Global Transformation comes to Rotterdam
Having itself been transformed from a pile of Luftwaffe rubble to a vibrant, edgy, and youthful global port, the Dutch port city of Rotterdam proved a fitting venue for last weekend's European Summit for Global Transformation.
To be sure, the title appeared on the surface to be grand. Among the seventy-plus attendees was an eclectic collection of organizational change consultants, academics, entrepreneurs, coaches and social activists from around Europe, with Dutch and expat Americans prominent in their numbers.
But within this group was a shared commitment to turbocharge our own leadership abilities to operate more effectively on a larger scale. Most-though not all-had some background in transformational learning--a form of education that, to simplify, involves distinguishing fact and one's own opinions of fact--a concept which while seemingly obvious is one that often requires years of intentional practice to master and transmit effectively to others.
Much of the event involved listening to pros who have taken transformational learning or practice into unlikely places--like Capt. Kari Granger of the US Air Force Academy, and others who have worked in Exxon Mobil, the European Commission, the launch of the Xing and Neo social networking sites and the British Council.
But most of the value came out of the spirited discussions between participants, particularly given the commitments of each of the participants. My commitment is about "freedom of speech--experienced not merely as a legal right, but as a practice and responsibility".
But some of the other participant's commitments rubbed me the wrong way, namely those about the environment and peace. Those two issues have never inspired anything other than skepticism from me. In the space of the conference--and in engaging with "antagonists" with years of experience in transformational rhetoric (continually distinguishing between "fact" and "opinion", I was stunned to recognize the basis for my antipathy to environmentalism (my opinion that it's a cheap way to be anti-American) and towards pacifism (that it's a socially acceptable way to be anti Israel and anti-semitic).. In realising these things, I have not become a pacifist environmentalist. But the mistrust disappeared from conversations on these topics, as did the defensiveness.
As transformational events like this unfold, the conversation among likeminded participants grappling with the scale of our commitments and the extent to which our own failings make us unlikely to achieve them can yield some striking insights--insights which once internalized in turn make success more possible.
One brutal insight in my case was that of my resistance to using the methodologies of others in my work rather than trying to invent my own stuff and get credit for it. While it didn't come as a surprise, what it's opened up is the opportunity to learn from people far more effective and successful than me and create something completely new in the process.
Unleashing 70 participants back in the world renewed in their vision and operating with a clearer sense of what it would take to fulfill our commitments may not bring global transformation. But it could. As Margaret Mead once said, "never underestimate the ability of a small group of committed citizens to change the world. It's the only thing that ever has."
Palm: A Great Home for a Great Beer
When I lived in Holland last year, the best thing about the local beer scene was the country's Benelux proximity to Belgium. And the one Belgian ale that is universally available in the NL is Palm. So, when the social club at my new workplace offered up a tour of the Palm Brewery in Steenhuffel, Belgium, it was "do not pass go, do not collect 200 Euros."
No, Steenhuffel isn't the Brew Jerusalem (I accord that status to Ingelmunster, West Flanders, home of Van Honsebrouck's Brigand and Kasteel brews). But Palm is iconic--in its own way, like a Guinness of the Low Countries. When I mentioned the Guinness parallel to the Brewery's tour guide, he bridled in a manner reminiscent of the brewery's Belgian Draught Horses, the Benelux's answer to the the now Belgian Budweiser Clydesdales. "No, we don't want to be the next Guinness--we want to be what we are, do what we do." But what they do is magnificent. Palm Speciale, the anchor brew at Steenhuffel, is a red-amber ale at a quaffable 5% (standard beer strength like a Bud or Heineken), but with a deep, rich and resonant flavor mildly redolent of hops and evocative of slightly roasted malt.
Palm brews other stuff-Dobbel Palm, a slightly stronger version for December (a month requiring more alcohol than other months). Royale, a special brew commemorating the brewery patriarch's birthday that remained in the rotation, and the Steenbrugge range of abbey-style brews. But to steal a phrase, Speciale remains "the original and best", and the brewery is certainly atmospheric and inviting.
Song for the season
Not being Christian, I don't exert myself much around this season's festivities. But as a gift to my readers, I would like to present my favorite song, Love is the Answer, in a You Tube video where a faulty mike has him miss the first few lines. Still, it is rich and authentic. Enjoy. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u37z8W5w8Do
Below you will find some other recent postings...
Monday, December 15, 2008
Sunday, November 30, 2008
John McCain, Bret Bielema and a Light Belgian Beer
Few things are prettier than the view from an airliner's window seat on a clear or semi-clear day. Few places also make one so gently or pleasantly lightheaded, particularly with a $6 Canadian and Soda in hand. So, some airborne musings are in order...
A Close Encounter with John McCain
I saw John McCain on my way out of Phoenix this morning. No, not on TV or a billboard or on a yard sign of a diehard in deep denial. No, the actual Senator from Arizona, waiting in the United/Continental departure lounge at Phoenix' Sky Harbor Airport, all 72+years of his freed POWness, about 15 meters away.
I normally avoid celebrities. And when given a chance to avoid a celebrity who accuses other celebrities of being celebrities, my instincts reared up again. For what would I say to Arizona's Senior Senator?
"That was a damn fine concession speech, Senator McCain"? "What was it that you were smoking when you picked that wacky Tina Fey lookalike as your running mate"? "Would you actually trust a clogged toilet in one of your homes to Joe the Unlicensed Plumber"? No I was having none of that. But as I allowed myself to indulge in some unexpressed partisan snarkiness, I noticed I had left my camera at my parents' house in Scottsdale. And as I boarded the Washington Dulles-bound Airbus, I only quickly recalled that my new Blackberry could have recorded this near-brush with near-greatness.
Backing Bret Bielema
Back in 2005 (or was it 2004?), I had the pleasure to meet Wisconsin Football Coach (American Gridiron, that is) Bret Bielema at a gathering of the Badger faithful in a Washington, DC pub. Bielema impressed me with his sense of perspective and his acceptance of the nature of the big time coach's role-the CEO of a multi-million dollar enterprise who is completely held responsible for that enterprise's on and off-field results.
This year, the results haven't been that great for the Badgers, a 7-5 season including three narrow league losses and a narrow overtime win over lower-division competition. And despite several 9+ win seasons, some of my fellow Badgers bray for Bielema's head.
Sure, Bielema made some mistakes this year. But I for one think he has the ability to learn from his mistakes. I also think, as a Badger who can remember the 0-11 seasons under previous coaches, some of my fellow Badgers have become jaded.
What makes Badgerdom unique among American college teams are our raucous "5th Quarter"post-game celebrations--win or lose. While the 5th Quarter tradition has continued unabated (save for a one-match suspension of the Band for off-field excesses), the underlying spirit is being undermined by a sense of expectation. Such a sense of expectation--indeed of entitlement--will do the Badgers far more ill than another season with Bielema at the helm.
Grisette--The Best Light Beer of All Time
I'm not a light beer fan. But, one major discovery of my return to Belgium is a light beer that really tastes great--and really is less filling. I speak not of an American brew but a Belgian offering called Grisette Blonde. Grisette comes from Belgium's storied St. Feullien brewery, which brews a number of high-octane abbey brews under its saintly moniker, but Grisette is a paradigm shft. Grisette Blonde is, at 4.1% alcohol, rather weak compared to most abbey blonds, but balances that weakness with a spicy and yeasty flavor generally unknown in such a lower-alcohol brew.
It's become a house favorite--real flavor without the heaviness of traditional Belgian brews or their concomitant alcoholic punch. And for all the grandeur of the heavy and storied trappist and abbey ales, something that tastes good with a burger has its place.
A Close Encounter with John McCain
I saw John McCain on my way out of Phoenix this morning. No, not on TV or a billboard or on a yard sign of a diehard in deep denial. No, the actual Senator from Arizona, waiting in the United/Continental departure lounge at Phoenix' Sky Harbor Airport, all 72+years of his freed POWness, about 15 meters away.
I normally avoid celebrities. And when given a chance to avoid a celebrity who accuses other celebrities of being celebrities, my instincts reared up again. For what would I say to Arizona's Senior Senator?
"That was a damn fine concession speech, Senator McCain"? "What was it that you were smoking when you picked that wacky Tina Fey lookalike as your running mate"? "Would you actually trust a clogged toilet in one of your homes to Joe the Unlicensed Plumber"? No I was having none of that. But as I allowed myself to indulge in some unexpressed partisan snarkiness, I noticed I had left my camera at my parents' house in Scottsdale. And as I boarded the Washington Dulles-bound Airbus, I only quickly recalled that my new Blackberry could have recorded this near-brush with near-greatness.
Backing Bret Bielema
Back in 2005 (or was it 2004?), I had the pleasure to meet Wisconsin Football Coach (American Gridiron, that is) Bret Bielema at a gathering of the Badger faithful in a Washington, DC pub. Bielema impressed me with his sense of perspective and his acceptance of the nature of the big time coach's role-the CEO of a multi-million dollar enterprise who is completely held responsible for that enterprise's on and off-field results.
This year, the results haven't been that great for the Badgers, a 7-5 season including three narrow league losses and a narrow overtime win over lower-division competition. And despite several 9+ win seasons, some of my fellow Badgers bray for Bielema's head.
Sure, Bielema made some mistakes this year. But I for one think he has the ability to learn from his mistakes. I also think, as a Badger who can remember the 0-11 seasons under previous coaches, some of my fellow Badgers have become jaded.
What makes Badgerdom unique among American college teams are our raucous "5th Quarter"post-game celebrations--win or lose. While the 5th Quarter tradition has continued unabated (save for a one-match suspension of the Band for off-field excesses), the underlying spirit is being undermined by a sense of expectation. Such a sense of expectation--indeed of entitlement--will do the Badgers far more ill than another season with Bielema at the helm.
Grisette--The Best Light Beer of All Time
I'm not a light beer fan. But, one major discovery of my return to Belgium is a light beer that really tastes great--and really is less filling. I speak not of an American brew but a Belgian offering called Grisette Blonde. Grisette comes from Belgium's storied St. Feullien brewery, which brews a number of high-octane abbey brews under its saintly moniker, but Grisette is a paradigm shft. Grisette Blonde is, at 4.1% alcohol, rather weak compared to most abbey blonds, but balances that weakness with a spicy and yeasty flavor generally unknown in such a lower-alcohol brew.
It's become a house favorite--real flavor without the heaviness of traditional Belgian brews or their concomitant alcoholic punch. And for all the grandeur of the heavy and storied trappist and abbey ales, something that tastes good with a burger has its place.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Obamelot, Slumdog Millionaire, and Hip Hip Harry
Obamelot...or "Politics as Team Sport"
Despite the portent of economic gloom and little but the scattered shards of the national piggy bank with which to fight it, the beatific glow left by Barack Obama's decisive, historic and world-changing Presidential victory had not yet left Washington when I returned four days afterward. One of my IABC friends said on her facebook page "Obama is bigger than Kennedy." I replied "Obama is bigger than the Kennedy family."
For one who enjoys gratuitous hyperbole as much as I do, the events of election week still leave me flabbergasted. In sports terms, this election was the combination of The World Cup, a heavyweight championship and a Civil War rolled into a single encounter.
It is impossible to overestimate the bigness of this election. In one swell foop, America not only elected its first Black president, it also decided to rejoin the human race. It validated the newfound political enthusiasm of today's youth, and sounded the political arrival of today's middle age. It signalled the political color change of three states of the Old Confederacy, and gave my home state of Illinois a second president to call her own--yet neither Lincoln nor Obama were native sons.
