this last cycle back to the hotel, we stumbled upon a hardware store. In the window of this store was a sign saying VVV. Finally, we had found the tourist office. There aren't many places in the world you can get travel advice and two packets of nails at the same time, Lunteren may be the only one.

We went back on the cute, little, new trains that service the 7-stop Valley line. At Ede-Wageningen, we went down the endless ramps and up the slowest elevator in the northern hemisphere to catch the train to Amsterdam Amstel.

Amsterdam was sunny and busy, pretty much as I remember her. But we were relaxed. What was nice was that we'd just had a weekend away and had arrived back just in time for the real weekend to start. Life doesn't get better than that.

Labels: Anthropology, Drink, Food, History, Netherlands, Transport, Travel

Directly following the Queen's (false) birthday this year was Hemelvaart (or Helatorstai (in Finish), Himmelfart (in Danish) or Ascension Day). It is the day when Jesus vaarted up to heaven after being crossed, buried and resurrected. Knowing hemel (pronounced heymal) mean heaven made me realise why the residents of Hemel Hempstead (in Hertfordshire, UK) are always so smug. They live in "Heavenly Hemp Town."

Hotels spend a lot of effort getting you to go there and then even more effort making sure you don't stay there too much. Breakfast is always set at a prohibitive time for people who are on holiday. And after that, gangs of young people roam the corridors with large trolleys making much noise and knocking on any doors not marked with "do not terrorise" signs. Early breakfasts are, of course, ideal for old people (who suspiciously sleep very little) and other early birds. Because of the segregation policy, it was easy to see the fact the regular guests were very much out numbered by the senior citizens. I scoped out potential exits in case things turned nasty, especially those with steps, but it was soon apparent that these were contented seniors not out for a fight but all chirping contentedly around a well-stocked buffet tree.

Ironically, even though it is celebrating the greatest journey ever told, there is actually very little in the way of transport on Ascension Day. Bike shops too are closed. If Jesus wanted to return to heaven in a modern Ascension Day, he'd have to hitch a lift, walk or ascend on a stairway of angels. Because there ain't no buses and he won't be able to rent a bike for love nor money. It was therefore time to take the valve between the teeth and the bell by the horns. We grabbed our new cycle repair kit, acquired a pump from the hotel and redesignated the inside of our bin as a bucket of water. In short, we fixed it ourselves. Refiets'd, we headed off into the relative wilds of the Dutch countryside.

We started off trying to follow presubscribed routes, but somewhere along the way we diverged from this. But it wasn't all that long before we were back on a different path and all paths pretty much lead to the national park. Or away from it. Our route ended up taking us along more roads than woodland paths, but this gave us the discovery that the favoured pets in this part of the country are horses.

We lunched on sandwiches prepared by ourselves sitting on tree stumps. Pretty much as primitive man would have prepared his sandwiches. Except perhaps his bread would not have been square and pre-sliced. And his ham would also not have been square and pre-sliced. Nor would he have found a perfectly flat (pre-sliced?) tree stump. He would probably also have been bothered by bears, wolves and demons, so on reflection, it wasn't quite the same at all.

If horses are the favoured pets, goats seemed to be the favourite livestock. We passed many of the little blighters. Right before the park itself there was a petting zoo. A few chickens, pigeons (!) and pheasant-like things dwelt in a large cage whilst a pen contained several sorts of goat. Some were small and cute, others large and no doubt handy in a fight. I bent down and befriended a young example and seemed to almost immediately hit it off.

Nature, like most things in the Netherlands, is highly managed; and nowhere are cycle paths better maintained than in the national park. But then, they get more cyclists there most other places. As we had our own bikes, we didn't need to avail ourselves of the free, white bikes, but this is a great scheme.

Once in the park, we cycled to the famous Kröller-Müller museum (named after a brand of yoghurt). We didn't have time to go in and round, but some pieces have been conveniently dumped outside. "Line of Rocks," "External Elevators," "Frenchman in the Vein of Alfred Hitchcock" and "A Bunch of Tubes Stuck Together" were the pieces I recall. We cycled on further and reached a snack outpost. We arrived just in time to grab fire-side seats before the hale came down. It threw itself down like, well, lumps of ice, bouncing off the thatched roof and soaking all manner of people. Very soon, the place was filled with damp groups jealously regarding our prime spot.

[From afar we both thought this was a vision of the Virgin Mary by the stable.]

