flightKL18

From Preference to Militant Support--the 6 to 10 scale

2010-02-10T02:00:00.000-08:00

One of the fun features of facebook is the ability to register as a "fan" of various teams, causes, groups and individuals. But for some reason last week, I was feeling a bit dissatisfied about the on-or-off nature of such a choice. After all, there are things and groups I'm much more devoted to than others, and so I suggested an alternative--a three-level expression of fan-ness ranging from "fan" to "advocate" to "militant supporter."

While facebook has yet to adopt this suggestion, the conversation on this subject with my facebook friends yielded a further refinement--a scale starting at 6 and ending at ten that covers the full range of support:

6-would generally prefer it to competitors
7-consider it part of one's identity
8-would actively recommend to others
9-would defend its honor in an argument, or perhaps, a fist-fight
10-would start a fist-fight on its behalf (if the situation warranted)

In most categories, I have but one entry. For sports teams, my criteria is slightly more relaxed--teams which generally don't play each other can be added.

6: Burger King (global fast food), Ajax (Dutch soccer), Star Alliance (airline alliance), Starwood Hotels, Lonely Planet (travel guides), Vlasic (pickles), Cattleman's BBQ sauce, Calve chunky peanut butter, Louisiana Brand hot sauce, Arkansas Razorbacks (college sports team-US South), Caramel/Toffee/Dulce de Leche, Klene Suikervrije Visjes (licorice), Canadian Club (whisky)

7. Chicago Cubs (baseball), The Economist, Turkish Coffee, Eurostar (trans-channel train service), Sharp Cheddar, Limes, DC United (MLS Soccer), KimChee (Korean equivalent of sauerkraut), CCM (association of communication pros), Magret de Canard (duck breast-favorite French meal)

8. University of Wisconsin (university, sports teams), Belgian Beer, easyJet (European budget airline), Democratic Party (US), Cocktail Sauce (US condiment), Pastrami (favorite delicatessen meal), Prime Rib (favorite steakhouse meal), Iskender Kebab (favorite Turkish meal)

9. Tottenham Hotspur (English Soccer), Liberal Judaism, US Men's National Soccer Team (international soccer), Belgium (favorite country to live in), President Barack Obama, Landmark Education (kick-ass education and training programs), Reproductive Freedom/Abortion Rights, The Pigs (favorite species)

10. Israel, Health Care Reform (US), London Business School

What I found most interesting in looking at things this way is that it gave me an ability to compare my various favorites across categories. I'm about as much of an Obama fan as I am a Spurs fan--would defend their respective honor, but also occasionally moan about various on-field mistakes. It also reflects some personal evolution--while I love the University of Wisconsin, it's the Tottenham results I look for first these days.

The fist-fight distinction is also a bit aspirational--I haven't actually been in any fist fights since university, my last attempt being at a Young Republicans convention in 1992 which preceded my switch to the Democrats by two months. But it still crystalizes a level of support that goes well beyond mere preference or 'fandom'.

Please have a gander at this--and include your own ratings in the comments below!

Winter Olympics--What I'd Like To See

2010-02-10T01:46:00.000-08:00

Aaah, it is but a few days until the Olympic Flame makes its triumphant entrance into the stadium in Vancouver, marking the start of the chilly version of "Seventeen Days of Glory."

Despite having had an abortive winter sports career that consisted of an abortive attempt at cross-country skiing (one that I never adequately apologized to my dad for--having duly bought me a pair of skis at my persistent insistence), I've long loved the cold version of the Olympics at least as much as the warm. Still, I think there's room for improvement--hence, my 2010 suggested Winter Olympic Combinations:

1) Biathluge: Combining the high-speed excitement of the luge with the precision of target shooting

2) Alpine Hockey: The offensive team passes the puck down the mountain while the defenders wait in front of the goal in the valley

3) Halfpipe Curling: Instead of pushing the stone straight to the target, the stone moves in pendulum motion, zigzagging down the snowboard half pipe towards Olympic glory

4) Short Track Ski Jumping: An abbreviated launch from higher altitude heightens the drama of an already breathtaking sport

5) Figure Slalom: Combining the artistics of figure skating with the short but precise turning of the slalom

While these are too late for inclusion in the 2010 agenda--how about trying these as video games?

3 Jews, 3 Quadrupels, and a Beer That Tastes Like Dirt

2010-01-07T14:09:00.000-08:00

It took several months after I moved into my own Brussels apartment before I successfully organized my first social event.

Partly, this was because it took several months before I extricated myself from an unhappy job situation--and the attached grind of weekly travel to a country resembling a parallel universe from the land of my birth. Partly, this was because of a lack of occasion.

But such an occasion emerged last month when my dear Dutch friend, Gidon--a fellow congregant at the International Jewish Center (indeed, he's what passes for a "macher"--a "big shot"--at our modest temple)--contacted me about a long-deferred evening of beer tasting. We discussed a return visit to Moeder Lambic, a hoary haven for Belgium's beer nerds, but I finally took the initiative. "Let's have it at my place."

Two soon became three, as "D", a student at a certain semi-sectarian Belgian university wangled an invite. (He insists on keeping his identity secret as his doctoral colleagues believe he does nothing in Belgium except to drink beer).

I came well armed--with my main contribution a 750ml bottle of 2008 Cuvee van de Keizer (about which I've waxed rhapsodically in previous bloggings) and a 2004 vintage bottle of trappist-monk-brewed Westvleteren 12, which I had to break at least 3 of the Catholic Ten Commandments to obtain (as the monks of Westvleteren consider grey-market resale of their exalted ales an unoriginal but much-vexing sin).

But Gidon, he of 1500 beer labels collected (versus my mere 165 Ratebeer.com reviews) came prepared with Holland's Bommen en Granaten, which weighed in at 15% alcohol versus the more modest 10% of the Cuvee and 12% of the ill-gotten Westvleteren.

After some idle semitic chit-chat, and, for no particular reason, the donning of yarmulkes (mine was leather an had an Obama '08 log), the heavy business of tasting these exceptionally heavy brews began.

I opened with the Westvleteren. But after pouring the normal-sized 330ml bottle into three vintage beer chalices, I found myself unable to drink the Westvleteren. Why? Because it smelled sooooooo good. It smelled like the brown pumpernickel bread that's baked with raisins here. Deep, savory, and sweet. Finally, when I broke down and started sipping, the combination of treacle/molasses-like richness and raisin-like fruitiness was explosive on the palate. Whether it's worth my mortal soul may be another question.

Gidon replied with the Bommen en Granaten, Dutch for "Bombs and Grenades". Amber, clear and very gently carbonated, Bommen en Granaten unloads a mixture of flavors--fruity, malty, yeasty and just the tiniest bit floral--that can stir a palate that had just been sent heavenward by the Westvleteren. Interestingly, Bommen en Granaten may be more difficult to get than "Ole Westy"--it's produced by an obscure Dutch brewery.

This obscure brewery also produces the aptly named Hemel en Aarde--Heaven and Earth. It's an apt name because the brew is brewed with peat from some Scottish distillery with about 70 letters in its name. And it flippin' tastes like flippin' peat. I've never drank something that literally tasted this much like dirt, except for some of the water I found while digging in sandboxes as a child. If you are a single-malt scotch hound, you may like this...otherwise, accept that beer and peat don't mix.

Capping the evening off with the Keizer was nice--it too joins the Westy and the Bommen as a legit contender for the "Beer Champion Of The World" of the world title, though the evening was declared in the beginning as a non-title bout. This was good, because the early tastes of the Keizer served mainly to exorcise the peat flavor.

Will there be a champion bout at Maison Klein in the future? There's always a possibility--just so long as there's no peat involved, and no yarmulkes are required.

Bret Bielema Is NOT Drunk

2010-01-07T13:55:00.000-08:00

One of the weird things that happens when one pops a device like StatCounter into one's blog is that it becomes very easy to find out a lot about the people who visit the blog.

About a year ago, I wrote an article defending then-under-fire University of Wisconsin (American) Football Coach Bret Bielema after a difficult 2008 season. I had met Bret a few years before at a Wisconsin Alumni event, and came away extremely impressed with his intelligence and his grasp of the magnitude of the job he had been hired to do.

It is rare for a man in his late 30's to effectively be named the CEO and Chief Recruiter of a multi-million dollar business, and one which had to satisfy the validation cravings of hundreds of thousands of beer-sodden Wisconsinites and Badger Alumni. This year's strong 10-3 performance signals what I hope will be an increasingly successful continuation of the Bielema era.

HOWEVER--one of the quirks of Google and other search engines is that if someone wants to put in a search inquiry, the whole content of an article or blog entry gets sucked into the inquiry. And from StatCounter, I've learned that nearly half of the visitors to FlightKL18 come here because of one inquiry: "Bret Bielema Drunk".

Let me state for the record. I've never seen Bret Bielema drunk. And I think most people looking for that entry are gunning for the wrong guy.

Better they should pick on University of Tennessee coach Lane Kiffin. My dad doesn't like him, after all.

Paris vs. Brussels

2009-12-31T03:17:00.000-08:00

It's taken me a while to come up with a paean to my beloved Brussels, mainly because it's such an easy place to live, and because so few of my readers have actually lived there.

Paris, on the other hand, provides a bold point of comparison, one much more familiar as a destination and as a city of significance. Now, on my first decent stay in the City of Light since returning to Europe in 2007, I am finding some help in telling the story.

Brussels is no Paris, in much the same way as Washington is no New York. While Paris (and New York) overwhelm with a density of world-class museums, ethnic and home-country eateries, and beloved visual landmarks, Brussels has a few showstoppers (the central Grand Place key among them) but they are delivered on a far more modest scale. Indeed, when I have visitors, I recommend that they spend their days outside Brussels in the more telegenic Brugge, Ghent ot Antwerp, unless they are true museum hounds. That much being said, I have yet to go to any Brussels museum.

Paris, of course, is a great place to visit. The shopping's world class, the museums, the landmarks, and the river, which creates breathtaking views, particularly after nightfall. The dining in Paris is superb, not only for all of the French standards, but because of the immense variety of ethnic places (I am writing this from an Afghan place on the Left Bank, having not had the cuisine de Karzai since leaving Washington in '07).

It's funny to go to Paris to eat ethnic. But in a way, that's a testament to the strengths of the Brussels eating scene as well as its weaknesses. Brussels is considered an outpost of traditional French cuisine, and it is hard to get a bad meal in Brussels, to the delight of my palate and chagrin of my waistline.

My favorite Brussels restaurant, Le Petit Pont in suburban Uccle, can go toe-to-toe with anywhere I've eaten in France (or anywhere, for that matter). But Brussels is the capital of a continent, not a capital of a diverse, fallen empire (and the cuisines of Congo and Rwanda have yet to build a following among non-members of the African diaspora). Asian cuisine in Brussels tends to be pedestrian, Indian inconsistent, Jewish nonexistent, and even Turkish, while widely available, suffers from a dumbing down of ingredients.

Brussels does do a good job of serving its big expatriate populations. Fat Boy's Sports Bar has the best hamburgers and BBQ wings in Europe. Western European restaurants abound, Balkan grills are on the rise, Italian and Greek are ubiquitous, and Brussels' longstanding Spanish and Portuguese communities have loads of cheap standardbearers in a number of enclaves.

Moving from eating to sleeping, the story becomes clearer. Property is at least twice as expensive in Paris. A small 20 sqm (220 sq ft) apartment in a prime Paris location costs EUR 1100. My larger 70 sqm apartment in a comparable Brussels location costs EUR 720, including the (intermittent) heat.

Paris has 19 metro and regional express rail lines. Brussels has four metro lines, though two were artificially created as part of a rebranding exercise. But while Paris has only four tram lines, Brussels has more tram lines than one can shake a stick at. And what's more fun. Dark, dank, underground Metros or romantic, elegant, and ever-so-European trams?

Paris is in France. No one can credibly dispute its Frenchness. But while many Bruxellois like to think of their city as a bastion of la langue de Moliere, the legions of French-hating Flemish civil servants who descend on Brussel daily, and the growing number of East European EU staffers who eat, work, socialize and above all socialize in la langue de Shakespeare have other ideas.

Going to Paris and seeing everything in French awakens my inner Francophile. But living in Brussels stirs my inner Flandrophile, who is larger, meaner and drinks more heavily.

Paris is 80 minutes from Brussels by high-speed rail, and reachable for anywhere from EUR 30 to EUR 150 round trip depending on traffic. Having Paris so close--and not having to live there--is priceless.

Our Herb Brooks Moment

2009-12-05T09:00:00.000-08:00

With the World Cup draw having been so ably handled by the gorgeous if ultra-leftist actress Charlize Theron last night in South Africa, we now know where all 31 of the qualifying countries will be playing, and we know where France will be playing as well.

For the United States, my first love in the game of "football" even if it is a place I prefer not to reside in, the draw could not be better. For not only does its group involve two of the last countries to qualify from their respective continents, Algeria and Slovenia, it also requires that the US kick off the account against England.

Fearsome England. Birthplace of The Game and home of the vaunted Premiership. Thanks to Charlize and the Football Gods, American soccer has been given the one opportunity it has sought, pined for, and ached for--a money game against the world's most storied football power on a Saturday afternoon in June.

For American Soccer, this game is for all the marbles. A draw, or improbably but not impossably a win, and this game will not only mark America's true arrival as a first-tier footballing nation but of soccer as a first-tier American sport. A humiliating shut-out, and it's time to forget soccer once and for all and start considering how many NFL rejects we can recycle into rugby players for the following year's Rugby World Cup.

Great games deserve great speeches. So, here is my adaptation of the famous speech by the last US Hockey Coach Herb Brooks to his charges before the epoch-changing match against the Russians in the 1980 Olympics, with apologies to Kurt Russell's performance in the movie "Miracle":

Great moments...are born from great opportunity.
And that's what you have here today, boys.
That's what you've earned here today.

One game.
If we played 'em ten times, they might win nine.
But not this game.
Not today.

Today, we play with them.
Today, we stay with them.
And we shut them down--because we can.

