This is not Seoul. Nor is it New Jersey

The Dju Dju will be the second Korean restaurant I've eaten at in Eastern Yurp, the first being the Seoul in Budapest in 1992. As a Jew, I've always considered oriental food a Gift of the Creator, to be sampled in all climes and locales. Additionally, it offers two additional benefits-a well-earned pause from schnitzels, cutlets, and heavy breads, and also a pricetag which while high compared to local favorites, is generally fair compared to comparable venues in western towns.

Tonight will be an attempt to encounter expats and English-speaking locals, people who have largely eluded me this trip. (alas, they remained elusive-mk)

A number of years ago, I participated in a personal development program called the Landmark Forum. The course was a three day session, held in a large conference room with two hundred participants. The course, to put it simply, was about getting the participants to use value-neutral language as a filter through which to understand their own past experiences and the comments of others. But one additional concept from the "LF" rings particularly true: "time is non linear".

This trip has been a testament to the nonlinearity of time. I've been travelling on my Interrail pass for less than a week. But in that week, I've slept in three hostelries and a train. I've eaten in more than a dozen restaurants, and tasted (and photographed) at least as many kinds of beer (Croatia's Tomislav the best so far). Part of this is a testament to travelling alone. When it's cold and there's no one to talk to, filling the time simply isn't a function of cramming in more sights. It's just too cold to stay out more than an hour or so at a time, and museums (other than Sarajevo's Jewish Museum) either held little interest or were open inconveniently. So I spent lots of time in restaurants, bars and cafes, watching and listening to the people around me. Thoughts of my real life intrude, including those of a certain someone...

But otherwise, the NL is a planet away from here, its cleanliness, affluence and order a memory distant in space and very seemingly in time. A key to this feeling is the nature of travel. I've had two substantial overland daytime journeys, the surreal rail trip from Zagreb to Sarajevo, and the bus trip from Serb Sarajevo to Belgrade. It was possible for me on neither journey to check out and sleep but for a few moments., and even the movie portion of the bus ride intensified my experience rather than serving as a break.

If I had done these legs by air (a feasible if pricier option), the trip would likely have felt faster, but seeing the red cinderblock homes, steeples, minaret and dueling latin and Cyrillic advertising signs of Republika Srpska in particular gave me a lot more context for this part of the Balkans.But tonight, I've come to a bit of a Balkenende, a cheap take on the surname of Holland's dull-as-dishwater Harry Potter-looking prime minister. With three full days yet to go (Belgrade day two, and possibly one each in Vienna and Budapest) plus a potentially backbreaking night on a couchette beckoning tomorrow, I'm opting for first-world comforts instead of second-world excess tonight.

Which brings us back to Dju Dju, a place billed as Japanese-Korean, but far more Japanese in refinement, presentation and flavors. Under normal circumstances I prefer the more in-your-face Korean BBQ to the flat-grilled chicken and beef I had here, but the subtlety has been a real plus. Add similarly mild kimchee (the usually fiery Korean take on sauerkraut) and an unusual if substantial seaweed salad, and, best of all, a melodic, jazzy Japanese pop track, and you can forget you are in a city that was once a leading recipient of NATO military hardware. Which is the idea.

Back to the Boars Breath Scottish Pub, which is now packed to the extent that I am unable to discern between conversations in Serbian and English. The women are well coiffed and stylish, the men look as if they'd look comfortable on the set of the Sopranos. Actually, if they were on the set, the Sopranos might look less comfortable.

Again, prices are high by local standards (which keeps the true riff raff out) while reasonable by Western standards, thus ensuring a seemingly peaceable crowd. A duo playing American-style Bluegrassy and Jazzy and Elvis tunes holds court in a venue that wouldn"t be too kitschy by Edinburgh standards, forgiving the kilted waiters.

I opt for a mug of LAV beer, a nice, malty number brewed by Carlsberg here, one with more personality than Carlsberg Croatia's PAN. Excepting Tuborg. I can proudly say I've avoided import/licensed beer the entire trip. To be sure, the majors are gobbling up these local breweries so it's tough to truly buy local, but I think the likes of LAV, PAN and Ojujsko will be around for as long as locals are willing to pay extra for local versions of Stella, Heineken and Tuborg.

Meanwhile, the local version of Careless Whisper and Smooth Operator emanate from the front of the pub, the duet having added a singer wearing a green sweater with a sequined neck. On later examination, the singer is an utter dead ringer for Meadow Soprano. In general, the women here look as feminine as the men look tough. I would guess Mockba probably has a similar dynamic. But listening to sweet-voiced pop music with an endless supply of hearty local beer is hardly the worst way to spend an evening in a highly foreign city.

Watching the crowd here I put two and two together. How does one stay slim on a diet of fried pork and Johnny Walker? Smoke!!! A non-smoking venue is as rare as a pork-free menu. Interestingly, cigarette advertising is common, and the lurid half-pack health warnings of the EU give way to tiny admonitions in Cyrillic on packs. In Bosnia, local "grits" were a dollar a pack, and western brands less than two. Here, they are probably cheaper. Hint to Balkan Governments: Raise your cigarette taxes now. The breakthrough in productivity your nicotine-addled masses would have to generate to avoid withdrawal should be enough to get you into the EU in less than a generation.

What is amazing about the capitals of Former Yugoslavia is the extent to which they parallel other cities elsewhere. Ljubljana, capital of an increasingly affluent mini-state, is evocative of Luxembourg. Zagreb, Catholic, Slavic and rustic, speaks to Prague, albeit the Prague of the late 1990s. Sarajevo: a snowbound Istanbul with Austro-Hungarian and socialist touches. And Belgrade? Clearly Moscow on the Danube!

...The duet turned trio now plays "without love, where will you be now". But given my choice of beers, the question, "without LAV, where would you be now?" becomes more pointed. LAV is proving an excellent "session" beer-something to lubricate an evening unsullied by conversation.The band switches to local faves as midnight beckons. A shapely Serbess starts boogieing (?) in a tight paisley dress, only to be drawn in by her fearsome beau. One thing better in Belgrade than in Sarajevo-the slivovitz. I indulged in a shot as I prepared to head for the Hotel Rex. Kept cold at the Boar's Breath, it still had a plummy taste.

On to Belgrade

Riding through the long valley that makes up Sarajevo and its environs, little would prepare me for the suddenness with which Bosnia encounters Republika Srpska.The sudden, though inconsistent appearance of Cyrillic is jarring, but most jarring was the appearance of the people. Maybe it was just the unique crew on hand at the Serb Sarajevo Bus Station just outside the Sarajevo city lines (and barely a kilometer from the spanking new King Fahd Mosque, which was obviously not a gift of the EU). But the hair, teet:h, and weathered nylon jackets seemed to tell a story, though one I wasn't yet ready to have told to me in the few minutes I had before my Belgrade bound bus would depart.

While there is one daily bus from the central (Bosnian) Sarajevo bus station, the seven departures from Istochno Sarajevo, otherwise known as East Sarajevo and Serb Sarajevo were far less brutal schedule-wise than the central number that left before dawn from the central depot. Unlike the rough, depressed side of Republika Srpska (RS) experienced on the Zagreb-Sarajevo train route, the road to Belgrade begins with relentless, breathtaking beauty. It is still rustic, though the towns are tidier and have Tito-era midrises along with stucco-covered homes clinging to the hillsides. This is also serious ski country, perhaps with the best-value skiing in all of Europe. All cars in BiH have the same kind of license plate and there is now total freedom of movement across sectors, which makes a ski vacation here with a flight into SJ to a resort in RS very doable. As for the skiing: it was good enough for the Olympics!

That much being said, getting in and out of Sarajevo is not the easiest. Bosnia does not enjoy visa free travel with the US/EU for its citizens, though Yanks/Euros get through the borders without even a stamp. But this limits local-origination traffic that airlines like before setting up direct service. British Airways flies here several days a week, Adria and Croatian offer daily, Star Alliance services, a local commuter line called BH Airlines launched recently, and there is some other service from other European hubs. But Bosnia so far is off the budget airline and package tour radar screen. Bus travel, like train travel in these parts, operates on the principle of "same day service" rather than a quest for speed. Today, with the previous days' snowfall, the trip slows to a crawl. It's cheap: EUR 17 for a full day's scenery and entertainment that included a post-war Bosnian flick (with subtitles, but, alas, no apparent title) about Fudo, a cabbie and small-time gangster who decides to turn a new leaf to the consternation of all around him.Most interesting though have been the unannounced rest stops, of interminate duration. I can decipher cyrillic if I have a few seconds, but I don't catch the place names. So I don't know where I am. And I've been here with my fellow pax for a good half hour, a significant period on a journey that is supposed to take 8. But we're moving now...There are intermittent minarets here in RS. I wonder what stories they could tell.