The hale and thunder passed and we were soon back in the semi-wilds. We hadn't gone far when the storm came back round for more. We huddled in our waterproofs standing under the canopy of trees but not so close to the trunk that lightning would confuse us for something that might conduct better than wood. Fortunately it soon passed again. This was just before we arrived at the St. Hubertus Jachtslot (hunting lodge). This is a grand single-story building on the edge of a very large artificial pond. It looked like it could hold quite a few hunters.

The lake had a low mist rolling over it as we arrived and looked suitably Arthurian. I could picture half-naked ladies emerging from the water, sword held aloft. About which Freud would have quite a lot to say, I'm sure.

As we arrived, the downpour was just about ending. People were cowering in the doorways of the lodge and the mini snack bar next to it. Not very hunter-like, we thought. They looked like cowering peasants as we strode through in with our damp weather-armour.

On the wall of the courtyard is a relief depicting St.Hubertus facing what seems to be a goat. In fact it looked remarkably like the picture of me meeting a goat that we took earlier. Where's my hunting lodge? Where's my Sainthood?




Cycling back from the lodge, the sun came out highlighting the dramatic landscape and skyline of thick, black clouds. We were at this point in a large open area: Part sandy, part grassy it was like just the Serengeti. You could imagine lions chasing okapi with vultures circling above them. (Note: neither of us has been to the Serengeti.) In the middle of the plain was a statue of Anton Kröller stands on a plinth surveying his domain. He looks like he is about to lift off and soar into the sky for a better look at the world he bequeathed.

We left the park and cycled back through the woods and farms. When we arrived at the hotel we were aching and wet; feeling we'd done enough exercising to last a few weeks. At least, I did. But the best thing was, our puncture repair was still holding on strong.

For dinner, we had reserved a table at De Verassing because it was either that or what the Dutch think of as Chinese. We ate, chilled a little, reading, writing and drawing in the hotel's reading-writing-and-drawing room and then slept like two sore logs.

Labels: Anthropology, History, Language, Netherlands, Religion, Transport, Travel, Wildlife

Normally on this day I am reporting on the crazy Dutch customs surrounding Queen's Day (Koninginnedag) where in the morning people of all ages sell their old stuff and in the evening mostly other people get drunk, wear orange and clog up the public transport system. This year we did something different.

Catherine is currently contracting for a big teleinternet company. It is hard, demanding work on top of pleasing her other clients. She's needed a break for a while but it's taken some time to squeeze one in.

So instead of being swept along the grachten in a sea of orange, we waited at Amstel station with two laden bikes. It was early afternoon and the tide of people was still towards Amsterdam. On the other platforms, trains filled with noisy orange creatures arrived and dumped their load. Whist we waited with a handful of people for whom orange was optional and shouting not at all necessary. Many Amsterdammers leave before the madness (which actually starts the night before) and complain that the city is invaded by boeren (farmers). Although in my experience, farmers are quiet, hard working people not prone to shouting except to instruct a dog and rarely to be found wearing garish colours.

At Ede-Wageningen (pronounced Ada-Vargeninger with a little spittle on the 'g's) we got off and rode (separately) down possibly the slowest elevator in the country. We ran under the platforms and up four sets of ramps to get out connecting train. This took us to the supposedly beautiful Village of Lunteren on the edge of the Veluwe.

Revision Note: The Veluwe (pronounced Feyloowa, or nothing like that) is a big forested triangle in the centre of the country. At the heart of it is a national park.

From the station it was a pretty quick and easy cycle to our hotel. We checked in and were shown the facilities - the breakfast room, the lounge and terrace, the intra-red sauna (don't ask me, I don't know either).

The hotelier also told us that the hotel was full of elderly people who had nabbed all of the double beds, the randy buggers. It was not clear if these were long-term tenants or a touring party. It seemed to be the latter. One interesting fact is that there was a segregation policy and the seniors had one part of the breakfast room, the other guests another.

Having checked in and looked (in vain) for the trouser press (I didn't need one but they fascinate me), we were ready for the first bike ride not laden with luggage. Here was our first curve ball. In the time it took to check in, check out the sauna and check for a trouser press, Cath's rear tired had gone as flat as the crepe proverbialle. Sticking out was a huge shard of glass the size of a dagger*. It was a Blackbeard moment: quite disheartening.

(* - some exaggeration here.)

