Why Can't We All Just Get Along?

My Spanish friend Charly was walking home from a night out, minding his own business, when he saw a garbage can that had been working way too hard.  He decided to help the trash recepticle onto its side so that it could have a good night's sleep and get off its feet for a while. 

A few policemen happened to see Charly's friendly gesture, and pulled up next to him, with sirens a-blarin' and lights a-flashin'.

Charly tried to explain himself, but the Carabinieri were not impressed, they insisted that he had vandalized public property, and threw him against the police car for a search.  They delved into his pockets and found a car antenna and a side mirror, that Charly had righteously liberated from their slave labor positions on some Italian motorcycle.  

Again the Carabinieri were not impressed.

They asked Charly where he lived and when he told them the Casa dello Studente, they knew he was foreign.  They did not ask for his name, or any identifying documents, but simply slapped him in the face repeatedly and then knocked him to the ground so that they could kick him a bit.  When the beating finished, the Carabinieri drove away, without taking Charly to prison or to any sort of detox facility.

When he told me the story the next day, I asked Charly why he didn't seem particularly upset that he had been beaten by government police, and racially profiled.

 

"Oh come on Noah," Charly told me.  "In Spain it's much worse."

"And why is that?"  I asked.

"Because in Spain, the police don't fight like women."

Io Sono Ebreo

As anyone from Northfield, Vermont can tell you, I am used to being the only Jew in town.  However, I am not used to Anti-Semitic and Anti-American graffiti staring back at me from every desk, every stairwell, inside each elevator, and on all of the walls of my dormitory at a major university, yet surprisingly, this is what I see every day here in Trieste.  

I am not sure exactly who writes this hate speech all over the place, and I won't speculate as I live in a very diverse student community.  However, I find it surprising that the school does nothing to clean the graffiti or distance themselves from it in any way.  I am all for free speech, but I think there is a line.  Written on the inside door of my elevator:

Bush=Hitler

Hitler fucked your mother

Death to Israel

Death to America

America is Darkness

Fuck Bush

Long-live Palestine

The one person who seems to agree with me that the graffiti has gotten out of hand is my Palestinian friend Mohammed, who is undoubtedly the nicest person I have ever met.  He will literally stop in the middle of a meal to walk across a crowded cafeteria and say hello or ask me how my day is going, and I don't think he has ever allowed himself to walk through a door or sit down before I have done so.  When I told him I had family in Israel, he didn't treat me any differently.  When I confirmed the fact that I was an American Jew, he only wanted to ask me questions.  

Mohammed and I had a long discussion the other night, and we agreed that people on both sides of the conflict need to talk to each other more. He explained that if more of his friends met real-live American Jews, they might find out that we're not all clever, rich, lobbyists, and that if more American Jews met real-live Palestinians who have seen atrocities that we could never imagine, we might be able to better understand each other.

The worst part is, I have never been to Israel, but if I wanted to, I could go there right now, even with my sorry excuse for a passport.  Mohammed is not allowed to enter his homeland.

Rabbits

Who is this happy looking fellow next to me you ask?  I wasn't sure for a long time.  I was convinced he might be my German friend Lucas' grandfather, or at least an uncle.  Through conversations in broken English and with some help from Lucas, I managed to figure out that he is the family's Lebanese neighbor, and has been living next door to them for the last thirty years. 

He is a furniture artist of great skill.  In fact, he re-appoulstered all of the antique furniture in a nearby castle, which is the summer residence for the royal family of the Netherlands.  He joined us for dinner every night that I stayed at the Weber residence in little Heistenbach, Germany.

One morning as I ate a meat sandwich for breakfast, I heard the front door slam shut.  I poked my head out of the kitchen and saw the friendly neighbor stomping around in snow covered boots. In one hand, he held a large, folded piece of paper, and in the other, what looked like two very dead, skinned rabbits.  When I got a closer look, I realized that they were two extremely dead, skinned rabbits.  

He unfolded the piece of paper on the kitchen table, and revealed a giant world map that had a few sections torn away and some holes throughout.  He said to me, "You.  Where you," and indicated with a dangling rabbit that I should point to my place of residence on the map.  I showed him Vermont and he seemed pleased.  Alberto, and Keith, each indicated toward their home towns, and he seemed extremely pleased.  Finally, after studying the map a bit, he gave us a look that seemed to say, oh sorry, you're probably wondering why I am holding these dead rabbits.

He motioned toward the holes and ripped away portions of the map.

"They..." he said, shaking the rabbits in my face and then making exaggerating chomping sounds, moving his teeth up and down.

"So I..."  he said as he held up an invisible rifle with his hands.  A loud pow sound flew out of his mouth.

"The rabbits were chewing holes in your map, so you shot them?"  I asked to clarify, assuming that his English comprehension was better than his speech.

"Yes, and so...dinner."

The rabbits were delicious.

What a Country...