Belgrade is the first destination that has truly scared me. I have a picture in my mind of a Slavic Bogota--cars running red lights at zebra crossing, clubs filled with desperate revelers zetzed up on Red Bull and Slivovitz, the local plum brandy that fuelled all parties in the Balkan wars. A place where one sees the ever-serious double-head eagle peering every which way from every which where. But I also have to reject the view that the Serbs are "the bad guys" in this region. Unlike the Croats and, to an extent the Bosnians (whose Handzar regiment was one of the most decorated Nazi volunteer regiments), Serbia strongly resisted the Nazis and the Serbs paid dearly, particularly at the hands of the Croats. Even today, facing international pressure to accede to the independence of Kosovo, which has an ethnic Albanian majority, the Serb claim to Kosovo upon examnination is no more ridiculous than Israel's claim on Jerusalem and the "West Bank/Judea & Samaria" or for that matter Ireland's claim to Ulster. In the former parallel, Serbia sees Kosovo as the source of the nation's history, theology and culture. In the latter, just as Irish Republicans claim that "Ulster is Irish and a majority of the Irish would vote to keep Ulster", Serb Nationalists claim with equal fervor that "Kosovo is Serb and a majority of Serbs would vote to keep Kosovo."

Nightfall descended as the bus entered the BiH exit checkpoint, the only place I saw the BiH flag since leaving Sarajevo for the duration of the trip. Entering the Serbian checkpoint, the border guard, with the intimidating uniform with the double-headed eagle and the Serbian cross on the badge ask the passengers to surrender their passports. As nervous as I may have been, I wasn't about to say no to this dude. And, fortunately, my beloved British passport was returned moments later. After an abortive attempt to show a Serb-Slovene flick about a color-blind Bosnian ex-con who likes to joyride trucks-the DVD seized up mid-film, a Bosnian film was then shown. It had no subtitles but it seemed a bit of satire as it showed the Bosnian flag in a number of potentially humorous settings, like on a character's necktie. The fact they were showing a "Bosnian" film on a "Serb" bus speaks to normalcy.

The sudden onset of high rises indicates a relative imminence of arrival in this former "imperial capital."

This is...Sarajevo

After a hearty, pork-free smoked beef and egg breakfast at the Halvat, whose hospitality began to reach the reputation it has gained among travel bloggers and guidebook writers (and at EUR 45 a night, represents astounding value), Sarajevo beckoned. Though again encountering low cloud, the overcast sky yielded a heightened sense of the intricate architectural detail that is Sarajevo's old market.

I tend to like experiencing the features of daily life in new places the most: looking at how brands appear in supermarkets and kiosks, seeing which football teams appear on the shirt and scarf racks of the stalls selling knockoffs (here, a clear emphasis on local teams like Sarajevo FC), and the slogans on the t-shirts (you still see Che, but my favorite by far said "I'm Muslim, Don't Panic"). So, where did I pay custom first? A barbershop. No great conversation, as the barber spoke only Bosnian aside from pleasantries and prices: But the price was convincing: EUR 3, to which I added a 1 Euro tip.

Cevapi are this town's local fast food of choice, the Chicago Hot Dog of the Balkans, though resembling Turkish Kofta more than Windy City 'bockwurst'. Cevapi stands here are packed, and a small portion set me back EUR 1.50. Barely seasoned, they are a delivery system for the flavors of beef and charcoal, served with naan-like Bosnian pita.Traveling in a snowstorm can be every bit as exhilirating as doing so in fair weather, but one's range is limited. Hilly residential neighborhoods so inviting in spring or summer seem forbidding and potentially slippery. While a takeaway double espresso does fine in fine weather, today's chill called for the hard stuff indoors, Bosanska Kava, the local take on Turkish Coffee.

This is not Dubai

I've never been to Dubai. And given the snow on the ground in Islam's northernmost major outpost, it is hard to mistake the two burgs. But while Dubai collided with Western modernity in the late 20th century, Sarajevo collided with it centuries earlier, and had a more recent collision with "socialist realism".

A thorough examination of Sarajevo's architectural patrimony will wait until tomorrow, though the night sky yielded outlines of a stew of Islamic Traditional, Art Nouveau, classic Gothic and socialist Panelak. Tonight will belong to the Avilja, a restaurant recommended by Agnesa, an IABCer I've been in contact with and hope to meet before I leave for Belgrade. The language barrier is fierce here, though I was well understood at my guest house, the Halvat. But I had to be rescued by some big guys wearing government-flag lapel pins when I inquired whether the Balkanski Gril menu item contained pork. ("No Pork!", exclaimed the heavies). Indeed, a pair of small but exceptionally tasty steak kebabs appeared, along with a tray of deep fried dough squares. The squares, which were at the core of Agnesa's recommendation as it turned out, were certainly tasty, but I will avoid them for the rest of the trip because I do desire to return to Holland in something other than corpulently cadaverous form.

...As a woman who looks like a potential sister of dear Washington-based Serb-Canadian friend Michele Saranovich walks in to the Avilja, I'm left to ponder the simmering ethnic stew this city is. There are no major racial differences between Muslim, Serb and Croat-there are Muslim redheads, black-haired Croats and blonde Serbs. One doesn't assume whom one is speaking with until the person broaches the subject. In the late stage of my train ride in, some youths joined the crew in my compartment in Zenica., and, after halting attempts at conversation in French, German and a smattering of English, one says: He's Bosnian (Muslim), he's Serb and I'm Montenegrin!

The Way to Sarajevo

The trip began inauspiciously enough, when I discovered that the convenience store in Zagreb station sold me two Ozujsko Christmas beers but then said they had no opener. From there, to the far end of the platform, was a train with three forlorn looking carriages-two painted with a stripe of yellow and blue of the Muslim-Croat federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina (BiH) and a green car from Republika Srpska (RS) Railways.

All three train carriages were marked with a painted "1" denoting first class status, but with paper "2"s on the entry door window. I thought this meant that the cars were "classless" and settled into a compartment in the RS car with an unassuming-looking gentleman reading a Zagreb tabloid.The journey is said to take 9 hours, mostly because the rails get cruddier the further out from Zagreb one goes.

Also, Zagreb woke up to see quite a bit of ice this morning and as my normal five minute walk to the station became a tenuous 15 minute slip and slide affair, I surmised that the rails may too succumb to the seasonal iciness.

...Icy was the reaction of the Croatian conductor when seeing my second-class railpass. "Extra Class! Extra Class!" shouted he. Not wanting to mess with a Croatian in authority, I asked where the next Second Class seats were, and he motioned me a few doors down the corridor. I found a place with two men in the six-seat compartment, less cramped than its neighbors. It became evident why moments later wnen one of the men fired up a local cigaretter. But for now, in the battle of Air and Space, space is winning out.

...Lekarnik was the first place I saw signage in Latin and Cyrillic letters--as it was far from a border, it appeared to be a vestige of the Yugoslav past. Going further to Sisak, it became clear that the pace of change in the capitals is years beyond that of the provincial towns, as this one was the home of numerous smoke-belching old factories and a big ole' coal fired powerplant. Of course, on a day like today, one may be forgiven about a bit of Global Warming skepticism.

...Suddenly, the train slows to a crawl. The buildings take on an increasingly unfinished appearance, revealing the red, brick-like cinderblocks that form the basic regional construction material, though which gets plastered over in more prosperous zones. Are we approaching a border? Boy, the map in my lost Lonely Planet would come in handy!

...Downloading a map from my Blackberry (love the Vodafone roaming), I found us nearly in the corner of Croatian, which is shaped like a backward 7. One finger extends along the Adriatic Coast, the other, a 'continental' section separating Hungary from Bosnia.The border finally comes at a place called Volinja, with a half-hour long ritual involving the change of locomotives between Croatian and Bosnian railways. The Sarajevo-Zagreb line is part of Bosnia's rather limited rail service. Buses predominate and Belgrade will be reached by bus later this week.

...Crossing a wide river, Bosnia emerges. Border formalities are quick at Dobriljin, with the blue and gold symbol of this compromise state in evidence everywhere. A couple of hours of anonymous countryside follow-nearly identical to Croatia except for the rougher look of the houses, the very occasional minaret and non-existent presence of church steeples, this apparently being Republika Srpska from the Cyrillic print on official signs (though 'Latinica' predominates on advertisements).

...Pulling into Republika Srpska's capital of Banja Luka, an inkling is given of my train carriage's previous life--a clapped out East German Deutsche Reichsbahn carriage with the same color scheme of green and white. This explains the markings in the car in German, Czech, Italian and Russian, with local instructions on stickers below.The train skirts Banja Luka, said to be a "hole" by previous travellers on Trip Advisor. It is now 1:40, a little over halfway to Sarajevo.

...One thing that occurs to me about gauging the affluence of a place is to look at the cars. Ljubljana was teeming with new cars and new car ads. Zagreb too had lots of cars, but many, perhaps most, were used western European models from the late '90s with a few Koreans and the rare but still remarkable Yugo. Across the Bosnian border, the cars seem to have a late '80s look-Ford Fiestas and Volkswagen Fox models most conspicuous, with very few East Bloc numbers to be found.

...Anonymous pastureland gives way to snowy pine forest. A small town passes with a conspicuous Serb flag-the first outdoor flag of any type since clearing the Croat border, next to a war memorial adorned with a red star."...for all us born beneath an angry star, lest we forget how fragile we are.". The sudden appearance of Sting's classic, Fragile, on my freshly restarted MP3 player was fitting during the seemingly long stop at the station of Ukrina. The kids here were fresh and full of life, wearing bright parkas while playing basketball at a court in front of the station. But the middle-aged folks looked worn. One was dressed in the long brown cloak of an eastern monk, carrying plastic bags of belongs from a tree branch. Other folks walked about with dirty olive drab coats and sunken faces.