Today, WE are the greatest footballing nation in the world.
You were born to be footballers.
And you were meant to be here today.

This is your time.
Their time is done.
I'm sick and tired of hearing about
What a great football side the English have.

Screw 'em.
This is your time
Now go out there and take it.

Pro Choice on the Environment

2009-11-24T16:14:00.000-08:00

OK, I’m back in blogging form and, as much as I love travel and beer (and am indeed writing this on an airplane with a newly malt-fortified Maes Pilsner in hand), headier matters come to mind.

This past weekend, I attended a conference called the European Summit for Global Transformation (www.europeansummit.org).

For the most part, it was an inspiring weekend spent with social entrepreneurs and activists from around the world. Included—women who founded high-performing schools in Nepal and Tanzania, a fellow who is spearheading an effort to buy 20 million hectares for reforestation (and thus suck and store CO2 out of the atmosphere--www.weforest.com), and a 23 year old from New Jersey who is now the “mother” of twenty seven orphans in the foothills of the Himalayas.

But I found one section of the event particularly disturbing—a three hour video session portending imminent environmental doom, and asserting that the only viable choice was some undefined notion of global economic “justice”.

I used to joke about being “pro-choice on the environment”. I accept it is no joke now. I believe that the current environmental crisis is the greatest threat to life on this planet since the ice age. But I also see its potential for enabling the greatest assault on human liberty since the end of World War II.

It does not need to be this way. Both extremes in the environmental debate—those who oppose any meaningful solutions for reasons of profit, inertia or laziness, and those who see the green banner this century as a way to achieve the totalitarian nirvana they failed to achieve under the red and brown banners of the last—are at cause for this duality.

But imagine this: what if the money, effort and energy being spent to refute right-wing denials of a problem could be spent on identifying viable alternatives and choices that can make a big difference for relatively little cost in terms of money and freedom? And what if people could see a viable environmental future that doesn’t require giving up cars, air conditioning, t-bone steaks and a child’s dream of being an airline pilot? What would be possible then?

A lot would be possible. Making some choices available would take some paradigm-shifting thinking. Some of this thinking is already going on—in aviation for instance, research is underway into bean-based jet fuel and high-capacity, fuel efficient turboprop airliners.

From a food standpoint, it is only starting to be well known that chicken production is far more carbon-efficient than beef production on a kilo-by-kilo basis. People are giving up some snobbiness towards boxed wine. Japanese breweries are brewing in Canada and trucking their “imported” brews over the border to the US. And Soda Club machines (www.sodaclub.il) are becoming increasingly popular, saving dozens of plastic bottles and eliminating the shipping involved in delivering sparkling water to the home.

Will a choice-based approach be enough? Are we really too far gone? In my view, free people will never be too far gone to fight for their freedoms, and even if things become dire, some choices will remain available, even if their cost may escalate to the magnitude of real sacrifice.

But at the same time, we also have the right to ask whether the world envisaged by those who place an environmentalist (and/or redistributionist) agenda ahead of human liberty is one that would be worth surviving in. And we certainly have the right to ask if there are indeed other ways of saving the planet that preserve those things we think make life worth living.

Rejoining the Human Race in Luxembourg

2009-11-08T09:58:00.000-08:00

The brasserie at the Hotel Koener in Clervaux, Luxembourg seems an unlikely place to rejoin the human race. But I chose to head for the Luxembourg Ardennes for some rest, relaxation and rejuvenation following a turbulent period in my career--to draw a line under it and contemplate the next adventure.

Following a four hour trip--which included a two hour journey through the Belgian Ardennes on a rail replacement bus, I arrived at the Clervaux train station, only to find I had missed the bus connection to my hotel, the Chateau d'Urspelt, a few kilometers away from this little town of 1800 souls.

The idea of staying at a Chateau had considerable appeal, not for the least to arouse jealousy among those I told. I also liked the idea of being in a completely different environment than anything I'd experienced in recent months--different languages, menus and beers.

When I arrived at the Chateau D'Urspelt after an hour-and-a-half bus layover and a non-descript omelet at a similarly non-descript lunch spot half-filled with Luxemburgers speaking Letzebuergesch, I found the place quite tasteful and modern. Not surprising, given that the place was restored in 2008 following 300 years of gradual but relentless dilapidation.

The Chateau has two spas, one of which I visited immediately upon arrival. There is nothing like a jacuzzi to make one forget what one seeks to forget.

It also has one restaurant, making it the only eatery within 3 km, a challenging statistic when one is without wheels amidst bucolic splendour. As the Chateau restaurant was booked, I had to take a hard-to-find taxi and head to the clutch of hotels in the centre of Clervaux, bringing me to the schnitzel at the Hotel Koener, washed down with the mild-but-tasty Diekirch Grand Cru, a local brew.

Going to Luxembourg, as much as anything, is a bid to reconnect with that which is Continental that I love.

A country with less than a half-million people, the size of a modest American county, with an affluent population that switches between four languages (including fair English), de-Luxembourg allows one to acclimate quickly and comprehensively while being sufficiently different from its neighbors topographically and architecturally. It feels more German than anything else, but less German than Germany.

A scene at a tavern near the Koener exemplifies. I can hear all three local languages, as American rock blares over the soundless broadcast of Schalke vs Bayer Leverkusen. Beers from Belgium and Luxembourg dominate the beer list, along with something called Humpen, which I've never heard of but feel compelled to order next. (As it happens, a Humpen proves to be the local equivalent of a "pint" of decent draft pilsner.)

Of course, spa-ing, eating and beering have not occupied the whole day. I also got in an uphill walk along the road from Urspelt to Fischbach, which intrigued me because I had a dorm-mate at Wisconsin named David Feshbach. Alas, Fischbach was a collection of a half dozen buildings, making Urspelt, a collection of two dozen buildings plus the Chateau, seem like a thumpin' metropolis.

One missing hygiene factor--Urspelt lacks a little shop, which was a bit of an irritant (the Fischbach walk was out of hope I could find a six-pack and some peanuts). But I'll take jacuzzi over peanuts if forced to choose...

The Family

2009-11-08T09:28:00.000-08:00

Clervaux, for a town of 1800, is well endowed in a number of areas. Aesthetically, it is hemmed in between the Our River (if there was a local hydroelectric station, it would give new meaning to the phrase Our of Power) and the steep pine-covered Ardennes hillsides.

This stretches the town along the river making it seem bigger than it is. It also has a good number of traditional small hotels, whose dining rooms constitute the main atmospheric eateries in town, but Clervaux also has two Chinese places, a relative diversity in a town that has no identifiable Jewish population.

But the one thing that Clervaux has that no one else does is a castle that is the home of the Family of Man photographic exhibition. Commissioned in 1951 by New York's Museum of Modern Art, this collection developed by Edward Steicher, a Luxembourg-born American photographer, and seen by more than 9 million viewers during its travels, includes hundreds of images of the human condition before, during, and shortly after World War II.

Arranged in a procession of sections commemorating human existence--starting with the bonding of lovers and progressing through childhood, work, eating and playing--and then into war, religion and politics, the collection is inescapably moving.

While I found two photos most compelling--Orthodox Jewish kids in an old-style religious school on the one hand, and a German child walking with his schoolbag through a bombed out city on the other, the most powerful thing about this exhibition was its datedness.

To a certain extent, the Family of Man is a bit of time travel--incorporating the kind of images one would see in postwar editions of Life and Look magazines, the great publications which provided Americans with a visual context for world events in the days before television took hold. But to a greater extent, humans and the human condition remain remarkably unchanged in the last sixty years, and there are elements of the exhibition that demonstrate this dramatically.

The castle also is home to a cozy cafe, whose proprietor offered me a complimentary glass of red wine shortly after finishing a local beer (Diekirch Grand Cru). On figuring I was American, he gushed about President Obama, and was quite surprised that I joined in the gushing. It's a pity that the Dems weren't running a candidate for Governor of Luxembourg--Obama still has coattails here.

Venison Sashimi

2009-11-08T08:57:00.000-08:00

I've been of two minds about my Chateau-hotel in Luxembourg, the Chateau d'Urspelt. On the one hand, having been renovated to a modern, four-star (competent but not over-the-top) standard, the place reminds me a bit of a Chateau Novotel. On the other, it is self-consciously a family-run place, with references to the owning Lodomez family more visible than references to the mayoral Daley family in most parts of Chicago.

Where this place departs from the four-star into the stratosphere is its restaurant. Opting for sublime Luxembourgeois bubbly over an intriguingly unfamiliar Belgian beer, I've departed on a breathtaking culinary journey (which I am experiencing as I write, having my blackberry as a poor substitute for a date).

I could tell I was in for a ride when my first course was brought. I ordered "a tartare of smoked venison.".

What emerged looked at first like a lab experiment--a beaker that seemed a bit cloudy looking. But when the waiter lifted the "beaker", the fragrant smell of smoke enveloped the table--for the dish consisted of cubes of smoked-while-u-wait raw venison served on a bed of razor-thin sliced pears and red peppercorns. For the uninitiated, kinda like venison sushi, or more precisely, sashimi.

The main-a very-robust looking Magret de Canard, one of my favorite dishes of the Franco-Belgian-Luxembourgeois kitchen, served with a red peppercorn sauce. Interestingly, it was served with a side of fennel, my favorite vegetable, after fish. Excellent, if more conventional than the first course.

The wine list is interesting, more because of its presentation than its contents--it is printed as a label on a three-litre wine bottle. The vaulted ceilings do well as well. As for the clientele, they are all conversing in a number of languages, none of which I competently understand.

Hungarians have long been fond of saying that "Hungary is the only country in Europe surrounded by itself in all directions.". But they are wrong. Today's Rhode Island-sized Luxembourg is also a rump version of its former self, which once also included Belgium's (larger) Province of Luxembourg, and adjoining parts of Germany and France.

I ponder this as I ponder the dessert menu, which, written in French and German, offers but few clues about what is on offer. To be fair to my Level III London Business School French, this is more because I have no clue about what a "Fantasie autour d'un fruit d'automne" is than it is that I don't understand "fantasy" and "autumn fruit". Inquiring of the waiter, he says it involves a pear, but finds it otherwise difficult to describe. Convinced, I order it.

Another glass of Cremant de Luxembourg arrives. Cremant is a French-authorized term for "good sparkling wine that ain't Champagne.". I have long prized "Cremants" from around the world, partially because they are far better value than Champagne, and mostly because they marry the magic of effervescence with more varied grape styles (such as Riesling and Macabeo), and even colors (try sparkling Shiraz).

But this one beats Champagne at its own game--a full-blooded Pinot Noir rendition vinted less than 100 miles from Epernay, at less than half the price of the most basic chain-store Champagne.

It serves as a good complement to the Fantasie, which consists of a poached pear, a small chocolate-filled wonton, a tiny scoop of gingerbread ("speculoos") ice cream and a slash of raspberry sauce. Everything is excellent--but the ice cream is off the charts.

I am well and truly sated--a really first rate meal with intelligent, attentive and clinically multilingual service. And the location, overlooking the courtyard of Chateau d'Urspelt, could not be better. Particularly since it means only a short forklift ride back to my quarters.

Lux City

2009-11-08T08:56:00.000-08:00

My intention was to keep my trip brief, with two nights at the Chateau and then back home to start the job-search jihad in earnest. But the fates--in the form of a nationwide rail strike in Belgium--intervened. I thought another day in Clervaux would be a bit much, and after seeing an EUR 49 hotel special in Luxembourg City, I decided to head for the capital.

Much of the trip was spent on a bus, as the tracks between Clervaux and Ettelbruck were "gefuckt", as they say in Letzebuergesch. Buses in rural Europe offer better views and countryside than trains generally, so I hardly minded.

The journey finished on a train, which meant a ringside view of the spectacular cliffs and fortifications that make Luxembourg one of Europe's most visually spectacular capitals. Off the train, meandering through its cobblestone streets, you get the idea it is one of its richest, though it's low value added tax rate means good deals on the everyday and luxury items found in its many shops.

There is one beef I have with Luxembourg City--the vast majority of its hotels are located in the neighborhood by the train station, which, while not dangerous or possessing of really seedy businesses, lacks the attractiveness Lux City otherwise possesses in abundance.

My favorite hotel here, the Parc Plaza, is a notable exception-overlooking the ravines in a nice neighborhood near the centre-ville. But at EUR 120 midweek, that seemed excessive after two nights of Chateau at EUR 89. So I opted for the Hotel Delta at EUR 49, including breakfast.

The Delta has four stars on the outside, as did the Chateau. Its renovation, however, has been more selective, as I noted in a quick look at the unlocked rooms. Mine was unrenovated. It was much more reminiscent of the one and two star rooms I stayed in on earlier Europe travels. But somehow I liked it--it brought me back to the time when Europe was just an adventure.

Remembering Private Levine

2009-11-08T08:55:00.000-08:00

Figuring out what to do on the last day of a trip is always a challenge. Sometimes it becomes a jihad to see all that is unseen, other times a shopping trip to pick up local goodies. But one compelling destination had eluded me on previous Luxembourg trips-the US Military Cemetery in Hamm, Luxembourg.

The Cemetery is best known as the final resting place of General George S. Patton, buried under the marble Latin cross engraved with name, rank, regiment and home state common to the vast majority of the 5000+ soldiers buried here. But 116 of those soldiers are marked by a Star of David, and, as I walked around the stones, I inevitably was drawn by those markers.

Before I entered the cemetery, I gathered a handful of stones--commonly used as a mark of a visit to a Jewish resting place. Most of the Stars of David already had a stone or two on them already, and I ran out quickly as well. But I saw one Jewish marker with no stone, that of Private Stanley Levine of New York, who fell-like most here-at the height of the Battle of the Bulge.

What must it have been like for Private Levine? Did he he realise the contribution he was making for his country, his people and indeed for freedom itself? Or would he have rather been home watching the Yankees win yet another baseball World Series? His stoneless headstone offers no clue.