And so after a quick social binge in The United States of America, I find myself stuck somewhere else, this time, the middle-of-nowhere Germany, as I await a budget flight to Venice-well near Venice, tomorrow afternoon. Thank God I managed to stumble on the lovely Advance Hotel where I may be the only guest, and there may be only one employee who bends over backwards to make my stay as comfortable as possible. For 45 Euro tonight, I get two beds, unlimited coffee and tea, unlímited breakfast food all day, unlimited German television (The Nanny dubbed into German is exactly as entertaining as it sounds), unlimited cheap German beer from the bar downstairs, unlimited shuttles to four types of ethnic restaurants, unlimited banter with the only hotel employee who's name I haven't caught yet, but he imediately knew my last name was Scandinavian and therefore he is wise. Did I mention unlimited sauna use?



I decided to go for the German restaurant since I am in Germany, and I wanted one more plate of assorted meats and kraut before I head back to Italy. When I read the menu and began to laugh the waitress asked me what was wrong. I told her everything was fine and as long as she got me a copy of the menu in English, there would be a big tip in store for her. Here are some of my favorite excerpts from the opening page.

A Hearty Welcome to You Dear Guest

We are delighted to welcome you in the name of our staff in our gastronomical area after only one year of construction time. We will do everything in our more and more hectical and superficial time to give you some beautiful moments which you will hopefully remember positively for a long time.

We can offer many other performances to you:

-Catering on birthday parties

-Meeting facilities

-Wine tasting with vintners from different regions, including a complete meal

There are always different dishes prepared for you from our plentiful menu. Brunch at the "Bohrinsel"- pure pleasure.

At this very moment, we wish you a pleasant stay and delightful moments.

-Your Bohr family and service staff

If anyone else gets stranded at the pathetic Frankfurt Hahn Airport and wants to be treated like royalty for a night, check out:

http://www.advance-hotel-zum-hahn.de/en/index.php

If This Plane Goes Down and I Die Surrounded by Dutch People, I'm Going to Lose It

Anyone who has followed my blog closely will remember that the Dutch were some of the first people that I came in contact with upon my arrival in the Old World. At first, I was charmed by their gibberish language, their attractive females, and their disregard for acting normally, but I have since cooled on these strange folk.

Maybe it was the thousands of bicyclists that almost ran me over in Amsterdam, or the hotel employee who dropped eight Christmas ornaments on my head in a row while trying to dismantle the tree in the lobby, but the Dutch simply rub me the wrong way.

Now before anyone accuses me of Dutch-bashing, I will admit that I have not spent a great deal of time with anyone from Holland, and therefore my opinions of them are pretty shallow. I implore someone to prove me wrong, but first, a story.

I arrived in Schipol from Frankfurt after pulling an all-nighter, and expected a security checkpoint as I switched terminals, but was pleasantly surprised when I did not have to proceed through any metal detectors or answer any questions. I strutted up to my gate, ready to again move seemelessly from one country to another with a basically invalid passport, when I realized that I might be in trouble.

Gate 12A was completely on lockdown. Instead of a bunch of seated stinky people awaiting a plane, I was greeted by metal detectors, security guards in ridiculous blue blazers, and long lines of stinky people awaiting a plane. I inched forward until I was beckoned to a small podeum-like thing for a Spanish Inquisition of sorts, which of course, I did not expect.

"Are you traveling alone sir?" He began in a Dutch accent with the type of tone that I would use when wearing a headset and asking for donations from wealthy UVM parents.
"Yes."
"And where are you headed today sir?"
"Trieste, Italy."
"Cool Cool. And what's going on there?" He asked like he had found a friend.
"Well I study in Trieste, so."
"Oh cool...wow really cool. What are you studying man?" I failed to see how this was relevant to the security of the aircraft I was about to board.
"Political Science."
"Wow man, that is awesome. Wow. And why didn't you want to study in the United States?"
"Well I do, but I am studying abroad for like a year in Italy you know?"
"Yeah, I've heard of that. Wow." He had begun flipping through my passport at this point, and I interrupted with an explanation before he reached my illegible visa.
"Yeah so my passport got a little roughed up when I was in Venice."
"What do you mean?"
"Well I was there during the flooding and it got wet, so you can't really read the visa."
"Oh that's so crazy man. Crazy. It got all wet huh?"
"Yeah. I have a photocopy of the visa if you want to see it."
"No man that's alright, have a good flight ok. Really, have a good flight." He stamped my passport and was reminded of Groucho Marx quote,

"I refuse to join any club that would have me as a member." I don't exactly feel safe aboard an aircraft that I am allowed on with my sorry excuse for a passport.

I sat in my window seat and prepared to catch-up on some much needed sleep. A squeeze to the arm interrupted me. I opened my eyes and looked upon a middle-aged man with green-framed glasses introducing himself in gibberish.
"No, I don't speak Dutch," I said and leaned my head against the window to indicate I wasn't interested in a new friend.
"Oh American! American!" He said and put his arms up in the air. He would not let me sleep without shaking my hand.
"I am going to America." He informed me. "For a conference."

I congratulated him and went back to sleep. He never let me doze for more than five minutes at a time.
"Sharp, what is sharp?" He asked after an arm squeeze, I did not explain very well.
"Haven't what is haven't?" No good answer there.
"Cut off, cut off." I glanced over at the laminated packet he was flipping through and became intrigued when I saw the subject matter.