But we refused to be disencourated as they say in France. We both hopped onto my bike - me on the saddle, Cath 'sweethearting' on the luggage rack (or chickrack as it now was). Nearby was a bike shop, but this being queen's day, it was as closed as a Hassidic car showroom on Shabbat. We cycled through the town and sought more bike places. They were as common as trouser presses. Giving up on a cycle shop, we decided that if we found a tourist office (VVV), they would know where to go - even if it was a place to simply hire another bike. The map showed one a little up and to the left of the station. We searched around every street in that area and found houses, houses and more houses. No VVV, no cycle shop and my trousers could easily have been irreparably wrinkled.

The only shop open was a supermarket where, surprisingly, we found a tyre repair kit. We bought it and some almond / marzipan cakes called bruidsgebak (bride's bake) which reminded me of something I used to love as a kid. One of these had to be useful.

During our cycle we had also scoped out the town's supply of restaurants. They were none too inspiring. Two Chinese restaurants of the type where most people order Bami Pangang which is Holland's most favourite Chinese dish, even though it's Indonesian; There was an Italian where most people order pizza; and several snack bars outside of which were giant effigies of the great god Frites (also known to the Romans as Fries and the Ancient Britons as Chips). It didn't bode well. There was however one small place that looked promising. It was called De Verrassing (The Surprise) and advised reserving. It looked the sort of place that wouldn't foist chips on you at every juncture.

We freshened up and popped over there early. It was quiet enough that we could get a table without a reservation. It never quite filled up, but it got reasonably busy as the evening progressed.

The surprise of the place is that it looks like a fancy restaurant and the food is prepared and served in a fancy way, but nothing on the menu is fancy. It's very gewoon (ordinary). Steaks, onion soup, even lekkerbek (fried fish much loved by the common people). But it's all done very well and with a touch of class. And is tasty. The other interesting thing was the waiters were not snobbish like they often try to be in classy restaurants, they were jovial and, for Dutch waiters, helpful.

After eating far too much, we went off into the woods for a walk. There was a bit of time left before the night fell and it became infested with bandits and/or Hobbits.

Towards the end of the stroll, we found an enclosure containing various sorts of ducks and an aloof of black swans (as I imagine the collective term is). It was a good reminder of the cruelty of ducks. They were up to their usual tricks of picking on weaker or deformed colleagues and holding down females with their beaks to try and mount them. I guess it was mating season. I don't recall those particular Donald Duck cartoons: "Donald Does Daisy in the Dirt" or "Rapesody in Blue." After this, cats seem like cute, fluffy things.

During the meal, we counted people walking and cycling past wearing clogs. In Amsterdam, in seven years, I've seen one tramp wearing clogs, the traditional wooden shoes of the Netherlands. And in Leiden I've seen a couple of builders wearing them in my time. In Lunteren we saw five people in half a day. Some of them young, as well. Even the bar in the middle of the town was called de Klompjes (the clogs). This is clearly a more traditional part of the country and it gave us hopes of seeing girls in pig tails carrying churns of milk or maybe a boy with his finger in a dyke. Mind you, the latter you can see in Amsterdam, if you know the right place.

Labels: Anthropology, Food, Language, Netherlands, Religion, Transport, Travel, Wildlife

At 22:05 on 23 April, David Dabekaussen passed away after an intense battle with leukaemia. He was 27. David was a shining light in the Dutch improv community; a member of the awesome Fluffy Suicide Bunnies. He was talented, creative and energetic; an accomplished musician (with the band Mr Moody); and a truly great improviser. It's hard to imagine him not being around.

When I picture him, I see him stand nobly in the Crea bar, his girlfriend Binky skating around him. Or I picture him at the end of the 2006 Amsterdam Improv Theatre festival, being showered in roses after deservedly winning the accolade of Maestro after a hard-fought competition.

He was very photogenic, and more than that he always manages to look very different in every photo you see of him. But in nearly all, there is the tell-tale cheeky grin. It is a testament to his spirit that he never seemed to lose his sense of humour no matter how the fight with the disease went.

Naturally, this good humour inspired others, and his funeral last Tuesday was filled with much of it. Binky, now his wife of a few weeks, recalled some things that were typical David which made a whole room of hundreds of sad people burst into laughter. Karen, a fellow Fluffy Suicide Bunny, came later an delivered a speech to him filled with laughter and regret, showing characteristic Bunny humour. She recalled a recent argument about her giving up performing to spend more time studying, noting David's mock dismissive response and the saying "and now, at your funeral, I get the last word." Humour and sadness is a potent mix.