At the other end of the notoriety spectrum was Patton's cross, reluctantly exhumed from the main group of graves and positioned to the front and centre, as the flow of visitors wreaked havoc on the neighboring gravesites. Seeing the real gravesite of Patton inevitably reminded me of George C. Scott's portrayal of him in the eponymous biopic, Patton, which deptcted the General as crusty, brilliant and psychotic.

Yeah, Patton was a bastard. But he was our bastard. And does anyone disagree that the world and its current challenges could't benefit from a few (and I do mean a few) leaders who are a bit crusty, brilliant, and perhaps a little nuts?

Bulgaria--Var and Away

2009-06-30T13:51:00.000-07:00

The last day in Bulgaria began inauspiciously enough--with the intent behing my 9am alarm easily overcome by vivid dreams with well-placed Cyrillic characters.

I didn't fully rise into action until the Riu called to chase me towards checkout, at the more holidaylike hour of noon.Varna beckoned, and I sprung out of the hotel towards the closeby Autogara, where, fortunately, the midday minibus was to leave in ten minutes.

Noticing the 2 hour trip and that I opted not to claim my all-inclusive lunch, I scan the surroundings to find a snack counter offering TOCT, cyrillic for "toasted sandwich". Mine-mild, rubbery kashkaval cheese on toast slices the size of a clothes iron. EUR 1.10 please.

The 90 minute drive to Varna was the most attractive and intriguing of my various Bulgarian segments, particularly after the Vegas-like sprawl of Sunny Beach gave way to smaller, posher resorts like Obzor and small hamlets like Banya where newly-built and painted villas and decades old traditional homes that haven't seen paint since ex-local Party boss Todor Zhivkov was in charge.

Pine forests give way to sweeping bay views. Old Varna was aesthetically compelling. Fairly untouched by highrises built of bad Commie concrete, it is very much a product of its Black Sea envioronment--with a few Ottoman touches and ornate pastel-painted buildings evocative of Ukraine and Russia.

Indeed, if I were to come up with two words to describe Bulgaria, I'd say "Russia Lite." Weather is somewhat better, food more reliable, flags are the same save for the middle stripe (Russia's Blue vs. Bulgaria's green). Corruption and organized crime are pervasive, as is the all-pervasive cyrillic alphabet. Bulgaria is more tourist-friendly (no visas required). And Bulgaria can be seen in a week--though I did miss Plovdiv and Veliko Tarnovo, which are both world-class sites.

What's missing--Bulgaria doesn't have the nationalist edge that its Balkan neighbors have. An upcoming July election is drawing lukewarm passion, particularly following last month's EU poll which equalled a test run. (One observer said that the election offered voters a choice of which mob family they dislike least.)

Even Folklor TV, the all national-costumed-24-hour satellite Bulgarian ethnic kitschfest seemed more melancholy than defiant, particularly when compared to its Serbian sister station. Ok, there was one exception, a song where the word Bulgaria was invoked in pious tones, and images of Orthodox icons were interspersed with those of brave Bulgarian patriots hurling barrels down at fez-clad Turks on the slopes below. But Bulgaria last played smackdown with the Turks in the late 1800s, and since they are now both NATO allies, Bulgaria doesn't have anyone to chuck barrels at right now.

Bulgaria--Finnish Karaoke

2009-06-30T13:42:00.000-07:00

My desire for a congenial environment causes me to stumble into an American-style pub-restaurant called the Vagabond. Unlike most of the venues on Sunny Beach's seaside promenade, the Vagabond was more than half full, but no one was eating.

Instead, as I started to piece together from the amateur singing and ubiquitous television screens, this was a. Karaoke venue. But not your usual Gloria Gaynor, Mick Jagger and Frank Sinatra karaoke. No this was Finnish Karaoke.

One of my favorite TV shows ever was "Raid", a 12-episode Western set in and around Helsinki. And its themesong, "Vain Rakkaus", occupies a well-used slot in my Ipod. So, sensing a true once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, I examine the song directory and duly find Vain Rakkaus.

I sign up. I endure an agonizing wait of 90 minutes. It could have been shorter, for I was actually called after 45 minutes but the Bulgarian presenter thought my name was Mila instead of Mike.

The delay gave me the time to download the Vain Rakkaus lyrics to one of my Blackberry devices. I practiced in the back, attempting to partition the small but pesky number of 10+ letter words in the appropriate places.

I offer to pay a barmaid 20 leva (EUR 10) to video the occasion. (I have yet to watch, and have conveniently misplaced the carmera, but the requisite memory was eaten on the memory card, so I hope it took). Once called, things take a turn towards the silly when the DJ cues the wrong song, a Finnish remake of I Will Survive.

I protest loudly, which convinces the organizer of my seriousness. Vain Rakkaus cues.I start singing when the words appear.

Of course, that's 2 seconds before the music begins. I resynch by stretching the vowels in "korventaa.". My volume picks up with the chorus, and one of the Finns in attendance runs to the center of the floor and starts bowing at my feet.

I continue undaunted. My singing of Vain Rakkaus was hardly the stuff of an award winning performance on Finland's Got Talent. But after inviting myself to the booth of the prostrate Finn and getting the reaction of him and his buddies, the shock and amazement was palpable.

"We knew you weren't Finnish, but it was obvious you knew the song," said Uki, inadvertently bemoaning the extent to which his nation's patrimony fails to travel much beyond its borders. More amazement followed when I shared how Raid became a cult Public TV classic in Washington, DC back in 2005. And how I own two sets of the DVD and the soundtrack.

But what I was left with was more shock and awe that I would actually find it within myself to sing Finnish Karaoke. And get a standing O.

Bulgaria--Resting with the Lions

2009-06-30T13:37:00.000-07:00

Arriving back in "Cote de Soleil", the French moniker for Sunny Beach, at 1 in the morning didn't leave me well-disposed to head for Varna on Saturday morning.

Sleep instead beckoned, and today's activities have been modest, even by my oft-sluggish standards. Lunch of dining room fish (the Riu serves a lot of it, and is a damn good non-pork option, even if I can't trace its provenance). A copy of The Times, and articles explaining the potential collapse of the governing dictatorships of Iran and Formula 1 motor racing. A stroll along the tacky but impressive beachfront. And, naturally, a quest.

Ever since my abortive attempt to play rugby at London Business School in the 1990s, I have been and ever-increasing rugby fan. I even have chosen favorite countries--Argentina (following a great conversation with a true Argentine rugbyman in andean Bariloche), and Wales, because they have the best in-stadium singing.

Today's quest was to see a match between World Champs South Africa, and the "British and Irish Lions.".The Lions are one of rugby's most revered traditions. Every four years, they gather the best of Britain's and Ireland's rugby pros for a three match series against one of the sport's fearsome Southern Hemisphere powers--Australia, New Zealand and New Zealand.

Rather than seen as an all-star jolly to sunny climes, the Lions series actually exceeds Rugby's World Cup in prestige--particularly with the World Cup incumbents as the hosts. So this year's epic first match demanded viewing. Being in Bulgaria was no excuse. And two rules: no empty venues and no Boliarka beer. As a haunt with a fair British clientele, seaside pubs with satellite tv were quite common here. But venues with the Lions were fewer on the ground. Some were showing Formula 1 qualifying, others obscure Norwegian League football matches. One, conveniently located, was pouring Boliarka, the ugly duckling among Bulgaria's otherwise competent local brews, the one on tap at the Riu.

I walked another half hour down the strand, and a seaside restaurant with 8 flat screens beckoned, along with a dozen brits wearing football shirts from the likes of Swindon Town and whomever has FourFourTwo.com as its shirt sponsor.

The crowd was unsociable, my Wisconsin Badger shirt and Americanized cheering failing to produce any response from the throng. But the match was more than worth the stroll and the surliness--with an epic brittanohibernian fightback following some easy early points yielded to the South Africans, only for the hosts to stymie the hybrid nationals at the end.

Bulgaria--Flying Domestic

2009-06-30T13:33:00.000-07:00

I wanted to give myself a good day in Sofia, and a chance to see the country, and still get back to Sunny Beach to make reasonable use of my all inclusive vacation.

So, the logical move was to take a daytime bus to Sofia to see the countryside, and then fly back to the coast the next night.

Now as I find myself in the midst of a four-hour preflight experience at Sofia's sparkling but nearly comatose airport terminal, I'm thinking I may have been better off "leaving the driving to " one of this countrs numerous bus operators.

The bus to Sofia was cheap and simple. 6 hours, 18 Euros, leaving 500 yards/meters from my hotel. New buses, and relatively new EU-funded roads.

The flight back--2 hour delay for a 45 minute flight. Fare of 65 Euros, and the prospect of negotiating for an overpriced airport taxi now that the flight will arrive 'round midnight.

Airport dinner was 8 Euros--a draft Shumensko beer and a sandwich--about three times the price "out on the economy."

I've only flown domestic twice in my leisure travels, or at least those outside the USA. The first, back on the 2 week rampage through Turkey in 1998 that followed my marital split-up, was excellent. First class on Turkish Airlines, and I felt like a star with my cocktail served in a real glass. The second, over the Andes with LAN Argentina's service between Bariloche and Buenos Aires' main domestic airport, whose name escapes me but which had the most enticing-looking steakhouse in all of air travel.

To be sure, air travel has improved in Eastern Yurp in recent years. Bulgaria saw the disappearance of it's commie-era national airline, Balkan, and its replacement with tonight's tardiness culprit, Bulgaria Air. While Bulgaria Air doesn't belong to a major Western frequent flyer program, it does operate an all -Western fleet, including tonight's veteran Boeing 737. And, for effect, a large Lufthansa Technik maintenance hangar on the airport ground reassures the traveler.

Bulgaria--Another Balkan Capital

2009-06-30T13:28:00.000-07:00

Seated at one of Sofia's ubiquitous in-park outdoor cafes, I have a few minutes to reflect on my detour from my otherwise-all-inclusive beach holiday...

There was no question Sofia was worth both the visit and the schlep required to get in and out.It is not that Sofia is overwhelming or even all that aesthetically pleasing. More like an American state capitals rather than one of Europe's top cities, Sofia has little history to speak of, having been selected as Bulgaria's new capital in the 1890s. What little is here of architectural note is mostly fin de siecle in style, with a few Russian-style influences.

Sofia was also bombed intensively during WWII, but it was unclear by whom, as the Bulgarians switched sides in 1944. Outside of Sofia's small centre is a sea of what the Czechs call "panelaks"--the crumbling, dissheveled mid and high rise apartments bult of bad concrete to house the masses in Commie days.

In a fit of generosity during the democratic transition, the state gave most if not all of the flats to their occupants. This factoid explains a lot. Like how Bulgarians can live on an average monthly wage of about $300. And how even the most average of folks can have 1,2,3 properties. The economy was fuelled by a construction boom before, like economies everywhere, it stopped being fuelled at all.

Further out, onto Vitosha Mountain, lives Roy, an Antipodean ex-colleague of mine from our days at a quirky London communications consultancy. I was a huge fan of his at a number of levels (not least of which were his wit and healthy skepticism of our now-defunct company's culture), and the opportunity to pay a visit was one decisive reason for choosing Bulgaria. Roy did not disappoint. Now the Chief Executive of a leading Bulgarian commercial concern, Roy shared excellent stories about working and leading in an environment with a long and continuing history of being downtrodden. Roy looks the locals in the eye and doesn't buy their stories or take their crap, which they attempt to dish out in abundance. Roy has a great set up in Sofia--a beautiful mountainside home overlooking the city's expanse and "only 17 minutes to the snowfields" on Vitosha, a mountain with Olympic aspirations. (Sofia lost out to Sochi for the 2014 winter games).

But it quickly becomes apparent that being an expat here is several divisions ahead of my expat-lite experience in Brussels. "We needed to make sure there were several alternative heating systems. We avoided the gas shutdown (when Russia cut off all of Europe's gas to punish the Ukrainians), but we also have electricity and diesel as well.". Schooling is also a challenge, and security a concern. "We do live in a walled enclosure," noted Roy of his home's otherwise idyllic setting.

Bulgaria-Day 3

2009-06-30T13:25:00.000-07:00

After a long sleep-in brought on by my lack of somnolescence following the virtuoso performance by the Globally Famous DJ Sash at SB's Den Glade Viking, I took one look at the pool area and its collection of aging Germans and tattooed Brits, and then call again for a road trip.

Yesterday's trip, to Nessebar, a small but cute Bulgarian seaside town of Romanesque provenance was pleasant if predictable. Lots of souvenir shops, everything at the relatively modest but high for Bulgaria tourist prices.

Today's trip, Burgas, was the real deal. An old school Black Sea port cum beach town, with a resort atmosphere set in authentically ex-commie digs.

One thing that's always struck me about ex-commie places is the sheer numbers of buildings with multiple layers of peeling paint. I first noticed this in Rugen, a Baltic resort that once catered to Erich Honecker and the heavies of the old DDR (East Germany for those who never saw the classic, Goodbye Lenin). Rather than marking eyesores, the peeling paint speaks to these buildings being witnesses to history, as the history in these parts was turbulent over the last 70+ years.

Bulgaria's history is interesting enough. A Nazi ally which nonetheless saved its 50,000 member Jewish community, Bulgaria switched sides to the USSR in 1944 and later embraced communism to such an extent that it asked to be annexed to the USSR in 1973. They must have dug Brezhnev's eyebrows, I guess.

Today, Burgas at eventide is bustling if not ostentatiously prosperous (guys in t-shirts driving late-model Mercedes notwithstanding). Streetside cafes are about half full. Prices are a little cheaper than in Sunny Beach, menus in Cyrillic and either English or German, depending on the place.

Cyrillic is fun. Invented by Bulgarians Cyril and Methodius, who were later sainted for their literacy-spreading deeds, it is at its most fun when Westerners mangle the pronunciation of letters like B, C, H and P, which have differing sounds in the roman alphabet. As was once said of a Moscow dining establishment, "I once thought that 'PECTOPAH' meant 'restaurant'. Then I ate there, and realised that in fact, it really meant 'PECTOPAH'.". To be fair, in Bulgaria, restaurant means 'PECTOPAHT'. I haven't had a bad meal yet, to be fair.

