Het hoofd van een Leeuw is harig. The head of a lion is hairy.
On the journey home tonight, I sat stoically in the aisle seat. I refused eye contact as she slung her violin overhead and squeezed by me with a sigh. I shrunk deeper into my book and pushed my headphones into my ears, willing out the grating chatter from three teenagers in my vicinity.
She drew out a stack of papers and began reading. As is often the case, my eyes wandered. Using my peripheral vision I tried to see what she was working on.
Ruimte = space
Gevaar = danger
She's learning English! Well, at first I thought she was studying. Though young, she looked too mature for that. Then, the red pen emerged: A teacher.
Without warning, her right hand struck out. It roamed rapidly across the paper, slashing and "x"ing some poor student's work to shreds. She shrugged with irritation as her Oilily shoulder bag shifted, its flowery pattern getting in the way of her grading.
I glanced harder to the left, moving my gaze upwards. A flowery pink scarf was wrapped around her neck. She wore no makeup, and her wavy blonde hair hung straight from a center part. She continued her task with deadly seriousness, oblivious to my scrutiny.
Should I reach out? Make a connection? "Hey I'm a teacher too!" She clearly understands English, or at least that niemand = nobody and "Ik vind niet dat het leuk voor mij" means something like "I don't think it's nice for me."
Or I could say something like: "You know, if you were grading papers in the United States, red pens were outlawed due to concern about student's self esteem." No, that could be misinterpreted.
I'd also have to confess my visual eavesdropping, something all Dutchies do but never, ever admit to.
I remained silent but watchful.
10 November 2009
05 November 2009
Cultural difference
Yesterday I had the privilege of meeting a fellow academic who was originally from Nigeria. Well, from Nigeria, but he had been living in the Netherlands for 20 years. That meant a passport, perfect Dutch...but still a frustration with what he saw as a somewhat stilted culture. The conversation went something like this:
Him: Yes, I like it very much in Holland! But sometimes - well, people don't show their emotions. They're too polite and reserved. They think I'm really outgoing (whirls his arms in the air). For example, if there's a traffic accident here, everyone is very calm, they exchange information, and are on their way. In Nigeria, the drivers are fighting in the streets! They shout and shove - look what you did to my car! My car is worth more than you could earn in your life!
Me: But there are plenty of people fighting in the streets here. Just walk around in any city at bar time. You won't miss the scuffles.
Him: But the difference is - the Nigerians don't need alcohol!
Him: Yes, I like it very much in Holland! But sometimes - well, people don't show their emotions. They're too polite and reserved. They think I'm really outgoing (whirls his arms in the air). For example, if there's a traffic accident here, everyone is very calm, they exchange information, and are on their way. In Nigeria, the drivers are fighting in the streets! They shout and shove - look what you did to my car! My car is worth more than you could earn in your life!
Me: But there are plenty of people fighting in the streets here. Just walk around in any city at bar time. You won't miss the scuffles.
Him: But the difference is - the Nigerians don't need alcohol!
04 October 2009
The Leiden escape
The people of Leiden conquered the Spanish in 1574, and the Dutch never seem to tire of celebrating. The victory has resulted in a rowdy festival, held annually from the afternoon of the second of October until the last drunk has passed out on the fourth. I recognize that the vast majority do not see this as a problem – after all, who doesn’t enjoy winning large stuffed animals, stuffing themselves with sugar and soda, and then getting sick on the Ferris wheel or bumper cars? Well, me.
I’ve intimately experienced this festival for three years. The heart of activity is located right outside the front door so the fun begins much earlier than October 2nd. First, the ominous black cables appear on the street. These electric cables will supply the flashing lights, sounds, and funfair rides that will soon dominate the city center. As the setup progresses the streets are blocked to cars, but the strict rules that govern bike and pedestrian traffic do not exist in this chaotic universe. Now bicycles and people must compete in the limited thru-traffic areas. Because of the festival’s total domination of space, our apartment complex’s communal garage is inaccessible for a week. If you want to access your car, you must pay to park it elsewhere. Otherwise you’re out of luck.
The first year we escaped to London and missed everything but a hint of the messy aftermath. No such luck the second year. I was deep in a hectic work period and even with the windows closed and the blinds drawn, the festival demanded acknowledgement. The strains of C&C Music Factory (actually just their 90’s hit “Gonna Make You Sweat” were repeated approximately every seven minutes. The roar of the crowd only grew louder as the night progressed. From some nearby ride, a horn beeped three times in succession every three or four minutes. I began to anticipate this sound even in my dreams. Just to get inside, inhabitants of our building had to politely ask teenagers to pause with their making out, peeing, or gagging in front of the entrance.