There were several other speeches and some moving music before it was time to follow the coffin down to the cemetery. It was not, of course, your ordinary coffin. Usually these things are highly polished dark wood looking more like granite than wood. David's was plane pine on which loved ones had written personal notes or pithy sayings. I realised this is exactly what a coffin should be. It should be personal and contain things that tie the dead to the living, and not be some impersonal slab of wood trying to resemble stone.

There being several hundred people, the road was soon clogged up as we left the church hall. The police soon arrived to first stop traffic and then redirect us. It was impressive and testament to a life that touched so many people. I find it hard to imagine some one meeting David and not enjoying the process. Even the weather was enchanted and the sun definitely walked with us.

At the grave, we crowded round as best we could. A poem written by a friend was read and we all filed past in ones and twos. We all dropped flowers into a hole barely big enough to contain them all and certainly not big enough to contain our loss. So even though it was the disease that won, it was still David who was once again being showered with flowers.

[Various tributes to David have been or are being staged. easylaughs is having a benefit on 16th of May to raise money for a leukaemia charity. Further reading: David's Blog.]

Labels: Anthropology, Impro, Music, Netherlands, Religion

Rotterdam is famed as the biggest harbour in Europe and for having been pretty much flattened during the last global altercation (i.e. Global Altercation II). I had previously been there for interviews, but never really seen too much of it. Catherine had never been there. To see how we came to go there, we must rewind a couple of months and to when good news reached us via text message from top music journalist, Guido V. The news was that The Gutter Twins were playing in Amsterdam.

Now those of you of taste and knowledge would now be stating something like, "awesome" or other similar interjections. The ignorant amongst you would be saying things like "who?", "what?" and "why me so ignorant?"

The Gutter Twins is the combining of two musical geniuses, Mr Mark Lanegan (of the Screaming Trees) and Mr Greg Dulli (of The Afghan Whigs). Naturally you will know The Screaming Trees as one of the self-destructive trailblazers for the grunge movement; and The Afghan Whigs as, of course, the Motown-influenced grunge survivors also known as The Greatest Band That Ever Existed. So now you know.

Anyhoo, so once we realised this duo was playing sometime soon, we dispatched Guido to obtain tickets. Unfortunately the gig sold out in Arctic Monkey-like speed. But given that was the start of a European tour, there were possibilities ahead. The closest was at Motel Mozaique, a cute little festival in Rotterdam.

That's how we happened to be taking the train to Rotterdam last Saturday evening. Minus Guido, who was forced to go to Tennessee to report on a banjo contest, or something like that.

Now, as with any story where are so many expectations and disappointments, we should have been prepared for the final coup de grace. The fact that the night before the Rotterdam gig, Greg Dulli was carted off stage to hospital to be rehydrated. Consequence, the Rotterdam gig was off.

In their place was Lucky Fonz III, a talented Dutch musician, with a dark sense of humour and good banter. Some of his songs really shine, others sound suspiciously like country ballads.

When we would have been basking in the afterglow of a wondrous gig, we were catching a bit of Erik Vlooimans, a Dutch jazz trumpeter whose band must have been a Sixties Prog Jazz band. Although they seemed a bit too young, only in their 50s.

We were staying in a hotel very near the station, so falling back there was easy. In the morning, we had a little time, so we wandered around the city. Unbeknownst to us, today was the day of the Rotterdam Marathon. It meant the streets were busier than perhaps on a normal Sunday (not that we would know). Whole sections of roads were sectioned off and lined with a thin trail of people. We were in the right place at just before the right time, so with a little waiting on the impressive Erasmus Bridge, we were able to see the small pack of front-runners one and a quarter hours into their slog. They were running at a pace I would use for a sprint. Indeed, if I were to run a marathon, I would be somewhere towards the back being overtaken by old men in chicken costumes. Even Catherine who has run marathons in times around 3 hours, which is pretty darn impressive, was herself impressed with these guys who would do it in 2. After the first batch, there was a lone guy, some little way behind them. He probably felt very bad about not being in that initial batch despite the fact he was way, way ahead of the rest of the field. Disappointment is always relative.

After this we had enough time to take a quick gander at the Old Harbour. Except, as we didn't have a map, we simply headed to a small inlet filled with older buildings and quaint sailing ships. This was very nice, but not, as we found out later, the Old Harbour, but merely the Veerhaven. Oh well, something to go see next time. As it happens we would have had to have darted across in front of the on coming marathon sprinters anyway, much to the annoyance of their preceding police escort.