Bulgaria-Day 2

2009-06-30T13:20:00.000-07:00

I have started to realize why I am growing to like this place so much. Unlike Greece which oozes Greekness, Italy which overwhelms with la dolce Italiana and the overwrought pungence of baked Parmesan, and Turkey with its addictive mix of Ataturkian ultranationalism, chilled-out Islamism and the dynamism of the diminutive Sezen Aksu, one of her iconic stars; Bulgaria does not attempt to have its visitors take it ultra-seriously.

Indeed, according to Lonely Planet, the national dish, Shopska salad, was manufactured by the Bulgarian Tourist Office in the 1970s to create some distinctive Bulgarianness on menus that even in Commie days tended towards bland internationalism. I've avoided it as I prefer the glorious local tomatoes without the adulturation of sheep cheese, raw onions, of which I am no fan, and cucumbers, which are equally tasteless everywhere.

Unlike in other holiday locales, where locals are keen to exult their nation's patrimonies and glories, Bulgarians express surprise at the interest of visitors. No more so in the case of the exceedingly rare Yanks on these Black Sea shores."Long flight!" said one Black Sea publican, expressing amazement that an American would venture here, and spreading his arms out for effect. I then told hime I actually lived in Brussels. What I left out was that the 3 hours en route aboard the aging 767 employed for Jetairfly flight 7147 brought me closer to The Creator than any recent transatlantic trip on an Airbus 330.

Immediately, my publican friend tells me about his relative in Chicago, and why the Bulgarian mafia sucks so much. I didn't argue. And, after watching the second half of the taped Romania-Uruguay rugby test match on Eurosport 2, I made a point of tipping well.

Bulgaria indeed gets very few Yank tourists. The main Black Sea airport at Burgas is nearly inaccessible, serviced mainly by charters from the UK, Germany, the Nordics and the Benelux, with twice weekly commuter flights from Sofia to connect with the global scheduled network. A round trip from a major Midwestern city that isn't Chicago costs about $3500.

By comparison, a week a one of my Riu's sister properties in the Dominican Republic costs a hell of a lot less than $3.5k. And they probably serve better beer and caipirinhas. I have only two complaints about the Riu two days in. One--they serve Bulgaria's worst beer on the all inclusive menu, Boliarka, and don't even offer a paid upgrade to the likes of Bulgaria's competent Zagorka or Kamenitza. And the watered down lemon Koolaid called a "Caipirinha" should spur inspired outrage from offended limes everywhere. Yuck!

Bulgaria-Day 1

2009-06-30T13:14:00.000-07:00

Barely 18 hours into my visit to the shores of the Black Sea and I feel well and truly on vacation. Not sure if that's more a function of my interleaving of weak all-inclusive cocktails with strong cups of Nescafe, or whether the relaxed atmosphere of Sunny Beach, Bulgaria has ensnared me with its charm.

Sunny Beach, on the surface, is a complete abomination. Imagine a seaside knockoff of Las Vegas done up in Oligarch chic. Lots of new buildings in bright colors and bad concrete. But a different class of bad concrete than was used in Commie days, with but a few old-school reminders of the Big Red Machine interspersed among hotels like the Planeta, Hrizantema, and Polyusi.

The Riu Helios Palace is an oasis in this sea of post-communist tourist mayhem. An outpost of the Spanish-German Riu chain, it is four-star both in rating and performance. Not ultra-luxurious, but competently run and with a fairly high standard of food, drink and accomodation served up to a fairly well-screened northern European clientele.

Being a single at an all-inclusive is always a bit of a challenge, particularly when one isn't actively "on the pull" (once again, my vacation coincides with the early stage of a new relationship conversation). Mostly, I'm interested in meeting some new buddies to take in Sunny Beach's legendary dance-music nightlife with. But even sans buddies, there is an abundance of entertainment here--mostly to be gained from watching the legions of young Scandinavians letting their hair down to the techno beat.

Surfacing After Two Months...

2009-02-22T13:26:00.000-08:00

Greetings to my friends and faithful readers in Blogland...Yes, my productivity in blogland has waned substantially in recent weeks--mainly because I've had less interest in writing and musing on life and more interest on, well, living it...

February finds me with no major complaints, the biggest of which, the overpowering darkness of Northern European winter has finally given way to the point where it is light both when I leave the house and leave the office.

Still, I have no doubt that my thoughts of going to Sweden, Finland or Estonia for "midsummer" (quote marks because "midsummer" marks both the first and last days of summer in these Baltic climes) are still pegged to my residual darkness trauma of the last few months.

Before a few special items (several of which I've recycled from my more assiduously maintained Facebook page), some basics:

* Living arrangements: while having a late-twenties American flatmate can result into the descent into some fraternity-house-style living habits, the recent engagement of a cleaning lady has brought many smiles to Rue d'Oultremontstraat... It's been nice having intelligent American company to come home to, particularly as the Obama administration gathers steam, though middle-east discussions can get a bit dicey, as it's hard for me to convince him that one side in a conflict can indeed be right all the time.

* Work: Am enjoying my organization--though being in a foreign outpost of a strong company that has a very strong culture has been very much an education...

* Dating: no wedding bells by a long shot, but the quality of my conversations seems to be improving. I'm attributing this mainly to the amount of available light.

* Sports: My beloved Wisconsin Badgers have come back from the dead, last seen turning a six game basketball losing streak into a five game tear back through the standings of the eleven-member Big Ten Conference of America's finest state universities... As for Tottenham--listless performances of late leave the Mighty Spurs stuck dangerously near the trap door to relegation and the oblivion of the so-called Coca-Cola Championship. Only pleasure to be taken from the season has been the relatively weak performance of the Hated Arsenal Scum. But of course the Scum are faring far better than we are. Ptui.

* Lugano: Travel has been at a premium of late, as I become ever better at conference calls and web exchanges at work. But a recent IABC conference got me out of Belgium for a few days and over to Lugano--the small Swiss lakeside city that is best described as "Italy went to Obedience School".

Lugano is extremely attractive, and it's main academic institution, the Universita di Svizzera Italiana (translated as "the university of Italians lucky enough to be Swiss") is also to European professional communications schools what my alma mater London Business School is to business schools: Numero Uno.

The conference was excellent--http://europe.iabc.com/ has more details.But what stole the show was Lugano itself... Italian and Swiss seem to be two contravening paradigms, and for the most part they are.

I would have dug the local cuisine more if my lifelong aversion to Parmesan Cheese and its near-relatives wasn't on full guard for the visit, or if the little white spear in otherwise excellent pumpkin soup at the main dinner event didn't happen to be a chunk of rabbit, one of the two main species I don't eat because I think they are cuter than I am (the other, of course being my old friends, the pigs).

Still, the setting is breathtaking. The secret of Lugano is its low elevation--300 feet--while surrounded by alpine mountains. Thus Lugano has a surprisingly mild climate described as mediterranean, with the occasional palm tree. In the architectural detail, Lugano is clearly Italian--churches, public buildings and street signs being clearly Italian in style.

But other flavors emerge. French fashion houses, Credit Suisse, German names like the Lido Seegarten hotel (the conference hotel), and a mixture of modern and more-Swiss-looking architectural styles. Add in the neon ads for classic Swiss watches on the lakeshore: Rolex, Rado, Tissot, Jaeger le Couture and the picture becomes clearer--particularly from the deck of the spectacular Casino Lugano. Still, the most telling difference between Italy and Svizzera Italiana: the parking. Orderly, rational, coherent parking--not like a bunch of people had hydrochloric acid spilled in their laps.

Random Thoughts

2009-02-22T13:11:00.000-08:00

One of the coolest things coursing around Facebook these days is the "25 Random Things" note--notes written by Facebookers about disparate but generally interesting facets of their lives. I was sufficiently inspired to write three of these: 25 Random Things, 20 Random Beers, and 21 Random Places Where I've Lived. For your reading pleasure:

25 Random Things

1. I haven't done anything political for pay since 2004, but politics remains my favorite subject of news and conversation

2. My current job as the most challenging I've ever had--and while it can be a bit scary, I'm really starting to enjoy the people

3. While I'm both a US and UK citizen, I can't vote in Britain because I don't have a UK address.

4. My lack of a UK address doesn't deter me from 'voting' on the most important matter facing the Brits--English Football.

5. Supporters of my English football team, Tottenham Hotspur, are known as The Yid Army.

6. I'm not a particularly religious Jew, but my passion for Israel and the Jewish People holds my own on other fronts.

7. I was the earliest active Obama supporter in the Netherlands when I lived there. I even got to speak at the Obama victory party in the NL.

8. I think Obama will be a great president, and will piss me off at times along the way

9. I don't hate Republicans--I used to be one from 1986-92

10. I've been blogging since 2005.

11. I've lost a bit of zeal for blogging since I moved back to Europe and got on Facebook--I have more to do, and an easier way of sharing thoughts in real time

12. I've gone from thinking I'm an expert to realizing I'm still a student in many respects--the more I know, the less I know!

13. There are nearly more places on the list of places I want to return to as there are on the places that I want to see for the first time.

14. The best places I've ever been are (in alphabetical order) Bariloche, Argentina; Bruges, Belgium; Jerusalem, Israel; Paris, France; Sarajevo, Bosnia; Stockholm, Sweden.

15. I think baby piglets are the most adorable thing on the planet and that nothing else remotely comes close

16. I'm contemplating a big step in my life--getting an unfurnished apartment and buying furniture.

17. I have not owned a car since 1996.

18. I have never driven into an auto accident--a fact that should make me less of an agnostic than I am, considering my driving.

19. I'm a connoisseur of European train travel.

20. I am a deeply committed beer connoisseur, having written nearly 200 beer reviews on Ratebeer.com (member number mklein818).

21. My university's sports teams also occupy a big spot in my heart--cheering on the Wisconsin Badgers in fertile and lean seasons

22. Dating has been an ongoing source of frustration

23. I cook a little--my main interest is in reduction sauces. Port wine with lemon and wholegrain mustard is awesome; recently did one with 11% alcohol Kasteel beer

24. The best educational experience I've had was with an organization called Landmark Education.

25. I'm capping this off by pouring a chalice of St Feuillien Cuvee de Noel--a fine amber brew from Le Roeulx, Belgium.

2o Random Beers

The following beer thoughts are designed to motivate, inspire, and if necessary elicit envy from those for whom such brews are not commonly available.

They are listed in no particular order, having given up on selecting "the best beer" many moons ago...

1. Palm: Legendary Belgian ale, civilized at a pilsner strength, but with flavor depth of heartier brews. Have been to the brewery in Steenhuffel and seen the famous Palm draft horses.

2. Kasteel Bruin: Rich and unctuous--at a potent 11%, not a brew to start the evening with. Best served in its own gold-lipped chalice. Makes an interesting reduction sauce with a bit of lemon, honey, garlic and whole grain mustard.

3. Primus: Probably the best lager in the world, alas only found in Belgium. Very different from German lagers in particuler--light on the hoppy bitterness and deeper in the malt department.

4. Val Dieu Brune: A divine brew--the only Belgian beer brewed at a non-Trappist abbey. Balanced sweetness and spiciness.

5. Grimbergen Brune: My favorite mass-market dark Belgian brew, available on tap from most pubs with a Maes sign on the door. Also decent availabilty in the US--now owned by Heineken.

6. Tripel Karmeliet: It's a multi-grain beer, so it's healthy, eh? At 8%, the health benefits are compounded by a potent punch. Oats are the added ingredient, along with barley and wheat malts. Sweet-sour-spice. And it comes from a place called Buggenhout. Can't beat that.

7. De Koninck: The beer that is to Antwerp what Old Style is to Chicago, except that it has a distinct color and flavor. It's served in a glass called a Bolleke. Order one for an Englishman and see the reaction you get.

8. Liefman's Kriek: An intricately brewed and blended mix of cherry fruit and brown ales from Flanders. Different from most other Krieks, which are brewed closer to Brussels according to a different formula. Worth the effort to find.

9. Bush/Scaldis: No, not the $4 a 12 pack at the truck stop Busch, but a fiery and noble Walloon brew from the Dubuisson brewery. Known as "the cognac beer", a late-night brew served in a snifter-like glass. Sold in the US as "Scaldis" to avoid conflicts with that big Belgian brewery in St. Louis.

10. Westvleteren: Brewed by Trappist monks unconcerned by market forces or commercial gain, "Westy" is by far the most sought after of Belgian brews. Cars line up on the rare days cases are placed on sale, and commercial distribution is spotty and allegedly illegal. A bottle of Westy Abt, the 12% alcohol version, has a street value in Belgium of EUR 12. Steep for a beer. But have you ever paid the equivalent for indifferent cabernet sauvignon? You have. Admit it.

11. Ommegang: The best Belgian beer in America. Brewed by Belgium's Moortgat Brewery at a branch in Cooperstown, New York, this beer has a combination of sweetness, bitterness and depth matched by few beers anywhere. It's sister brews Three Philosophers and Hennepin are also excellent, and sister Rare Vos tastes a slightly amped-up version of Palm above.

12. Blanche de Namur: Am not a huge white/wheat beer fan, but by far my favorite is Blanche de Namur, from the dramatically situated Walloon capital of Namur, a top day-trip destination. Clean, sparkly acidity with a lemoniness that warns off the introduction of trendy fruit slices.

13. La Trappe Quadrupel: A 10% alcohol behemoth from over the border in Holland--easily the best Dutch beer. The beer equivalent of sticky toffee pudding.

14. Duvel: My first Belgian, from my days as a legal 19 year old tippler at the University of Wisconsin Union. Deceptively mild--a pilsnerlike flavor masking a potent 8.5 punch. They don't call it 'Devil" for nothing.

15. Tongerlo Brune: My first Belgian dark beer. Mild at 6% alcohol,but with some nice caramel flavors. A sentimental favorite.

16. St. Feuilllien Triple: A Walloon favorite with an exquisite mix of spices. Strong and warming. St. Feullien's dark and blonde beers are great too.

