Saturday, January 23, 2010

Slim Bekeken

This past week Keith and I have begun the process of integrating ourselves into Dutch culture. We have decided, however, to do it American style. First of all, we're learning Dutch, by watching the commercials in between shitty American television programs. Apparently the Dutch love Steven Segal. Anyway, so far so good. We've learned several cognates and many useful expressions like the one in the title, "slim bekeken." Literally, I guess it translates, "smart views", but there's probably a more idiomatic translation. We plan to interject it often into our conversations. Also, "punt enel" we have discovered refers to ".nl", the Dutch domain-name. So at this rate, we should be almost fluent in another thirty years.
We have also been ingratiating ourselves with the Dutch people. Today we did our regular Saturday marketing at our favorite grocery store: JUMBO. This time we entered the store through the entrance rather than the exit as we have each previous time, so already the learning curve is impressive. For the past two weeks we've been eating only frozen vegetables due to our rather limited cooking apparatuses. I couldn't take it any longer, so today I filled up the basket with some fresh vegetables and fruit, along with other food that we chose based on the pictures on the box. The store was packed, it was almost like being back at the Food Coop, but for a moment there was a break in the line at the checkout. We were able to walk right up to a cashier without waiting. Almost immediately, however, a line formed behind me. We unloaded our groceries on the belt and the cashier began to scan our items through. When she got to the fresh vegetables she stopped, saying something in Dutch that we couldn't understand. It turns out that you have to weigh all the produce and print out stickers with the price per kilogram before getting in line. By now there were about five people behind us in line. So I stood there sheepishly as the checkout line came to a screeching halt, while Keith took our produce back to weigh it. What is remarkable is that during the wait, not even a single customer so much as gave me an exasperated look. At the Food Coop there would have been bloodshed. After a few minutes, Keith returned with the produce properly stickered and we packed up our stuff and left. As we were leaving the store we had to work our way through a crowd. Keith, of course, elbowed his way through, like he does. Out of our way! We're walking here! Oh kind and patient Dutch people, we have so much to teach you.

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Incomprehensible Carnival

The following account is not of a dream. It was real.

I want to begin by talking about the Muncy carnival. Muncy, in case you don't know, is my home town in Pennsylvania. The Muncy Carnival, proudly brought to you by the Muncy Township Volunteer Fire Department, takes place in the parking lot of a now-defunct gas station. If memory serves, which it usually doesn't, (Muncyians, if you're reading this, please feel free to corroborate or discorrorborate my story here) the Muncy Carnival had one ride, which I recall resembling the kind of cherry-picker used by the electric and gas companies, but, of course, rustier, partly broken down, like all of the Carnival Rides we all remember. That being said, I think that the Muncy Carnival is mostly about food: Italian Sausage, French Fries, Funnel Cakes, Meatball Sandwiches, etc. There may also be a few games and the occasional live country music band, perhaps a watered-down version of the first pop-country that comes to mind. Muncy, mind you, is a predominantly Protestant community.

Now let me tell you about what happened to us on Sunday, January 17.

I was awakened by the sound of a passing marching band near by. In a state of half-sleep, unsure whether I was awake or dreaming, I listened. The band began with a rousing March, which, however, about three-quarters of the way through, gradually dissipated as the members, apparently, lost their enthusiasm and gusto. It was as if, part way through their song they had decided that whatever reasons they had for marching and playing were not sufficient and that they should, well, just go home. Perhaps it was just a dream.


About five minutes later, the sound of yet another Marching Band. This time, they are clearly headed down our street. Alright. Now I know I'm not dreaming. I scurry down from the Terrifying Sleeping Loft (slowly, carefully, mind you. The ladder is not attached to the wall...), thrown on some clothes, grab the camera and out I go. Yes, they are all wearing "fancy dress," as the British say, or, you know, Weird Costumes as we say in the States.


After they had passed, I went back to gather Anne and the two of us headed off in pursuit. What we saw was that most of the town had broken down into factions, each sporting its own highly choreographed costume. The first group we encountered apparently thought it was Halloween. That one guy clearly thought I was taking HIS picture, which, of course, I wasn't.


We decided we would head to Vrijhof, one of the town squares. We weren't there very long when, once again, we heard the sound of an on-coming Marching Band. These folks were decked out in green, yellow and red, the official colors of the Carnival, apparently, as they had flags bearing these colors everywhere. You can see that this team is sporting a fabulous court-jester style.


At this point we decided to head to the Market Square (a different, nearby square) and sew what was afoot there. In retrospect, I'm glad we did because there we found clearly the best team of them all, who I dubbed "The Road Warriors." This is obviously the best group in the entire Carnival. I hope they won. This a touching shot of a road warrior holding his child road warrior.