Labels: Anthropology, Music, Netherlands, Travel, War

zigzeggen - to speak like a politician
omzeggen - to chant repetitively
neezeggen - to be asked if something is possible that requires a change of routine.

Labels: Language, Netherlands

Now we all know nothing sells things like sex. It is the natural choice for advertising anything phallic (such as chocolate bars) or compensatory (such as cars or alcohol and indeed chocolate bars). But there really is no excuse to use it for IT recruitment. But that is definitely a trend I'm seeing in the Netherlands in the last couple of years, and no doubt world-wide.
This is a case in point for Peak IT, a name which in itself is practically a single entendre. The girl depicted looks unlike any programmer or system administrator I ever met. Most people doing such jobs are men, so the ad must be saying "this is what you could get if you let us find you an IT job." Because it ain't saying, "this is what most of our clients look like." At its most accurate, the statement would be, "this is what the PA to the CEO of the company you work in the basement for looks like. If you're lucky, you might get to install something on her computer, but she'll leave the room as soon as you enter it. Placing your memory stick in her laptop will never be anything more than innuendo."

This ad is for a careers event and features someone far too young to be wearing that much makeup and with a strangely distant look in her eye, giving the impression not of IT or other office work, but of child prostitution.

Even the company I work for has started a campaign to recruit young graduates featuring a "sample" of employees looking far more attractive than anyone I've seen working there. It's only going to lead to disappointment, resentment, frustration and ultimately to someone going postal one day. Fortunately the people with guns in this world are not IT professionals. People with guns work in the illegal drugs or sex industry where the money's even better and ironically it's not too difficult to score yourself a teenage girl wearing far too much make-up and a vacant stare.

Labels: Anthropology, Computers, Netherlands, Sex

In case people think I have lost touch with the youth, I have not. I'm right behind them. I have my myspace space, I have my Hyves account, and I even have an avatar on Second Life.

For those of you who don't know hyves, it's a social networking thing like myspace, except without the spam and the sex. It's quite popular in the Netherlands, possibly more so than myspace. One difference is that in myspace most of your 'friends' are people you don't know: bands who want to look popular, hot chicks who want to sell you t-shirts and hot chicks who want you to sign up to their web site to see their titties. On Hyves pretty much all of your 'friends' are people you know. Consequently I have very few friends on Hyves compared to myspace. I always feel relatively popular on myspace. Although not compared to the hot chicks with t-shirts or tittie-sites who have thousands and thousands of friends: alot of whom are other hot chicks with tittie-sites.

It is on Second Life that I feel I have achieved more. Second Life for those of you still very much concerned with the first one is a 3D-representation of the real world where you control an 'avatar' or human graphic and explore the world. It's very much like the real modern world in that it's chock full of advertising, most of the places seem to be concerned with getting money from you and when you really want to go and do something it's frustratingly slow. I am, however, proud that in my short time in this alternative advertising reality I have managed to make money. Real money, because there is an exchange rate between First Life US Dollars and Second Life Linden Dollars that you spend on things like face-lifts and property in Second Life. (It is currently 250 Linden Dollars to 1 US Dollar.) I have earned, for ten minutes dancing, 3 Linden Dollars. It may not sound like much, but it's a lot of money to be paid for dancing when you're a short, over-weight man with a beard.

The trouble now is to find something that costs as little as 3 Linden Dollars to spend it on.

Labels: Computers, Games, Netherlands

Sirens are all part of the backdrop of New York. Every few minutes there will be a wailing a few streets down. Sometimes they almost flow into each other to provide a constant soundtrack. It's like the twittering of the birds in the forest or the lowing of cattle on a farm. Sirens are the reassuring noises of the urban jungle. When you don't hear them, that's when you know they're going to raid your joint.

We are staying one night at the Hilton New York. Not because we are extravagant but because Cath was already there for a conference on Search Engine Marketing. In fact although the Hilton New York sounds like a posh retreat, it is in fact a huge slab of quality hotel furniture in a somewhat newish but aging building. And every little thing they can charge you for, they charge you for. Even looking after your bags after you have checked out. In many ways, the Hilton New York is like Paris Hilton: tall, thin, expensive but not nearly as classy as you would have expected given the name.