What makes this election massive, as I learned quickly, was the sense of shared ownership of this victory. Obama didn't win this election. "We" won this election. The sweeping electoral college margin belied a narrow popular vote victory and razor-thin wins in a good number of key states, eked out through tremendous campaign discipline and the steadfastness of the millions of supporters who streamed to the polls and--all too often--queued in seemingly endless lines.
It is perhaps this sense of the broad partnership Barack Obama has forged with us supporters that the percentage of Americans who think Obama's presidency will be a success was 62% in a recent poll, well exceeding his margin of victory and even belying the massive economic mess he has inherited. Politics in America is once again a team sport--and perhaps so to is governing. For me, that's Change I can Believe In.
Slumdog Millionaire
It has been a while since I last went to the cinema, but one film that has left quite an impression is Slumdog Millionaire--a film about the unlikely victory of a humble "chaiwalla" (tea-boy) on India's version of So You Want To Be A Millionaire (or whatever it's callled).
What struck me about the film were a number of things--breathtaking cinematography of the best and ugliest scenes India has to offer, an innovative use of flashback until the final climactic scene, and the outstanding acting of the child actors who featured prominently in the flashback scenes. I will leave the details to the viewing--but I recommend this film very highly.
Hip Hip Harry!
One of the low points of 2008 was the collapse in the form of my beloved Tottenham Hotspur Football Club, which failed to win a single match until the much-needed ouster of enigmatic and taciturn Spanish coach Juande Ramos. His replacement, the far more expressive, transparent and English Harry Redknapp, has turned the Yid Army's fortunes around, with Tottenham yielding one loss in our last six matches and moving from bottom position to a more promising if not comfortable fifteenth position out of 20.
While it is unlikely Tottenham will be able to continue at this pace, most observers think Redknapp and Tottenham will now be able to avoid the bottom three league places that form the trap door of "relegation", soccer's quaint tradition of ejecting poor performers from a higher league and replacing them with top performers from a lower league.
Indeed, two big wins over Liverpool, a gen-u-wine top flight contender, has some of us Yids thinking bigger, and Tottenham has indeed qualified for the League Cup quarterfinals and could end up repeating as League Cup winners. Still though, simply having a manager who transparently knows what he is doing is reassuring. YID ARMY!!!
Despite the portent of economic gloom and little but the scattered shards of the national piggy bank with which to fight it, the beatific glow left by Barack Obama's decisive, historic and world-changing Presidential victory had not yet left Washington when I returned four days afterward. One of my IABC friends said on her facebook page "Obama is bigger than Kennedy." I replied "Obama is bigger than the Kennedy family."
For one who enjoys gratuitous hyperbole as much as I do, the events of election week still leave me flabbergasted. In sports terms, this election was the combination of The World Cup, a heavyweight championship and a Civil War rolled into a single encounter.
It is impossible to overestimate the bigness of this election. In one swell foop, America not only elected its first Black president, it also decided to rejoin the human race. It validated the newfound political enthusiasm of today's youth, and sounded the political arrival of today's middle age. It signalled the political color change of three states of the Old Confederacy, and gave my home state of Illinois a second president to call her own--yet neither Lincoln nor Obama were native sons.
What makes this election massive, as I learned quickly, was the sense of shared ownership of this victory. Obama didn't win this election. "We" won this election. The sweeping electoral college margin belied a narrow popular vote victory and razor-thin wins in a good number of key states, eked out through tremendous campaign discipline and the steadfastness of the millions of supporters who streamed to the polls and--all too often--queued in seemingly endless lines.
It is perhaps this sense of the broad partnership Barack Obama has forged with us supporters that the percentage of Americans who think Obama's presidency will be a success was 62% in a recent poll, well exceeding his margin of victory and even belying the massive economic mess he has inherited. Politics in America is once again a team sport--and perhaps so to is governing. For me, that's Change I can Believe In.
Slumdog Millionaire
It has been a while since I last went to the cinema, but one film that has left quite an impression is Slumdog Millionaire--a film about the unlikely victory of a humble "chaiwalla" (tea-boy) on India's version of So You Want To Be A Millionaire (or whatever it's callled).
What struck me about the film were a number of things--breathtaking cinematography of the best and ugliest scenes India has to offer, an innovative use of flashback until the final climactic scene, and the outstanding acting of the child actors who featured prominently in the flashback scenes. I will leave the details to the viewing--but I recommend this film very highly.
Hip Hip Harry!
One of the low points of 2008 was the collapse in the form of my beloved Tottenham Hotspur Football Club, which failed to win a single match until the much-needed ouster of enigmatic and taciturn Spanish coach Juande Ramos. His replacement, the far more expressive, transparent and English Harry Redknapp, has turned the Yid Army's fortunes around, with Tottenham yielding one loss in our last six matches and moving from bottom position to a more promising if not comfortable fifteenth position out of 20.
While it is unlikely Tottenham will be able to continue at this pace, most observers think Redknapp and Tottenham will now be able to avoid the bottom three league places that form the trap door of "relegation", soccer's quaint tradition of ejecting poor performers from a higher league and replacing them with top performers from a lower league.
Indeed, two big wins over Liverpool, a gen-u-wine top flight contender, has some of us Yids thinking bigger, and Tottenham has indeed qualified for the League Cup quarterfinals and could end up repeating as League Cup winners. Still though, simply having a manager who transparently knows what he is doing is reassuring. YID ARMY!!!
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Running out of Blog?
It's been a long while since I've posted anything. I'm sure this has left many of my readers concerned, so I figured I should come up for air and reassure you about a number of things.
1. I am still in Brussels.
2. I have not opted to join the Federal Witness Protection Program.
3. Yes, I noticed that Tottenham Hotspur was last in the English Premiership until yesterday, following the dramatic jettisoning of the uncommunicative Spanish coach Juande Ramos and his replacement by the ever-loquacious Cockney, Harry Redknapp.
4. I did not fall into doubt about Barack Obama or swoon at the red-meat appeal of Sarah Palin, ever-so-aptly named Moose-o-lini by her Alaska detractors.
5. I am still following the Wisconsin Badgers as our season descends into a bowl-free abyss.
6. I did not follow the Chicago Cubs' descent into baseball playoff futility, having abandoned hope at the outset.
7. I'm in the US more weekends than I am in Belgium so far. And I'll be in Washington this weekend and would love to see everyone.
8. I've seen Chicken McNuggets being made. And I still like them, too.
9. Despite still liking Chicken McNuggets, I've lost 7 pounds (3 kilos) in the last month.
10. I have a week off for Xmas and no plans for what to do with it.
11. I've joined an awesome English-language synagogue called the International Jewish Centre.
12. I've had a few new beers lately--best is Saison Regal, very flavorful, amber in colored, with a very refined flavor.
13. I remain single--but unbowed nonetheless.
So, that's the last two months in a nutshell. While I have been running out of Blog, I haven't been running out of things to do. My words will come back soon--and thanks for reading.
1. I am still in Brussels.
2. I have not opted to join the Federal Witness Protection Program.
3. Yes, I noticed that Tottenham Hotspur was last in the English Premiership until yesterday, following the dramatic jettisoning of the uncommunicative Spanish coach Juande Ramos and his replacement by the ever-loquacious Cockney, Harry Redknapp.
4. I did not fall into doubt about Barack Obama or swoon at the red-meat appeal of Sarah Palin, ever-so-aptly named Moose-o-lini by her Alaska detractors.
5. I am still following the Wisconsin Badgers as our season descends into a bowl-free abyss.
6. I did not follow the Chicago Cubs' descent into baseball playoff futility, having abandoned hope at the outset.
7. I'm in the US more weekends than I am in Belgium so far. And I'll be in Washington this weekend and would love to see everyone.
8. I've seen Chicken McNuggets being made. And I still like them, too.
9. Despite still liking Chicken McNuggets, I've lost 7 pounds (3 kilos) in the last month.
10. I have a week off for Xmas and no plans for what to do with it.
11. I've joined an awesome English-language synagogue called the International Jewish Centre.
12. I've had a few new beers lately--best is Saison Regal, very flavorful, amber in colored, with a very refined flavor.
13. I remain single--but unbowed nonetheless.
So, that's the last two months in a nutshell. While I have been running out of Blog, I haven't been running out of things to do. My words will come back soon--and thanks for reading.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Stuff for September
It's been a while since I've written anything substantial here--radio silence is not my normal style, and the preceding weeks have been anything but boring. After all, the Olympics and Paralympics, a Cubs divisional baseball pennant, the Democratic and Republican conventions and the fissure of the bloc comprising the Flemish Christian Democrats and the New Flemish Alliance have thus far passed without my comment. But as I recline in my Geneva-bound TGV seat, Grimbergen Blond in hand, there are some things which jump to mind.
Obama-a turning point?
I think the last week of the presidential campaign has left Democrat Barack Obama in the ascendancy. First by replying to Republican John McCain's bid to suspend campaigning during the economic crisis by saying to the effect that the public had a right to expect a president to be able to walk and chew gum simultaneously, and then by coming off as lucid, well-informed and well-tempered in the face of increasingly desperate lunges by McCain during the first presidential debate, Obama clearly demonstrated the demeanor of a viable President.
Add in the embarrassing display by McCain running mate Sarah Palin on a national news program, and Obama is now in a position to stake a claim on the 10+ percent of voters currently claiming to be undecided. Fold in the shift in campaign focus towards the economy, stronger ground for Obama, and the coming weeks should see a clear lead begin to emerge. Of course, the decisive factor come election day will be voter mobilization and peer-to-peer contact among voters. This was a key Obama strength in the primaries; whether it will be qualitatively and quantitatively superior to Republican efforts is still an open question.
Murderball Gold
Longtime readers of mine will recall my fondness for the 2005 documentary Murderball, which chronicled the fortunes of the US Wheelchair Rugby side during its unsuccessful quest for gold at the 2004 Athens Paralympics. While the deep portrayal of these gladiators (whose sport features quadriplegics slamming into each other in armor-plated wheelchairs) in Murderball illustrated that all that is golden in life is not necessarily so rewarded, the American boys came home with the Gold this year after a pitched finals battle with Australia.
What was less golden was the television coverage. For all of the hours of Olympic coverage on NBC in the US, there were very little of the Paralympics. The irony-while much was made of the personal stories of Olympians, the personal stories of paralympians like my personal hero, Mark Zupan, the tattooed and talismanic leader of US Wheelchair Rugby didn't make the air.
BBC coverage was much better--even allowing me to catch a half of quad rugby between Great Britain and eventual silver-winners Australia in a characteristically hard-hitting match.
As for seeing the US--I'll be ordering my London 2012 tickets as soon as they are available.
Domestic Affairs
After two months of achieving my long-sought return to Belgium, things are settling well. Sure there are issues, most of which pertain to an apartment with an absentee landlord which also happens to be 20 square meters too small for two.
Still, having welcomed a new flatmate, a Washington friend in his late 20s who is pursuing a grad degree here a few weeks ago, life is infinitely more interesting. Aside from the financial side (particularly acute as I have yet to secure coveted non-resident tax status here), having a flatmate has its appeal on a number of fronts. A good flatmate makes for a more convivial environment, particularly when it's time to pull beer from the fridge. Lost keys become less traumatic. Long absences are less filled with concern about ransacking.But what's most positive so far is that it's good practice to live with someone if one seeks to live with a sweetie in the future.
My main domestic project this year is to learn to be a better person to live with.
Blueberry Beer
At a recent visit to Delirium, a Brussels venue best described as beervana. I had the occasion to try a fascinating brew that defied all expectations.
While most Belgian fruit-spiked beers tend to be sweet, tangy and low in alcohol, Bon Secours avec Myrtilles (Bon Secours with Blueberries) was refreshing, dry and fairly strong at 7% alcohol. The blueberry flavor is very much pronounced, but missing all but the tiniest hint of sweetness. I suspect it would work well with most foods that pair with a light red wine, and is more than adequate on its own.