Unlike the vast majority of attendees, I had to work the following mornings. I dragged myself out of the house, bleary-eyed, and barely managed to sidestep the piles of puke that threatened to destroy my shoes.
This year, we managed a getaway but not quite in time. We had to wrestle our luggage through cables, piles of strangely colored rainwater, food remnants, and already drunken crowds. At least the vomit hadn’t made its appearance yet. It took us 20 minutes to make the usual 6-minute walk to the station. Our luggage unscathed by bodily fluids, we proceeded to Schiphol airport, and from there surreptitiously checked into a hotel for the night. We wanted a good night’s sleep before a long transatlantic flight the next morning. And it worked.
I’ve intimately experienced this festival for three years. The heart of activity is located right outside the front door so the fun begins much earlier than October 2nd. First, the ominous black cables appear on the street. These electric cables will supply the flashing lights, sounds, and funfair rides that will soon dominate the city center. As the setup progresses the streets are blocked to cars, but the strict rules that govern bike and pedestrian traffic do not exist in this chaotic universe. Now bicycles and people must compete in the limited thru-traffic areas. Because of the festival’s total domination of space, our apartment complex’s communal garage is inaccessible for a week. If you want to access your car, you must pay to park it elsewhere. Otherwise you’re out of luck. The first year we escaped to London and missed everything but a hint of the messy aftermath. No such luck the second year. I was deep in a hectic work period and even with the windows closed and the blinds drawn, the festival demanded acknowledgement. The strains of C&C Music Factory (actually just their 90’s hit “Gonna Make You Sweat” were repeated approximately every seven minutes. The roar of the crowd only grew louder as the night progressed. From some nearby ride, a horn beeped three times in succession every three or four minutes. I began to anticipate this sound even in my dreams. Just to get inside, inhabitants of our building had to politely ask teenagers to pause with their making out, peeing, or gagging in front of the entrance.
Unlike the vast majority of attendees, I had to work the following mornings. I dragged myself out of the house, bleary-eyed, and barely managed to sidestep the piles of puke that threatened to destroy my shoes.
This year, we managed a getaway but not quite in time. We had to wrestle our luggage through cables, piles of strangely colored rainwater, food remnants, and already drunken crowds. At least the vomit hadn’t made its appearance yet. It took us 20 minutes to make the usual 6-minute walk to the station. Our luggage unscathed by bodily fluids, we proceeded to Schiphol airport, and from there surreptitiously checked into a hotel for the night. We wanted a good night’s sleep before a long transatlantic flight the next morning. And it worked.
28 July 2009
The Uneasy Alliance
I have been a loyal customer. My Northwest frequent flier number dates back to the mid-eighties, when I was just a bright-eyed six-year-old heading to Africa. In my adult life, eight years of travel have perfected the Amsterdam-Minneapolis route. Take the last daily flight out of Amsterdam to arrive early evening in Minneapolis. The way back? Again the last flight, ensuring an optimal sleep experience (well, as optimal as possible while vertical in economy class) and the least painful transition back to GMT + 1. But things are different now.
I knew our relationship was changing. Lately, the evolution was apparent – murmurs of mergers and letters explaining the joining of rewards programs. I ignored these notices until yesterday’s trip up to the Minneapolis airport. I realized with alarm that the Northwest logo had been removed from the side of the hanger, though its shadow remained. Upon entering the airport, all NWA signs had been replaced by Delta. A panic grew. Where would I check my bag?
The biggest shock came when I entered the plane. Blue pleather seats? Where was the Northwest upholstery? And the staff had changed. What the uniform before? I don’t remember. Was today’s white short sleeve shirt and red tie the norm? Something seemed different. I remember a specific genre of flight attendant: middle-aged, no-nonsense women performed their duties at a brisk pace, their snappy movements urging you to promptly make a dinner choice and keep any additional requests to a minimum. But they also played a motherly role, exchanging travel tips and Amsterdam tidbits. Once, one of the NWA flight agents gave me her email address and told me to write anytime I wanted American goods. But now, the flight attendants were acting…generic.
A Delta safety video with some really obnoxious presenters came on, and I longed for the diverse contingent of Northwest personal showing me how to stretch on long flights. I searched for the familiar NWA World Traveler and was instead greeted with Delta’s Sky magazine. I flung it away in disgust and thought about consoling myself with a complementary gin and tonic. No such luck: Cocktails are $7 on Delta flights. Which is, apparently, what I was on.
Despite the unsettling (and sober) experience the movie selection was as good as ever, and with a huge stroke of luck I had no seat partner and slept like a baby. Then breakfast was served, and I noted with satisfaction that every aspect of my former life had not been removed: The egg biscuit was served in a foil container with the familiar Northwest logo emblazed on its side. But then my smile disappeared. Below my small cup of Minute Maid orange juice sat a soggy Delta napkin.