At this point we were starting to get kind of hungry. Being in the market square and all, there were a number of booths set up selling things like, well, the Dutch version of Italian Sausages, Meatball Sandwiches, etc. We decided to grab a giant cone of frites from the frites place on the corner, which sells nothing but french fries with various condiments. We went the Euro classic, mayonnaise. Now, European, or at least Dutch mayo is quite different from what we've got out West: much thicker and richer, with the flavor of basically what amounts to the filling of a deviled egg. That's right, deviled egg. Between the two of us we managed to eat the whole thing. I can't imagine eating one of these cones by myself but I certainly saw plenty of people making the attempt. I guess the Dutch have a higher tolerance for, you know, "whoa fried" than I do.


We were under the impression, mostly from the huge stage that had been set up in the market square, that there would be live performances of some kind. This may very well have been the case, but by the time we had gotten our fries, consumed them, etc., they were clearly tearing the stage down. Apparently whatever performances there might have been were over. Things looked like they were wrapping up for whatever had been taking place here. But this raises a very interesting question: What the H#$%l was going on here? What's with these people and their crazy costumes? We agreed that the only solution was to accost some unsuspecting reveler and put them under the appropriate degree of interrogation. So, we stood around on the corner, looking, you know, kind of shady, waiting for a victim, I mean, passerby. We found a family, a woman, dressed up in, you know, some clown-like get up, with her kids, also in clown-like get up, and her husband, who apparently had no enthusiasm. "Excuse me. Sorry, but we don't speak Dutch. Do you speak English?" Clown1: "A little bit." K: "What's going on here?" Clown1: "Carnival." K:"What?" Clown 1: "Where are you from?" K: "New York." Clown 1: "You don't have Carnival?" K: "Uh, no. What is it?"


Carnival, as you may have guessed by now, is the same as other Carnivals celebrated in predominantly Catholic regions. On this particular day, the townsfolk were coming out to elect the "prince of the carnival," the person responsible for calling the shots during the REAL celebration. (Oh yeah folks, this was just a warm-up). And you guessed it, this is the very same celebration that signals the beginning of Lent, what we would know as Fat Tuesday and it lasts until Ash Wednesday. Unlike the American version, aka Mardis Gras, the Maastricht Carnival is supposed to be a family-friendly affair. Nonetheless, when the time comes next month, the bars will be open all night. (Lucky me. I live right around the corner from a bar... Maybe I can get some beads...). As of yet, I have no idea who, if anybody, was named "prince." I'm pretty sure it wasn't me.

So, Muncy, I say to you, where's your game, huh? Where are your ludicrous costumes and impromptu marching bands? Where are your feather boas, cross-dressing and flamboyancy? Where are your old men, spontaneously breaking out into song and dance? Perhaps the Muncy Township Volunteer Fire Department should take their cue from these people for next year and really get decked out. Take down your Cherry-Picker, close the shoot-the-water-gun-to-race-horses-game. Why, maybe even try a little mayonnaise on your fries... even if it does taste like a deviled egg.