Page 1: Characteristics of Roundabouts and Road Crossings
Page 2: Essential Characteristics of Roundabouts
Page 3: Design for a Roundabout that does not Give Cyclists the Right of Way
Page 4: The Mechanics of the English Roundabout
Page 5: Roundabouts and their Significance in Modern Society

Each page was covered with detailed diagrams of traffic circles, and he studied them like his life depended on it.

"Cut off, what is cut off?"
"It's like when one car goes like this, even though it's not their turn." I traced the action with a couple of fingers on one of his roundabout schematics.
"Cut off, this is cut off? No I think cut in."
"No cut off."
"Cut in."
"We say cut off."
"We say cut in." I stopped talking to him.

The aspiring roundaboutologist quickly ruined any chance of getting onto my good side by killing a special moment for me. United Airlines was showing the New Woody Allen film, Vicky Cristina Barcelona, and I was watching as intently as he studied his diagrams. Now for anyone who is a fan of Woody Allen, or a fan of girls kissing, this is the movie for you. Just as Scarlett Johansson and Penelope Cruz began to experment in a Barcelona darkroom while developing some sensual photos, I felt a flying Dutch elbow to the ribcage.

"Ha," said the traffic specialist, pointing at the little screen mounted on the seat in front of me. He continued the nudging, the laughing, and the insistant pointing, until the scene was over, forever ruining something beatiful for me.

Sometime after watching him slobber over a mayo sandwich, the plane began to experience some turbulence. The captain warned us that things might be a little bumpy, an understatement to say the least. We bounced around and jolted from side to side, my stomach lurched. I chugged my coffee before it ended up in my lap, and just as the young passengers began to cry, I heard the traffic circle enthustiast laughing again.

"Haha weeee," he yelled, nudging me in the ribs again and throwing his arms up in the air like we were on a fantastic roller coaster. I may have attributed this to the man being a bit strange rather than his Dutch status, until I looked around.

Two thirds of the plane had adopted the same roller coaster pose while shouting wees and other nonsense. The parents cruelly forced their crying children to put their arms up as well, and I was sure that I was going to plummet to my death surrounded by blissfully confused Dutchmen. I imagined that if the oxygen masks fell from the ceiling that they would pretend it was Halloween, when the captain told us to grab the inflatable cushions from under our seats, the Dutch passengers would have a grand pillow fight, when we crash landed in the middle of the Atlantic, my final visions before drowning would be of Dutch backstroke competitions.

When we finally did touch down relatively unharmed, I vowed to go out of my way to avoid returning to the Netherlands.

Dam Square Please

I just returned to the UK after four thrilling days in the Amsterdam, also known as Disney Land for American college students.  The whole place seems surreal, with red lights marking the streets where one can be enticed by bored-looking women of the night in every window, a smell that's a mix of marijuana and vomit (heavy on the vomit), and the feeling that no matter what you do, there's no need to be embarrassed, for the person right next to you is usually doing something more incriminating.

Waiting patiently in line to buy a drug that's illegal in most of the Western world from a slow moving middle eastern guy wearing a christmas hat and sunglasses at eleven p.m. on December 30th, while he scarfs down pizza without a napkin is an odd feeling.  The coffeeshops lack the warmness of the neighborhood drug dealer, these men are straight business, and they treat you as a customer and nothing more, no offers to watch Dazed and Confused on a smelly couch, no trading, no strange longing for companionship from deviant loners.

Although like the small town American dealer, the coffeeshop proprietors do indulge in the same ridiculous names for what all probably comes from the exact same place.  In fact, to me, though I'm no connoisseur, Purple Skunk, Hawaiian Kush, Jamaican Zebra, White Widow/Jamaican Zebra Kush Cross, Orange Crush, Juicy Fruit, Blueberry Yum Yum, and Tropic Thunder all smell eerily similar...again, it's a business.

Seeing the fuzzy green stuff in a more or less legal environment has made me understand why Amsterdam is trying to gradually move away from it's anything goes image. With the recent outlawing of magic mushrooms and the soon to be true phasing out of coffeeshop toleration, simply put...they're tired of being infested with shady people, and to be honest, I get it.

Everyone seemed seedy, sketchy, or otherwise guilty of something, and it made me feel dirty inside, as if I would never be able to talk to a child again.  The entire week I just wanted to take shower after shower, although don't get me wrong, I had a fantastic time, including the New Year's festivities in Dam Square, which involved a lot of shouting in Netherlands gibberish, giant multicolored glow sticks, groups of middle-aged Dutch women playing Motown songs on saxophones, and the largest display of unsupervised fireworks I have ever seen, (One such cracker ended up finding it's way to a rolling stop underneath one of my friend's who was having too much Dam fun to notice, luckilly it was a dud).  I highly recommend Dam Square to anyone who has had enough of Dick Clark and the same old New Year's Rockin' Eve.  

My New Years resolution?  Demand that if anyone wants to use the words "Legalize" and "It" in the same sentence, white dude dreadlocks, hunger strike, drum circle or not, that they be forced to spend a week in Amsterdam and see if they don't beg to be rescued before it's over.