..Nothing remarkable till Doboj, which is remarkable in that it was named for the Pillsbury Doughboy, who is said to remain a local icon despite not having been seen here since the start of the Balkan Conflict. Another tired railway junction, a showplace for yet more green and white ex East German rail cars. Location signs are more telling--witness the full train headed for Tuzla. Remember Tuzla?

...Night descends when we hit Zepce, the first place in Bosnia I've seen which doesn't look completely of red cinderblocks. Big church in town, but it's probably Croat-Catholic, having seen numerous Latin crosses and Christmas light displays, items unseen in the RS. No pictures here-the Kodak-brand batteries purchased in Slovenia failed to get my Kodak brand camera to Sarajevo.It's too dark for pictures with 75 minutes left until scheduled arrival, but the scenery which had seemed a bit repetitive has become haunting in the Bosnian dusk. The snow on the hills just still visible, dimly-lit homes in the distance, and the occasional minaret...
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A Slavic Switzerland?

I expected Ljubljana to be a disappointment after Zagreb and after abandoning plans to visit the alpine lakes of Bled and Bohinj. But the low cloud that impeded my view of the hills rising above the Sava River along which the Zagreb-Salzburg express rolled along portended that an alpine excursion would be less than inspiring on this crisp cool day.

So, I detrained in Ljubljana, the capital of Republika Slovenija, the most recent entrant to the Eurozone and, as of Friday, the southeast front of the EU's Schengen zone. Coming off the train in a newer section of town, I had little inkling of what was to await me: a pristine old city below an ancient castle, a place with the halls decked with ribbons and lights for the holidays, where thousands were milling about drinking mulled white and red wine (or was that mulling about drinking milled wine?).

Old Ljubljana has become an instant favorite--up there with some other Faves like Lyon, Namur, Edinburgh--places where topography and architectural grandeur combine with an abundance of cozy cafes and watering holes and an attractive local population.Slovenia was the most prosperous republic in the days of its coerced union inside Josip Tito's Socialist Federative Republic of Yugoslavia, which also included Croatia, Macedonia, Montenegro, tomorrow's destination Bosnia, and Serbia.

It has also made the most of its independence, won after a ten day invasion by the Serb-led Yugoslav army in 1991 (I think, and I can't be arsed to look it up from a train seat-mk).To walk across the Triple Bridge from the new to the old town is to walk into a wonderland that could just as easily be at home in Luxembourg or Switzerland. Though prices remain reasonable (seemingly more so than in the less polished Croatia) Ljubljana has clearly and convincingly made the transition from the Second World to the First. Zagreb reminded me of the Prague I knew ten years ago-in a bit of a time warp.

Ljubljana is alive and in the present, knowing its day has come.What's startling is the newness of the infrastructure. From the stainless steel of the food stalls in the Christmas Market to the clearly brand new funicular up to the historic Ljubljana Castle (whose 3D movie tour through the city's history is well worth the EUR 3.30) and to the well-appointed cafes and bars, the effect is compelling-Slovenia has found its home in The West.

One unforgettable pub is the Rugby Pub across the Ljubljanica River from the Old Town. I happened upon it while heading back toward the station for my return trip to Zagreb. Entering, I was struck by the old British advertiising, the soft green carpeting, and the friendliness of the staff. The protagonist was Boris, a one-time "hooker" for the Slovenian National Rugby team, who, as it turns out, opened the pub one week earlier. I am willing to take bets about how long the pub's English hotel-like ambiance will withstand the arrival of many rugby tourists. Perhaps Slovenian rugby could learn a thing or two about making their country into a rugby destination from my friend Alec Byrne in Bariloche, Argentina, who has put Patagonia on the Rugby map through his business, Rugby Patagonia (http://www.rugby-patagonia.com.ar/).It was probably best that I hit Ljubljana after Zagreb.

Zagreb is an Eastern European city, that while looking west (to the point that its Parliament flies the EU flag while the country remains in the membership queue) is still Slavic in mindset and rustic in its soul (evidenced most poignantly by women standing in prayer in front of roadside altars). Ljubljana is a western city that speaks an eastern language. The difference-despite the two-hour travel time between both cities-is profound.

Downshifting in Zagreb

...Given that all forces in the Universe have equal and opposite reactions, my superb day of exploring Zagreb, which had been capped off with a pilgrimage to Dinamo Zagreb's home stadium, the Maksimir, would inevitably turn south. Reaching my room at the Arcotel Allegra, it dawned on me that my Lonely Planet Western Balkans guide is probably headed back to Munich in last night's sleeper train, and with it were my prospects for dining and nightlife well trodden by fellow English speakers.

...After substituting my missing Lonely Planet with the "pay to play" local guide offered by the Arcotel (where included establishments purchased access to wayward foreigners like myself), I came to count the cost when the restaurant I happened upon wouldn't prepare the specialty of the house (lamb 'isod peke', roasted in an iron oven under hot coals) because I'd neglected to order it two hours in advance. Thus I make do with a schnitzel, less exciting since I'd had one the night before in Munich.

..But the appetizer of fried smelt is turning my spirits around. As for the meal, a veal steak (the Munich schnitzel being turkey) covered in garlic, it was ok and filling, and left me in the mood for something other than carousing.

...I therefore headed home, noting that the $8 return metered taxi fare was less than the $15 I paid to head in the initial direction.Nightlife was a dvd I brought with me, The Good Shepherd, intentionally watched with Dutch subtitles so I don't go completely Slavic during my travels. Tomorrow would be spent in another country. And, having found melatonin in a Zagreb pharmacy, sleep would be mine tonight.

Live from the Balkans--Day 1

...Uncharacteristically, the ICE arrives late, and, once boarded, is nearly packed with passengers. I still manage to find a seat for myself and one for my overstuffed backpack, efficient packing being far less easy than for my first big rail trip in 1992.

Much has changed in 15 years. Then I was freshly married; now, though happily smtten after a quadrillion online dates, I am a bachelor. Then, it was a 21 day first class Eurailpass, now, a 5-days-in-10 interrail pass in second, interrail being the cheaper version made available to those paying their taxes in pounds, francs and Euros.

...Snacking on viande de grisons-a form of salted, dried beef emanating from the centre of Switzerland. Hyperexpensive by the kilo, but relatively reasonable by the snack portion. Washed down with a can of Feldschlossen Ice, strangely the least insipid pilsner tasted in recent days.

...As for the soundtrack: Power of Gold by the recently departed Dan Fogelberg, whose dulcet tones have long formed the background for numerous romantic and emotional trials of mine. Fogelberg gives way to electronic tango music from Otros Aires, a trophy from my last big adventure, a trip last year of similar length to Argentina. This trip promises a head-on collision with two musical genres of similar stature: Balkan Brass Band and Turbofolk. I'll spare you the details until I can report them with an appropriately jaundiced ear.

...Transfer at Mannheim. Not exactly Judgement at Nuremberg. Indeed, the normalness of Germany is what I love about the place. And any evaluation of Germany as a society has to give mention to some real positives--electing great leaders (Adenauer, Brandt, Kohl and Merkel), serving as a bulwark for the West in the Cold War, welcoming at least 50,000 Soviet Jews.
Even with its current problems, today's Germany is a testimony to the redeeming power of Civilization, and to a large extent to the American contribution to its preservation.

...Something really civilized about Germany is the new model ICE train. Seats four to a row, but otherwise, comparable to the best first class seats I've seen--soft, with floating headpillows, footrests, and at-seat audio to give the MP3 player a rest. The older trains (which blew me away from Salzburg to Wurzburg in 92) retain their appeal, but the newer ones have an evolution in the detail area. Best are the full service dining/bar cars which have real coffee and even serve Rose Sekt, a sparkling wine with a nice color and acidity.

...Another transfer, this one at Munich. A night train consisting of sleeper cars, couchettes (carpeted planks which offer both a hard place to sleep...and a good reason to upgrade to the full sleeper) and old-school compartment seats for those whom horizontality was either unnecessary or unaffordable. Interestingly, the ten carriages were headed in different directions, with a big split in Salzburg I mercifully slept through despite leaving my melatonin in Delft. One car was going to Bucharest, one to Belgrade, three to Budapest and three to my destination, Zagreb.

...I called an audible, in gridiron parlance, to head straight for Zagreb rather than diverting to Ljubljana and Lake Bled. It was a no-brainer deciding after a full day and night of travel that I wanted the extra two hours of sleep to be gained by refraining from the detour. Slovenia will be there tomorrow, and if I exhaust Zagreb's charms by midnight tonight, I may yet choose to pay a visit to Croatia's northern neighbor.

...But Zagreb first. Croatia's advertising slogan is "the Mediterranean as it used to be.". But Zagreb being far from the beach, is best described as "Europe as it used to be.". Being just outside the clutches of the European Union, Zagreb possesses the kind of local colo(u)r that has long since disappeared from more westerly burgs. Local brands and independent shops predominate. Big electric signs advertising businesses impenetrable by the non-Slav are positioned on ornate Hapsburg-era blocks overlooking central squares. Trams are everywhere-indeed Zagreb may be the world's only city where tram cars outnumber residents.

