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.
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