Saturday, January 16, 2010

Half Naked Dutch Men

My day began three hours later than it had every other day for the past week. Opening week at the JVE had finally come to a close. So rather than getting up at 7 am, we slept until 10. Though we'd been here for a week, I've been so busy with JVE activities that I still hadn't had a moment to look around. My plan was to take the day off from work and to see some of the city. Little did I know that I would end up getting to see a lot more than I had bargained for.
We are still in temporary digs, so we began the day by going to see an apartment. Keith had set up an appointment for us to see a place two and a half kilometers outside of the city center. The apartment was still occupied, so he'd spoken with current tenant to arrange a time. During their conversation, the tenant had emphasized that it was important that we not come by the apartment early in the morning. Apparently he had told Keith that he would be out late drinking with his friends and he had stressed that it was definitely going to be a late night.
We decided to walk rather than take the bus since we still haven't figured out the bus system, setting out at 11:30. The walk was a little precarious due to residual ice on the sidewalk, along with plenty of dog shit that was gradually surfacing as the ice thawed (we have plans to institute "curb your dog" signs). Aside from that, we found the apartment without too much trouble. The current tenant buzzed us in and let us look around.
The apartment itself, was a total disaster. There was junk everywhere. It wasn't just messy or cluttered, it was a complete wreck. The space itself was fine, it just needed a bulldozer to clean it out. The tenant, however, was totally unabashed. He greeted us in a very friendly way and "showed us around" the studio.
Evidence from the previous night's debauchery abounded. The tenant's friends were all still in the apartment and all of them had obviously just gotten up. Moreover the tenant had obviously not yet had a chance to clean himself up, so to speak. The sound of singing from behind closed doors suggested that one of his friends had beat him to the shower. Despite his disheveled state, he was garrulous. Since moving to Maastricht, we have discovered the difference between the Dutch and the American conversations between strangers. In America, the transaction is modeled for maximal efficiency: a streamlined exchange of information takes place with minimal expression of extraneous details. In the Netherlands, this style is much too abrupt. It is in fact impossible to break off a conversation at what would be its natural point of termination in America. If you make the attempt, the Dutch person with whom you're conversing will then repeat everything that has been agreed upon once again. While this is generally endearing, it is less so when your interlocutor has not yet had a chance to brush his teeth.
We stood around in the space for about 10 minutes, since given the size of the place, there wasn't a whole lot of looking around that needed to be done. During that time the tenant and his friend sprawled on the couch answered our many questions both about the apartment but concerning Maastricht more broadly. We were about to leave the apartment when the third member of the previous nights festivities unexpectedly emerged from the bathroom. He strutted out of the bathroom wearing only a pair of tiny blue tighty "whities." Of course he insisted on greeting and introducing himself to us. He was completely nonplussed, obviously enjoying the effect that he'd created. At that point, we decided that we'd seen enough for one day.

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

A Tale of Two Brokers

So the place in which we currently reside is a temporary thing until we find something more permanent. We could potentially live here, but the price quoted by the broker is too expensive. Thus, we're on the market.

I met with said broker yesterday (Jan. 11) to settle our deposit for this place. Before proceeding, let me recount our experience with an apartment broker in New York. Anne and I had decided to move out of the dorms at the New School (where we spent one thrilling semester, fell in love, etc.) and into a Real New York Apartment. Neither of us being from New York, and only having lived there a couple months, we had no idea what we were doing or getting ourselves into. So thanks to craigslist (thanks craigslist), we end up dealing with this broker. Some guy named "Mark." Let me give away the ending by saying that everything worked out fine. Sort of. (For those of you who know, our experience at this apartment end very very badly, but not because of Mark. Or at least I don't think so... For those of you who don't know what I'm talking about, sorry, some other time perhaps).

The first clue should have been (and I should say now would have been) when "Mark" asked us to meet him on the corner of Delancy Street (Lower East Side, a perfectly fine part of the neighborhood), in front the MacDonald's, with $500 cash. Not knowing any better, we do. After the fact and some reflection, we asked ourselves the following question: "What the H$%l did we just do? We gave a total stranger, who claims to be a "broker," $500!! CASH!!" Welcome reality. Anybody want to buy the Brooklyn Bridge? I gotta great deal. Can't go wrong. Keith: "Me! me!," etc.

OK. Whatever. Mark really is a broker and shows us the apartment. We like it and decide to take the place. Now brokers in New York charge an astronomical amount of money for doing what you can easily do yourself, that is, meet the damn landlord, pay the deposit and get the keys. They're parasites who feed off the lives of the stupid and naive, see Keith, about 2004. I don't remember the percentage of Mark's brokerage fee, but it was WAY more than he earned in his service to us. I mean a real Sh%&-ton of $$. Needless to say, I dragged my feet BIG TIME paying him off since, well, he didn't really do anything and after we were moved into the apartment, there was really nothing he could do about it. If Keith 2010 had been there, he would have told Keith 2004 to forget about it. Change your cell phone number so the guy can't contact you and let him eat his. Keith 2004, however, not so bright. The moral of the story is that I DISLIKE real estate brokers and generally consider them to be the scum of the earth. If you're a real estate broker and you're reading this, that means YOU.

Enter Maastricht. So I go see this guy yesterday, uh, "Laurent," to whom, by the way, we have yet to give a single shiny dime (or Euro for that matter). I go to settle up our deposit on this place, figuring he's getting worked up about it (just assuming he's getting worked up about it because that's what would happen in NY). So he wants to know how long we think we'll be staying. I don't know. We go over the numbers for the place, the price of which changes depending on how long you stay. The longer you stay, the cheaper it is per day, etc. I let him know our circumstances, price ranges, that kind of thing. He says he has one really crappy apartment (he went out of his way to emphasize how bad this apartment is; apparently the kitchen and living room are the same room...) that he can show me on Wed. and says he'll look for some other places to show me in the mean time.