Zagreb is very Prague-like aesthetically, though lacking in tourists and English speakers. Menus are heavy on pork and Italian food, so I indulged in my first pizza in many, many months--a tuna and olive number that was surprisingly good. Prices are cheaper than in the EU, but not by enough to make the trip pay for itself. As for the beer, am currently chewing away at a Tomislav, named after one of the nation's Equestrian heroes (as judged by the statue across from the train station).. It's dark, sweet and a bit hoppy, and has a respectable 7.5 richter scale ranking (otherwise known as alcohol by volume). Kind of like a German bock, with some earthy flavors-making it distinctive.

Croatia's beer scene is dominated by a battle between local brands like Tomislav and the ubiquitous Ojujsko and locally produced licensed Stella Artois, Heineken and Carlsberg/Tuborg brands, with the licensed brews commanding a price premium. I'll stick to the local stuff while I'm here...

December 2007

This edition brings us to the heart of the holiday season, whichever holiday one celebrates this time of year. For me, the holiday spirit has become one of both adventure and reflection:

Holiday Adventure: Xmas in Sarajevo

Given a few mandatory days out of the office at the cusp of 2008 and the realisation that for all of my efforts to reposition myself in Europe this year, the most exotic places I've been to are Luxembourg and the Maghrebi neighborhood around the Midi train station in Brussels. And, in view of the fact that airfares are downright extortionate this time of year (particularly to anyplace warm), the EUR 250 price of a five day second-class Interrail Pass seemed enough of a bargain to pair it with a couple of one-way plane tickets to make a doable ten-day excursion...to the heart of Former Yugoslavia.

So, here's the current itinerary for my Balkan bash:

21-Dec: Overnight train from Munich, sharing a sleeper car with someone I haven't met yet; will keep sacred documents in secret happy place

22-Dec: Departing train in world's most hard-to-spell capital city: Ljubljana (sorry Ouagadougou and Antananarivo), then buggering off by bus to Lake Bled. After Bariloche, I've developed a weakness for Alpine lakes. Will the weakness hold in Alpine weather?

23-Dec: Wake up in an Austrian hotel in Zagreb, Croatia. Will try to find non-pork items on local menus while exploring this one-time Hapsburg outpost.

24-Dec: Day train from Zagreb to Sarajevo. Said to be one of the least pleasant/most authentic international rail journeys left in Europe today. Staying at extremely well-reviewed guest house in Sarajevo through the 27th while I visit various landmarks and meet with locals arranged by an IABC member there.

27-Dec: Taxi to the Serb part of Sarajevo for bus journey through Republika Srpska to Belgrade. Belgrade scares me a bit--end-of-the-world night life, active grievances against the rest of the world, cyrillic street signs, and pljeskavica (pork 'n' onion 'burgers'). But what is the purpose of travel if not to confront such fears???

29-Dec: Night train to Vienna. Intentionally overshooting Budapest to give myself a better night of sleep, also to visit one of my known ancestral homes (the Hungarian one, Kisvarda, being a much-less-convenient train ride towards the Ukrainian border). After a few hours in Vienna, head back towards Budapest for New Year's, perhaps watching fireworks over the Danube.

If anyone knows anyone in, near or around these places while I'll be there--or otherwise knows the lay of the land, please let me know as well.

LIPSYNCHING TO THE MP3

Most people have been known to sing in the shower, or perhaps along with the radio while driving in the car. But one frontier most have restrained themselves from crossing is that of lypsynching to one's iPod or MP3. Player.

Admit that you've thought about doing it. Then listen to the background conversations. "People will think I'm crazy!". "People will think I'm talking to myself!" "What if I bump into someone I know?"

As I live in a place where I know very few people, extremely few of whom I encounter in the course of my role as a local pedestrian, I'll admit to doing some headphoned lipsynching in recent weeks. I don't do it while directly encountering other pedestrians, but then I let it all hang out while no one's looking (or at least, so I think). Having admitted to some experience, and having even raised the idea at a social meeting with some colleagues (even though one, a particularly formidable client, shot me the dirtiest of looks), allow me to publish some guidelines for "Lipsynching to the iPod".

1. Lipsynch only to music you know the words to. This is no time to look like an amateur.

2. Enunciate. If someone does catch you, you should give them the courtesy of at least being able to lip read what you are synching.

3. Don't look someone in the eye if you notice them while you are synching. They may think you are actually starting to converse.

4. If some one asks you what you are doing, always respond "I'm lipsynching to my iPod, care to join me?"

5. At random moments at work and with friends, raise the question: "Have you ever lipsynched to your iPod?" If any one replies by saying "Have you?", always answer in the affirmative.

With these tips, you will be taking the new media revolution one step further, and expand the freedom available to your fellow iPod lipsynchers in the process. And more freedom can only be a good thing, can't it?

COAL FOR CHRISTMAS

As someone who doesn't actually celebrate Christmas, I tend not to make massive gift purchases. But there are some worthy recipients out there of the one gift I love to give: COAL.

Here are some people whose carbon footprint has just gotten a little bigger:

Daniel Levy, Owner, Tottenham Hotspur Football Club

Sure, new manager hire Juande Ramos finally seems to have the club on track after a dismal season start. But Danny, that's still no excuse for having breakfast with coaching candidates when you had a coach in Martin Jol who'd only delivered successive years of success well beyond what was delivered by previous incumbents. Of course, I knew you were a jerk when you walked out of a meeting with me in 2001 half way after fifteen minutes. A good kilo of the black stuff for you, baybee.

Hillary Clinton, Imploding US Presidential Front Runner

Ms. "I rooted for the Cubs but secretly was a Yankees fan when I was a kid" Clinton, the only thing inevitable about your presidential candidacy is the collapse that's been unfolding in recent weeks. Americans don't like to be told by a candidate that she is "entitled" to be president. We're the ones who are "entitled" to make that call. And when such a candidate disses the Chicago Cubs, outrage is the only acceptable response. Two lumps of 500 g each, one for each of your pockets as you sink.

The Nature Conservancy's 'Conservation' Efforts in Hawaii

The Nature Conservancy paints itself as one of the "good guys" in the environmental movement, buying the land it seeks to conserve. But what it does on that land is often not very nice. Take the treatment of the pigs who have made themselves a little paradise in Hawaii. Pigs, though not a native species, have lived in Hawaii for hundreds of years, and are very much a part of the local scene, culture and environment. But by invoking the "non-native" tag, the Nature Conservancy has authorised the eradication of the pigs on its territory by professional hunters. That may be fine for your "eco-system", but pigs are intelligent, sentient and resourceful creatures fully undeserving of this fate. So, many kilos of coal for you. And extra kilos for your "professional hunters".

Low Cost Airlines Charging for Checked Baggage

I am a big fan of low cost airlines. But recently, in their efforts to keep fares down and profits robust, they've instituted often-staggering charges for checked baggage and for baggage in excess of downright austre baggage limitations. While intra-European travellers can pack and choose accordingly, Americans and others moving around Europe for long journeys often face confrontations at check-in where baggage fees could cost over $100, or where travellers would have to jettison some of their gear. I encountered such a situation in May, and had to chuck and reposition some of my stuff. The irony--among the jettisoned items were the American candies I'd brought over for the Internal Comms manager for the airline I was flying. A kilo of coal for each airline that does this...and some extra Jolly Ranchers for my old buddy are on their way to you.

Until January, that's FlightKL18!

November 2007

Greetings from the Arizona Desert

I’m suffering from a bit of “blog lag” at the moment, getting FlightKL18 out a week late, and having today’s expected launch of my other blog, CommsOffensive325 likely to be delayed as well. But I’m visiting family and friends in the US of A at the moment, and the diet of food, hiking, quality conversation and the occasional college football game have yielded a case of industrial-strength writer’s block… But creative juices are flowing past a turkey coma—so here is a special Thanksgiving edition of FlightKL18…

Scottsdale—the New Sinai

I always marvel at Scottsdale, the affluent Arizona community that my parents now call home and where I spent the better part of 2003. It is a quintessentially American place—a broad spread of mountainous desert whose expanse of one-story homes hearkens to a day when gasoline/petrol/benzin was less than a Euro a gallon (or a quarter a liter).

What I find particularly amazing about Scottsdale is that it is a place of second-generation migration, where ethnics from the US’ Midwest and East Coast brought their culinary delights along with them. Jewish tastes are particularly well-cared for, with delicatessens of the New York and Chicago persuasions duke it out a few freeway exits away. Indeed, Scottsdale’s burgeoning Jewish population has led me to dub the place “The New Sinai”, home to thousands of Jews, wandering through the desert, searching for the Promised Land.

An Early Thanksgiving

Probably the most extraordinary gift I have received in recent years was bestowed recently when a Washington friend, Michele Saranovich, offered to host an early Thanksgiving dinner in her lovely Georgetown home to mark my visit last week to DC.

