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