17. Gordon Scotch: Despite the name, very much a Belgian brew, albeit in a once-popular Scottish style. Strong at 8.5%, bitter, sweet, and well balanced. Served in a thistle glass that kind of looks like a tornado made of glass.

18. Saison Dupont: A unique brew--not sweet at all, but possessing a deep savoriness. Think soy sauce without the salt--just pure, deep, savory flavor. Great with food.

19. Fin Du Monde: Canada's best Belgian beer--mildly sweet, spicy and little hoppy. Great label with a dramatic map of Quebec.

20. And finally, the majestic Cuvee van de Keizer (Grand Cru of the Emperor), from Gouden Carolus in Mechelen,Belgium, where my office is. Cuvee is an annual brew, varying by year. I can still taste the Star Anise from the 2006 version. Belgium--and beer--at its best.

21 Random Places where I've Lived

1. San Jose, California: Stayed on a candidate’s couch for a month. Came to the conclusion that while Alice B. Toklas said “there’s no there, there” about Oakland, it was because she hadn’t been to San Jose.

2. Delft, Netherlands: One year in deluxe apartment in a rehabbed college building. View of a canal out of a sliver of my living room window. Fondest memory was when one of the guys at the Proeflokaal (tasting pub with 100+ beers) gave me a glass with a decal of a nearby drawbridge and the word Delvenaer (native Delftian)

3. Raleigh, NC: An antiseptic southern town—quite unusual in that I don’t normally find southern towns antiseptic. Best part is that Chapel Hill is nearby. Worst part is that Raleigh isn’t Chapel Hill.

4. Willesden Green, London: A rare affordable, well-situated, vibrant if rough-around-the-edges part of London. Better suited for a bachelor than a married couple.

5. Albany, NY: At 100,000 a very small big city—with big city politics, a major state capital and a University that has finally found some identity,. Best wings on earth.

6. San Francisco: As a famous wag once said, San Francisco has never had a smug free day. Nuff said.

7. Skokie, IL: Where I landed in greater Chicago in 1969, and where my brother bashed my head against a brick wall shortly thereafter. He still hasn’t apologized.

8. Hampstead Garden Suburb, London: A beautifully designed suburban community with absolutely no commerce of any kind. Round the corner from Golders Green, one of the world’s great Jewish neighbo(u)rhoods.

9. Madison, WI: Winters notwithstanding, one of the most pleasant, beautiful, and vibrant places on the planet. Summer evenings with Duvel in hand overlooking Lake Mendota, raucous gamedays punctuated by the Fifth Quarter, and January icefishing. Does anyone remember Madison’s Lady Liberty?

10. The Hague, Netherlands: A sterile city, and an extremely sterile studio apartment owned by an unusually garrulous if fastidious Dutchman. Got to commute by tram though, which was cool.

11. Kewanee, IL: Where I drew my first political paycheck in 1988. Tough campaign, and very tough little farm town. High point: Hog Days Parade. As in pigs, not motorcycles.

12. Burke, VA: Not quite an exurb of Washington, DC, though you wouldn’t know it from the 90 minute one-way commute. Redeeming bit was that it was close to George Mason University, where I hung out with the brothers of Sigma Phi Epsilon

13. Rosh Tzurim, Israel: When a boulder fell on my finger on this West Bank (Judea-Samaria) Kibbutz, I was literally between a rock and a very hard place. Learned a lot up close about Religious Zionism and the settler mentality. Vastly prefer secular Zionism instead.

14. Baton Rouge, LA: Expected a small New Orleans, found more of a middling state capital/college town with much better food than average. Love that etouffee

15. Baltimore, MD: A place with heart, soul, texture and personality, along with good food and some great watering holes. Best—the Mount Royal Tavern, with an amazing ceiling fresco.

16. Kilburn, London: First place I ever drank Guinness in the morning, appropriate as this is London’s most Irish of neighbo(u)rhoods. Was watching Ireland-Cameroon during World Cup 2002.

17. Bakersfield, CA: A thoroughly underrated burg, with sweeping mountain vistas, oil wells, low-slung buildings and inimitable tri-tip beef. Dominated by the ghost of Buck Owens, country music icon who called this bit of the ol’ southwest home.

18. Evanston, IL: Where I came of age in many ways. Was a total dork in high school, learned the basics of research as a telephone interviewer, and saw Magic Johnson’s MSU Spartans experience a rare upset loss to the Northwestern Mildcats. Now one of Chicago’s more fashionable urban suburbs—amazing what legalized alcohol can do for a place.

19. Rosslyn, VA: A mellow place across the river from DC—where a great flatmate helped me keep my sanity during my unhappy if productive years as a federal government communications contractor.

20. Montgomery, AL: The deep south at its deepest. Like living in a foreign country--gave me the appetite for the real thing. Best part was the food (the late Kat and Harry's with their super-cheap Ridge Zinfandel) and the singer belting out Toni Braxton better than Toni ever did...

21. Brussels, Belgium: The capital—and heart of Europe. The bucket of gold at the end of the rainbow. Despite the winter darkness, wet weather, anti-semitic politicians and confiscatory taxation. Such things are no match for magret de canard, daytrips to Brugge, and hot-and-cold running supplies of Kasteel, Rochefort, and Grimbergen Brune.

Global Transformation, Palm Beer, Song for the Season

2008-12-15T13:37:00.000-08:00

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...

John McCain, Bret Bielema and a Light Belgian Beer

2008-11-30T07:58:00.000-08:00

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.

Obamelot, Slumdog Millionaire, and Hip Hip Harry

2008-11-26T15:38:00.000-08:00

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!!!

Running out of Blog?

2008-11-02T09:22:00.000-08:00

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.

Stuff for September

2008-09-28T12:30:00.000-07:00

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. ---

Surreal for Breakfast

2008-08-19T13:51:00.000-07:00

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."

Minnesota, Hats Off to Thee

2008-08-19T13:50:00.001-07:00

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.

Two Sides of the Beer Spectrum

2008-08-19T13:46:00.000-07:00

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!

An Update

2008-07-20T14:54:00.000-07:00

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.

EMELI '08

2008-07-20T14:51:00.000-07:00

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.

Unfinished Business: My Letter to the Welsh Rugby Union

2008-07-20T14:43:00.000-07:00

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

Into Antalya's Embrace

2008-07-08T13:10:00.000-07:00

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.

Turkey--First Impressions and Last Resorts

2008-07-05T12:03:00.000-07:00

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.

Coming Home

2008-07-01T07:59:00.000-07:00

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 Europe, where Wirtz was quietly building a reputation as an IT Project Leadership guru. The best such encounter was back in 2001, when Wirtz and I mounted a full frontal attack on Copenhagen and Southern Sweden and fought both to a draw over three relentless days.

Lynn, in turn, is a genuinely remarkable woman. A fellow communications professional, Lynn is a rare evangelical Christian who is as deeply committed to her faith as she is accepting of those, like me, who do not share it. A seminal encounter was when I was visiting Chicago during a snowstorm in 2007 and started discussing my never-ending frustrations with dating. Lynn asked, “May I pray for you?” While not asked in a Sicilian tone, it was nonetheless an offer I couldn’t refuse, and I am still touched by the way Lynn asked to this day.

Coming back to Chicago early this June was still a bit strange. While “Chicagoan” is as much a core facet of my identity as “Jew”, “American”, “Dual-Citizen”, “Badger (team of the University of Wisconsin, my alma mater), “London Business School MBA98” and “Landmark Grad,” the fact remained that I had no remaining friends or relatives—other than John and Lynn who were most otherwise occupied—who would host me for the weekend. I thus stayed at the Hotel Burnham, an excellent hotel in the heart of the City, but I was feeling intense feelings of disconnection and reconnection at the same time.

Chicago will always be ‘home’ in a sense, as it is not only where I come from physically but where many of my approaches to life originate. I grew up an ethnic Jew in a multi-ethnic milieu. I learned political consulting—the core skill set of my professional communications consulting—in the brass-knuckle world of Cook County Democratic politics. I learned to continue to support losing sports teams long past the point of futility or reason. I even learned to pronounce the plural ‘s’ like a ‘singular ‘s’ (“The Bears” is actually pronounced “Da Bearse”).

Chicago is also a world-tier city, a city of similar size and consequence to Paris, Toronto or Sydney. It’s a place I could live if the situation called for it—but it was not calling me home last visit…

Going Home

2008-07-01T07:58:00.000-07:00

No, the city calling me home is that ever-so-seductive and glorious Hoofdstad de l’Europe, Brussels. While I’m withholding my title and company from a printed article until the final “I”s are crossed and “T”s are dotted with the help of corporate HR, I am delighted to say that I am returning to Brussels in August and starting a Belgium-based permanent role.

The emotional twinge I get when I step off a train in Brussels is remarkably similar to what I feel when coming off a plane in Chicago. And while I certainly have a past with Brussels, my thought are those of the future—where to go, who to meet, how to get involved, who to reconnect with and how to optimize my neighborhood choice and integrate a higher amount of exercise to accommodate the world-class Belgian cuisine.

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 Brussels.

M&W: More Reconnections

2008-07-01T07:56:00.002-07:00

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 University of Wisconsin.

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 Milwaukee, focusing on divorce and family law, and, despite being an old comrade from Young Democrats, he actully ran for the Wisconsin State Assembly as a Republican and fared better than any candidate from his party in recent decades.

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

2008-07-01T07:54:00.000-07:00

No, it’s not actually a tour. But in little over an hour, I’ll be leaving for Amsterdam’s Schiphol Airport for my between-jobs vacation. Wanting some luxury, but wanting to keep the budget in reason, I opted for a package from Dutch operator Corendon for nine days for just less than EUR 800.

Here’s the deal. I know I am flying to Antalya Airport on Turkey’s Mediterrenean Coast. I specified a “Five-Star” hotel (though Turkish 5 star may or may not mean the same as French, Bermudan or Maldivian 5-star). I specified all-inclusive, meaning that I will have non-stop access to food, ‘local’ drink, and entertainment (and as I like lamb and raki, the local firewater, this is hard to screw up). But I have no idea where I’m staying, or with whom.

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 Reunion…

Chicago...Chicago...That Obama Town

2008-06-19T12:22:00.000-07:00

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.

Breathless and Speechless

2008-05-24T08:39:00.000-07:00

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 Atlantic, a comment of this nature seems less like a statement about a remote contingency and more like a wish to see her victorious rival’s sudden departure from the scene.

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 West Virginia and Kentucky. Hillary’s comments should finally consign her to the place she deserves—away from the limelight and well to the fringes of the most important general election campaign the US and the World have faced in 40 years.

NJDC: Its Time Has Come

2008-05-24T08:37:00.000-07:00

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 Israel in particular, an equally concerted effort will need to take place to mobilize Democratic support for Israel and Jewish concerns over the course of an Obama presidency.

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

2008-05-24T08:36:00.001-07:00

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 London, Brussels and Delft for 8 of the last 12 years, I sound a lot more like Chicago Mayor Richard Daley than I do John Cleese or Jean Claude Van Damme.

But every so often, the link between my exaggerated Americanness and my sense of being at home in Europe comes together. Such was the case in Bastogne, Belgium two weeks ago.

Bastogne, for those who don’t know it, was the town in the Belgian Ardennes that was the objective of the Nazi offensive that culminated in the Battle of the Bulge. It is also the one place in Belgium that has completely embraced the American role in the liberation of Western Europe at the heart of its local narrative.

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 US states (Alaska and Hawaii were added upon statehood in 1959 without rearranging the incumbents), there was an intricate story of the battle and the havoc it wreaked upon the surrounding area on ten giant panels. And in the center, underneath an open circle connecting the points of the star, is a black granite stone with the inscription in Latin: “Liberatoribus Americanis Populus Belgicus Memor. IV VII MCMXLVI”, or “Belgium Remembers its American Liberators, July 4, 1956.”

Flying in front of the Mardasson are the flags of the US and the European Union. While the US and Europe don’t always see eye-to-eye, and neither the US nor the EU make things easy for those who want to do anything more than vacation in each other’s territory, European life as it is known today would not have been possible but for the contribution of American, British and, yes, Russian soldiers who died in the process of liberation. These sacrifices are rarely given much thought in other places, but are close to daily life in Bastogne, where the American Stars and Stripes flies alongside the Belgian Tricolor and the Walloon Cockerel from the town hall, and where “Le Nut’s” café remains a popular watering hole.

2 Winners in Brussels

2008-05-24T08:35:00.000-07:00

Naturally, history wasn’t the only item on my agenda in Belgium, as my hankering for quality and reasonably priced food has been accentuated by a long winter in the less-culinarily inclined Netherlands.

Le Petit Pont, while a trek from the centre of Brussels in the suburb of Uccle, once again reinforced its place as my single favorite restaurant in the entire world with a stunning Sunday afternoon rack of lamb. For the price of a mediocre Sunday Roast in London, the lamb arrived with an exquisitely herbed crust, dauphinoise potatoes, and some of the most delicately cooked haricots verts I had seen in ages. The service, as always was impeccable, and my restraint in ordering a small ‘pichet’ of the house red paid off masterfully with a young and unduly voluptuous number for a relatively modest investment. The exuberance of the weather on one of Brussels’ car-free-Sundays yielded an ambiance more reflective of Provence than of the Benelux.

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

2008-05-24T08:34:00.000-07:00

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.

Opening my mouth in London

2008-04-19T05:44:00.000-07:00

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.

Restaurant Karma

2008-04-19T05:41:00.000-07:00

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.
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Reflections of a Democrat Abroad

2008-03-18T15:18:00.000-07:00

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 United States—produced feelings of heimishness~ I had rarely experienced in many years.

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 Europe’s Liberal parties even though they represent the most conservative option in countries where the political spectrum would otherwise spread from socialist to Stalinist. But there were few ideological notes sounded during the all-consuming Delegate Selection Process, where what seemed to be 860 people out of the 140 in attendance pleaded for the assembled throng to give them one of four coveted Obama seats at the Democratic National Convention in Denver.