He asks me if I have a phone. Well, (evil) Verizon doesn't exist in the Netherlands, so the answer is no, I don't. Laurent: "Wait a second. I'll be back." I guess he goes to take a call or something, which he probably did about five times during our twenty-minute conversation. Whatever. It's the guy's job. He comes back and hands me a CELL PHONE. Laurent: "Here. Take this. I don't need it any more." (Laurent is sporting a brand new iPhone; the phone he's giving me is an old motorola or something. but still). Keith: ???? Laurent: "You pay per minute." He proceeds to crack open the phone and show me the chip I need to buy to minutes on this thang., etc. Keith, incredulous: "So you're just GIVING ME a cell phone??" Laurent, unsure what the BFD is: "Sure. Like I said, I don't need it any more." (We had also discussed the possibility of another, functional hotplate. [For the significance of the hotplate for the Netherlands, see a different, unwritten entry]). Anyway. I ask him about the deposit. Laurent: "Don't worry about it." So, our biness finished, I'm off with my hotplate (which turns out to be even more dangerous than one I was attempting to replace, but hey, you can't win 'em all) and my cell phone, gratis Laurent.

Of course I have yet to track down the appropriate store where to purchase said chip for said cell phone. I know it exists, somewhere in the labyrinth that is the Maastricht shopping district, which happens to coincide with the entire city limits, by all accounts. I've passed one on my wanderings, I'm sure, but when I went to actually find the place, it was, well somewhere else, I guess. So currently our free cell phone, that some guy just gave to us, is little more than a conversation piece. I'm sure this will be rectified in the not-too-distant future, especially since we'll need it to find another place. Probably not via Laurent. Sorry Laurent. Maybe next time.

Saturday, January 9, 2010

Bed of Pain and Jet Lag

So this apartment has two twin beds, which is fine except one is way up in a Terrifying Sleeping Loft. Anne took the couch and I took the other bed. We both got up at about 2:00 a.m. (10 a.m. New York time) and switched. The bed (the one not in the Loft) is also next to an extremely drafty window. I was cold. Anne was extremely uncomfortable. We both had trouble sleeping. We figured we would give it a go until 6:00 a.m. and then just get up. After listening to iPod for a couple of hours, I fell alseep. I got up, thinking it was maybe 7 or 8. Oh no. Noon. Oh yeah. Slept like a rock for about 8 hours. Remember that we had gone to bed at 6:00 P.M. people. That means, not counting the four hours we were awake in the middle of the night, we slept about 16 hours... Well, that's only about four hours more than I usually sleep I guess...

Weclome Maastricht

After an easy cab ride to our new crib, we chucked the bags inside. Now, we were both really tired. And hungry. So we took a trip to the Grocery Store. (We remembered where there was one from when we were here over the summer from Anne's interview. That's right. We've been here before...).

So here's my first impression of the Dutch experience of the grocery store. There are four major categories of things you can buy: 1. Meat. Not American style meat, mind you, which is mostly beef and chicken, but Dutch style meat, which is mostly, well, bologna I guess. Or something that looks like bologna, except more pink. A lot of it is pate, I guess. Like a hotdog, except really really pink. 2. Cookies/Cakes. There were as many varieties of cookies, etc. as there were kinds of bologna. Instead of one isle dedicated to that stuff, I'd say there were about three. 3. Bread. Fresh baked and super cheap. The best thing was, at the bottom of the shelf, neglected, unwanted, a large loaf of what Americans would know as "Texas Toast" entitled "American Toast Bread" or something. Ha! We got a baguette and some other kind of bread that Anne doesn't like (which means I probably will). 4. Cheese, of course. Wow are there a lot of kinds of cheese, or kaas, as it's known in the Native Tongue. We got some with little flecks of something in it. Maybe dill. It is good.

Anne managed to find some vegetarian friendly fake schnitzel, which was basically a fake chicken patty. We got some fries or "frites" and some creamed spinach. We also got some fake bologna and some fake pate! Ha! We had a pretty good dinner, all things considered, and watched some weird American show about some people in Alaska. There seems to be about two channels that have American TV with sub-titles. The worst of American TV, by all accounts. Oprah came on at about 6, I guess. We watched Grey's Anatomy instead, which wasn't bad, except it's about Doctors, which is gross. (Not that Doctors themselves are gross. Just their jobs).

At about 6:00 p.m. after being up for a long time, we had had enough and were ready for bed. We managed to keep it going until 7:00 when we had to give in.

Brussels

Customs--I get the impression that unless you're African or Middle Eastern (Europeans are just as racist as Americans. Don't let anybody tell you different) you're pretty much in.

