FlightKL18—October 2007

Greetings from Delft!

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

Rugby Time

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bike Tires

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

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

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

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

Surinamese Food

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

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

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

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

Thanksgiving

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

Tot Ziens from the NL!!!

Flight Diversion

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

All the best from the NL,

Mike

FlightKL18: September 2007

Hidden Jews

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Hidden Synagogue

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

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

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

Quechup vs. Facebook=Evil vs. Good

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please join Facebook

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

De-Luxembourg

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Polyglot Shopping

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

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

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

Battin Extra

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

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

Until October, that’s FlightKL18!

FlightKL18-August 2007

From the captain’s deck:

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

Disapproval and Tolerance

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

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

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

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

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

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

Namur

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

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

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

Gaelic Football and Catholic Jews

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Joy of “Unhappiness”

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

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

Thank you for flying FlightKL18

Diverted to Belgium

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

July 2007: Backing Barack, Getting Gezellig, Destination Delft

From The Captain…

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

Backing Barack

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Courage.

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

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

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

Gettin’ Gezellig

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Destination Delft

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

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

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

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

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

Dutchman of the Month

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

Tune in in August for the next leg of FlightKL18!

June 18, 2007

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