Whilst Lady Catherine was at her final day of conference, soaking up the latest Google wizardry, I wandered around the city. Actually, at first I stayed in and mulled over some writings until the maid burst in made me realise I should probably head out. Well actually I realised this after she had burst in and then later bashed the door (or nearby wall) a few times. Plus who wants to stay in an overpriced bed when one of the most vibrant cities awaits your sardonic gaze?

Round the corner from the hotel is the well-renowned Carnegie Hall. Well-renowned mainly because of the joke. You know the one, "Q: How do you get to Carnegie Hall? A: Turn left out of the Hilton New York, left again then right onto the next street." It's not very funny, but it's accurate. It's almost as groan-making as the other Carnegie Hall joke. "Q: Where in The Netherlands can you get all of the materials necessary to make a full-size replica of Carnegie Hall? A: Praxis."

I had been expecting much more of Carnegie Hall given its renown. You know, the mock-Greek columns and pseudo-Roman busts beloved by American architects. But in fact it's just a regular old-school theatre. Or theater as they mispronounce it there.

On the way, it appeared to be letting-out time at the local police precinct. Dozens and dozens of police cars came lugging along the street, not seemingly going anywhere in particular, but using their sirens to get across junctions when the lights didn't agree with them. But on the bits in between, they didn't speed. It was more like they were cruising. A bunch of guys showing off their flashy motors.

For the next few hours, I wandered around the large greenish patch in the centre of town known as Central Park. The park is heavily populated with squirrels and film crews. Of the latter, I encountered three, although I suspect one of these sightings was an earlier one that had moved. The first one was filming a guy playing jazz on a saxophone whilst a boulder with a pair of legs danced beside him.

Possibly the most frequently encountered inhabitant of Central Park is the common New York park bench (Sedes Novus Amsterdamus). These are thousands of them; lining the paths, hiding near the bushes or gazing wistfully across the pools of water. There are easily more than enough for one per squirrel with enough left over for one for each member of each film crew. The reason there are so many is that they are sponsored. They can be bought as presents, memorials and even as a means to propose, all of which is indicated on a nice little plaque.

(Thanks to modern photography techniques, you can download this picture and add your own text to the plaque.)

The obese section of the population of the US, the ones who come to Europe and complain that the MacDonald's next to their hotel is not a drive-through, do not seem to live in New York. Here people seem regular sized. Judging by the labels on things here, people are concerned about their health. Their looks too. I even saw a tramp in the park combing his hair quite conscientiously.

Once my phone battery had given up the ghost, I was without a timepiece. It was now I realised that there are no clocks in this city. Odd in a city famous for people rushing around with places to be. Fortunately (or consequently) most people wear watches and asking the time is an accepted, even necessary, social interruption. In fact another tramp asked me soon after for the time. Wow, even the hobos in New York have places to go, people to see.

I took myself off to the city in search of cwarfee, the mysterious drink so beloved by these islanders. I popped into a temple of the astronomical deer (Starbucks) where I partook of a "grande" (or huge) beverage and listened to accents.

Labels: Drink, Netherlands, Travel

The Netherlands is one of those small countries were within a couple of degrees of separation you know pretty much everyone. In fact if I go out in Amsterdam for more than a couple of hours and don't meet or see someone, I feel something is wrong. Also it often happens that on the flight I am taking or at the airport I bump into someone with whom I am familiar. This time I was recognised by a stewardess from a combination of the easylaughs shows and last year's Theatersports Weekend. We didn't get to talk too much as she was at work and constantly had to dish out things to people to take their minds off the fact they are defying some of the most immutable laws in science.

One of the best things that has been developed for airline passengers is the map that allows you to follow the flight. It doesn't serve any real purpose, but it really gives you a feeling you are involved. Makes you feel that you are not being carried around like freight but that you are part of the navigation crew. The other great thing is the digital film system that allows you to select a film to watch and start watching it when you want to. Not only that, you can pause it and speed past the bits life is too short for. In the old days (and on older aircraft), there was one big screen at the front which showed some inane family movie usually starring Macauley Culkin. The flight map is itself is not often much of a lesson in geography, but it shows interesting things, such as reminding one that the name Aberystwyth (Wales) is so long it almost covers up the town of Shannon (Ireland). I have often wondered in long nights in the air whether the inhabitants of Shannon have ever requested that the inhabitants of Aberystwyth shorten or move their name.