Its ceramic-topped bottle is reminiscent of a short Grolsch bottle.
And finally...
Was saddened by the passing of Paul Newman this weekend. While I loved Newman in a number of roles-Cool Hand Luke and Slapshot among others, none was the equal of Ari Ben Canaan, the Israeli independence fighter in Exodus.
I'll never forget the first time I saw Exodus. It was in 1982, in an air raid shelter/mess hall on an Israeli Army base in the Golan Heights. I was among the dozens of fervent young 16 year olds overnighting on the base, and there was no more receptive audience to the warm, smart and clear-headed fighter for his people and homeland that Newman portrayed--someone who exemplified that which was great about Israel then...and remains great about Israel to this very day.
Sleep well, Ari Ben Canaan. To my fellow tribespeople in KL18 land, Shana Tova. And to all my readers, welcome back and thank you. ---
Obama-a turning point?
I think the last week of the presidential campaign has left Democrat Barack Obama in the ascendancy. First by replying to Republican John McCain's bid to suspend campaigning during the economic crisis by saying to the effect that the public had a right to expect a president to be able to walk and chew gum simultaneously, and then by coming off as lucid, well-informed and well-tempered in the face of increasingly desperate lunges by McCain during the first presidential debate, Obama clearly demonstrated the demeanor of a viable President.
Add in the embarrassing display by McCain running mate Sarah Palin on a national news program, and Obama is now in a position to stake a claim on the 10+ percent of voters currently claiming to be undecided. Fold in the shift in campaign focus towards the economy, stronger ground for Obama, and the coming weeks should see a clear lead begin to emerge. Of course, the decisive factor come election day will be voter mobilization and peer-to-peer contact among voters. This was a key Obama strength in the primaries; whether it will be qualitatively and quantitatively superior to Republican efforts is still an open question.
Murderball Gold
Longtime readers of mine will recall my fondness for the 2005 documentary Murderball, which chronicled the fortunes of the US Wheelchair Rugby side during its unsuccessful quest for gold at the 2004 Athens Paralympics. While the deep portrayal of these gladiators (whose sport features quadriplegics slamming into each other in armor-plated wheelchairs) in Murderball illustrated that all that is golden in life is not necessarily so rewarded, the American boys came home with the Gold this year after a pitched finals battle with Australia.
What was less golden was the television coverage. For all of the hours of Olympic coverage on NBC in the US, there were very little of the Paralympics. The irony-while much was made of the personal stories of Olympians, the personal stories of paralympians like my personal hero, Mark Zupan, the tattooed and talismanic leader of US Wheelchair Rugby didn't make the air.
BBC coverage was much better--even allowing me to catch a half of quad rugby between Great Britain and eventual silver-winners Australia in a characteristically hard-hitting match.
As for seeing the US--I'll be ordering my London 2012 tickets as soon as they are available.
Domestic Affairs
After two months of achieving my long-sought return to Belgium, things are settling well. Sure there are issues, most of which pertain to an apartment with an absentee landlord which also happens to be 20 square meters too small for two.
Still, having welcomed a new flatmate, a Washington friend in his late 20s who is pursuing a grad degree here a few weeks ago, life is infinitely more interesting. Aside from the financial side (particularly acute as I have yet to secure coveted non-resident tax status here), having a flatmate has its appeal on a number of fronts. A good flatmate makes for a more convivial environment, particularly when it's time to pull beer from the fridge. Lost keys become less traumatic. Long absences are less filled with concern about ransacking.But what's most positive so far is that it's good practice to live with someone if one seeks to live with a sweetie in the future.
My main domestic project this year is to learn to be a better person to live with.
Blueberry Beer
At a recent visit to Delirium, a Brussels venue best described as beervana. I had the occasion to try a fascinating brew that defied all expectations.
While most Belgian fruit-spiked beers tend to be sweet, tangy and low in alcohol, Bon Secours avec Myrtilles (Bon Secours with Blueberries) was refreshing, dry and fairly strong at 7% alcohol. The blueberry flavor is very much pronounced, but missing all but the tiniest hint of sweetness. I suspect it would work well with most foods that pair with a light red wine, and is more than adequate on its own.
Its ceramic-topped bottle is reminiscent of a short Grolsch bottle.
And finally...
Was saddened by the passing of Paul Newman this weekend. While I loved Newman in a number of roles-Cool Hand Luke and Slapshot among others, none was the equal of Ari Ben Canaan, the Israeli independence fighter in Exodus.
I'll never forget the first time I saw Exodus. It was in 1982, in an air raid shelter/mess hall on an Israeli Army base in the Golan Heights. I was among the dozens of fervent young 16 year olds overnighting on the base, and there was no more receptive audience to the warm, smart and clear-headed fighter for his people and homeland that Newman portrayed--someone who exemplified that which was great about Israel then...and remains great about Israel to this very day.
Sleep well, Ari Ben Canaan. To my fellow tribespeople in KL18 land, Shana Tova. And to all my readers, welcome back and thank you. ---
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Surreal for Breakfast
August finds me back in Belgium--the long-sought objective of my decade-plus European wanderings and ponderings. Yet, as I pause my commute for an ever-so-unctuous Grimbergen Double, thoughts turn to the old Chinese curse, "be careful of what you wish for..."
August is a strange time to land in Belgium. This is the time of year when those wacky"Flems" and "Loons" with their fully-vested 32 vacation days blow the bulk of them in sunnier climes, and the time when I found out I would not be so generously vested until 2010. The place has a post-neutron bomb air to it, even as it retains its considerable visual, imbibatory and gustatory charms.
Waking up daily to quintessentially Bruxellois scenes is surreal for me--hence the term "surreal for breakfast." And waking up as an actual Employee of an honest-to-Buddha US multinational (with a concomitant cut to my comparatively lordly consulting pay across the Dutch border) makes things weirder still.
But in Belgium, weirdness is normal. Indeed, the second to last stop on my commute is named for it. "Weerde."
August is a strange time to land in Belgium. This is the time of year when those wacky"Flems" and "Loons" with their fully-vested 32 vacation days blow the bulk of them in sunnier climes, and the time when I found out I would not be so generously vested until 2010. The place has a post-neutron bomb air to it, even as it retains its considerable visual, imbibatory and gustatory charms.
Waking up daily to quintessentially Bruxellois scenes is surreal for me--hence the term "surreal for breakfast." And waking up as an actual Employee of an honest-to-Buddha US multinational (with a concomitant cut to my comparatively lordly consulting pay across the Dutch border) makes things weirder still.
But in Belgium, weirdness is normal. Indeed, the second to last stop on my commute is named for it. "Weerde."
Minnesota, Hats Off to Thee
Much of my August was spent at the spanking new offices of my global programme team in Suburban Minneapolis. That too resulted in weirdness. I actually liked the place-a lot. I actually liked the people-a lot.
Having avoided extended tours in the Midwest since my days at the University of Wisconsin (How 'bout dem Badgers, eh?), two weeks in The Twin Cities were a revelation. Great food, great people, nice lakes and rivers and a relocated Danish London Business School buddy who has adopted baseball's Minnesota Twins with unseemly fervor.
I'll effectively be splitting my time between Belgium and Minnesota for a while. It will be interesting to see who wins in the end.
Having avoided extended tours in the Midwest since my days at the University of Wisconsin (How 'bout dem Badgers, eh?), two weeks in The Twin Cities were a revelation. Great food, great people, nice lakes and rivers and a relocated Danish London Business School buddy who has adopted baseball's Minnesota Twins with unseemly fervor.
I'll effectively be splitting my time between Belgium and Minnesota for a while. It will be interesting to see who wins in the end.
Two Sides of the Beer Spectrum
Two recent brews are front of mind at the moment. In the Minnesota corner is Grain Belt Premium. Grain Belt is a beer the likes of which have all but disappeared in North America--a clean, fresh, malty, locally produced lager/pilsner to serve as an accompaniment to life's bigger and smaller occasions.
Having had several at Nye's Polonaise Polka Bar and Retro Emporium in Mpls (the perfect vinyl-upholstered old school setting for the quintessential old school American brew) I had wistful thoughts about the other local lagers that guided my early beer developments: Huber, Augsburger, Regal Brau, Point (which has been reduced to knocking off Belgian style wheat beer), Leinenkugel (before it started coloring its beers red) and the all-time classic, Genesee Cream Ale (mockingly called Genocide by thirsty but broke and resentful grad students at SUNY-Albany, where I spent a watershed year majoring in Buffalo Wings and minoring in wanting to leave Albany).
Grain Belt is distinctly American in flavor, but could compete well with Europe's commodity lagers. In contrast, Trappieter, my Belgian Beer for this month, is a unique combination of the citrusy flavor seen in many Belgian brews with an assertive (but not overwhelming) hoppiness evocative of English ales and American Microbrews.
Trappieter, at the moment, is not in mass production or circulation. Indeed, after sampling some with the brewer himself in a small beer cafe on Ghent's fabled Graslei canal, it became clear that Trappieter is, for the moment, a labor of love. It is brewed at the Proefbrouwerij in nearby Lochristi, a contract producer of recipes generated by independent brewers and brewenthusiasts. But despite the limited production, this struck me as a brew with some legs. At a comparatively weak 6.5% alcohol, it could be sold in the US and UK without facing hefty tax. At any rate, it's the first (and best) beer I've had in Belgium with the actual brewer at hand.
Until September, that's FlightKL18!
Having had several at Nye's Polonaise Polka Bar and Retro Emporium in Mpls (the perfect vinyl-upholstered old school setting for the quintessential old school American brew) I had wistful thoughts about the other local lagers that guided my early beer developments: Huber, Augsburger, Regal Brau, Point (which has been reduced to knocking off Belgian style wheat beer), Leinenkugel (before it started coloring its beers red) and the all-time classic, Genesee Cream Ale (mockingly called Genocide by thirsty but broke and resentful grad students at SUNY-Albany, where I spent a watershed year majoring in Buffalo Wings and minoring in wanting to leave Albany).
Grain Belt is distinctly American in flavor, but could compete well with Europe's commodity lagers. In contrast, Trappieter, my Belgian Beer for this month, is a unique combination of the citrusy flavor seen in many Belgian brews with an assertive (but not overwhelming) hoppiness evocative of English ales and American Microbrews.
Trappieter, at the moment, is not in mass production or circulation. Indeed, after sampling some with the brewer himself in a small beer cafe on Ghent's fabled Graslei canal, it became clear that Trappieter is, for the moment, a labor of love. It is brewed at the Proefbrouwerij in nearby Lochristi, a contract producer of recipes generated by independent brewers and brewenthusiasts. But despite the limited production, this struck me as a brew with some legs. At a comparatively weak 6.5% alcohol, it could be sold in the US and UK without facing hefty tax. At any rate, it's the first (and best) beer I've had in Belgium with the actual brewer at hand.
Until September, that's FlightKL18!
Sunday, July 20, 2008
An Update
My inevitable and inexorable drive to return to Brussels appears to be on track for an August move, as I head to De Hoofdstad van Europa to sign a job contract and, potentially, find a flat to move into as well.
While saying farewell to Shell was more pleasant than painful for a number of reasons, I can say I left behind many more friends than I left problems. I would assert that my enjoyable--and occasionally raucous--farewell dinner at Den Haag's excellent Cafe Rootz was testament of a year that was largely-if intermittently-a mutual success.
Many thanks to all of my Shell friends, and I look forward to welcoming you (and all of my readers) to Belgium soon.
While saying farewell to Shell was more pleasant than painful for a number of reasons, I can say I left behind many more friends than I left problems. I would assert that my enjoyable--and occasionally raucous--farewell dinner at Den Haag's excellent Cafe Rootz was testament of a year that was largely-if intermittently-a mutual success.