I tend to be low-maintenance in the hospitality department, where my focus is to gather as eclectic of a group of friends as possible and thus cross-fertilize the various aspects of my life, usually over Belgian beers in an appropriate drinking hole. But I could not turn down Michele’s more-than-generous offer, and an amazing evening ensued. Very few of the participants knew each other beforehand, and over turkey, trimmings, and some absolutely-to-die-for cranberry and fig relish, some intriguing conversations and pairings ensued… We will see what ensues. But one thing is certain—Michele Saranovich is one of the most amazing hostesses on this planet.

Buying a Watch in Mid-Air

I have a notable habit of under-investing in my wardrobe. But as I look upon a coming year of some professional uncertainty, it occurred to me that there are certain upgrades I’d be well-served to make. One such upgrade was in the watch department. For the last six years, I’d been wearing Danish-designed Skagen watches, super-thin, super-stylish, yet very reasonably priced timepieces. But every so often, the bands or the batteries would fail me. Indeed, my current jet-black Skagen has had the paint on the buckle fade away, rendering it unwearable in serious company.

But I hadn’t given watch-buying much thought until I headed galleyward on my United flight from Amsterdam to Washington to buy a Canadian Whiskey and soda (US carriers having adopted the barbaric practice of charging for drinks on transatlantic flights). As I awaited my mini-bottle, I cast my eye on the duty-free cart and leafed quickly through the catalog. It leapt off the page. A Festina Tour de France Chronograph for $236. A beautiful watch, with lots of dials, and an impressive weight, perhaps from the steroids used in its manufacture.

A bit of research has given me a tinge of buyer’s remorse—though Festina markets itself under the banner of “Founded in Switzerland”, the company is based in Spain and watches are made in Asia. Still, Festina has emerged as a top European watch brand in recent years (I had heard of it before I bought), and being able to call it “The Tour de France Chronograph” to unsuspecting friends more than makes up for the watch’s convoluted origins.

Getting Pilsed in the Netherlands

As most people know, the Netherlands is a land of great beer drinkers. However, due to their Calvinist cultural origins, most of what is consumed in the NL is not particularly great beer. Despite having a formidable brewing tradition, more than 80% of what’s consumed is basic “pils” or pilsner—the basic lager variety consumed the world over.

Far and away the biggest NL pils is Heineken, which has at least 50% market share. Parrying the reputation it has cultivated outside the NL (and particularly in the US) as a ‘superpremium export’, the brewery characterizes its marketing message as “Common at Home, Exceptional Abroad”. Number two is Amstel, which is brewed by Heineken but was so bad when I last attempted to drink it that I could not finish it. Grolsch is of medium popularity. Heineken-owned Brand and Inbev-owned Hertog Jan are the choice of connoisseurs.

As for the choice of common sewers, that mantle belongs easily to a noxious brew called Bavaria. While its owners allegedly named it after a foreign country to hide its origins, Bavaria has a taste-bud-addled following in the nation’s south, and its export packaging highlights its Hollandic origins to attempt to compete with Heineken (to which it is usually sold at a deservedly deep discount in American supermarkets).

To be fair, while draft Heineken is no great shakes, its clean and slightly-sweet flavor go down well when cold, particularly when served in the 200ml measures called “biertjes” (little beers) or, for hard cores, “klein biertjes” (little little beers).

Salute to the Pigs

Finally, a quick salute to the Arkansas Razorbacks (the Pigs), America's only major college sports team with a porcine nickname, for their heart-stirring overtime college gridiron victory Friday over top-ranked Louisiana State University. By rooting their way to a 50-48 win, the Pigs have opened up the title picture considerably, allowing Pig quarterback Darren McFadden to make a case for winning the Heisman Trophy, college gridiron's coveted answer to soccer's Golden Boot. Well done, Pigs!!!

FlightKL18—October 2007

Greetings from Delft!

Apologies for the lateness on this edition—some of the less glamorous aspects of life in the global communication arena have been taking their toll (early conference calls with the Far East for starters), A little writing project for the Ragan publishing empire in Chicago has also intervened—not for money, but for some potentially interesting exposure. We shall see.

Rugby Time

Those of you who know me probably know I used to play rugby. Those who know me well know that my entire rugby career consisted of six weeks of training…and 12 minutes of one match, before I was sandwiched between several large men and had my back do an accordion impression.

Nevertheless, I’m writing this with my TV tuned to France’s TV5, which is broadcasting the final match of this year’s Rugby World Cup to all within earshot of their gallic tones.

The final, for those who neither know nor care about the Old World and the Antipodes’ answer to gridiron football, pitted a rather accidental English team against a fearsome 15 from South Africa. I’m nominally rooting for England, but am wearing my South Africa jersey for the sheer irony of it.

My real interest in the World Cup was in the team from Argentina. I fell hard for Argentina during my visit nearly a year ago, and also detected the ‘David vs. Goliath’ angle of the Argentine challenge—the Pumas being the only top-tier Rugby side unable to secure participation into the sport’s two main competitions—the southern hemisphere’s Tri-Nations (Australia, New Zealand, South Africa), or Europe’s Six Nations (England, France, Ireland, Scotland, Wales, Italy). The Pumas needed to win the Cup to make an iron-clad claim for inclusion; but having come into the tourney with a convincing win over England at Twickenham among an impressive pre-tournament series of wins, I thought they could pull it off, even though most of my rugby-oriented friends thought I was on the locally available non-prescribed drugs here in the NL.

My support for the Pumas also had an ulterior motive—my friendship with Alec Byrne of Bariloche, Argentina, who runs Rugby Patagonia (http://www.rugbypatagonia.com/) , a highly specialized travel business that organizes tours for rugby teams from all over the world in Argentina’s spectactularly beautiful Patagonia region. I figured that if Argentina established itself as the world’s rugby powerhouse, Alec’s trade would soar as aspiring ruggers would seek to play and train in the conditions that created a world champion.

Alas, Argentina fell short, getting thumped by the formidable South Africans before pounding home side France to secure the tournament’s bronze medal. The result is probably not enough to crack the Tri-Nations, and logistical challenges may make the Six Nations a bridge too far. Still, in a tournament where Australia, New Zealand, Ireland and Wales made early exits, the Argentine run to the semis was unquestionably a thrill. VAMONOS PUMAS!!!!

Bike Tires

In moving to the Continent, I expected lots of elements of daily life to be ever-so-pleasingly different. I haven’t been completely disappointed, though life in the NL is much more restrained than life in Belgium or England, with far fewer coffee places (let’s not talk about “coffee shops”), restaurants, or non-chain shops than the other two places.

One thing that I found to be alarmingly different were the bicycle innertubes. Unlike in the US or England, where the innertube is a beautifully simple device where you take the pump valve, put it on the tube valve, and “Bob’s your uncle,” as they say in England.

But in the Netherlands, where bicycling is as much a part of life as water management, small glasses of mediocre pilsner, and multi-ride national public transit vouchers called strippenkaarten, the bike innertube valve is a far more fearsome apparatus. Repeated attempts to pump my way to rideability failed, and at a recent speed-dating event in Amsterdam, I was able to find a Briton who moved here who could explain the differences between Anglo-American and Netherlandic paradigms. “The Dutch tube has a two-part valve, and you have to open it up before you can pump it, and you don’t want to open it too far because all of the air will escape.”

That was all I needed to know. I was able to pump the tires today. But I was concerned that I wouldn’t keep enough of the air in. We’ll find out when I do my Monday bike-commute.

Surinamese Food

Many people rip on the food in the Netherlands, particularly those who are expats. For sure, the food in Belgium is better. But most I’ve found who criticize the cuisine here have never dined in this country’s assortment of Surinamese eateries—where some of the best—and cheapest—food in the NL can be found.

Most Surinamese places are dives. They reflect humble origins in Holland’s erstwhile colony in the Guianas, and the colony’s kaleidoscope of ethnic influences. Suriname, for those who don’t know, was a piece of South American jungle that the Dutch accepted in return for the colony once known as New Amsterdam, now known as New York. Its small population of native residents was augmented by Africans, Chinese (of several Chinese ethnicities), South Asians (called ‘Hindustanis’), Indonesians, Sephardic Jews and “Nederlanders” (which what the Dutch actually call themselves), and the ensuing cuisine most heavily merges Chinese and Indian entrees with distinctly South American spices and occasional concessions to Dutch tastes and sensibilities.

I took my first houseguest, Ned Lundquist, whose Job of the Week Newsletter ( http://www.nedsjotw.com/ )is a complete phenomenon in the communications and PR world, for a typically Surinamese meal at a restaurant in Delft. The meal featured Chicken Satay, Lamb Roti (an Indian-influenced lamb and pancake dish with distinctively far-eastern and South American tastes), and the piece de resistance—Surinamese Fried Rice. I normally don’t eat either roti or fried rice due to my ongoing dieting escapades, but neither dish disappointed. The fried rice was predictably spectacular because the Surinamese cooks always use Indonesian soy sauce as the basis for the dish. Indonesian soy sauce is the original ‘ketjap’, and combines the salt-savoriness of its Chinese and Japanese cousins with the deep dark sweetness of molasses.

There is more to Surinamese than roti and fried rice. But anyone saying that the food here sucks need look no further to be comprehensively contradicted.