1 minute reviews:
Black Dahlia: Necessarily simplified version of the James Ellroy novel. Adequate, modern stab at Film Noir lacking substance but containing Scarlett Johansson.
On The Waterfront: Classic, noirish, small-time gangster film that offers some excellent performances and a pretty realistic story almost until the end.

Coffee at high altitudes tastes like mud. I have had the coffee on a variety of airlines, at a variety of heights, and every time it tastes exactly like mud. I assume there is nothing the scientists can do to make it taste anything like coffee. Things do not bode well for serious space travel.

Labels: Comedy, Drink, Movies, Netherlands, Travel, UK

Flying these days is either stupidly cheap (€1 flights and so forth) or not nearly so cheap as expected. There never seems to be tickets as cheap as you were hoping. It is also no longer fun now that security has been lengthened and pettified in an attempt to increase the appearance of it. Or to increase the sales of duty free and vending machine drinks. I'm not sure which.

After a few days of tending cats concerned that their owner had gone away and aware, somehow, that I was going too, it was a relief. Cats don't know how to ask for attention. When they want it, they just go right ahead and demand it. Or grab it. It's very, very irritating to not be able to walk anywhere without a cat lodged against one of your shins. Even the haughty, semi-independent cat had been coming to me and demanding validation. She, however, was too smart to stand up against the legs of a man trying to walk.

Eventually, I snuck out silently wishing the cat-sitter luck when she calls in on them. Anyone who said cats were capable and independent was thinking of leopards.

Whilst waiting to board, a plane slipped by declaring "nwa." Wow, I thought. It's great when a band that isn't bland makes it big enough to have their own airline. However, subsequent investigation showed that nwa actually stands for Northwest Airline. Pity. I really, really wanted it to stand for Niggaz With Altitude.

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Over the years, I've been given al sorts of excuses for delayed flights, but today's beats most of them. Apparently it was too hot on board to get on the plane and extra air-conditioning had to be brought in to cool it down. It's a goodie, and right up there with, but not quite as good (or disturbing) as the recent pissed-off announcement by the captain that the flight was delayed because the airport authorities had made them sleep the minimum amount of time required by international air-flight law.

Labels: Music, Netherlands, Travel

People no doubt are wondering am I as cynical about New Year as I am about Christmas. The answer is no, of course not. New Year is just an excuse to party based on the fact you had to buy a new diary. It also gives a good point at which to assess and/or reassess the previous 12 months and/or the years since your birth. Of course you can do this any time, and I would advise not waiting until midnight on the the 31 December to do this, as you'll assessment will probably be along the lines of, "I need another drink." But the approximate time of year offers a real opportunity to do this.

I don't really go in for resolutions because if there's something you want to start doing, start doing it there and then. The main thing that new years resolutions bring is a feeling somewhere mid-to-late January (or February if you're lucky or sometimes even early-January) that you are a failure and can't stick to anything. Okay, there was a little cynicism there.

Although the calendar we use is based on a miscalculation of the year of birth of the same popular rabbi as Christmas is the incorrect date of, there isn't really any religious message in the New Year. Probably because Jesusians are all religioned out after Christmas.

In the Netherlands, the new year is heralded in with a huge display of firepower. Enough fireworks are set off to completely destroy Luxembourg. They are set off by individuals, groups, companies, councils, the government and probably even the queen. All with varying degrees of concern for public safety.

At the time in question this year I, some friends, some friends of friends and some champagne were on a roof in centralish Amsterdam which afforded us a 360 degree view of the glittering weapons of mass distraction all around. Very impressive and still disconcerting as someone who grew up in the UK where fireworks are treated as the most deadly of things, to be feared almost as much as The Black Death and Paedophiles.

Catherine and I didn't go on to the big organised party with everyone else as I had to work the next day (in the exciting world of international support, somebody has to). As it happened the day was very, very quiet and so I could spend time fighting my hangover and reading two weeks of unread email.

The Dutch with their fondness for social formality have to greet all their colleagues when they get back to work. That was easy on Jan 1st when about 7 of us were working. But on the second the number was more like 25. That means there were up to 600 handshakes and cheek-kissings that morning. Enough to power a small village for a day.

So with Luxembourg destroyed but one small village given light for a day, I wish you a happy and preposterous 2007.