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 Edinburgh in 2004 was that the big countries (UK, FR, GER) would make a slate in the hotel bar the night before and settle the matter early. So when I saw my old friend stand up after the speeches and yell out “SMALL COUNTRY COALITION!”, I knew it was show time.

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 Netherlands delegation the biggest voting bloc in Coalition matters even though we had fewer actual votes per person than the other countries.

The putative Denver delegates raised their hands and amassed in the front. Quickly, with ruthless precision, the group was asked to vote for two candidates of each gender until a majority of folks backed two of each. The decisions were tough—a selection of any four random Obama caucus delegates for Denver would have yielded four members of America’s best and brightest—articulate, intelligent, passionate and humane individuals who could step to the dais or in front of a camera and tell their own story, that of Barack Obama and that of us Dems Abroad.

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 Illinois legislator from South Africa who was my seat-neighbor for the proceedings and a woman from Sweden who graciously yielded her place as the horsetrading began in earnest.

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 Germany came through to support both of our male candidates and our surviving female candidate in return for supporting their female candidate. After the initial shock of encountering a generous deal from Germany of all places, we took the final ballots. A half hour of counting ensued. And then the results were announced.

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 Denver that hard. The real action for Democrats Abroad isn’t in Denver—it’s in getting Barack Obama the votes of overseas Americans when he gets the nomination. But the Democrats Abroad caucus was nonetheless a homecoming—even when I live many miles away from what others would call my “home”.

(* common 'across-the-pond' shorthand for Europe, Middle East and Africa, or what G.W. Bush more simply calls ‘Abroad’)

(` Yiddish term meaning ‘home-like’, but more evocative of ‘being among one’s own peeps’)

Champions without Stars

2008-03-18T15:17:00.000-07:00

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 Indiana’s Purdue University in the regular season race, and from regular-season underachiever Illinois in the tournament to emerge on top.

As a die-hard Badger, I say: Thank you Bo Ryan and Let’s Win The Tournament!

Single Again

2008-03-18T15:16:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-18T15:14:00.000-07:00

Finally, it’s rare that I review regular-strength (5% and under) brews. But one that is truly remarkable is one I had in Delft’s Locus Publicus while waiting for the nearby Chinese place to open for dinner.

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!

Denk Obama, Eet Obama: The Presidential Race from the NL

2008-02-18T13:15:00.000-08:00

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 “Nederland is Oranje” by iconic pop star Guus Meeuwis.

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 Wisconsin’s primary, the tune morphs into “praat Obama, denk Obama, eet Obama, drink Obama.”

The US presidential race has become compelling theatre—the young articulate, African-American Senator from Illinois Barack Obama building a lead over the erstwhile First Lady, Hillary Clinton, for whom the nomination race was expected to be a coronation instead of a state-by-state come-from-behind jihad.

Without going into the complexities of the Presidential selection process and the alternatives for Clinton to attempt to seize victory in the face of voter repudiation, what has been amazing is how this American expat has been able to be completely plugged into what is happening and to have outlets to participate meaningfully.

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 Des Moines, Springfield, Madison or Scarsdale is.

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 Madison, Wisconsin.

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 Ohio or Texas this weekend if I feel like it, just as I’d be doing if I was back in the States. Even though I’m physically the furthest I’ve been from a competitive race for the Presidency, the race is at my fingertips, twenty four hours a day.

Wemberley: Tottenham v. Chelsea

2008-02-18T13:10:00.000-08:00

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 Chelsea’s support has long had an element of anti-Jewishness to it, which hasn’t completely abated despite the club’s acquisition of a Jewish Russian billionaire oligarch named Roman Abramovich who has turned the club into a full-time job. Abramovich’s replacement of popular Portuguese manager Jose Mourinho with former Israeli National Team Coach Avraham Grant did him no favors with the neo-Nazi element of his club’s support.

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 Chelsea supporters of “We Hate Tottenham!” provoked an instinctive reply by the 33,000 Tottenham faithful at the club’s White Hart Lane ground. The reply: “We hate ARSENAL! We hate ARSENAL!” showing that the club’s true rival, the Hated Arsenal Scum, held that position without challenge or threat from the Chelsea posers.

On the base of sheer surplus talent, Chelsea enters the match heavy favorites even if fielding an all-substitute team. But Tottenham has some wind at its back, most notably the previous-round demolition of the Hated Arsenal Scum 5-1, and the adrenaline of a cup final makes outcomes unpredictable. I’ll be at an English or Irish pub in The Hague with my 1999 Spurs Away jersey—from the year we last hoisted this particular cup.

PS: The motto of Tottenham Hotspur is “Audere est Facere”—To dare is to do. Kind of fits me, eh?

Mechelen--Quest for the Emperor

2008-02-17T13:07:00.000-08:00

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.

One Day Has Come: Spurs Are On Our Way To Wembley

2008-01-22T14:12:00.000-08:00

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!

January 2008

2008-01-18T07:23:00.000-08:00

Reflections on the Balkan Winter

Planes, trains and renegade cabbies. Turkish coffee served in American-sized cups. A Muslim brewery in Sarajevo and a Rugby Pub in Ljubljana. A conversation in Sarajevo about the San Francisco based President of a professional association I belong to. And the highways, byways and Cyrillic advertising of Republika Srpska.

Those were some of the enduring memories of my wintry whirlwind trip to the Balkans, touching on four countries of Former Yugoslavia and capped off with New Years in Budapest. I've written about them in much detail in the previous postings below--also capturing adventures like the Night Train to Vienna (from which I was evacuated) and two days in the not-ready-for-the-First-World Serbian capital of Belgrade. I've also posted an album, available through a link at the appointed location.

Would love your thoughts--particularly if you've spent some time in the region!

Primary Colo(u)rs

The US political season is off to a roaring start, with no clear leader in either the Republican or Democratic races for the Presidency. Indeed, with Hillary Clinton's resurgence in New Hampshire and no less than three Republicans winning early state contests, the possibility that these contests will turn into four-month, knock-down, drag-out bloodbaths becomes more tantalising by the day.

The battle for delegates will head to some unlikely places on February 5, when Democrats Abroad opens the first-ever Global Primary to apportion its delegates for the Democratic Party's presidential nominating convention. While state contests in (states) will draw most of the attention and all of the resources, Democratic voters outside the US will have our own primary where our votes proportionately will matter far more than those cast on US soil.

In the Netherlands, where I'm active on the Democrats Abroad communication group, voting will be kicked off officially on the evening of the 5th at Amsterdam's Balie events centre·from 5 PM to 9 PM at De Balie, Kleine-Gartmanplantsoen 10 (near the Leidseplein), Amsterdam, with speeches from leading local experts on the American scene, the city's Deputy Mayor, and the US Consul General. While there will be no official representation from the campaigns, local supporters of Clinton and Senator Barack Obama will sharpen their elbows and attempt to make their cases to the few uncommitted voters who make it to the event.

Most Democrats in the NL, and in the rest of what George Bush calls "Abroad" will cast their votes over the Internet--making the DA Global Primary a significant test of this voting technology. Delegates will be apportioned to candidates by their share and size of the vote in each contested country, with national caucuses convening to select delegates to regional and global caucuses and ultimately to the nominating convention in Denver in August. As this represents my first chance to throw my hat into the caucus ring since I was elected as a Gary Hart delegate to the regional caucus in Wisconsin's State Senate District 1 in 1984, I will again seek a regional caucus seat.

I will do so as an enthusiastic backer of Senator Barack Obama. I don't agree with Obama on every issue, but there is an underlying passion, intensity and integrity that Obama brings to the table, along with an ability to galvanise and build a movement for real change in America. The Clintons, showing family unity unprecedented since the arrival on the scene of a certain Nice Jewish Girl from Los Angeles, mock and deride Obama for being insufficiently substantive, and for lacking the 'policy experience' that compares to that earned by Mrs C. through her unimpressive stint as a US Senator, her disastrous tenure as her husband's Health Care czar, and her career as influence broker and gatekeeper in the Arkansas Governor's Mansion.

I'll concede Hillary has more policy experience. But as we are learning day by day in an ever-globalising world, policy offers far less leverage for real change than the ability to galvanise and mobilise people. Capital, ideas and energy move across and around borders at astounding rates of speed. Attempts by one jurisdiction to legislate bad things away often yield worse collateral damage when the jurisdiction gets cut out of markets and processes. In Barack Obama, we have a presidential candidate who has a much sharper idea of how today's world works, and isn't promising us a rerun of "That '90s Show."

I'll be casting my vote in the Netherlands...for the next President of the United States, Barack Obama.

Up the Kriek

Cherries and beer aren't words one normally hears in the same sentence--unless you happen to be relaxing in a cheerful beer cafe in the Benelux.

Cherry beers, called Kriek in the Benelux in honor of the species of cherry used to flavor such brews, occupy a beloved niche in the beer scene here, and a number of the more popular versions are available in the US and UK.

They tend to be appreciated for three reasons--as a refreshing, sweet-sour alternative to a mid-day soft drink, a tipple favored by women who have been conditioned not to drink 'beer' for social acceptance reasons, or, in my case, as a taste-bud-resetting alcohol-lowering pause to a session scaling the lofty heights of the Benelux brewers' art.

Generally, kriek beers are brewed using open fermentation and airborne yeasts, which explains why most such brews come from the area around Brussels as it's the only place such yeasts are found in the wild. They are brewed from a sour mash called 'lambic' derived from barley and wheat malt, and with the addition either of whole cherries, cherry juice or cherry syrup, depending on the brand.

The most popular Kriek in the world is BelleVue, with wide international distribution. It's more of the 'cherry syrup' variety, but it has a complex flavor and I find it very refreshing. More traditional is Boon, brewed with whole cherries and sold in corked 375ml and 750ml bottles. And my favorite--Liefman's from Flanders, which is brewed with Flemish brown ale instead of lambic, and is available at top beer pubs, off-licenses and liquor stores.

Wishing you a cherry...er...cheery January, that's FlightKL18.

Balkan Pics

2008-01-02T22:46:00.000-08:00

I accumulated 443 pictures during my foray into the Balkans; a representative assortment of 60 are available at:

http://www.facebook.com/p.php?i=579150359&k=4WM44Z5YQ3TF6FLGWDV5P

Will post some more in the next few days. In the meantime, enjoy the travelogues below.

Mike

Bests, Worsts and Other Observations

2008-01-01T09:33:00.000-08:00

As I stand in the "Drink Bar" of the Hotel Gellert in Budapest, the process of itemising the various bests and worsts comes into play: not just for a second shot at the most pertinent items, but also to keep currently memorable moments from fading into memory, and to provide a vehicle for internet searchers to find the venues most worth patronising.

Most congenial pub: Rugby Pub, Ljubljana

Best pizza: Hole in One, Zagreb

Best grilled meat: Cevapi at Hodzic 2, Sarajevo

Best overall meal: Duck in Orange Rosemary Sauce, Kisablo Pub. Budapest

Best regional meal: Smoked Trout Filets in Chopped Peanuts and. Honey Mustard Cream Sauce, Hotel Moskva, Belgrade

Best breakfast: All dishes involving Bosnian smoked beef, Halvat Guest House, Sarajevo

Most memorable TV Moment: Panel discussion on religious tolerance on Republika Srpska (Bosnian Serb) TV featuring a Catholic priest, an unusually portly rabbi, a blue-eyed imam and an intense-looking Serbian Orthodox priest.

Best coffee: Srpska Kava at Mani Prag, across from Hotel Prag, Belgrade.

Best hostelry, by far: Halvat Guest House (both in the guest house and in their excellent private accommodation), Sarajevo

Best public event: Televised Xmas sing, main square, Zagreb

Most disconcerting arrival incident: Being fleeced by Belgrade Taxi Driver 2697

Second most disconcerting arrival incident: seeing table of lurid anti-abortion literature immediately upon arrival in Zagreb

Biggest surprise: Ljubljana-this place has hit the big time with its pristine Old Town and attractive setting

Biggest shock: Belgrade-the Second World isn't completely down for the count

Best train: Sleeper on Croatian Railways from Munich-Zagreb. Even included an amenity kit and an edible chocolate.

Worst train: Austrian Rail's disastrous Belgrade-Vienna run with the squabbling Greeks, crazy Serbs, and Austrian train manager screaming "Schnell" to evacuate our smoky car.

Best lager: LAV, from Carlsberg Serbia.

Worst lager: Lasko Club from Slovenia. Undrinkable (but regular Lasko on tap in Slovenia is OK).

Best driver: the fellow in Belgrade who drove me to the train station for free, and ran two red lights in the process, even though I was an hour early for the train.

Best hotel lobby moment: Playing balloon volleyball with the front desk clerk at Belgrade's Hotel Rex.

Best place to visit on December 25: Jewish Museum, Sarajevo

Strangest culinary discoveries: 1) That the breast of goose Jewish style at the resolutely unkosher Carmel Restaurant in Budapest tasted almost identical to my mom's pot roast. (Had she known she could have charged me more for it.)
2) That the Croatians spike their mustard with tarragon. Weird, but not bad.
3) Everything that isn't pork in Sarajevo pretty much is pork in Belgrade.

Best music: 1) Balkan brass band that surrounded me after giving a 200 dinar (EUR 3) note to tubaist. 2) Croatian music for "Catholic Christmas"-most of it was original

Worst music: Crappy American oldies used a background music. You can check out of the Hotel California. But you can't leave even if you're in Republika Srpska.

Best e-mail exchange: When I emailed a friend in Islamabad that the Serbs have a sense of perspective because the article on the assassination of "Benazir Buto" was on page 6, he said "it's on page six here too. And 1,2,3,4,5.7..."

Silliest bit of fun: the hunt for stretch Yugos in Belgrade.

Best souvenirs: Old 5000 Dinar note with picture of Marshal Tito; freshly imprinted t-shirt with logo of 1984 Sarajevo Winter Olympics.

Best architecture-style: Sarajevo's fusion of Turkish, Hapsburg, fin de siecle and socialist styles

Best architecture-grandeur: Budapest-scale, setting and style make for a breathtaking city

Best travelling habit: Tipping 20%. My Karma has improved precipitously since I started tipping decently.