Many thanks to all of my Shell friends, and I look forward to welcoming you (and all of my readers) to Belgium soon.
EMELI '08
EMELI
In addition to winding down at Shell, the last few months have been occupied by my leadership of an event that was potentially quite risky for me--the Europe Middle East Leadership Institute for the International Association of Business Communicators (IABC).
I had been an IABC member intermittently since 2002, and often a public critic of the Association's overall direction. But at the same time, as the biggest international association of communications pros, IABC offers a degree of collegial depth that makes active participation worth it even if there are disagreements and items needing change.
Indeed, one of the great things about a room full of communicators is that they instinctively get what leadership and change are all about. So, in convening EMELI at Amsterdam's ABC Tree House conference center (a phenomenal self-service venue in the heart of the city) the challenge of understanding the change in mindset and tone required to take a 650 member association to 1000 members within two years was one, I think, which produced more light than heat.
I do despise event planning. And this event stretched me. But I see a major change--perhaps even a full-blown paradigm shift--has taken place within a group of very smart people. I'm glad to have taken the lead, and am pleased I will be leading EMELI'09 as well.
In addition to winding down at Shell, the last few months have been occupied by my leadership of an event that was potentially quite risky for me--the Europe Middle East Leadership Institute for the International Association of Business Communicators (IABC).
I had been an IABC member intermittently since 2002, and often a public critic of the Association's overall direction. But at the same time, as the biggest international association of communications pros, IABC offers a degree of collegial depth that makes active participation worth it even if there are disagreements and items needing change.
Indeed, one of the great things about a room full of communicators is that they instinctively get what leadership and change are all about. So, in convening EMELI at Amsterdam's ABC Tree House conference center (a phenomenal self-service venue in the heart of the city) the challenge of understanding the change in mindset and tone required to take a 650 member association to 1000 members within two years was one, I think, which produced more light than heat.
I do despise event planning. And this event stretched me. But I see a major change--perhaps even a full-blown paradigm shift--has taken place within a group of very smart people. I'm glad to have taken the lead, and am pleased I will be leading EMELI'09 as well.
Unfinished Business: My Letter to the Welsh Rugby Union
As you may imagine, as I prepare to move to another EU country, I have enormous gratitude to the United Kingdom for having granted me a passport that allows me to live and work in any EU nation.
There is one other benefit to such naturalisation, one which I had yet to take up, and as I approach my 43rd birthday next month, it is one whose value is nearing it's sell by date. I am requesting it in the letter below:
18 July 2008
Mr Davies (or is it Mr. Jones, Williams or Rhys)
Fearless Leader
Welsh Rugby Union
Millennium Stadium, Arms Park
Cardiff, Wales
Dear Sir,
I apologise for the tardiness of this letter.
Four years ago, I was awarded British Citizenship. But I only learned recently that naturalisation as a British citizen allowed me to declare my eligibility for one of the four British sporting nations-England, Scotland, Northern Ireland, and, of course, the Principality of Wales.
I would like to declare my intention to declare my eligibility for Wales, and request due consideration to become the captain of the Welsh rugby side.
Sure, Wales has met with much success on the pitch, with your stunning thrashing of all comers in this year's Six Nations. And it is true that my playing experience, consisting of 10 minutes of actual play in Second Row while a student at London Business School, does not on the surface amount to much.
But what I can offer is access to a whole new market. An American-"Welsh" captain like me could sell a lot of shirts in the US. Plus, having a short, overweight, slow, aging Jewish guy on the pitch will require you to get even more out of your other players to keep them in peak position.
I realise my proposition would be risky for such a world class rugby country as Wales. But my debt to your principality--for bringing Brains Ale, Shirley Bassey, and Tom Jones to the masses--and for producing the best in-stadium singing on the planet--is such that I would be most remiss if I wilted from the challenge of offering my leadership, commitment, and bodily health to your cause.
You have my eternal loyalty.
Welshly,
Mike Klein
There is one other benefit to such naturalisation, one which I had yet to take up, and as I approach my 43rd birthday next month, it is one whose value is nearing it's sell by date. I am requesting it in the letter below:
18 July 2008
Mr Davies (or is it Mr. Jones, Williams or Rhys)
Fearless Leader
Welsh Rugby Union
Millennium Stadium, Arms Park
Cardiff, Wales
Dear Sir,
I apologise for the tardiness of this letter.
Four years ago, I was awarded British Citizenship. But I only learned recently that naturalisation as a British citizen allowed me to declare my eligibility for one of the four British sporting nations-England, Scotland, Northern Ireland, and, of course, the Principality of Wales.
I would like to declare my intention to declare my eligibility for Wales, and request due consideration to become the captain of the Welsh rugby side.
Sure, Wales has met with much success on the pitch, with your stunning thrashing of all comers in this year's Six Nations. And it is true that my playing experience, consisting of 10 minutes of actual play in Second Row while a student at London Business School, does not on the surface amount to much.
But what I can offer is access to a whole new market. An American-"Welsh" captain like me could sell a lot of shirts in the US. Plus, having a short, overweight, slow, aging Jewish guy on the pitch will require you to get even more out of your other players to keep them in peak position.
I realise my proposition would be risky for such a world class rugby country as Wales. But my debt to your principality--for bringing Brains Ale, Shirley Bassey, and Tom Jones to the masses--and for producing the best in-stadium singing on the planet--is such that I would be most remiss if I wilted from the challenge of offering my leadership, commitment, and bodily health to your cause.
You have my eternal loyalty.
Welshly,
Mike Klein
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Into Antalya's Embrace
The escape from the all-inclusive hell of the Orfeus Park was swift and painless. Rather than just leave, I checked out, thus letting them know they had three nights of a free room to resell. Still, I encountered a bit of shock (You are leaving?!? Where will you go?!?), before the clerk said good bye and pointed me to the nearby minibus stop.
A minibus, bus and taxi ride and 16 Euros later, I arrived at a little hotel that can best be described as a bit of paradise, the La Paloma Pansiyon in Antalya's old city. Here, EUR 35 buys me a faithfully restored, air conditioned double with free wireless internet and a modest breakfast buffet. But best of all was the pool situated in the courtyard with a pool bar selling. reasonably priced drinks in congenial company.
Arrival at the La Paloma signalled the beginning of the vacation part of my vacation, the previous days being far more of an ontological obstacle course. Suddenly, I lack plans or intentions above and beyond which much-taste Turkish treats I have still to indulge in before my departure on Wednesday midnight.
What makes the La Paloma really work is the woodwork and foliage--it was an Ottoman mansion and still very much looks the part, down to the lush foliage in the poolside courtyard. Its neighborhood is a bit mixed, comprised largely of similar hostelries, restaurants and architectural sites of varying levels of repair.
Beyond Hadrian's Gate is the city's modern commercial centre, offering goods of varying degrees of brand authenticity and numerous grills and restaurants serving often-fantastic renditions of Turkey's national dishes.
I don't feel compelled to explore. The combination of climate, chatter and chaise lounges at poolside allow me to have the downshift that the culmination of a hard-fought year of consulting and an equally hard-fought six month job search have richly earned me in my relatively generous estimation.
Still, the city beckons--certain basics like cash machines (La Paloma doesn't take plastic), filter coffee (most establishments here offer the all or nothing choice of strong Turkish or rough instant), and restaurants with a local clientele.
Quickly, I find a cross between a street and a food court, with stands selling Iskender and the natural Doner kebabs side by side, most with the telltale wood fire of true professionals. Sampiyon was the best Iskender, Sultan the best doner, and Ozdemiz the best airconditioned place to sample both.
With the abundance of historic buildings, there may be a temptation to hire a freelance local guide, particularly if a reasonable fee is agreed beforehand. My experience was not salutary, even after throwing in lunch and a tip, my 'guide' not only insisted on €20 more than agreed, but also was demanding I 'change' an additional €50 at a busy intersection, a transaction with potentially hairy implications.
I said "that's enough" and walked in the other direction. Mercifully, I was not followed, and proceeded to buy sneakers with velcro straps instead of laces (shoelaces being a perennial nemesis of mine since early childhood) at a fair discount over Low Countries prices.. What goes around, comes around, so they say.
While Antalya is now a city of 800,000 plus, with easily 100,000 seasonal 'residents', it had barely 250,000 in the 1980s, accounting for its relatively small historic center and comparatively puny football stadium, named for the nation's "father" and everpresent icon, Kemal Ataturk.
The question I ponder, aside from its convenience as an alternative to the five-star nightmare that was the Orfeus Park, is whether Antalya is worth a visit in its own right?
I wouldn't choose Antalya as my first helping of Turkey. Istanbul is much more compelling, Bodrum much more welcoming to the English-speaking traveller. But what Antalya has going for it is a combination of a well-contained historic center, congenial and cheap poolside lodgings, tangible urban buzz and proximity to excellent beach and water journeys. To chill out for a week, I'd certainly return to Antalya and particularly the excellent La Paloma.
A minibus, bus and taxi ride and 16 Euros later, I arrived at a little hotel that can best be described as a bit of paradise, the La Paloma Pansiyon in Antalya's old city. Here, EUR 35 buys me a faithfully restored, air conditioned double with free wireless internet and a modest breakfast buffet. But best of all was the pool situated in the courtyard with a pool bar selling. reasonably priced drinks in congenial company.
Arrival at the La Paloma signalled the beginning of the vacation part of my vacation, the previous days being far more of an ontological obstacle course. Suddenly, I lack plans or intentions above and beyond which much-taste Turkish treats I have still to indulge in before my departure on Wednesday midnight.
What makes the La Paloma really work is the woodwork and foliage--it was an Ottoman mansion and still very much looks the part, down to the lush foliage in the poolside courtyard. Its neighborhood is a bit mixed, comprised largely of similar hostelries, restaurants and architectural sites of varying levels of repair.
Beyond Hadrian's Gate is the city's modern commercial centre, offering goods of varying degrees of brand authenticity and numerous grills and restaurants serving often-fantastic renditions of Turkey's national dishes.
I don't feel compelled to explore. The combination of climate, chatter and chaise lounges at poolside allow me to have the downshift that the culmination of a hard-fought year of consulting and an equally hard-fought six month job search have richly earned me in my relatively generous estimation.
Still, the city beckons--certain basics like cash machines (La Paloma doesn't take plastic), filter coffee (most establishments here offer the all or nothing choice of strong Turkish or rough instant), and restaurants with a local clientele.
Quickly, I find a cross between a street and a food court, with stands selling Iskender and the natural Doner kebabs side by side, most with the telltale wood fire of true professionals. Sampiyon was the best Iskender, Sultan the best doner, and Ozdemiz the best airconditioned place to sample both.
With the abundance of historic buildings, there may be a temptation to hire a freelance local guide, particularly if a reasonable fee is agreed beforehand. My experience was not salutary, even after throwing in lunch and a tip, my 'guide' not only insisted on €20 more than agreed, but also was demanding I 'change' an additional €50 at a busy intersection, a transaction with potentially hairy implications.
I said "that's enough" and walked in the other direction. Mercifully, I was not followed, and proceeded to buy sneakers with velcro straps instead of laces (shoelaces being a perennial nemesis of mine since early childhood) at a fair discount over Low Countries prices.. What goes around, comes around, so they say.
While Antalya is now a city of 800,000 plus, with easily 100,000 seasonal 'residents', it had barely 250,000 in the 1980s, accounting for its relatively small historic center and comparatively puny football stadium, named for the nation's "father" and everpresent icon, Kemal Ataturk.
The question I ponder, aside from its convenience as an alternative to the five-star nightmare that was the Orfeus Park, is whether Antalya is worth a visit in its own right?
