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
Disapproval and Tolerance
“Without disapproval, there can be no tolerance,” read the quote about a conference in
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
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.
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
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,
I’ve been coming to
Gaelic Football and Catholic Jews
Following a long sleep and another delightful meal, this time at old favorite Le Petit Pont in the
We first talked about the GAA (the Gaelic Athletic Association) and its immense power in
“A man walks down the streets of
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
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
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
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
Thank you for flying FlightKL18