Worst travelling habit: taking taxis rather than learning transit systems. Even though the legal cabs were cheap everywhere I went (and cheaper than basic London underground fares), I feel I missed our for not riding subways and trams more

Best train scenery: Sava River valley between Zagreb and Ljubljana

Best bus scenery: Republika Srpska ski region east of Sarajevo

Best use of dormant skill: deciphering Cyrillic street signs in Belgrade (and signage at Serb Sarajevo bus station)

Best bridge, Chain Bridge, Budapest

Coolest transit system: Sarajevo's mix of donated tram cars and trolley buses--some with their original markings. Kind of a working tram museum.

Best expression: Bosnian expression of feeling uncomfortable: "feeling like a pig in Teheran".
Worst airline: Swiss

Ooh, Da-noo-bie, Shattered, Shattered

2008-01-01T09:26:00.000-08:00

When I was younger, I used to butcher song lyrics. So that the Rolling Stones' "Shattered" came out, it was "Oh, dan-u-bie, shattered, shattered.". Now, as I prepare to ring in 2008 watching fireworks over the Danube, I find that butchered Stones tune streaming through my head as I walk away from the Gellert into the pleasant, untouristed neighborhood where I seek an early dinner, followed a bit of fortification before I brave the long walk to the public street party where thousands of Magyars will embrace 2008.

As I walk down the boulevard, a couple of signs for import beer catch my eye. In the centre of town, such signs say "avoid", but away from the tourists, the signs seem a mark of quality. I'm drawn towards the menu, which mostly consisted either of heavy Hungarian standards or occasional American-style. choices. But as I prepare to turn away, I see "Duck breast in orange-rosemary sauce." A smile reaches across my face. As I enter, I'm greeted by a cavernous pub-like venue that looked like a pirate ship. I was the only guest, but they were happy to serve me as they decked out for the festivities later in the evening.

The place is the Kisrablo at Zenta u. 3, Budapest. It must be a dark horse for best duck a' l'orange on the planet. Thr presentation is most-unusual: a char-grilled duck breast that looks more like a sirloin, served with crownlike potato croquettes and a sauce redolent of fresh oranges rather than the syrupy, liqueur-spiked renditions which have made the dish cliched if tasty.

The staff at Kisrablo is English-speaking and congenial, particularly waiter Verhas Gabor, who offered some interesting commentary about life for an enterprising young man in the New Europe while providing impeccable service.

I parcel out the duck in tiny bites. It is fabulous. And the light house-music soundtrack provides an even deeper degree of comfort. Hearing Bob Sinclar's World Hold On as I walked in told me I'd found the right place (as the song had been the theme song to last year's Argentina trip)..

Even the Borsodi Sor, the second-place local brew (next to Heineken' Dreher) fulfilled its role cleanly and inoffensively, though this dish would go much better with a clean sauvignon blanc.

I make up for the wine deficiency with a dessert serving of Tokay, Hungaria's epic after diinner wine. It mounts a full-on incursion on the tastebuds, hijacking them with a symphony of sweet, sour and herbal tastes. Only the salt taste buds escape the onslaught unscathed. After experiencing such flavorsome luxury, I'm left to ponder why Tokay, while storied, is losing out to the likes of port, sauterne and ice wine in the dessert wine category. If you've never had an ice-cold half-glass of 5 Star (5 Puttonyos) Tokay (brand isn't too important), go to your nearest halfway-decent wine shop and get a small bottle. Worth every penny, and shouldn't be too many. At the Kisrablo, the Tokay cost less than EUR 2, and the whole meal came in at EUR 25 including a reasonable tip.

I could have done with a quarter glass. I don't want to leave any, but I've gotten the, albeit superlative, idea. Small sips are better than big sips. Tokay could teach me a few things about restraint.

Hungarian's a brutal language. It would make much more sense to me if written in Arabic, Georgian or Cuneiform. In Latin it challenges one to decipher it, only to sneer at the disconnect between what the non Hungarian seeks to decipher and what the words really mean. Porkolt is a stew, what non-Hungarians call "goulash", which does not necessarily contain pork. Borozo means wine bar. Sorozo means beer bar.. It is doubtful that Bozo means clown.

As the last drips of tokay are drained, I head towards a nearby sorozo to conquer a foe I couldn't surmount last night, Dreher "Bak", which is no bock but a full-throated stout. Imagine Guinness concentrate in a syrup form. At 7.3% alcohol, you could mix with an equal amount of fizzy water to get the equivalent of two of Dublin's finest.

A small amount of translucency is present after pouring this not-so-amber nectar. The foam tastes great. The first steps seem more subtle than yesterday's truculence. Indeed, it gives way to a bit more balance. Am glad I gave it a second effort.

One other thing I gave a second-effort was Unicum, the liqueur favored by the characters in "Prague", a book actually about expats living in Budapest. For those familiar with Jagermeister, it tastes like Jager had an affair with an orange peel and produced Unicum as the offspring. For those unfamiliar with Jager, imagine adult cough syrup mixed with a bit of Coca-Cola...and an orange peel.

The rest of the evening was uneventful, aside from my ill considered purchase of a bottle of Hungarian bubbly at the not-terribly-well attended street party. There was little in the way of actual fireworks over the Danube--just a few freelance volleys. But the Danube itself was stunning. And Budapest shone. Not a bad place to ring in 2008.

Budapest: Back to Civilisation

2008-01-01T09:25:00.000-08:00

The red, ultramodern Hungarian Railways train lifted me off the platform in the town of Tatabanya in the direction of Budapest's domestic Deli rail station, one which while well served by trains was ill served by taxis. After several failed attempts to call the Frommer's guidebook's preferred company, I waited until a private cabbie showed up, and entered with trepidation.

In the end, I was only charged about 3 times the prevailing normal fare, but as it was a short, uphill trip, I accepted the EUR 8 damage with little complaint. Turning back from my hotel, the Gellert, a four-star pre-war relic, the Danube unfolded before my eyes, far more graciously than it did when I saw it last in Beograd.

Budapest has its wear and tear from decades of commie neglect and mismanagement, but it's been a free city for seventeen years and a generation is emerging that knew not the Wall. American-style coffee bars are sprouting alongside the entrenched BK and McD's. The grime level is way below Belgrade, but not as pristine as Ljubljana. Ethnic food is visible, offering an alternative to gulyas and paprikas. It's cold, but there's less snow on the ground than further south in the erstwhile Yugoland.

I too was showing wear and tear. After a walk across the Danube, a stroll down kitschy pedestrianised Vaci Utca, and a trip through the intermittently compelling National Museum (the twentieth century stuff being REALLY compelling, chronicling Hungary's experience being truncated, compromised, ostracised and socialismised in a mere 100 years), I opted for a plate of excellent beef gyros across the street from the museum, and a quick and relatively cheap cab ride to the Gellert. There, a bath and nap beckoned.

The difference between bunk and bed became increasingly apparent as I began to intermittently lose consciousness on the soft if singular mattress. The room, as it happens, was clearly unrenovated-best evidenced by the domestic origin of the minibar's fridge, confirmed as a pre-Wall tumbling brand by friend and former London Business School classmate Sandor Talas, who escorted me on a night-time tour of Budapest's considerable monumental patrimony and to a dinner at the capital's Jewish themed but seriously unkosher Carmel restaurant.

At London, Sandor was clearly one of the smartest of a smart crew of students. And having had no conversation involving more than grunting, direction-giving, and food/beer/coffee ordering since leaving the ever-congenial Halvat Guest House in Sarajevo, it took more than a few moments to readjust to live, two-way conversation.

Budapest is photogenic beyond belief. Castles, palaces and a Parliament that may be the single best building in Europe. Soaring monuments to long-dead national heroes. A Paris-style urban plan of diagonal roads and traffic circles. And all connected to a historical vein that reinforces Hungary's linguistic and ethnic uniqueness. The Hungarians are no Slavs. Their language is related only to Turkish, Finnish and Estonian-and it's a tenuous relationship at that. The main connective tissue to its region is its Catholicism, weakened by Communism, secularism and by a longstanding Protestant streak. The other connective tissue is its geography. Greater Hungary, which now encompasses substantial Hungarian minorities in Slovakia, Romania, and Serbia was so large that Sandor quipped that Hungary is the only country that borders itself in each direction.

The Carmel Restaurant, whose mixed lineage could best be delineated between dishes of Jewish heritage and dishes where bacon was the defining ingredient,was chosen by Sandor because goose was on the menu. I hadn't had goose since Strasbourg in 1996. Tonight's version, Goose Breast Jewish Style was excellent, but tasted quite similar to my mom's pot roast. Had she known, she'd have probably raised her prices.

After a long-earned sleep and zoo-like breakfast scene at the Gellert (where a dearth of seating made the acquaintance of a surfeit of guests at 09:45), I made my way up the promontory where Buda rises above Pest. I'd been here too in 1992; indeed, little I saw this year in the sightseeing department I hadn't seen in 1992, other aspects were brand new. Prices, less than half of western levels in 1992, tended towards a 20% discount away from the main tourist zones, but those in the tourist zones (Castle Hill and Fashion Street) approached London levels. The city is a hell of a lot cleaner, with major sites like the main musea, national heroes monuments and Parliament literally sparkling.

One major change is that the number of cafes and informal eateries seems much lower than previously. Having foregone lunch because of a substantial breakfast and a very limited desire for stewed paprika-based dishes, I had a hankering for the mitteleuropa custom of coffee and pastry, which used to be commonly available. But the city's temple to the late-afternoon repast, Gerbeaud, had a line out the door on this snowy day and most other so-called cafe's were packed to the gills with people having early New Year's Eve dinners. My quest, as usual ended at the Gourmand Cafe near the Astoria metro station--about two hours after I began the quest at the same station.

I haven't planned much for New Years Eve, other than to go to a big street party in Roosevelt Square on the Danube's eastern shore in Pest. The hill in Buda has a better view, but I'm going to opt for liveliness but without completely sacrificing majesty. But I will sacrifice is the New Year's kiss. I'll save that till when I get home.

Night Train to Vienna

2008-01-01T09:22:00.000-08:00

The sight of the aging Austrian couchette car was eerily reassuring as I came to the platform for the Night Train to Vienna. But there was no shortage of drama as I attempted to fight my way into the four-berth compartment, as a squabbling Greek couple was first blocking my entry, claiming ownership of the space, and then attempting to haggle with the harried attendant, who explained that the adjacent sleeping car was out of order. They were stuck with me, and as it later an older Serb gentleman carrying a briefcase from a team handball tournament in Slovenia.

This explained why I was unable to book sleeping car accommodation for this trip, which offers a softer, quieter journey. It also explains the unusually packed couchette car. To be fair, the vaunted lie-flat airline seat is no more comfortable than this couchette-no longer or softer, really. The clientele is another story. Fifteen minutes after departure, the cacophony of passengers yammering in Serbian and other assorted tongues of Mitteleuropa make sleep seem a distant possibility, even with an extra hit of valerian root-spiked melatonin. It's a good thing I brought the booze and the beer. I'm going to need all the help I can get.

The older gentleman voices concern about the coach getting. robbed. I've got my valuables placed strategically so I'm not that bothered, but when he tries to padlock and chain the compartment the Greeks and I form a united front. The issue seems settled after we forced the Serb to attempt to subvert the seemingly secure built-in locking device. The sheepish grin on the Serb's part implies a possible victory on our part. We shall see.

A relatively fitful night, marked by a dream where a train ride through Germany gives way to a drive down an Interstate through Texas with characters vaguely reminiscent of my old German friend Till and actor Peter Riegert, who starred as Boone in Animal House and Assemblyman Zellman in the Sopranos.

Dream collided with reality at 7 am with the smell of brake smoke. I was awoken by the Greeks, but by 7:10 it was unclear what was going on. There were a few passengers walking outside, but we hadn't been ordered off and the heat was still running.

Then, suddenly, the world "schnell" was uttered. While it literally means fast, I learned from the stern hotel maid during my infamous Hamburg trip that it meant "get the f*@k out,fast!". I grabbed my luggage and was ordered through the couchette car and the genuinely smoky out-of-order sleeping car into the second class coach. Shortly thereafter, the train then moved across the Hungarian countryside.

Then it stopped for a while in a post-communist relic of a town called Tatabanya. Seeing a brand new Hungarian train on the other platform and having my Inter-rail ticket in hand, I make a run for it. Western Europe will have to wait a couple more days. I head for Budapest. And, alas, I discover I had sacrificed my latest MP3 player in the rush to leave the couchette car. Grrr.
---

Belgrade: This Time with Guidebook

2008-01-01T09:21:00.000-08:00

As I'll be leaving by train tonight, the noon hour leaves me with a renewed sense of purpose. For, not having benefit of a hotel, I need to keep myself entertained for nine-plus hours before rolling into Austria-Hungary on a carpeted plank.

While yesterday I was content to drift through this cacophonic city with little more than a map and restaurant guide, today I'll be more of a disciplined tourist. This city has three can't miss sights, all of which I missed yesterday: the Kalmegdan fortress where the Sava meets the Danube, the St Sava Orthodox Cathedral, and the infamous Marakana, home stadium of Red Star Belgrade. Of course, they are on opposite ends of the centre of town.

The Serb Coffee arrives with fizzy water on the side at an old-school cafe called Mali Stadion. One key to happy travelling is to NEVER drink tap water in a new country. Brush your teeth with bottled water. Fizzy is better as the fizz is added insurance. Bottled water is cheap in most places, and you have one fewer vehicle for getting sick. Even if the guidebook writers say it's ok in one country, drinking local tap water is a bad habit.

Of course, most of the people around me are having a noontime Slivovitz. I'll pass this time. Perhaps a Unicum in Budapest, in homage to a book I read a few years ago about expat life in the Magyar capital. Fittingly, the book was called "Prague".

And speaking of Prague, I was soon beckoned by the sight of Mani Prag, home of quite possibly the best coffee on the planet. My return was greeted by a smile and a handshake. The coffee didn't disappoint. No sugar required.