I wouldn't choose Antalya as my first helping of Turkey. Istanbul is much more compelling, Bodrum much more welcoming to the English-speaking traveller. But what Antalya has going for it is a combination of a well-contained historic center, congenial and cheap poolside lodgings, tangible urban buzz and proximity to excellent beach and water journeys. To chill out for a week, I'd certainly return to Antalya and particularly the excellent La Paloma.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Turkey--First Impressions and Last Resorts
After an uneventful four hour Corendon Airlines flight from Schiphol to the seaside city of Antalya, from which 9mg of melatonin and a pre-flight Westmalle Tripel yielded a mere 90 minutes of unconsciousness, I stumble through customs to the tour representatives waiting under the canopy outside the brand-new terminal.
"Orfeus Park", said the rep. I had not noticed the Orfeus Park in my numerous trawls through the hotel brochures for the Turkish Riviera. Having brought the Corendon catalogue, I looked it up, and saw that it had "4.5 stars.". I was too tired to resist at the moment-but I had paid for 5 stars, and not 4.5...
The hour-long ride from the airport followed an imposing ridge on the left, over which a Turkish sunrise was brewing. Much was new along the road, including the petrol stations of a recent former client jostling for position against mostly local competion.
The Orfeus was more of a disappointment than a shock--it bears much more resemblance to an old-school mid-tier suburban motel (albeit with a bigger pool and buffet) than a top-tier mediterrenean resort. If I had wanted a three star, I'd have had no complaint, and indeed, if pressed, I could stay here and make extensive use of the pricey but prevalent excursions offered by Corendon. But since Corendon 'upgraded' the place to 5 stars sınce the annual brochure's last printıng redress was not to be expected.
Still when the opportunity presented itself to gun for an upgrade, the visit of the Corendon rep offered brief hope. Alas, all of the rooms in the Corendon stable were, as the Turks would say, occupado.
So, rather than spend the day surrounded by the ubiquıtous kinder of the Orfeus' preponderance of German guests, I hopped one of Turkey's famous 'Dolmus' minibuses to the nearby market town of Manavgat. Manavgat, aside from being near a waterfall which prompted a two hour bus+boat trip with yet more German tourists, is a busy but not terribly consequential sort of place, best known for a covered market selling a wide variety of crappy counterfeit goods. In short, the Turkey I love.
There are many things I adore about this country--an attractive and confident population, a sense of self-containedness one finds in a country of 70 million plus, the residue of decades of protectionism and state ownership (lots of funky locally made cars, mostly Fiat knockoffs), the sports fanaticism, evidenced by the more abundant than usual Turkish flags and national team logos from their better-than-expected run in Euro 2008.
As for the turbulent politics, the unavailabiliity of English language news in these parts makes me a bystander as the military and the Islamic-leaning (but rather tame) ruling party duke it out in the courts....
With the prospect of jostling tattooed teutonics for pool or beach space lacking much appeal, I book excursions for the next two days, one to Antalya and the other a boat tour from Alanya, the main tourist town. Both were most enjoyable, the Antalya trip marked by a purchase of a Swiss watch made in part because I fell for the watch and in part because I fell for the lovely Birsen, the saleswoman who counts an encyclopedic knowledge of her native Belgium among her charms. Still, thanks to my Blackberry's ability to summon "watches at Amazon.com", I was able to secure an extra 30% discount over what was offered, making it a deal to, well, write home about.
Midway through the boat ride on Saturday, I decide to depart from the Orfeus on Sunday for Antalya for the trip's duration. I know that it's not good form to write off EUR 200 in food, drink, and lodging, but I have had nothing to do in the evenings other than listening to teutonic tots singing "Zam, zam, goolie, goolie" to each other through my non-soundproofed windows, or to be the only guy propping up the bar while the German men were pouring cola into beers and taking them to their respective family tables (I never figured out whether the cola beers were for the menschen or the kiınder--and wasn't about to ask). The garden cafes of Antalya seem more promising, even if I have to pay EUR 2 for a local brew.
But first, I decide to spend this evening in the town of Side.
Side begins inauspiciously--a dense conurbation of mid-rise apartments, hotels and resorts with random looking retail establishments. Suddenly, a spot of greenery emerges and after confirming 'antik Side' with the driver of the minibus festooned with Muslim prayers but lacking in shoulder belts, I disembark and follow the crowds. The ruins that unfold are eyepopping. Gates, columns and suddenly, a full blown amphitheatre. Relics and retail thrive side by side in Side, so soon comes the usual carnival of brand knockoffs, jewelry shops and kebab stands.
Seeing the doner kebab spıit rotating against the backdrop of a wood fire, I yield to temptation upon reaching the Ugur Doner place on the main drag. I order the Iskender, a tomato-sauced doner dinner. Best I've had in a decade, and a full meal including soft drink and salad comes out to EUR 8. They even threw in a turkish coffee after I gushed about my meal, then dragged me into the kitchen to take pictures with the kitchen staff.
"Orfeus Park", said the rep. I had not noticed the Orfeus Park in my numerous trawls through the hotel brochures for the Turkish Riviera. Having brought the Corendon catalogue, I looked it up, and saw that it had "4.5 stars.". I was too tired to resist at the moment-but I had paid for 5 stars, and not 4.5...
The hour-long ride from the airport followed an imposing ridge on the left, over which a Turkish sunrise was brewing. Much was new along the road, including the petrol stations of a recent former client jostling for position against mostly local competion.
The Orfeus was more of a disappointment than a shock--it bears much more resemblance to an old-school mid-tier suburban motel (albeit with a bigger pool and buffet) than a top-tier mediterrenean resort. If I had wanted a three star, I'd have had no complaint, and indeed, if pressed, I could stay here and make extensive use of the pricey but prevalent excursions offered by Corendon. But since Corendon 'upgraded' the place to 5 stars sınce the annual brochure's last printıng redress was not to be expected.
Still when the opportunity presented itself to gun for an upgrade, the visit of the Corendon rep offered brief hope. Alas, all of the rooms in the Corendon stable were, as the Turks would say, occupado.
So, rather than spend the day surrounded by the ubiquıtous kinder of the Orfeus' preponderance of German guests, I hopped one of Turkey's famous 'Dolmus' minibuses to the nearby market town of Manavgat. Manavgat, aside from being near a waterfall which prompted a two hour bus+boat trip with yet more German tourists, is a busy but not terribly consequential sort of place, best known for a covered market selling a wide variety of crappy counterfeit goods. In short, the Turkey I love.
There are many things I adore about this country--an attractive and confident population, a sense of self-containedness one finds in a country of 70 million plus, the residue of decades of protectionism and state ownership (lots of funky locally made cars, mostly Fiat knockoffs), the sports fanaticism, evidenced by the more abundant than usual Turkish flags and national team logos from their better-than-expected run in Euro 2008.
As for the turbulent politics, the unavailabiliity of English language news in these parts makes me a bystander as the military and the Islamic-leaning (but rather tame) ruling party duke it out in the courts....
With the prospect of jostling tattooed teutonics for pool or beach space lacking much appeal, I book excursions for the next two days, one to Antalya and the other a boat tour from Alanya, the main tourist town. Both were most enjoyable, the Antalya trip marked by a purchase of a Swiss watch made in part because I fell for the watch and in part because I fell for the lovely Birsen, the saleswoman who counts an encyclopedic knowledge of her native Belgium among her charms. Still, thanks to my Blackberry's ability to summon "watches at Amazon.com", I was able to secure an extra 30% discount over what was offered, making it a deal to, well, write home about.
Midway through the boat ride on Saturday, I decide to depart from the Orfeus on Sunday for Antalya for the trip's duration. I know that it's not good form to write off EUR 200 in food, drink, and lodging, but I have had nothing to do in the evenings other than listening to teutonic tots singing "Zam, zam, goolie, goolie" to each other through my non-soundproofed windows, or to be the only guy propping up the bar while the German men were pouring cola into beers and taking them to their respective family tables (I never figured out whether the cola beers were for the menschen or the kiınder--and wasn't about to ask). The garden cafes of Antalya seem more promising, even if I have to pay EUR 2 for a local brew.
But first, I decide to spend this evening in the town of Side.
Side begins inauspiciously--a dense conurbation of mid-rise apartments, hotels and resorts with random looking retail establishments. Suddenly, a spot of greenery emerges and after confirming 'antik Side' with the driver of the minibus festooned with Muslim prayers but lacking in shoulder belts, I disembark and follow the crowds. The ruins that unfold are eyepopping. Gates, columns and suddenly, a full blown amphitheatre. Relics and retail thrive side by side in Side, so soon comes the usual carnival of brand knockoffs, jewelry shops and kebab stands.
Seeing the doner kebab spıit rotating against the backdrop of a wood fire, I yield to temptation upon reaching the Ugur Doner place on the main drag. I order the Iskender, a tomato-sauced doner dinner. Best I've had in a decade, and a full meal including soft drink and salad comes out to EUR 8. They even threw in a turkish coffee after I gushed about my meal, then dragged me into the kitchen to take pictures with the kitchen staff.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Coming Home
Last month saw a number of ‘reunions’ for me, not only the London Business School MBA98 reunion that just occurred this past weekend, but also a number of reacquaintances occasioned by the wedding of my “Little Brother” John Wirtz from my Sigma Phi Epsilon fraternity days at the University of Wisconsin.
Seeing Wirtz get married to Lynn Weissenstein was quite a joy, even though I proved unusually sensitive to the champagne served at the evening reception (hint: that’s what the hors d’ouevres are for). Wirtz and I go back over 20 years, and our paths crossed on a number of occasions in
Coming back to
Going Home
No, the city calling me home is that ever-so-seductive and glorious Hoofdstad de l’Europe,
The emotional twinge I get when I step off a train in
I’ll make a full announcement soon, and send out invites to a housewarming in due course. I am very much looking forward to, finally, making my home in
M&W: More Reconnections
Zigzagging across the Atlantic, one of the real high points of the trip was to see M&W, two other friends from my days at the
Both M&W were extremely engaging—M was a Slavic studies major at Wisconsin, as befitting her Polish background and fluency in her ancestral language (and it was a priceless moment when we both recognized that the single laughter trigger of a Polish joke is that the Pole would do the exact opposite of what was normal and expected) She now imports Christmas ornaments into the US.
W is now an attorney in
What was amazing about my conversations with both M&W is that they felt like a warm bath—twenty years of absence melting away in seconds, with an effortless flow of ideas, shared struggles, suggestions and reflections emanating from hour to hour. M&I had world-class wings at Buffalo Joes in my hometown of Evanston, Illinois (a Chicago suburb); W&I opted for sushi and then Belgian beers at the world famous Von Trier’s tavern on Milwaukee’s east side.
The Magical Mystery Tour
No, it’s not actually a tour. But in little over an hour, I’ll be leaving for
Here’s the deal. I know I am flying to
Sure, I will have my own room, having suspended dating activity pending my Belgian move. But I have know idea whether I will end up in a hotel in a town or on an isolated cove, or whether my fellow guests will be Nederlanders, Germans, Israelis, or Russians, all groups known to favor the Turkish Med (Brits prefer the Turkish Aegean, and Americans are rare in Euro package-tourism land).
Still, the mystery makes the topic ever so bloggable. So, over the next nine days, expect frequent dispatches from the beach…from where I will also fill you in on the LBS MBA98
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Chicago...Chicago...That Obama Town
Chicago..Chicago is Obama Town!
I proudly wore my Obama button through much of my recent visit to Chicago and Milwaukee--and while I have worn many buttons for many candidates in the past, what I saw was very very different.
I fistbumped with people I didn't know. People smiled, looked at the button and said 'YES!',
"I'm with you", or "I'm glad to see you wearing that button!"