I knew our relationship was changing. Lately, the evolution was apparent – murmurs of mergers and letters explaining the joining of rewards programs. I ignored these notices until yesterday’s trip up to the Minneapolis airport. I realized with alarm that the Northwest logo had been removed from the side of the hanger, though its shadow remained. Upon entering the airport, all NWA signs had been replaced by Delta. A panic grew. Where would I check my bag?
The biggest shock came when I entered the plane. Blue pleather seats? Where was the Northwest upholstery? And the staff had changed. What the uniform before? I don’t remember. Was today’s white short sleeve shirt and red tie the norm? Something seemed different. I remember a specific genre of flight attendant: middle-aged, no-nonsense women performed their duties at a brisk pace, their snappy movements urging you to promptly make a dinner choice and keep any additional requests to a minimum. But they also played a motherly role, exchanging travel tips and Amsterdam tidbits. Once, one of the NWA flight agents gave me her email address and told me to write anytime I wanted American goods. But now, the flight attendants were acting…generic.
A Delta safety video with some really obnoxious presenters came on, and I longed for the diverse contingent of Northwest personal showing me how to stretch on long flights. I searched for the familiar NWA World Traveler and was instead greeted with Delta’s Sky magazine. I flung it away in disgust and thought about consoling myself with a complementary gin and tonic. No such luck: Cocktails are $7 on Delta flights. Which is, apparently, what I was on.
Despite the unsettling (and sober) experience the movie selection was as good as ever, and with a huge stroke of luck I had no seat partner and slept like a baby. Then breakfast was served, and I noted with satisfaction that every aspect of my former life had not been removed: The egg biscuit was served in a foil container with the familiar Northwest logo emblazed on its side. But then my smile disappeared. Below my small cup of Minute Maid orange juice sat a soggy Delta napkin.
14 July 2009
The resurrected bicycle helmet
In the mid-90s, the concept of bicycle helmets appeared on the national stage. Americans all over the country were being told that peddling without a helmet was unsafe. The media scared us with statistics and told tragic stories of lives lost – if only she was wearing a helmet!
My dad recognized the importance of this argument, and in August 1993 purchased four eighty-dollar bike helmets with the impression that his wife and children would embrace the innovation and value their own lives as much as he did.
But I, a scornful 15-year-old, soundly rejected the helmet. In typical teenager fashion I taunted its nerdy nature, expanded on horrors it would bestow on my hairstyle, and came up with suggestions as to how the money could have been better spent (amusement parks? clothing? holidays?). I even went as far to declare a preference to die of a major head injury than ever be seen riding with a helmet.
I don’t particularly remember my dad’s reaction, though I’m sure he was a bit taken back by my contempt. I never put on the helmet, and my biking enthusiasm was quashed by the driver’s license a couple years later.
Time passed, high school and college came and went, and houses were bought and sold. But in 2001 when I moved to the Netherlands, biking became my primary form of transportation. Bicycle helmets were a legal requirement in most of the U.S. by then, but the Dutch maintained the same attitude I held as a teenager: Helmets? Yeah, right. My return to two-wheel transportation did bring those helmets to mind again, though I assumed they had met their fate in a recycling bin or a trip to the goodwill.
Finally, in 2009, I’ve come to my senses. I enjoy biking longer distances now and even though I still banish the helmet in the city, I’m feeling more and more compelled to wear one during high-speed country trips. I searched for a proper fitting helmet in the Netherlands, but no luck – my head falls somewhere between the largest child size and the smallest adult size. I decided to postpone my purchase until my bi-annual trip to Minnesota.
This morning, back in the family home, I relayed my plans to my dad. In his calm way, he said, “Oh, well maybe you should try those helmets we used to have. They should be right up here.” And within seconds he located them in a closet, still boxed in the original packaging.
That’s my dad. He held on through the winds of adolescent aggression, through multiple moves, and kept those bicycle helmets. I’m proud to say that one will take the trip back to Dutchland with me, and will proudly perch on my extra-small head.
My dad recognized the importance of this argument, and in August 1993 purchased four eighty-dollar bike helmets with the impression that his wife and children would embrace the innovation and value their own lives as much as he did.
But I, a scornful 15-year-old, soundly rejected the helmet. In typical teenager fashion I taunted its nerdy nature, expanded on horrors it would bestow on my hairstyle, and came up with suggestions as to how the money could have been better spent (amusement parks? clothing? holidays?). I even went as far to declare a preference to die of a major head injury than ever be seen riding with a helmet.
I don’t particularly remember my dad’s reaction, though I’m sure he was a bit taken back by my contempt. I never put on the helmet, and my biking enthusiasm was quashed by the driver’s license a couple years later.