Thanksgiving

I’ll be back in the US from the 16-26—visiting my Folks in Arizona and taking a stop-over in a yet-to-be-named city east of the Mississippi from the 16-19. I’ll get in touch with those of you in the selected city when I make a decision next week.

Tot Ziens from the NL!!!

Flight Diversion

I've been drawn into an interesting writing project for one of my industry's leading publishers this week...will post a new entry over the weekend.

All the best from the NL,

Mike

FlightKL18: September 2007

Hidden Jews

Growing up as an American Jew in the Chicago suburbs, the notion of having my background be a fundamental part of my identity—one that I was open, proud and assertive about—was not only something I embraced but also the fulfillment of an expectation. As I mentioned in a previous blog, ethnicity is everything in Chicago, and one’s most distinguishing feature was inevitably one’s last name.

From my time in the UK, I knew things were different there, and more different still in Continental Europe, where there is still living memory of the Nazi Occupation and the Holocaust. But until I reached the Netherlands, I had no clue as to how different.

I remember from my days at London Business School one student, “Bert”, who told me this story: “I was in my teens when my parents broke me the secret that I was Jewish. But they told me never, ever to tell any one.”

Over 100,000 Jews disappeared from the Netherlands during the Holocaust. While the inference is that those Jews all died, the figure also includes those who hid during the war…and stayed hidden after the war.

I thought Bert’s story was a rarity. But two random encounters: one a beery exchange at a nearby Delft pub where the tone changed when the subject of Israel came up, the other an online date indicated perhaps otherwise. The stories bore a similarity to Bert’s—both learned of their Jewish origins in late adolescence—with the added element of their respective families attempts to raise them as Christians.

While three cases were hardly a scientific sample of the Dutch population, two other things rang out—that for all those who are aware and willing to talk, there must be some who are neither; and that perhaps many Jews who, having survived the nightmare of the occupation in often dire circumstances because of their Jewish backgrounds, would hardly be inclined to leave themselves and their children so exposed in the future.

This is not a topic that has been frequently discussed in Jewish circles—I watch the Jewish press semi-religiously and the other country where similar stories percolate into coverage most frequently is Poland. While the nature of the issue—the successful hiding and full-blown absorption of Jewish co-citizens—makes it impossible to develop meaningful statistics, the anecdotal evidence indicates that history should consider a kinder treatment of the Dutch, and for that matter, the Poles.

The Hidden Synagogue

Children of Holocaust survivors are not the only Jewish things hidden in the Netherlands. Because the nation’s vaunted religious tolerance in the seventeenth and eighteenth century had its limits, non-Calvinist religious buildings had to be hidden from public view. So, behind a front of classic Dutch rowhouses near embassies and corporate headquarters in The Hague is the 18^th century Spanish and Portuguese Synagogue, now home to the Liberal Jewish Community (LJG for its Dutch initials).

Joining the LJG has been an interesting experience. My entry was delayed by several months because of the difficulty in scheduling the mandatory interview with Rabbi Avraham Soetendorp, the 40-year incumbent in the role who, unusually for a Liberal rabbi, is a lead spokesman for the Jewish community here despite the larger Orthodox “market share”. When I was finally scheduled, my conversation with the unruly-haired clergyman was quite wide ranging, settling on a discussion of the potential of online social networks to reach the Netherlands’ population of “hidden Jews”.

A real challenge, at least from the perspective of attending services, is that my long-cherished Liberal tradition of conducting services in the vernacular does me little good here. While my two years of Belgian Embassy Dutch helps me through a newspaper, a menu, and through further lessons, it’s kind of useless for a stem-winding sermon of the kind Rabbi Soetendorp is known for here.

Quechup vs. Facebook=Evil vs. Good

Most, if not all of you, received e-mail invites for a so-called social network service called Quechup recently.

I want to apologize—to explain what happened—and invite you to join a real social network service that has proven to be fun, interesting, and an outstanding way to reconnect myself to people with whom I thought I’d lost touch forever.

First, the Quechup story. I received an invite from a trusted friend, and, being a social network junkie and evangelist, I signed up. I then made the bonehead move of “checking my address list” against Quechup’s database.

On a decent social network site, like Facebook, checking the address list on a monthly basis has brought me back in touch with people I’d lost touch with. But with Quechup…

…I was actually giving them my address book to use to SPAM my contacts with so-called invitations!

That’s what happened here. I have 1500 people on my list, and when I realised this had happened, there was no way to get a hold of everyone. I can only bulk mail about 200 people at a time, and the fact that I received 30 friend invites, 20 refusals, and ten “what the hell is this” e-mails indicates that the problem wasn’t too widespread.

Please join Facebook

What irritates me about the Quechup episode is that it may diminish enthusiasm for participating in real social networks. Facebook, unlike Quechup, allows you to find old friends, send them all kinds of messages, from e-mails to virtual cocktails to bear hugs to Zidane-style headbutts, to join regional and alumni networks, to form and join interest groups (I belong to groups ranging from Pro-Israel groups to a group seeking to save the job of Tottenham Manager Martin Jol to the Obama for President Campaign to the “People for Pigs’ Rights Society”, dedicated to stopping “the despicable slayings of our little pink friends”.) and to post photo albums, music, and video. I’m listed as “Michael Harry Klein” if you’d like to visit my rather animated profile page—would love to see you there!

De-Luxembourg

When I first crossed into and out of Luxembourg during the 1992 Eurail trip that eventually led me down the road to expatriation, I didn’t give the place much thought. It was dark, and all I saw were city lights and the faint outlines of hillsides and fortifications. And while I’ve seen much in what Luxembourg calls its “Grande Region” (so-called to encourage potential Luxembourg residents to opt instead to commute from France’s Lorraine, Belgium’s Wallonia and Germany’s states of Saarland and Rheinland-Pfalz), I’d never touched down in The Grand Duchy. But, faced with “strong encouragement” from my boss to take at least a long weekend away, and a desire to travel by train to somewhere that didn’t speak Dutch, Luxembourg developed instant appeal.

The train ride was hardly seamless, as the “Benelux Train” on my hour of departure was out with a pulled hamstring, and I had to successfully navigate from the Delft-Rotterdam to Rotterdam-Roosendaal to Roosendaal-Antwerp to Antwerp-Brussels trains. I made my Swiss EuroCity express to Luxembourg mere seconds before it departed Brussel Noord Station. Arriving 6 hours after I departed Delft with luggage and picnic, I landed in the Gare section of Luxembourg City. As it turns out, the Gare district was the only unpleasant area I saw in my four days in the Duchy.

I lucked out with my hotel, arriving at the Hotel Parc Plaza to be amazed at the stunning view of the Petrusse “Valley”, which is actually a plunging 200+ foot river gorge that is Luxembourg City’s defining physical trait. (The place had a wowza breakfast buffet, including smoked salmon, the Duchy’s outstanding Cremant de Luxembourg sparkling wine, served with a view of the Petrusse.) And while most of my time in Luxembourg City was spent in the late afternoons and evenings, involving the usual dining and beer-hopping I normally do in a new city, the city’s spectacular setting and architecture clearly spanning the gallic and teutonic (with nary a netherlandish trait to be found) made for a delightful change of pace.

But Luxembourg City strolling and nightlife were not the highlights. The big highlights were the country’s outstanding intercity bus system, which for $6 offered the ability to hop on and hop off in the many appealing towns and hamlets outside Luxembourg City which are home to the bulk of Luxembourg’s 500,000 residents, and the linguistic crazy quilt that manifested itself in some strange shopping experiences.

Using the bus, I was able to create two one-day itineraries that touched three of the country’s main scenic regions (Luxembourg has startlingly diverse landscapes for a country of its size.) Day 1 was Echternach, a picturesque resort town across the Sure/Sauer river from Germany, where I strolled, drank some local Elbling wine, and crossed the river into Germany, and Ettelbruck, a city forever identified with General George Patton, who had a fatal car accident nearby following the War and whose museum there I visited. Both towns had less than 10,000 people, but both had flourishing pedestrian centers, and abundant restaurant and café choices.

Day 2 was Remich, where I took a boat tour of the plunging Moselle valley, is the home of the Luxembourg wine and cremant (champagne-style sparkling wine) region. Lunch was a phenomenal seafood salad at the riverside Caves St. Martin, which served the tastiest sparkling wine I’d ever had. Luxembourg bubbly is pretty much only available in Luxembourg and Belgium, naturally I schlepped home a bottle.

Arriving at the Remich bus station, I learned that I was but a few minutes away from a bus to Schengen, at Luxembourg’s southeastern tip. Schengen, for my non-European readers, was the village where leaders of the Benelux, France, and Germany agreed to abolish passport checks and establish a common travel zone which now includes most of Western Europe. Schengen was not chosen by accident. Schengen is a kilometer from Germany across the Moselle, and two kilometers to France. Naturally, I crossed the bridge, walked across Germany, walked into France, walked back, and was back in time for a Riesling before my bus returned.

Polyglot Shopping

Aside from the geography, what’s amazing about Luxembourg is the relationship of the locals to language. Luxembourg has three official languages: Letzebuergesch (the local dialect-“LB”), French, and German. Unlike other multilingual countries, ethnicity plays no part in the language piece—the locals move effortlessly between the tongues, and many are passable to highly competent in English as well.