The people introducing themselves seem to cut across the demographics. But what was most interesting were the reactions at events associated with the wedding I had come to Chicago to attend, particularly as many in attendance were what secular observers would call "Evangelical Christians".
Some were skeptical of Obama because of his positions on issues such as reproductive rights. But others were willing to look beyond that issues, and cited Obama's charisma and ability to bring people together while expressing fatigue with the divisive and militaristic agenda they see Republican John McCain as espousing.
A small break for Obama among white evangelicals--even excluding the South where other cultural issues may be at play--could put a good number of states into play from an Electoral College perspective. Whether these open feelings were genuinely reflective of a wider opening or a sympathetic view of a hometown candidate was difficult to tell--but I wouldn't be writing off these voters just yet.
I proudly wore my Obama button through much of my recent visit to Chicago and Milwaukee--and while I have worn many buttons for many candidates in the past, what I saw was very very different.
I fistbumped with people I didn't know. People smiled, looked at the button and said 'YES!',
"I'm with you", or "I'm glad to see you wearing that button!"
The people introducing themselves seem to cut across the demographics. But what was most interesting were the reactions at events associated with the wedding I had come to Chicago to attend, particularly as many in attendance were what secular observers would call "Evangelical Christians".
Some were skeptical of Obama because of his positions on issues such as reproductive rights. But others were willing to look beyond that issues, and cited Obama's charisma and ability to bring people together while expressing fatigue with the divisive and militaristic agenda they see Republican John McCain as espousing.
A small break for Obama among white evangelicals--even excluding the South where other cultural issues may be at play--could put a good number of states into play from an Electoral College perspective. Whether these open feelings were genuinely reflective of a wider opening or a sympathetic view of a hometown candidate was difficult to tell--but I wouldn't be writing off these voters just yet.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Breathless and Speechless
Apologies for the delay in producing a monthly installment of Flight KL18. But the events of the last month—a combination of a busy personal and travel schedule and an unduly rich series of occurrences in the larger world have left me a little bit breathless, if not speechless.
Speaking of breathless and speechless…I was starting to warm up to the idea of Hillary Clinton as Barack Obama’s Vice Presidential running mate, if only because it reinforces the wisdom of former US President Lyndon Johnson’s old credo—“It’s better to have your enemies inside the tent pissing out, than outside the tent pissing in.”
But the one-time ‘inevitable nominee’s” comment about how 1968 Democratic frontrunner Robert Kennedy was assassinated late in the nominating process was effectively a justification for remaining in the race clearly trumps even the hoary wisdom of LBJ.
Forget about Hillary’s half-arsed pseudo-apology. From this side of the
I don’t care if having Hillary on the ticket would make it easier for Barack to pull in the “hard working White Americans” that she has ever-so-recently become enamored of in such places as
NJDC: Its Time Has Come
One organization that will hardly be at the fringes of the US Presidential election with Barack Obama leading the ticket is the National Jewish Democratic Council, an organization for whom I managed communications, policy and public relations from 1994 to 1996.
For much of its existence, NJDC had been derided by some within the American Jewish community as being redundant—American Jews vote for Democratic candidates by 3-1 margins with very rare exceptions, and the Democratic Party has long been seen as a reliable supporter both of Israel and of domestic issues like separation of church and state and reproductive choice that most American Jews strongly support.
But the Obama candidacy, as exciting of a prospect as it is for many American Jews like myself, has raised considerable skepticism—particularly among older Jews—that will require a concerted and dedicated effort to overcome. And, as the Obama candidacy has aroused considerable support from Americans who are less-than-favorable towards
While the NJDC is not a campaign organization itself, it has a political action committee that actively supports Democratic candidates. The organization itself, under Executive Director Ira Forman’s determined leadership, actively seeks out opportunities to represent Democratic positions within the Jewish community and Jewish perspectives in Democratic circles. Those who would like to see a successful relationship between Barack Obama and the US Jewish Community would be well served to sign up with the NJDC at this crucial time.
Bastogne: Where Belgians Remember Their Liberators
One of the funny things about being an ex-pat is that it has accentuated my Americanness in a lot of ways. Despite having lived in
But every so often, the link between my exaggerated Americanness and my sense of being at home in
There are three defining features of this embrace—a memorial to the 80.000 American troops who fell defending Bastogne and defeating the Nazi offensive, one of similar size and grandeur to the World War II Memorial in Washington, a series of stones along roads leading to the memorial marking the “Voie de la Liberation” or the Way of Liberty, and the ubiquitous references to U.S. General Anthony MacAuliffe, (as it happens, a Sigma Phi Epsilon fraternity brother of mine) whose one-word reply to a Nazi surrender demand (“NUTS!”) has become a cottage industry in the town.
The star-shaped memorial, called the “Mardassson”, is poised on hilltop with a view of town, and was built on the scene of fierce fighting. In addition to the more-or-less alphabetically arranged names of the
Flying in front of the Mardasson are the flags of the
2 Winners in Brussels
Naturally, history wasn’t the only item on my agenda in
Le Petit Pont, while a trek from the centre of
Café Panisse, in my old neighborhood near Place Chatelaine, has a menu as reflective of Provence as was the weather on that particular evening, but it was the Magret de Canard avec saveurs de l’orient (Duck Breast with Flavors of the Middle East) that stole the show, with a mint-accented sauce and the addition of paper-thin slices of mango which added a hint of fruity sweetness to the delicately flavored dish. Café Panisse is very reasonably priced—the Magret was at the top of the menu at EUR 16 and was well garnished and amply proportioned (hint—no starter required!). I ordered a “Kir Rouge” as my beverage—leading to a chilled, uniquely flavored glass of red wine that complemented this dish exceptionally well.
Blogging In The Family: Fred Klein On Sports
Finally, I’m pleased to report that the Klein blogging clan has doubled in size recently, with the arrival of my dad, Fred Klein’s new entry—FredKleinOnSports.
I’ve been on my dad to blog for years—having retired from the Wall Street Journal, the blogosphere offered a viable outlet for his witty and often-lacerating analyses of the excesses and banalities of the sporting scene, but it has taken a while for him to seize the opportunity this media affords.
My dad will be blogging twice a month, and can be found at http://FredKleinOnSports.blogspot.com
Welcome to the Blogosphere, Dad…and thanks to everyone for being here with me.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Opening my mouth in London
London was different this visit. As the newness of my Netherlands experience has given way to a realisation that my time on the Continent this tour may soon be passing, London appeared both welcoming and daunting.
It's strange to be in a place where I can eavesdrop again, a place where the cabbies can speak intricately in a language I understand. I too can be understood, but I speak not the same tongue. The distance from the North Shore to the East End remains forbidding.
It's not the physical distance that's the issue. I don't mind being a long way from "home" because home is not really a physical place but a compilation of narratives in to which I can reconnect with. It's the nagging sense that people think I'm a rube or an idiot because I'm an American.
It all comes down to Football. When I approach a Briton about Football, the inevitable response-be it from a cabbie or headhunter or investment banker-is "You mean ENGLISH football?" My visceral, unstated response is invariably "Of course I mean English football, you bloody lime-ass idiot! Do you think I want to talk with you about the New England Fucking Patriots?"
Instead, I say: "yeah, I mean English football, who's your team?", and having memorised Simon Inglis' outstanding Football Grounds of Britain ten years ago, win the person over quickly by surfacing the anatomical details of their chosen club's current or former stadium.
Still, that moment of being treated as an idiot yank foreigner still rankles. I lived in that country for seven years and gratefully hold its passport. I have even suffered through eleven Tottenham Hotspur seasons of football futility. But all that counts for nothing when I open my mouth.
It's strange to be in a place where I can eavesdrop again, a place where the cabbies can speak intricately in a language I understand. I too can be understood, but I speak not the same tongue. The distance from the North Shore to the East End remains forbidding.
It's not the physical distance that's the issue. I don't mind being a long way from "home" because home is not really a physical place but a compilation of narratives in to which I can reconnect with. It's the nagging sense that people think I'm a rube or an idiot because I'm an American.
It all comes down to Football. When I approach a Briton about Football, the inevitable response-be it from a cabbie or headhunter or investment banker-is "You mean ENGLISH football?" My visceral, unstated response is invariably "Of course I mean English football, you bloody lime-ass idiot! Do you think I want to talk with you about the New England Fucking Patriots?"
Instead, I say: "yeah, I mean English football, who's your team?", and having memorised Simon Inglis' outstanding Football Grounds of Britain ten years ago, win the person over quickly by surfacing the anatomical details of their chosen club's current or former stadium.
Still, that moment of being treated as an idiot yank foreigner still rankles. I lived in that country for seven years and gratefully hold its passport. I have even suffered through eleven Tottenham Hotspur seasons of football futility. But all that counts for nothing when I open my mouth.
Restaurant Karma
Saying goodbye to beloved restaurants is always a sad experience for me--the knowing of deeply-held cravings never to be fully satisfied again.
I had to say "vaarwel" to my favorite Surinamese-Chinese in Delft this winter, forever leaving me to quest for a new contender for "world's best Fried Rice". But losing London's Gili Gulu and Crocker's Folly this trip really hurt.
Gili Gulu was a rare London restaurant which hit a happy trifecta of price, presentation and portion. A fixed-price conveyor-belt sushi joint with colour-coded plates (the veggie green plates included yummy noodles with bean sprouts), it served as a beacon from its St. Martins Lane location for those seeking limitless soy sauce and wasabi. Its replacement, called Pomodoro something-or-other, a dire-looking anglo-Italian place, offers no such succour. Sob sob...
Further sobs ensued when I landed at the now derelict Crocker's Folly in Maida Vale. Seeing this grand Victorian house-sized edifice stripped of it furnishings hit me in the solar plexus. Once home of London's most satisfying Sunday Roasts (carving most of the world's mainstream beasts), Crocker's was particularly popular among my London Business School colleagues as an alternatingly peaceful suburban retreat from the pressures of MBAing, and as an unusually raucous of place to watch the world's least raucous sport, cricket.
Crockers had a strong Australian undertone, though unlike most London pubs, Crocker's Aussies congregated in front of rather than behind the bar. It was where I tried Victorian Bitter and the Cooper's ale range from Down Under. And it was a place where I entertained and had great conversations.
But change is life. And today's recovery from the loss of Crockers led me miles away in terms of culinary paradigm, if but a mile on foot: Khan's Iraqi Grill. Coming from the Netherlands where "shoarma" is made from hideous pork shavings (a preparation developed by someone undoubtedly plumbing the lowest depths of Hell), the Iraqi Grill's succulent and sweetly spiced shwarma proved a revelation with its flavor. Khan's Iraqi Grill can be found at 355 Edgware Road, W2.
---
I had to say "vaarwel" to my favorite Surinamese-Chinese in Delft this winter, forever leaving me to quest for a new contender for "world's best Fried Rice". But losing London's Gili Gulu and Crocker's Folly this trip really hurt.
Gili Gulu was a rare London restaurant which hit a happy trifecta of price, presentation and portion. A fixed-price conveyor-belt sushi joint with colour-coded plates (the veggie green plates included yummy noodles with bean sprouts), it served as a beacon from its St. Martins Lane location for those seeking limitless soy sauce and wasabi. Its replacement, called Pomodoro something-or-other, a dire-looking anglo-Italian place, offers no such succour. Sob sob...
Further sobs ensued when I landed at the now derelict Crocker's Folly in Maida Vale. Seeing this grand Victorian house-sized edifice stripped of it furnishings hit me in the solar plexus. Once home of London's most satisfying Sunday Roasts (carving most of the world's mainstream beasts), Crocker's was particularly popular among my London Business School colleagues as an alternatingly peaceful suburban retreat from the pressures of MBAing, and as an unusually raucous of place to watch the world's least raucous sport, cricket.