Following the recommendations of the guidebook, I headed for Skadarska street, a street filled with clearly upscale traditional Serbian restaurants. I settled on Ema Dana for lunch, and once again, I succumbed to menu delights that were unavailable. A desire to have a virtuous turkey steak gave way to a wiener schnitzel after the waiter's vouching for it's non-porkness.

First glass of wine of the trip yields unexpected delight. A small bottle of Crnogorski Vranac from Montenegro. A red with some balance, fruitiness and flavor akin to a good California Zinfandel, a grape rumored to have Adriatic roots. I'd bring a bottle back but I'm laden down already. I overpacked weightwise--indeed, I barely touched the components of my backpack. But the contents of my big shoulder bag were well used, and high hotel laundry costs left me to do some sink washing.

...As it happened, my sightseeing today was uneventful, with the unshovelled steps defying me to enter the Kalmegdan fortress, and the unfinishedness of St. Sava's Cathedral rendering it an impressive but shortlived detour as night descended. The Marakana after dark seemed too big a risk for limited payoff (what's the point of visiting a dark stadium?), and by the time I finished posting my previous updates at an internet cafe in the crumbling Tito-era Slavija Hotel, I was exhausted. I'd had my fill of cyrillic and cold, and even risked hailing a cab to a more tourist friendly final meal in this burg. McDonalds tempted me. But then I saw the Hotel Moscow (or as it's spelled on the building, Xotel Mockba). I thought, what better place to close this visit than in a place named for Mockba.

The place did not disappoint. A four star hotel, the Mockba was clearly a cut above the Rex or the Beograd. When I ordered an all-smoked supper of smoked beef "prsut" and smoked trout with honey-mustard sauce and peanuts, the tuxedoed waiter said "absolutely", instead of "how about some chicken on the grill.". And the beer, the legendary Niksicko Pivo from Montenegro, considered by many experts the region's best lager. I still preferred LAV, for one doesn't forsake one's true LAV, but the Niksicko was robust and hoppier than the others I've tried here.

The beef was good, but the trout was absolutely divine. The smoked trout filets were delicately sauteed and served with chopped peanuts, which upon examination are no more silly to serve on trout than sliced almonds. Absolutely fabulous, easily the best sit-down meal I've had in the Balkans. And Nikola is certainly the most professional waiter.

Still, listening to "These are the days, my friend" in an opulent, marble-floored dining room is surreal beyond belief.

In two hours, I will pull out of Belgrade. Tomorrow, I will be back in "civilisation", or at least the EU's more sanitised version. Belgrade is the least photogenic European city I've seen, the least polished, and certainly the least affluent. But it's a young, edgy place, and there's a resilience, pride and independence rarely seen elsewhere on this continent.

Oh, they still drive Yugos here. Tons of them. While my efforts to find limo-length stretch Yugos carrying Serbian politicos fell vainly, I discovered a number of four and five door versions as well as the legendary boxy three door. The Yugo is a great metaphor for for Belgrade. It's a combination of socialist style, socialist infrastructure, and the sheer human perseverence required to own and drive one. But they speak to higher aspirations. The Yugo models sold here are called the Koral and the Florida. As the ice on the sidewalks firms up, such aspirations are only natural.

This is not Seoul. Nor is it New Jersey

2007-12-29T08:39:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On to Belgrade

2007-12-29T08:37:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is...Sarajevo

2007-12-25T10:24:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

This is not Dubai

2007-12-25T10:22:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

The Way to Sarajevo

2007-12-25T10:17:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2007-12-25T10:10:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Downshifting in Zagreb

2007-12-23T11:39:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

Live from the Balkans--Day 1

2007-12-22T08:36:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

December 2007

2007-12-18T07:59:00.000-08:00

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

Holiday Adventure: Xmas in Sarajevo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LIPSYNCHING TO THE MP3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

COAL FOR CHRISTMAS

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

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

Daniel Levy, Owner, Tottenham Hotspur Football Club

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

Hillary Clinton, Imploding US Presidential Front Runner

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

The Nature Conservancy's 'Conservation' Efforts in Hawaii

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

Low Cost Airlines Charging for Checked Baggage

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

Until January, that's FlightKL18!

November 2007

2007-11-26T22:35:00.000-08:00

Greetings from the Arizona Desert

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

Scottsdale—the New Sinai

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

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

An Early Thanksgiving

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

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

Buying a Watch in Mid-Air

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

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

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

Getting Pilsed in the Netherlands

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

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

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

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

Salute to the Pigs

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

FlightKL18—October 2007

2007-10-20T12:56:00.000-07:00

Greetings from Delft!

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

Rugby Time

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bike Tires

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

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

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

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

Surinamese Food

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

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

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

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

Thanksgiving

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

Tot Ziens from the NL!!!

Flight Diversion

2007-10-19T01:05:00.001-07:00

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

All the best from the NL,

Mike

FlightKL18: September 2007

2007-09-18T13:48:00.000-07:00

Hidden Jews

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Hidden Synagogue

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

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

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

Quechup vs. Facebook=Evil vs. Good

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please join Facebook

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

De-Luxembourg

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Polyglot Shopping

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

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

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

Battin Extra

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

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

Until October, that’s FlightKL18!

FlightKL18-August 2007

2007-08-20T14:41:00.000-07:00

From the captain’s deck:

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

Disapproval and Tolerance

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

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

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

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

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

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

Namur

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

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

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

Gaelic Football and Catholic Jews

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Joy of “Unhappiness”

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

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

Thank you for flying FlightKL18

Diverted to Belgium

2007-08-17T07:18:00.000-07:00

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

July 2007: Backing Barack, Getting Gezellig, Destination Delft

2007-07-18T15:27:00.000-07:00

From The Captain…

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

Backing Barack

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Courage.

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

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

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

Gettin’ Gezellig

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Destination Delft

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

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

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

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

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

Dutchman of the Month

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

Tune in in August for the next leg of FlightKL18!

June 18, 2007

2007-06-18T13:34:00.000-07:00

Another country, another blog.

FlightKL18 is intended to be a genuinely new creation.

Partially, this is due to some format changes—a shift to a monthly schedule (though I reserve the right to incorporate special news, announcements or musings between publication days)--and a desire to seek more editorial contributions from readers in addition to the frequent comments.

More importantly, FlightKL18 comes from a much different place than did its predecessor. Not just geographically, though some of the content will focus on my encounters with life in the Netherlands. But also from a sense of perspective—having spent the last four years holding onto a dream of returning to Europe, FlightKL18 will be an account of the highs and lows of the life that transpires as that dream is fulfilled on a day by day, moment by moment basis.

The Netherlands is no nirvana—it is a real, gritty place with a personality and some major problems and deficiencies. But the process of encountering those problems and deficiencies can be invigorating as well as irritating—and there are some things I am enjoying immensely.

To be sure, FlightKL18 won’t just be a travelogue—not with a US presidential election, the buying and selling of players as the teams English Soccer’s Premiership beef up for the coming campaign, and Coach Bret Bielema’s second season as the gridiron coach of the University of Wisconsin at hand. So without further ado (or as DC United would say, without Freddy Adu), here is the launch of FlightKL18.

(PS: In case you were wondering, the airline shorthand KL stands for KLM, the French-owned Dutch national airline, and 18 indicates that FlightKL18 will appear monthly, on the 18th.)

THIS IS NOT MIAMI

As many of you may know, I love house and dance music, even when it’s cheesy and has weak or even semi-intelligible lyrics. So, while on a tram in The Hague recently, I heard a thumping, pulsating beat, and the lyrics: “This is not Miami…This is not Bangkok…This is not Geneva…This is not New Yawk…” were unforgettable both for the inanity and for DJ Sander Kleinenberg’s ability to find semi-credible urban rhyming pairs. (This is not Chicago…This is not Dubai…This is not Sao Paulo…This is not Shanghai). So, in the spirit of Dutchman Kleinenberg, here are some bits and pieces from my first few weeks in the NL:

This is not Miami…This is not NC

By northern European standards, The Hague is a strange city. In a nation known for its historic sixteenth-century town centers, The Hague (or Den Haag [Den Haaaaakkhh] as the locals call it) is a 19th and 20th century creation, with a center relatively free of tourists, marijuana coffeehouses, and characteristic Netherlandish charm with a few exceptions like the supposedly spectacular Mauritshuis (Mauritshouse) museum in the genuinely historic parliament complex. But while The Hague is the functional capital of the NL (Amsterdam being the official one), what makes The Hague special is that it has a substantial beach.

Coming from an official capital where the multi-hour trip to the North Carolina beaches was a pilgrimage of epochal proportions; being able to hop a city bus or tram and feel warmish sand between my toes twenty minutes later was quite pleasant an unusual. Add a limited selection of Belgian beers and the “Standard Dutch Menu” to the equation, and the experience becomes priceless. Not quite Miami—but well worth the price of admission.

This is not Brussels…This is not Paree

For a long time, I saw the Netherlands as an extension/soul mate of its neighbor to the South, Brussels. But from a culinary perspective, nothing could be further from the truth. To be sure, one can eat well in the NL, but it genuinely takes an effort, either to find good ethnic cuisine (good Indonesian, Turkish and Surinamese are thick on the ground), or to find local restaurants that prepare their own dishes and sauces rather than relying on MSG-laden mixes and sauce preparations which are otherwise de rigeur here.

Indeed, one thing I noticed immediately is the existence of “the standard menu”, which can be found at 75% of the restaurants or eetcafes (atecafes) I’ve encountered. It tends to include the following items:

Sate (chicken or pork) with fries
Entrecote (a tiny steak) with fries and occasionally
Varkenshaas (some kind of a pork cutlet with mix gravy) with fries
Schnitzel (some kind of a fried pork cutlet) with applesauce and fried
A pasta dish
A vegetarian dish
Fish of the day
Special of the day
One or two house specialties

Prices range from 12.50 Euros to 17.50 Euros almost uniformly, with the Entrecote usually seizing top position.

As I said, there is good food to be found, but the Calvinist background and the residual damage done to the national palate by the Nazi “hongerwinter” of 1945 (a concerted effort to starve the troublesome Dutch as the “Tweede Wereld Oorlog” [WWII] drew to a close) mean that people don’t see it as much of an entitlement or focus as the more “burgundian” Belgians. As for lunch—let’s save that for another edition.

This is not Detroit…This is not Osaka

Forget about your car (if you can park it). Public transport is king in the NL. Not only do they have a tightly interconnected network of buses, trams, light rail, metros and intercity rail lines, they also have the best transit information service I have ever seen.

The 9292 site (www.9292ov.nl) offers users door-to-door travel information between any two addresses in the NL, offering a minimum of four options based either on desired departure or arrival time. Options include different modes (with cheap monthly passes for local trams and buses, some users may opt not to pay extra for a national rail ticket that shaves five minutes off a journey), and the comparative fares for the respective alternatives are shown. And for the most part, the information is accurate—trains run fastidiously to schedule, buses less so but with still-reasonable punctuality.

This is sorta like Dublin…This is like Milwaukee

The Irish speak of something called “craic”—to describe the atmosphere of a place and of the people drinking therein. And when I asked myself to think of European and American cities The Hague most closely resembles, I think of Dublin and Milwaukee. Partially, it’s an issue of size: The Hague is the NL’s third largest city at 450,000 in the city limits and 1.3 million in its truncated metropolitan area (as it is hemmed in by the Rotterdam and Leiden metros in two directions). Partially, it’s an issue of age—Den Haag, Dublin and Milwaukee are mainly 19th century cities in style and spirit, though Den Haag has seen a flurry of ultramodern skyscraper construction that give it a skyline of similar depth and density to…Milwaukee!

Just as the construction of a state-of-the-art baseball stadium in Milwaukee has failed to improve the local team’s fortunes, the construction of a state-of-the-art soccer stadium in Den Haag actually caused on-field performance to deteriorate due to budget pressure; the brand new stadium will be the most expensive in the Dutch second tier next season as local heroes ADO Den Haag were relegated from the top flight..

As for the “craic”—Den Haag is a city filled with “gezellig” (cozy) watering holes, and the locals will often speak to a stray English speaker in the language of Shakespeare (or at least its current form). Their menus are quite limited, with usually four-eight kinds of beer, including one or two brands of standard pilsner like Heineken or occasional variants like Grolsch (true pronunciation: Khrolssss), Brand, a southern regional champ, or InBev brews Dommelsch or Hertog Jan, usually served in tiny 250ml glasses that resemble wide cigars or very tall shot glasses. (The small glasses keep the beer cold say the aficionados).

(I know Milwaukee doesn’t rhyme with Osaka. Please humor me.)

This is the NL

Here are a few more tidbits—I may elaborate on them in future issues:

1) There are great things about working for a top-tier energy company—working with good people and working for good people
2) I went to three highly picturesque small towns this weekend as my Dutch online dating jihad begins
3) I am feverishly looking for an apartment capable of handling guests, and I’ll let you know when I’m ready for visitors
4) What American Jews call corned beef and British Jews call salt beef is called pekelvlees by the Dutch and its consumption knows no sectarian bounds
5) I’m coming to London on 29 June through 3 July to attend the book signing of a former boss
6) I joined a gym where the ‘health beverages” have cyclamates, a sweetener long-banned in the US (though clearly less evil than Aspartame or NutraDeath)
7) Who needs sushi when you can get a whole salted herring for E1.50, with or without onions (without onions, the buggers are already one of my top-10 favorite foods)
8) The Netherlands has a massive natural gas field which makes the country self-sufficient in the fuel, and some oil as well.
9) A major reason why The Hague became the country’s political center (it’s nickname ‘Hofstad’, or ‘Court City’ is a pun on ‘Hoofdstad’ or ‘capital city’) is that it was unincorporated for most of its history and thus considered neutral by the barons and counts making the decision to convene there.
10) Finally, the NL has no designated hitter rule—but has a surprisingly rich baseball history for a European country.

I hope that you’ve had a pleasant flight…until next month, thank you for flying FlightKL18