Labels: Anthropology, Christmas, History, Netherlands, Religion

A few days ago, the Dutch voted for a new government. The Dutch have a sort of proportional representation which results always in a coalition. Which I am all for. Coalitions prevent one party inflicting too many short-term changes in the name popularity or self-service. It avoids the problem of meglomaniacy where one leader can surround himself with Yes-ministers. Despite what it seems, it is not the place of government to change things (unless it is clearly needed) but to manage the country and keep it going. With a single strong party, there are always new laws to suit they own, temporary popularist notions.

This election saw a few changes to the power structure. The Christian Democrats are still the strongest and so Jan Peter Potterlijk is still likely to be in charge. The Socialist Party made great gains showing a general shift to the left which was also indicated by the loss of all remaining seats for The Party for Sympathy Votes for Pim Fortuyn. In their place, the Party for the Animals got two seats. It's nice to know in these times of concerns about integration, immigration, religious freedom, people still have some time to care about sheep, cows and tiny little dogs.

One party that didn't get any votes is The Party for Brotherly Love, Freedom and Diversity (PNVD) which wants to allow inter-species relationships and to reduce the age of consent to 12. Even the newspapers call this the Paedophile Party. It is hoped the votes for Party for the Animals were not from people thinking they were voting for the PNVD.

Coalitions take time to form, so we are still waiting the outcome.

Labels: Netherlands

Once again it’s that time of year when some of us get the urge to leave this refinement behind us and live like pigs for a weekend. It’s festival time. This year was my third time at Lowlands and last-year’s group of fresh-faced newbies is expanded by even more newbies and a few oldbies who we didn’t know last year.

As ever, arrival at Lowlands is discouraged as much as possible. The logistics of getting 55,000 people into a few fields with all their cars/tents/bikes/caravans/rucksacks produces every year horrendous blockages that last for hours and hours. Getting people into Lowlands is like flushing stones down the toilet. Sure it’s easy to throw a handful down and flush them away, but you try pouring a few buckets in. You soon end up with a flooded bathroom and an angry mother. Not to mention hours of endless flushing hoping to unblock the system. This year was unusual in that it sold out. Normally it doesn’t quite. In fact 5000 more tickets were sold than last year. That’s another 5 whole buckets of stones.

After last year’s Joycean epic of a wait before the gate, there was a definite inclination to go by car this year and several groups did. Our car arrived early to sit for a few hours in the queue of other cars that arrived early. However, waiting in the afternoon in or around a car on a nice day beats hands-down standing in the dark in a huge throng of people. Humour was kept to a good level. Most of us in the dispersed convoy had been in the terrible wait of ’06 and no complaints were permitted from either the newbies or those who had come late last year and not experienced the Ulyssean queuing.

Eventually, having blocked the road for a few hours, there was movement and the cars crawled and lurched forward and after another few hours we were in the car park.

Of course Lowlands wouldn’t be Lowlands without this queuing. It’s the initiation ceremony that brings you closer to everyone. It’s like Glastonbury without the mud. After a queue to be processed - a thousand times quicker than last time, but still not quick - there was the long trudge to the far camping area where we had arranged to meet and assemble our camp.

It was so nice to arrive on a sunny afternoon with hours of light with which to pitch your tent, rather than arriving tired, pissed off and hungry in the dark as happened last year.

Arriving early also made you realise that we were only borrowing this home for the weekend. Our arrival caused the mass exodus of the field’s usual inhabitants. Several
Fleeing toads were helped to the fence and many perplexed insects had to be shown that the tent was not their domain. One lucky girl (Lidwien) was even blessed with a visit from a field mouse. It rushed into her tent to escape the construction, but soon fled to avoid the screaming. It made the safety of Dave’s tent and was not seen again.

This year, given the larger group it was decided that the centrepiece of our encampment would be a gazebo. And thanks to Blokker, The Netherlands’ fledgling Walmart, a 17 Euro gazebo was procured by Dave, the group’s chief purchaser. It proved a winning buy and kept many an early morning gathering dry as we waited for coffee to be brewed.

Sleeping is always tough the first night. Especially for those of us who haven’t camped for a year - since the last Lowlands in fact; for those whose back and shoulders have been aggravated by rucksacks filled with tents, food and rain gear; for those who try to sleep before the rest of the field stops partying and passing round the “Lowlands Wave¹.” But eventually sleep rested it’s leaden balloon on us all and we all managed a few hours downtime before the sun started heating the tents up.

¹ = Where one part of the field cheers and this cheer is passed around the fields in the manner of a vocal Mexican Wave.

Labels: Drink, Music, Netherlands