Time passed, high school and college came and went, and houses were bought and sold. But in 2001 when I moved to the Netherlands, biking became my primary form of transportation. Bicycle helmets were a legal requirement in most of the U.S. by then, but the Dutch maintained the same attitude I held as a teenager: Helmets? Yeah, right. My return to two-wheel transportation did bring those helmets to mind again, though I assumed they had met their fate in a recycling bin or a trip to the goodwill.
Finally, in 2009, I’ve come to my senses. I enjoy biking longer distances now and even though I still banish the helmet in the city, I’m feeling more and more compelled to wear one during high-speed country trips. I searched for a proper fitting helmet in the Netherlands, but no luck – my head falls somewhere between the largest child size and the smallest adult size. I decided to postpone my purchase until my bi-annual trip to Minnesota.
This morning, back in the family home, I relayed my plans to my dad. In his calm way, he said, “Oh, well maybe you should try those helmets we used to have. They should be right up here.” And within seconds he located them in a closet, still boxed in the original packaging.
That’s my dad. He held on through the winds of adolescent aggression, through multiple moves, and kept those bicycle helmets. I’m proud to say that one will take the trip back to Dutchland with me, and will proudly perch on my extra-small head.
13 November 2008
The Roomba test drive
Roomba entered my life recently. The addition was not my doing, and at first I looked at him with a deep suspicion. I spent several years of my life cleaning houses and I feel doubtful of anyone - or thing - that thinks he can do the job better than me.
I got home from work tonight and decided to experiment. Seemed simple enough: I hit the "clean" button. At first Roomba spun in circles and appeared unable to hurdle even the tiniest obstacle. After 10 minutes in one small area of the living room I gave up, picked him up and carried him to another location. He protested. I was rudely beeped at and a red light appeared warning me that I was breaking the rules. I scoffed and set him back down, challenging him to carry on. This process repeated for about 15 minutes until I gave up my controlling ways and let him do the job without supervision.
True to programming, Roomba cleaned diligently for one hour and then returned to his dock without hesitation. I checked for results - of course after cleaning, Roomba must be cleaned - and was impressed and horrified with the amount of crap he had gathered. With a new respect, I set him down gently to rest and charge up for the night.
Now all I need is a cat to make things really interesting.
I got home from work tonight and decided to experiment. Seemed simple enough: I hit the "clean" button. At first Roomba spun in circles and appeared unable to hurdle even the tiniest obstacle. After 10 minutes in one small area of the living room I gave up, picked him up and carried him to another location. He protested. I was rudely beeped at and a red light appeared warning me that I was breaking the rules. I scoffed and set him back down, challenging him to carry on. This process repeated for about 15 minutes until I gave up my controlling ways and let him do the job without supervision.
True to programming, Roomba cleaned diligently for one hour and then returned to his dock without hesitation. I checked for results - of course after cleaning, Roomba must be cleaned - and was impressed and horrified with the amount of crap he had gathered. With a new respect, I set him down gently to rest and charge up for the night.
Now all I need is a cat to make things really interesting.
09 November 2008
Blog roundup
I haven't done one of these in so long that it's truly a treat. Since Obama's the flavor of the moment, let's stick to related news:
Bicyclemark recently wrote about the difficulty some will now face with Bush gone. It was so easy to staunchly oppose everything about the Bush administration, but now we've elected someone different, more positive. What will happen to those "entire systems of meaning?" It's going to mean a big shift...at least for now.
Others, however, are already proving this may not be the case. The Angry Arab raises some points about the coming Obama administration that I really hope aren't true. Oh please, can't we celebrate in blissful ignorance for a little bit longer?
And on a much lighter note, check out Yes We Can (Hold Babies). Don't ask me where I found this one.
Coming up: A focus on Dubai. I'll be there in a few weeks. In between enjoying the climate, the beach and the rampant capitalism, there are a few other (less fluffy?) things that need to be kept in mind.
Bicyclemark recently wrote about the difficulty some will now face with Bush gone. It was so easy to staunchly oppose everything about the Bush administration, but now we've elected someone different, more positive. What will happen to those "entire systems of meaning?" It's going to mean a big shift...at least for now.
Others, however, are already proving this may not be the case. The Angry Arab raises some points about the coming Obama administration that I really hope aren't true. Oh please, can't we celebrate in blissful ignorance for a little bit longer?
And on a much lighter note, check out Yes We Can (Hold Babies). Don't ask me where I found this one.
Coming up: A focus on Dubai. I'll be there in a few weeks. In between enjoying the climate, the beach and the rampant capitalism, there are a few other (less fluffy?) things that need to be kept in mind.
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