Baggage--Oh yeah, on with this Sh*&. We pick up our bags (all of them... I almost forgot my guitar at the gate-check getting off the plane. Thanks Anne). Get a baggage cart and wander around a while looking for the train. Find train. Now comes the ticky part--we have to, somehow, get all these freaking bags onto the train. Then we have to get them off the train to transfer at Brussels Nord. Then get them to the next track. Then get them on the next train. There are WAY more than we can possibly carry... So we sort of do it in trips. Belgium folks are pretty obliging when it comes to helping with getting them on the train, luckily (OK. Sorry I called you racists but it's true). After much hassal, we get on our train bound for Maastricht.


The train ride was probably about an hour and a half. I spent most of the rid listening to iPod. Also took a few very uninteresting pictures of the Belgium countryside, perhaps the most uninteresting pictures ever taken in the history of photography.

Arrive in Maastricht. Unloaded bags. Dragged bags to inside of station. Now, for some reason, we had it in our minds that Anne would trek off to find the office for our apartment and I would wait with the bags. It's about 1:00 p.m., Maastricht time, making it about 7 a.m. New York time. We had both pretty much been awake since 7 p.m. the day before, mind you. So Anne heads off and I drag the bags into the stations cafeteria or dining area. I order a cup of coffee, which almost immediately puts me into a coma. Since I'm now Guardian of Our Stuff, and since I'm not used to, you know, trusting people, I do my best to stay awake. I read for a bit, which of course doesn't help. Luckily Anne isn't gone too long and we grab a cab to the apt. WHY DIDN'T WE JUST TAKE A FREAKING CAB THERE IN THE FIRST PLACE I can't really figure out. In any case, we had finally made it.

We're leaving...


Thurs., Jan. 7, 2:00 p.m. We get the cab to Newark to catch our flight. We arrive there at about 2:45, way ahead of schedule. This is fortuitous since it we got dropped off at the wrong terminal. Take airport shuttle thing to correct terminal (we have four large suitcases, a guitar, uh... one small suitcase, a dufflebag full of books, two laptops, anyway, way too much stuff to be lugging around). Find Continental gate. Wait in line. Wait in line. Check in. "Can you double-check to make sure we're seated together?" "Sure... well, it looks like you're not. The flight is full so you'll just have to deal." "Great..."

Go to security. "Really? The line is going back down this enormously long hallway and around corner." "Yup." Wait on security line. There is a Frenchman standing behind us. He's attempting to get adopted by the wholesome family from Iowa or Minnesota by impressing them with his vulgarity. Frenchman, in a voice all are sure to hear: "My flight is an hour and a half. I'm sure F*&%$ed!, etc. etc." Mom from Iowa, who, about to mom the Frenchman, thinks better of it: "Well, why don't you ask one of the staff?" Frenchman: "OK but I bet they won't do anything." Lady in red coat comes near (TSA). Frenchman: "Excuse me. My flight is an hour and a half, etc. etc." Needless to say, the Frenchman stood in line with the rest of us for another half-hour or so, increasing his vulgarity in hopes of charming the Iowans.

Get through security. Go to gate. Sit for a while. I decide I'm going to track down a McDonald's and get a Big Mac. One last taste of America before heading out. It takes me about an hour to find the damn McDonald's. I also got an orange drink because, well, it's delicious. Consume Big Mac, which isn't as Big or as Mac as I remember them. Consume orange drink. Listen to ipod. Wait.

Flight is called. Get on line to get on flight. I butt in ahead of everyone and am one of the first ten people on the flight, after the Executive Top Class Select people or whatever they're called, not to mention first class or "Upper Class," as they say in England.

Get to seating area and negotiate with man to give up his seat so I can sit next to Anne. Now, this guy was with a young girl, maybe 14. I asked if they were traveling together and made sure to say something like, "If you guys are traveling together, it's fine" or whatever one says. I had an isle seat, which apparently has lots of capital in the world trans-atlantic flight. This guy had a middle seat, largely considered to be worthless. It nonetheless kind of surprised me when this guy, after a good two-second negotiation with his daughter (yeah--the guy's daughter), said, "yeah. sure. i'll take it." Now my former seat was right in front of the daughter, but still, it surprised how enthusiastic this guy was about, well, getting the hell away from her. Anyway. So, more importantly, I got a seat next to Anne.

Flight--about 7 hours. I watched an interesting film entitled "Cloudy with a chance of meatballs," which, as the title suggests, didn't make any sense, even for a CGI flick. I'll let you all netflix this fine achievement of American Cinema. I spent the rest of the flight sleeping in fits and starts. Mostly fits. It looked like it was still dark out at 8 a.m. when we arrive in Brussels.