What makes this interesting is that Luxembourg is also a free-fire zone for sellers of products from France, Belgium and Germany, and is seen as part of one or the other for various companies doing business there. So, McDonalds in Luxembourg is provisioned out of Germany and everything is in German. Competitor Quick is provisioned out of Belgium, so everything is in French, with a few traces of Dutch. In supermarkets, different brand treatments of a single kind of toothpaste appear in French (Steradent-Regular Strength) and German (Kukident-Extra Strength), which both otherwise the same packaging and logo.

Most pronounced, however was the market area of the Luxembourg Schouberfouer, which dates to the 14^th century. In the market were sellers from across the Grande Region. Interestingly, they sold things popular in their home base—and my enduring memory were the dueling demonstrations for the German equivalents of the infamous “Veg-O-Matic” vegetable slicer, still popular in Germany decades after being passed off as passé in the States.

Battin Extra

Finally, what’s one of my blogs without a beer review. Luxembourg beers are largely an undistinguished lot, mostly clean-tasting commodity lager/pilsners with no profile outside the Duchy. But there was one beer that I thought was terrific—Battin Extra. Battin Extra is brewed by locally owned Brasserie National, which is best known for the mediocre Bofferding Pilsner, and Battin doesn’t enjoy nearly a high enough profile.

Battin is similar to Belgian “blonde ales” and has the fruity spiciness endemic to the class. It also has a balanced sweetness, and very, very mild bitterness. It’s Luxembourg’s only Belgian style blonde, and for what it’s worth, it would do damn well in Belgium.

Until October, that’s FlightKL18!

FlightKL18-August 2007

From the captain’s deck:

My third month back in the Benelux have brought some interesting insights, capped off by a heroic birthday weekend in Belgium that reached new culinary and imbibatory heights…

Disapproval and Tolerance

“Without disapproval, there can be no tolerance,” read the quote about a conference in Amsterdam discussing the emerging Dutch relationship with their vaunted if imperiled reputation for tolerance. While it was mentioned merely in passing by the free English-language weekly in which I read it, I thought that quote explained some of the massive differences between the tolerance that is genuinely practiced here—and the warped perception of the Dutch as libertine, pot-smoking, prostitutional customers that exists in the US and elsewhere.

The Dutch view of tolerance is that disapproved behavior is best legalised, isolated, and where possible, appropriately taxed. Which is why when the subject of marijuana use and so-called “coffee shops” selling various grades of weed was mentioned to a good majority of my Dutch friends, the response was “well, actually, I’ve never tried the stuff”.

I doubt that a majority of Americans my age or younger could answer that question in the negative with a straight face. And while I’m not 100% convinced that these answers were genuine pleas of innocence or convincing demonstrations of the ability to lie with a straight face, they are indicative of a strong thread of disapproval of marijuana use that follows alongside the weed’s tolerated, though not-quite-legal status here.

Minorities are also mostly tolerated here—but tolerance by no means equals unconditional love. Ethnic minorities perceived as slow to integrate can encounter both passive hostility (not being admitted to clubs, for instance) and the more active enmity practiced by the likes of politician Geert Wilders, who recently called for a ban on the Koran, and whose party holds 9 seats in the “Tweede Kamer”, the main chamber of the Dutch Parliament. And while the Netherlands allows gay marriage and the country is considered one of the world’s most favorable environments for gay and lesbian residents, homophobia is still commonplace and gay-bashings are all-too-frequent occurrences.

From my own perspective, I don’t think I’ve fully crossed the line from being tolerated to being accepted, but my ability to tell a certain stupid joke (I studied my Dutch for two years at the Belgian Embassy in Washington…so I speak Dutch like a Walloon soccer player), has broken the ice to some respect.

But still, a country’s capacity for tolerance cannot be underestimated when it is possible for an English speaker like me to walk into an office of the country’s biggest company, and expect the natives to speak to me—and to each other when I am in earshot—in MY language and not their own. Indeed, the forebearance shown to non-Dutch speakers in this country is astounding. While I resume my Dutch studies tomorrow—in part because I want to move from being tolerated to being accepted—I do marvel at what I’m able to do here already.

Namur

As much as I have held a long-standing affinity towards the Dutch and their Flemish cousins, the desire to “change the soundtrack” finally became too much to bear this past weekend. So in breaking with my usual travel patterns, my newly acquired Irish drinking buddy and fellow raconteur Neil and I made our way solely to the French-speaking areas of Belgium this past weekend.

Stealing the show was a half-day getaway to the Walloon regional capital of Namur, a place of intensely seductive beauty and one blessed with some of the more remarkable topography in the Low Countries. Centered around a point called “Le Grognon” (the pig’s nose) which is formed by the meeting of the Sambre and Meuse rivers, Namur rests below an imposing ancient Citadel which served an active military purpose until the end of World War II. The Citadel is the gem of Namur in that it is probably the only place in Belgium where one can spend an hour climbing a hill, and then be treated to a view of a city and a river valley that unfolds below.

I’ve been coming to Namur intermittently for years—mostly bringing dates over from Brussels. But the one objective that had always eluded me was to dine in the Chateau Namur restaurant adjacent to the Citadel. The Chateau is a stunning building, and houses the Province of Namur Hotel and Restaurant School. Despite being in our hill-climbing grubbies, we stopped by the Chateau and inquired about whether we could be seated. With an affirmative answer, we made a reservation, awaited the dinner with a couple of trappist beers (Orval and Rochefort 8 for you connoisseurs), and then dined like royalty as we gazed down upon the Meuse Valley.

Gaelic Football and Catholic Jews

Following a long sleep and another delightful meal, this time at old favorite Le Petit Pont in the Brussels suburb of Uccle, Neil’s thoughts left Belgium and shifted towards a patch of grass in Dublin called Croke Park. “The big semifinal is today!” “What semi-final”, I replied. “The GAA semifinal! Gaelic Football! Meath is playing Cork in the big semi-final—let’s find a place to watch it.” Neil is from Meath, so I was unwilling to be one to deny him his sacred quest to watch the hometown boys do battle for the County’s honour. Indeed, the quest became a highlight of the trip, if for the conversation that ensued.

We first talked about the GAA (the Gaelic Athletic Association) and its immense power in Ireland, essentially conducting an all-amateur competition for two uniquely Irish-Catholic sports, Gaelic Football and Hurling, which are nearly impenetrable to view for the uninitiated. Of course Sunday’s match was to serve as my initiation. But before the match, I shared my one good Irish joke with Neil by means of confession.

“A man walks down the streets of Belfast at two am, a little drunk after the pubs have closed. Suddenly, the man is accosted, and the assailant asks:

ARE YOU A PROD-A-STINT…OR A CATH-A-LICK?

The man replies. “Sir, I am neither…I am a Jew!”

The assailant tightens his grip on the man’s neck and asks

ARE YOU A PROD-A-STINT JEW…OR A CATH-A-LICK JEW?”

I then admitted to being a “Protestant Jew.” Neil gave me the look of Death and I suggested “maybe it’s time for me to become a Catholic Jew.”

Interestingly, my thoughts immediately turned to the recent passing of Jean-Marie Lustiger, Cardinal of Paris. Lustiger was born Aaron Lustiger in Poland and survived the Holocaust by hiding with Catholics in France, converting to their faith at the age of 13.

Lustiger was an immensely controversial figure among Jews, who tend to reject those who convert out of the faith and particularly those who do it publicly. But Lustiger held his Jewish identity visibly and assertively, and as his career unfolded, he eventually developed sufficient respect in his relationships with Jewish leaders to be seen as a valuable and deeply committed ally within the Church and within the French establishment.

On the two occasions I recall the selection of a Pope, I have to admit that I always rooted for Lustiger, even if it would have meant the unending rephrasing of an old classic joke to: “Is the Pope Jewish?” But as I settled in to watch Meath get slaughtered by Cork, I spared a thought for an amazing Jewish Catholic as I pondered my future as a Catholic Jew.

The Joy of “Unhappiness”

Malheur Brut had always fascinated me. The first commercial attempt to develop a Belgian beer under the precise conditions used to ferment and bottle champagne, I’d long pondered what such a brew would taste like, and whether it would be worth the champagne-like price tag. And the name of the brewery, Malheur, which means unhappiness in French, always raised eyebrows. But, throwing caution to the wind on the night of my Big 4-2, Neil and I reached the bar at Brussels’ Delirium pub to order this golden elixir from Delirium’s 2000+ beer menu.

This stuff did not disappoint. Rather than the sharp or sweet flavours indicative of most higher-octane Belgian brews, Malheur Brut had every bit of the subtlety of top champagne and none of the grapey syrupiness of lesser varieties. It was amazing to taste the toasty champagne flavors and realise that they came from something that could have been toast. Plus, the bottle and glasses were clearly evocative, though in keeping with European law, the closest nod to the chalky region of France where the prized sparkling wine originates was the use of the term “Brut”. But this was not brutal—it was decadence at its best.