Crockers had a strong Australian undertone, though unlike most London pubs, Crocker's Aussies congregated in front of rather than behind the bar. It was where I tried Victorian Bitter and the Cooper's ale range from Down Under. And it was a place where I entertained and had great conversations.
But change is life. And today's recovery from the loss of Crockers led me miles away in terms of culinary paradigm, if but a mile on foot: Khan's Iraqi Grill. Coming from the Netherlands where "shoarma" is made from hideous pork shavings (a preparation developed by someone undoubtedly plumbing the lowest depths of Hell), the Iraqi Grill's succulent and sweetly spiced shwarma proved a revelation with its flavor. Khan's Iraqi Grill can be found at 355 Edgware Road, W2.
---
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Reflections of a Democrat Abroad
BRUSSELS: As the Democrats Abroad EMEA* Caucus gathered in this city dear to my heart, I saw a face that was familiar but unseen in five years—indeed, last seen during my hospital stay there in 2003. I walked across the Crowne Plaza Hotel ballroom, and was greeted with a hug and a hearty “Welcome Home.”
“Welcome Home” is funny terminology to use at a Democrats Abroad (DA) gathering. But as the all-too-short two days of proceedings unfolded last weekend, the welcome was one not simply a recognition of my return to Europe’s capital, but to much of what resonates, motivates and inspires me.
Living overseas is not a normal state for an American. Mention of it to stateside friends and relatives usually evokes either starry-eyed wonderment, wistful comments about a solitary trip to Ireland or Israel in one’s late fifties, or accusatory tirades about one’s lack of patriotism, family loyalty or outright sanity. So two days in a roomful of fellow expatriated Gringos—mostly spent, mercifully, among fellow supporters of Senator Barack Obama, the next President of the
For the most part, the home-feeling came from being among a spontaneous gathering of peers, kindred spirits and ideological fellow travelers. I did sense I was a bit to the right of the group because of my varying degrees of support of most recent and anticipated wars, and my tendency to support
But the lack of ideological rancour did not forestall the emergence of strident factionalism as the speeches ended and the real fun got underway. I had been told by the chair of the Netherlands DA chapter, Bob Bragar, that the way the caucuses had worked at the previous regional caucus at
In the back corner of the ballroom were caucus delegates and other attendees from Belgium, Switzerland, Austria, Denmark, South Africa, Sweden, Luxembourg, Turkey, Lebanon and Israel, as well as the Riviera and Alsace, which had declared their autonomy from France for the duration of the weekend. Stunningly, most of the Dutch delegation followed me, perhaps because of my purposeful stride or perhaps because of my recognizable ultra-bright orange Dutch national soccer team jersey, the presence of which in the corner gave them an idea that this coalition was where we were meant to be.
Quick decisions were made, as the intent became clear to band together to elect as many small country delegates a possible, and in so doing, avenge the atrocity that Edinburgh must have been—if only because it was remembered with such intensity. The first decision was to have the assembled group narrow their own supported group of candidates to match the four available seats. The second which was implicit, was that the group would operate on a one delegate-one vote basis, even though the countries had different voting strengths. I noticed this but made no comment—it made our
The putative
But the Small Country Coalition’s choices were fearsome. My chairman, Bob Bragar, an Amsterdam lawyer and board member of the Love Exiles Foundation who would repeatedly refer to me as his ‘campaign manager’ throughout the weekend (when the terms ‘floor general’ and ‘enforcer’ would have resonated more deeply) was selected for the men, as was an impressive young democracy activist from Lebanon. The women included a dynamite former
While things did not look good for the Coalition at the end of day one, a calculation error led to the throwing out of the previous ballot’s results. I was a little upset because I actually liked the apparent a lot and thought the Coalition had overplayed its hand, but when it became apparent that the motion not to accept the previous ballot’s results had a chance, I did the political equivalent of calling a time out and obtained a crucial five minute recess. The Coalition reassembled. We evaluated our options, And we decided to go for it.
The maneuver worked, and we had a fresh ballot, and a chance to cut one last backroom deal. While the Coalition had chosen the Lebanese candidate over Bob for the final ballot if we needed to give up the second slot for leverage, an offer from
The combined slate roared through. The\ little countries’ choo-choo was pulled to victory by the German InterCity Express.
To be fair, I found the whole factionalism a bit gratuitous and mindless, but having been raised on near-fist-fights with pro-lifers at California Republican Party conventions in the early 1990s during my brief and ugly career as a pro-choice GOP political consultant, it was action and I hadn’t been the thick of that kind of action in many years. But I also know that no one was really going to take the loss of a delegate seat in
(* common 'across-the-pond' shorthand for Europe, Middle East and
(` Yiddish term meaning ‘home-like’, but more evocative of ‘being among one’s own peeps’)
Champions without Stars
When Alando Tucker and Kammron Taylor left the Wisconsin Badgers in 2007, very few observers thought much of the Badgers’ chances for 2008. But thanks to the ability of Coach Bo Ryan to elicit extraordinary team performance from players who are good rather than exceptional, the Wisconsin Badgers go into the National Collegiate Athletic Association’s annual Basketball Tournament (The Tournament) with regular season and conference tournament titles from the eleven-member Big Ten Conference, and with a ten game winning streak.
The Badgers have no stars this year, no one like Tucker who will likely make the pros. More than six players have scored more than 10 points in a game, an impressive achievement given that only five players are on the floor at any one time. But they withstood a fierce challenge from
As a die-hard Badger, I say: Thank you Bo Ryan and Let’s Win The Tournament!
Single Again
I might as well be brief and blunt—after a holiday-period interlude that finally went off the boil, I’m back to being single. If you—or someone you know—is pleasant, intelligent, and can deal with a short roundish Jewish guy who likes Barack, Belgium, and Blogging, and lives 3 hours or less from Schiphol Airport, please let me know.
If they’re curious—forward the link to this blog—I am nothing if not transparent. :)
The Sweet Taste of Sourness
Finally, it’s rare that I review regular-strength (5% and under) brews. But one that is truly remarkable is one I had in
It had been years since I’d had a Rodenbach, the dark-red, super-sour Flemish ale. But with black-bean sauce approaching, the idea of a beer whose punch is in the acidity department appealed over the brews I normally prefer as late night tipples. And Rodenbach didn’t disappoint. The sourness overpowered for an instant but gave way to a balance between acidic and caramel flavors. I never thought of Rodenbach as an aperitif, but boy it works. And it’s one of the most available of the Belgian beers outside of the low countries.
Until April, that’s FlightKL18!
Monday, February 18, 2008
Denk Obama, Eet Obama: The Presidential Race from the NL
As part of my acculturation to this land of flatness, wetness, and slowly abating winter darkness, I loaded dozens of Dutch-language songs onto my MP3 player, including an album of songs to root on the “Oranje”, the Dutch national football side as they pressed into World Cup 2006. One such song was “
I reference this because the word ‘Oranje’ sounds a little like the word ‘Obama’, the name of the candidate I am rooting on to the White House in a competition I described to my Italian boss as “a combination of the soccer World Cup, the England-Australia Ashes Test Cricket Match (which took about as long as the New Mexico Democratic Caucus), and the pre-steroids Tour de France.
“Ik praat oranje, denk oranje, eet oranje, drink oranje” goes the line from the Meeuwis tune. As my thoughts move increasingly westward on the eve of
The
Without going into the complexities of the Presidential selection process and the alternatives for
I’ve made two $100 donations to the Obama campaign. My view is that while I need the money worse than the Obama campaign does, those contributions have bought me seats in the arena. I’m no longer a disconnected supporter living in a foreign country—I’m a contributor, just as much as anyone in
I’m an Obama voter—having voted in the Democrats Abroad Global Primary—and my vote is going to make a difference in the delegate count.
I’m running to be an Obama caucus delegate—reprising a role I played for the last serious insurgent to seek the Democratic nomination, Gary Hart in 1984 as a regional caucus delegate in
I’m contacting my friends in the upcoming primary states and engaging them about why the positives a vote for Obama is worth setting aside the kind of concerns being raised by Hillary Clinton and her team, with some degree of success.
But mostly, I’m a fan, and as a fan who used to run political campaigns for a living, the amount of entertainment and stimulation I’m getting from this campaign is unbelievable. The Internet is certainly a source—the ability to log on and read articles suggesting alternative strategies or analyzing the complexities underneath the behavior of different demographic groups is a real plus. YouTube has been a particular revelation—letting me mainline Obama’s numerous recent victory speeches and, when the spirit strikes me, to fire up the excellent “I’ve Got a Crush on Obama” by “Obama Girl.”
Part of the stimulation though comes from being a rare person with an actual vote in a sea of highly interested, and often perplexed bystanders. Several months ago, I had a conversation with a particularly formidable client who was questioning Obama’s electability, particularly relative to Hillary Clinton. My reply—focusing on the new spirit of insurgency in a Democratic electorate tired of losing—wasn’t particularly convincing. With more open minded Europeans, the conversations have ranged from the elementary (this is how a caucus works) to the wide-rangingly geopolitical.
Interestingly, with discount telephone services and telephone numbers supplied by the candidate, I could conceivably phone bank into
Wemberley: Tottenham v. Chelsea
Today’s edition of FlightKL18 finds me six days away from the realization of a dream—to see my beloved Tottenham Hotspur English football/soccer team capture a bit of Cup Glory at Sunday’s final of the League Cup against favored Chelsea at London’s reconstructed Wembley Stadium.
A Chelsea-Tottenham matchup is mouthwatering on a number of levels. First, there’s a form of dyslexic Semitism permeating the contest. Tottenham’s supporters call ourselves The Yid Army, and
Despite Chelsea’s considerable on-field success in the Abramovich era, where the club stockpiled the world’s most expensive players to rot on the bench while winning titles and performing competitively in the prestigious European Champion League, Spurs supporters consider Chelsea an upstart and parvenu unworthy of proper scorn. A recent chant by 3000 visiting
On the base of sheer surplus talent,
PS: The motto of Tottenham Hotspur is “Audere est Facere”—To dare is to do. Kind of fits me, eh?
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Mechelen--Quest for the Emperor
Needing a lift and a change of scenery after being dumped by text-message in mid week a few weeks back, I hop on a southbound train to Belgium, opting to spend a half day and an evening in the historic city of Mechelen, midway between Antwerp and Brussels.
A city of 80,000, Mechelen's charm is that it is historic and attractive, possessing a full range of architectural styles (the big aesthetic difference between Belgium and the far more uniform cities of Holland), in a compact package unjustifiably if welcomely bereft of tourists.
Mechelen has my single favorite intersection in all of Europe: Onze Lieve Vrouwe (Dutch for "our dear lady") and Graaf van Egmont. An art nouveau pharmacy presides over a junction containing a plaza, traditional Flemish buildings and a view down an ever-so-typically. European pedestrian street leading to the city's towering cathedral, seat of Belgium's Catholic Church.
Below my favorite intersection in all of Europe lies the Kleine Keizer, a comfortable "taverne" (bar-restaurant in Belgian parlance), serving Primus, my favorite of Belgium's basic lagers. (Half pint, Eur 1.60)
So fortified, an hour long quest for one of my top five Belgian beers-the corked 750ml bottle of the locally brewed Grand Cru of the Emperor which I found at 't Ankertje, a shop/bar offering the products of Mechelen's legendary Anker Brewery (Vismarkt 20)..
