But everyone is SO nice here!

I have been puzzled by the easygoing interactions and apparently tolerant natures of people I’ve dealt with in Holland, given the incredible order of the city.  I read things such as,   “The Dutch will enforce a law when it seems sensible to do so, and ignore it when it does not.” (Xenophobe guide).   And of course we all know that pot, while not legal, is not illegal -- thus the “coffee-cough-cough-wink” shops.  Prostitution is allowed but controlled.   How do they manage it all -- are they just superior beings?   Tall descendents of lost Atlantis?

No, nothing so intimidating:  all this laissez-faire lifestyle relies on a rebar core.  My friends tell me that the third time your kid arrives late to school, you are sent a letter.  After the second unexplained/un-officially-excused absence, you receive a letter AND a fine from the government!  No pulling kids out for 3 day weekends or early vacations.

When we first arrived at the Dutch National Airport we sailed through immigration and, once our passports were cheerfully checked, we never saw another official and simply walked through the customs area.  “Oh, they saw you,” our friend Adrian assured us.  “You were watched from the moment you arrived.”  (Fan- yucking-tastic, I am now a security-risk-?-ha-!-you-must-be-joking matron.)

Early on we did see a young man chased down by armed cops for jumping the metro turnstyle (not paying).

But while traveling throughout 3 countries by train, we were only asked for our tickets twice!   I was a little peeved, wondering if I‘d been a fool to buy expensive tickets and train seat reservations.    I’d done it, of course, because it’s fair to pay for what you use (and really slimy not to), and did so carefully because I‘d read that tickets are sporadically checked and, if you are found to not have a ticket it can be pretty grim.  I‘ll let The Xenophobe‘s Guide explain:

Respectable citizens participate in life’s systems -- public and private -- with honesty.  They run up tabs at the bar, and don’t disappear without paying;  they pay their own taxes without too much fuss, and frank their own tickets on public transport.  People who break this trust can expect to feel the full thrust of social and legal disapprobation.  “Black riders” (or “grey riders” to the politically correct) who are caught without a valid ticket have to pay an on-the-spot fine that amounts to twenty times the normal fare.  If they don’t have the money -- or some form of identification -- on them, doors are sealed and everything comes to a halt while the police are called.

WOW!  I don’t want an international crime record just to save a few Euros -- precious though they are!   But by the time we were on leg 8 of our 3 week train journey, I’d started to wonder.  The conductors were so friendly and helpful -- the two times we actually saw any!   Could it really be that drastic?????

Our very last train was from Paris to Amsterdam, a nearly 3 hour ride in the super comfy Belgian THALYS train.  Because of summer crowds we’d splurged on First Class seats -- which isn’t really a splurge given that the tickets are only about 20% more.  First-class is comfy and spacious, has yummy and unlimited free food and drinks, free wireless and CLEAN TOILETS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  (Thank God, otherwise I wouldn’t have had the courage to enjoy those free goodies.)

In Paris’ Gare du Nord Train Station  (the pickpocket mecca of Europe), our tickets were actually checked before we could enter the train!  “What the hell?  Has there been another revolution or something?” And several people were actually turned away (!) ;  including the African who jumped on the train waving his gold VISA card.   I yelled back in my best African French “HEY YOU!  THERE”S A LINE!  GET IN IT! . . . YEAH?  WELL, WE ALL HAVE GOLD VISAS!”  (Not true but it sounded good.) He missed the train (hee hee hee).

Then, partway through the trip, our tickets were checked again (!!!)  All polite and calm and easy-going -- until the French conductor checked the ticket of a man two seats ahead of us.  He began explaining that this was a second-class ticket and that the passenger (who I will henceforth refer to as TP -- The Profiteer) quickly became belligerent.  He was Dutch and soon switched from his dismal French to some very passable English. 

Belligerence almost instantaneously becomes repetitive so we all  quickly understood the gist of TP’s argument,  “You sold me a ticket for a seat with electricity.  And the electricity in the second-class car isn't working --everyone is complaining. . . .so I have the right . . .” 

- “Sur!  Zat ess no excuse.  Ewe mus move to ze  secun classe. . .”

“Let ME FINISH!   Without electricity I CANNOT WORK!”

- “Sur!  Ewe ave a second claz zeat, ewe mus move or pay ze deeverwanse-!”

“I WILL NOT MOVE!   I will NOT move UNTIL you can GUARANTEE me a seat with electricity!!!”  All kinds of despotic hand gestures for emphasis.

The exasperated French conductor was standing taller to reengage when a gentle, gigantic, complacent-faced second conductor glided up to the scene .  I could see the thought bubble over his head as he gracefully passed,    “Oh Dear.  Oh Deary, Deary me.  Oh me oh my.  Clearly this must have been an issue of misunderstanding due to languages.  Silly.  Silly.  Silly.”   He very politely and gently inquired in Dutch what the problem was.

Belligerent Man (aka TP) launched into a tirade with the same cadence and volume that he had already performed multiple times in Franglais.

Are any of you old enough to remember the man from that old TV show who, when angry, would turn green, and swell up into a mass of pulsating muscles so large that all his clothes exploded?

Hope so, because then you can picture the scene I am describing.  Red, not green.  Mr. Dutch Conductor could yell!  And he got right back in TP’s face, finger wagging,  lasers shooting from his eyes, and he BELLOWED!  He was winning -- no question.  TP stopped wagging his finger and took on a slight whining tone, neck exposed.  But did NOT give up!   Yappy.