Thank you for flying FlightKL18

Diverted to Belgium

From The Captain: Flight KL18 has been diverted to Belgium for the weekend in honor of Mike's 42nd birthday. Normal service will resume shortly thereafter.

July 2007: Backing Barack, Getting Gezellig, Destination Delft

From The Captain…

This month’s leg of FlightKL18 looks back across the Atlantic at the most important US election that has faced Americans—and the world—in a generation. Then, looking over to the sunrise, an adventure into the purely Dutch world of “gezelligheid” and an invitation to the new “hangar” for FlightKL18.

Backing Barack

While to reveal my choice for the US Presidency in 2008 is hardly a matter of global significance, I’ve been asked the question enough times to merit a public declaration—and I think the case for my candidate is compelling enough to warrant a brief screed on his behalf.

I’m backing Senator Barack Obama. I have to admit that I took a liking to him during his speech at the 2004 Democratic Convention, where his performance overshadowed the otherwise underwhelming coronation of John Kerry, who, of course, later became the first Democratic nominee to actually lose to George W. Bush.

In the Convention speech, Obama seized the nation’s attention as a figure who could feasibly bridge the many fissions present in American society—race, religion, ideological polarization, economic status and whether or not one has health insurance. A speaker of resonance, with a distinctive appearance derived from being the son of an African on one side and the descendant of slaveholders on the other.

To some, Obama doesn’t sound like a President—that his relative youth (age) and his brief political career give him little depth on the nuances of policy. Obama’s ‘weakness’ on policy is trumpeted by supporters of rival Hillary Clinton as the rationale for giving the Democratic nomination (and likely the Presidency) to an individual who, as an unelected First Lady, managed to mangle the most important Democratic policy initiative in a generation.

To some, Obama doesn’t pray like a President. He belongs to a congregation of the United Church of Christ, a church with openly gay clergy and a generally liberal theological outlook. For sure, Obama’s minister is an African-American activist with ultra-leftist leanings, particularly on middle-east issues, which Obama has publicly distanced himself from without severing the relationship. (At the same time, Billy Graham, who ministered to many US presidents, including Nixon and Reagan, once spoke of a “Jewish Stranglehold” on the US media).

To some, Barack Obama doesn’t look like a President. Indeed, the number of times I hear “but he can’t really get elected” in my recent conversations on the subject is too numerous to count. But there are only two real reasons why Senator Barack Obama can’t get elected—because too many people believe America can’t/shouldn’t have a President whose lineage didn’t all come from Northern Europe, or because they genuinely don’t think Obama’s up for the job, particularly after a full-force campaign to expose and highlight every real and inflated vulnerability the Senator may have.

And that, ultimately, is why I’m backing Barack 100%. I disagree with him on a number of issues, and I don’t have much use for his minister. But he has one commodity that none of the other candidates has in anywhere near the same dosage:

Courage.

Barack Obama is a man with young children. Barack Obama is a liberal African-American running for national office in a country where there are lots of angry white men with guns. Barack Obama is a conscientious and intelligent public servant who is willing to risk his reputation very early in his career, exposing himself to what will undoubtedly be a scorching campaign by Hillary Clinton, trying to defend a nomination she somehow believes is “rightly hers.” And, if he survives the Clinton onslaught, one can only imagine the Republican pyrotechnics as they seek to avoid a complete post-Bush meltdown.

So, Barack Obama is a brave guy. And, given his unique personality and background, an Obama presidency has the potential to be transformational and transformative. Electing Barack Obama will send a message to the world—and to ourselves—that we are finally willing to embrace the future. It would be an end to the ugly trend in America toward dynastic politics. It would be a bold stroke, a master stroke.

And, given the quality of the opposition, on both sides of the aisle, the opportunity may be one Americans think worth seizing.

Gettin’ Gezellig

A long day of apartment hunting a few weeks ago left me with a desire to spend an evening in a sports bar watching the Netherlands play Serbia in the finals of the European Under-21 Football (Soccer) championship. But, in stumbling upon a bar near the station with a sportive name, I stumbled into not a sports bar—but a temple to the much worshipped and difficult to translate Dutch concept of “gezelligheid”.

There are a number of ways to translate gezelligheid, none of which convey the meaning and significance of this term. The dictionary says gezelligheid is “coziness”, my personal experience, as described below, focuses more on a closed kind of conviviality.

I stumbled into the bar, expecting to see big screens and orange-clad locals gathering to cheer the native side onto a home-pitch victory over a nation whose former leaders were currently being tried a few minutes up the road in The Hague. But nooooo! The TV was off for the run-up to the match. Instead, the sound system was playing ultra-kitschy Dutch-language tunes which some of the locals were singing to.

My arrival was met with quizzical looks, for I had committed yet another fashion faux pas that I remained unaware of until disrobing, alone (alas) upon my return home. But when I said “is that Rob De Nijs”, a local woman said “of course not, that’s Andre Hazes…(then, with heartfelt astonishment) how do you know this?” (The two are longtime kitschy Dutch-language pop stars, the latter recently deceased).

My tale of how I collected Dutch-language CDs and listened to them relentlessly to support my two years of Dutch study at Washington’s Belgian Embassy intrigued the locals, and suddenly a small glass of Heineken arrived at the bar in front of me, along with a smile from one of the patrons. I then attempted to actually speak in Dutch, but while the bravery of my efforts was noted, the locals decided they would spare themselves my stilted vocabulary and somewhat lenient interpretations of the rules of Dutch grammar.

More little beers flowed; I returned the kindness by ordering little Heinekens for much of the throng, the tininess of the beers allowing modest generosity to be distributed more widely than usual. The logic on the size—beer has no time to get warm in a small glass, and two little glasses approximate a US pint at the same price.

As the music continued, a wide ranging conversation about America and the NL ensued, with one fellow with Elvis-style hair expressing a lifelong desire to visit America, while I expounded on the benefits of universal health insurance and a relatively comprehensive rail system. George W. Bush was mentioned, and I shifted the conversation without engaging in the ritual denunciation of him or the Iraq War that the subject’s mention to an American here generally anticipates. Still, in a bar full of passionately working class Netherlanders, the quality of political discussion was more than adequate relative to that conducted by American college graduates. Even considering media bias, the Dutch I have found in all strata are extremely well informed.

As kickoff approached, the TV was turned on, and the warblings of Rob De Nijs, Andre Hazes, et al, were banished for the next two hours. The conversation continued during the match, but the beer continued to flow, depriving you of any sentient recollection of the chatter. As a tight match evolved into a hearty pummeling of the Serbs by the Netherlanders, an air of anticipation set in. 2-0, 3-0, 4-1…

The “Young Orange”, so named for the beloved color of the nation’s even-more-beloved monarchy, had won the title on home ground, earning a second such title for coach Foppe de Haan, a white-haired fellow who had plied his trade for many years at the far-flung Frisian outpost of Heerenveen before taking the national youth side and was for the first time being discussed as a serious candidate for the senior team coaching role. The parallel in England would be Dario Gradi of Crewe as the Coach of England. In America, the parallel would be the late legendary Olympic ice hockey coach Herb Brooks.

The commanding win by Jong Oranje prompted raucous celebrations in the bar for the next half hour, as I found myself arm in arm with the patrons singing “We Are The Champions”, and humming to a ghastly Andre Hazes cover of Auld Lang Syne called “Wij Houden Van Oranje”, which means “We Love Orange”. Stunningly, the locals thought the song—and melody--was original! As the celebration retreated back to the NederKitsch Top 1000, I gracefully said my “goede avonds” and headed for the station. But I left with an actionable definition of “gezelligheid”.

Destination Delft

I am pleased to inform you that I now have secured a flat in Delft, a scenic and historic community situated between The Hague and Rotterdam. I will be moving in on August 1, and will be in a position to accept visiting guests—especially those from the US and the UK—shortly thereafter.

The flat is fully furnished and fairly deluxe. It is a loft one-bedroom, with the bed raised on a platform above an office and sitting area. It lacks a dishwasher and dryer, but since European models of such appliances tend to suck, I’m not comprehensively bothered.

The flat also has a sofa bed, so for visits, I’ll give couples the bedroom and I’d take the sofa bed; for singles, the sofa bed should be quite adequate.

Delft is located on the main NL train line, about 15 mins each to The Hague and Rotterdam, about 50 minutes to Schiphol airport and 65 minutes to the heart of Amsterdam. Dutch rail fares are reasonable, and Delft station is one of a handful of stations that has 24 hour services to all of the major Dutch cities, including on nights and weekends. The apartment is about a 15 minute walk to the station.

If you’d like to come visit, drop me an e-mail, or submit a comment below.

Dutchman of the Month

Finally, I’d like to award the title of Dutchman of the Month to Hendrik Jonkers of BeHome Makelaars. I first met Hendrik in Delft on a bright June evening. What was startling was that he may have been the only estate agent working in the Netherlands that evening. By being right where I was standing when I needed a realtor, he found a couple of places for me to visit—one of which I found so breathtaking that I wanted it immediately. While many complain about customer service in this country, Hendrik has provided real service when it counted—even shepherding me to the ATM machine to make sure my deposit could be transported safely. For outstanding customer service, Hendrik has my vote for Dutchman of the Month.

Tune in in August for the next leg of FlightKL18!