For the uninitiated, Grand Cru of the Emperor is best compared in flavor to the 'caramel' in a good creme caramel-not obscenely sweet but ethereally so with an ever-so-slight tinge of burntness to the flavor. At 10 % on the open-ended richter scale it is not for children, but a small glass conveys the flavor and power of this regal brew. I purchase three, but opt for the Gouden Carolus Tripel in a half-pint chalice for a mid afternoon pull. It is more vanilla than caramel in tone and taste, with a slight savoriness from the yeast.
Following the docking at 't Ankertje, one of the true joys of Mechelen ensued-an aimless walk through the residential streets that spin away from the Cathedral. In these streets, one can be forgiven for thinking one is back in the 17th century. These precincts are very similar to comparable streets in Brugge, except for the dearth of tourists and the abundance of locals going about their business. There are also few pubs and shops, so after an hour or so, the centre beckons with its combination of authentic and not so authhentic dining and watering venues.
One venue that I visited that was strange was the Celtic Pub off the main square, which bore more resemblance to an English Tea Room than a proper pseudo-Irish boozer. But they had Corsendonk Bruin on tap, which was enough to lure me in when the main neighbor bars were stocking Inbev's insipid and ubiquitous Leffe, Jupiler and Stella Artois.
The Corsendonk was worth the decor. Kahlua like in color, with a kind of caramel-coffee roundness and slightly ciderlike acidity, it was a perfect brew to watch twilght take hold of the Grote Markt, Mechelen's main square and one of the finest such public places in the Benelux.
As it was still before 6, I felt compelled to get one more beer before dinner-this one on the Grote Markt itself at a venue called the Oase. I have a policy in the Benelux of opting first for beers I'd never had or heard of, and the Oase delivered in style with Sint Gummarus Dubbel, a strong dark beer with a flawless burnt-caramel color and flavor.
Dinner, unusually for Belgium, failed to match the beers that preceded it, as the markt-side venue I'd long patronised has run out of its fish and fowl specials (and, no, I don't eat pork or rabbit, thank you very much). I thus found myself questing for a sole that would prove to disappoint. A bit more forethought would have yielded a tastier repast in this city of generally fine eateries, but I achieved what I'd sought in this classic city-a reunion with The Emperor.
A city of 80,000, Mechelen's charm is that it is historic and attractive, possessing a full range of architectural styles (the big aesthetic difference between Belgium and the far more uniform cities of Holland), in a compact package unjustifiably if welcomely bereft of tourists.
Mechelen has my single favorite intersection in all of Europe: Onze Lieve Vrouwe (Dutch for "our dear lady") and Graaf van Egmont. An art nouveau pharmacy presides over a junction containing a plaza, traditional Flemish buildings and a view down an ever-so-typically. European pedestrian street leading to the city's towering cathedral, seat of Belgium's Catholic Church.
Below my favorite intersection in all of Europe lies the Kleine Keizer, a comfortable "taverne" (bar-restaurant in Belgian parlance), serving Primus, my favorite of Belgium's basic lagers. (Half pint, Eur 1.60)
So fortified, an hour long quest for one of my top five Belgian beers-the corked 750ml bottle of the locally brewed Grand Cru of the Emperor which I found at 't Ankertje, a shop/bar offering the products of Mechelen's legendary Anker Brewery (Vismarkt 20)..
For the uninitiated, Grand Cru of the Emperor is best compared in flavor to the 'caramel' in a good creme caramel-not obscenely sweet but ethereally so with an ever-so-slight tinge of burntness to the flavor. At 10 % on the open-ended richter scale it is not for children, but a small glass conveys the flavor and power of this regal brew. I purchase three, but opt for the Gouden Carolus Tripel in a half-pint chalice for a mid afternoon pull. It is more vanilla than caramel in tone and taste, with a slight savoriness from the yeast.
Following the docking at 't Ankertje, one of the true joys of Mechelen ensued-an aimless walk through the residential streets that spin away from the Cathedral. In these streets, one can be forgiven for thinking one is back in the 17th century. These precincts are very similar to comparable streets in Brugge, except for the dearth of tourists and the abundance of locals going about their business. There are also few pubs and shops, so after an hour or so, the centre beckons with its combination of authentic and not so authhentic dining and watering venues.
One venue that I visited that was strange was the Celtic Pub off the main square, which bore more resemblance to an English Tea Room than a proper pseudo-Irish boozer. But they had Corsendonk Bruin on tap, which was enough to lure me in when the main neighbor bars were stocking Inbev's insipid and ubiquitous Leffe, Jupiler and Stella Artois.
The Corsendonk was worth the decor. Kahlua like in color, with a kind of caramel-coffee roundness and slightly ciderlike acidity, it was a perfect brew to watch twilght take hold of the Grote Markt, Mechelen's main square and one of the finest such public places in the Benelux.
As it was still before 6, I felt compelled to get one more beer before dinner-this one on the Grote Markt itself at a venue called the Oase. I have a policy in the Benelux of opting first for beers I'd never had or heard of, and the Oase delivered in style with Sint Gummarus Dubbel, a strong dark beer with a flawless burnt-caramel color and flavor.
Dinner, unusually for Belgium, failed to match the beers that preceded it, as the markt-side venue I'd long patronised has run out of its fish and fowl specials (and, no, I don't eat pork or rabbit, thank you very much). I thus found myself questing for a sole that would prove to disappoint. A bit more forethought would have yielded a tastier repast in this city of generally fine eateries, but I achieved what I'd sought in this classic city-a reunion with The Emperor.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
One Day Has Come: Spurs Are On Our Way To Wembley
As I sit at my keyboard listening to Beethoven's "Ode to Joy", I slowly come to grips with the magnitude and magnificence of Tottenham Hotspur's soul-stirring 5-1 triumph over the Hated Arsenal Scum in tonight's League Cup semifinal at Tottenham's White Hart Lane stadium.
While The Scum fielded an understrength team (whether as a sign of contempt or out of a desire to see their younger players perform against fully-motivated competition), the fact that Tottenham had failed to beat The Scum in 21 straight attempts, and that a berth in a cup final to be played at the renovated 90,000 seat Wembley Stadium was on the line produced an electric atmosphere that penetrated even the remotest outposts of Spursdom.
For years, I wondered what I would do if and when Tottenham finally beat the Scum. Would it be champagne? Public singing of the song whose punch line is "Shoot the Arsenal Scum, Shoot the Arsenal Scum", or merely quiet reflection.
But tonight, thanks to four magnificent Tottenham blasts by Jermaine Jenas, Aaron Lennon, Robbie Keane and a clinical last second strike by the elegantly named Steed Malbranque, which along with a comical self-inflicted goal by the inept Scummer Nicklas Bendtner produced the final 5 goal tally, I have my answer--capturing the magnificence of the occasion here on the blog.
The gamewatching experience was relatively sedate here in Delft--I went to my usual local pub and encountered another wayward Tottenham soul, a fellow returned from Thailand who was complaining about the cold. I was wearing a Tottenham scarf and my 1999 vintage Tottenham Away jersey--from the season when Tottenham last won the League Cup...and last beat the Scum.
I was half watching through the first half, where the two goal margin left me 'cautiously optimistic', as the handlers at the White House are wont to say. But after the third goal, a sense of belief set in. I started waving my scarf around intermittently as if I was one of the fervent throng at The Lane. Another goal goes in, and my body temperature rises and anticipation sets in. We've been taking it from these sons (and daughters) of Vishnu-knows-what for the better part of a flipping decade, and Justice was finally on the horizon.
The fourth goal leads almost to complacency, until a strike by Arsenal's talented first-string striker Emmanuel Adebayor brings the total to 4-1 with a fair amount of time on the clock. Presumed joy gives way to the kind of expectant angst that typefies most of a Spurs supporter's continued existence until the waning moments of gave a sense of relief among the rabid, scarf waving legions preparing to sing lustily over the corpse of their vanquished foe. Finally, the last-second cannon by Malbranque sealed the deal--and a scene of joy unlike any experienced recently at the Lane ensued, with Keane doing a dance at midfield, players piling onto each other, and 36000 singing as one to the tunes of Glory Glory Tottenham Hotspur and the ever-topical Spurs Are On Our Way To Wembley (the original version is on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WCXdlxZ5RiM).
A key ingredient to Spurs' revival has been new manager Juande Ramos. While I was outraged by his selection and his replacement of previous manager and fellow Hague-area resident Martin Jol, Ramos has brought sharp tactics and restored the confidence of Spurs' leaky defense--and has not had a team of his lose a match in an elimination cup in over a year, a record continued with today's electric win.
Merry, an Arsenal fan I work with sneered when I suggested we had a chance tonight. She said "yeah, you Tottenham fans think 'one day, we'll beat the Arsenal'. Hell, you even have a manager named 'One Day'!"
Merry: Today, we have beaten the Scum. Today, we have claimed our place at Wembley. Merry, One Day Has Come!
While The Scum fielded an understrength team (whether as a sign of contempt or out of a desire to see their younger players perform against fully-motivated competition), the fact that Tottenham had failed to beat The Scum in 21 straight attempts, and that a berth in a cup final to be played at the renovated 90,000 seat Wembley Stadium was on the line produced an electric atmosphere that penetrated even the remotest outposts of Spursdom.
For years, I wondered what I would do if and when Tottenham finally beat the Scum. Would it be champagne? Public singing of the song whose punch line is "Shoot the Arsenal Scum, Shoot the Arsenal Scum", or merely quiet reflection.
But tonight, thanks to four magnificent Tottenham blasts by Jermaine Jenas, Aaron Lennon, Robbie Keane and a clinical last second strike by the elegantly named Steed Malbranque, which along with a comical self-inflicted goal by the inept Scummer Nicklas Bendtner produced the final 5 goal tally, I have my answer--capturing the magnificence of the occasion here on the blog.
The gamewatching experience was relatively sedate here in Delft--I went to my usual local pub and encountered another wayward Tottenham soul, a fellow returned from Thailand who was complaining about the cold. I was wearing a Tottenham scarf and my 1999 vintage Tottenham Away jersey--from the season when Tottenham last won the League Cup...and last beat the Scum.
I was half watching through the first half, where the two goal margin left me 'cautiously optimistic', as the handlers at the White House are wont to say. But after the third goal, a sense of belief set in. I started waving my scarf around intermittently as if I was one of the fervent throng at The Lane. Another goal goes in, and my body temperature rises and anticipation sets in. We've been taking it from these sons (and daughters) of Vishnu-knows-what for the better part of a flipping decade, and Justice was finally on the horizon.
The fourth goal leads almost to complacency, until a strike by Arsenal's talented first-string striker Emmanuel Adebayor brings the total to 4-1 with a fair amount of time on the clock. Presumed joy gives way to the kind of expectant angst that typefies most of a Spurs supporter's continued existence until the waning moments of gave a sense of relief among the rabid, scarf waving legions preparing to sing lustily over the corpse of their vanquished foe. Finally, the last-second cannon by Malbranque sealed the deal--and a scene of joy unlike any experienced recently at the Lane ensued, with Keane doing a dance at midfield, players piling onto each other, and 36000 singing as one to the tunes of Glory Glory Tottenham Hotspur and the ever-topical Spurs Are On Our Way To Wembley (the original version is on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WCXdlxZ5RiM).
A key ingredient to Spurs' revival has been new manager Juande Ramos. While I was outraged by his selection and his replacement of previous manager and fellow Hague-area resident Martin Jol, Ramos has brought sharp tactics and restored the confidence of Spurs' leaky defense--and has not had a team of his lose a match in an elimination cup in over a year, a record continued with today's electric win.
Merry, an Arsenal fan I work with sneered when I suggested we had a chance tonight. She said "yeah, you Tottenham fans think 'one day, we'll beat the Arsenal'. Hell, you even have a manager named 'One Day'!"
Merry: Today, we have beaten the Scum. Today, we have claimed our place at Wembley. Merry, One Day Has Come!
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