I just couldn‘t stand by without DOING anything,  “Ulys,  give me the computer NOW!  Save your work!  I NEED IT!”

He did and my flashing-fast fingers pulled up Google Translator, trying to transcribe the Dutch words I was overhearing for translation.  “Polizie”  I understood on my own.

A Dutch woman behind me stood up and yelled -- but much too quickly.

I heard conductor-red-superhero-guy pointing at TP and yelling “Profiteer!   Profiteer” and saw him whip out his phone and loudly transcribe all of TP’s info into it.  Then marched off.  No words in his thought bubble.  Just images.  Really Kick-Ass-Cool Ones!!!!

OH, why didn’t I learn Dutch!!!!  Argggh!!  DAMN!  DAMNIT!!!!!  DAMN!!! It is sooo hard to remember E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G! 

A few minutes later TP marched off -- with all his stuff -- spewing outrage dandruff as he left.

I wait.  Nothing.  Wait some more.  Nothing.  Nothing?  NOTHING?    Come ON!
So I turn to the Dutch woman,  “Do you speak English? Francais?”

- “My English is better.”

“Okay, what was going on?   I mean, I know that he was in the wrong car and he said he wanted electricity, but what were the conductors saying?”

- “Oh, that he was a profiteer, that he had enjoyed two hours of drinks and free food and he had to pay the difference”  (between the second and first class fares)  “But the guy kept going on about it!  I mean they gave him a chance!”

“Ah,  and what did you say when you yelled.”

She looked a little sheepish then admitted, “Well . . I . .  I . . . told him to shut up.”  We smiled, laughed.  High Five, Sister!

Towards the end of the trip, I was hanging out by the exit door with 2 French conductors, including the one who had initially interacted with TP.

I made pleasant conversation for awhile.  (No, I’m not Canadian.  Okay, okay . . Giggle . . I promise not to loose my so-cute little accent.)  Finally,  I just couldn’t stand it anymore and asked about TP.

Apparently he DID move to second-class but it was too late.  He was charged the difference between first and second class tickets, plus a fine many many times greater than either, PLUS, the police boarded the train at the next stop and took him to jail!!!!

“Wow!  What will happen to him there?”

 - “It’s up to the police.  They can fine him and let him go; or they can keep him in jail for several hours, then fine him and let him go --  with a police record.  It’s up to them.”  Pause  “But he was pretty awful . . . “


“Does this happen all the time on this train?”

 - “Oh, yes, at least once.  But this time there was also that other couple . . . “

The Secret Annex Online

We went to the Anne Frank museum last night -- all of us with the four kids. It was very impressive and not gratuitous. The emphasis is on the building itself and the family members as they were alive - particularly Anne and her sister Margot -- learning about their talents, personalities and writings. There are a few brief video shots of shocking bodies, but they are easily avoided. It does an awesome job of bringing their experience alive. Of course, the dad, Otto Frank, was the one who got Anne's book published (he survived and was living back in Amsterdam within a year after being arrested and sent to Auschwitz) , and took part in the restoration and preparation of the museum. There is even a video of him discussing this. It is assumed that the horror of the concentration camps, etc, is already known and so doesn't go into that. It isn't about them.

One of the most important exhibits is the last one -- a room with several flat screens and "yes" and "no" buttons all over the place. Real life, current social dilemmas are presented and whoever wants responds by pushing a "yes" or "no" to the subsequent questions with the results immediately displayed. Eg. A piece about immigrants wearing headscarves -- then, if they should be allowed -- what other forms of cultural or personal expression should be allowed? Hate marches? Anti - "fill-in-the-blank" demonstrations? Where lies the border between freedom and responsibility, my rights and yours? It is fodder for some extremely important discussions (the kids really got into it -- once Tai realized that it was not a video game to be "won"). It also brings home the point that we too must be vigilant in preventing social horrors -- and in recognizing those occuring around us.

A thorough 3D online tour of the house and museum and can be seen at the side below.

http://www.annefrank.org/en/Subsites/Home/

Annecy -- Coming Back! You should, too.

Annecy is quite different than anywhere else we've been in France (admittedly not much of a claim).  As I said to Ulys, "Wow,  feels like we're in a different country!"  Sardonic reply:  "We are."

It feels Swiss -- the mountains, the architecture, the organization.  Can't speak about the toilets -- I've given up on those. (Yeah, I'm pretty uncomfortable.)  Of course, Geneva is only 20 miles away and the registered population of this particular state (Haute-Savoir) is over 10% of the population.  And yet, it remains French.  (Chill attitude about many things, a particular Gallic strangeness about others.*)   The town is just gorgeous!  Temperature better than sweltering Provence and it is very sporty -- but not annoyingly so (i.e.  Colorado).  Loads and loads of dedicated bike paths (which skateboarders, rollerbladers and people with dogs are free to use),  dedicated running paths (flat but no asphalt) along the side, skateboard parks, parks,  water skiing jumps, boats of all sort to rent . . . The Old Town is the best of Bruges and Amsterdam (though suffering for the lack of Roman advantages of Arles according to Tai).  Plenty for those of us whose principal athletic endeavor is the turning of pages.

Oh, and it's safe, safe, safe!   (Ulys and I need a very long  break from dangerous places -- person and property.)

We all want to come back -- rent a house, some bikes and a car.   Summer.  Well, winter would be great too -- but not for me ever since my knees made me give up skiing.  (Aging sucks.  A lot.  Engaging in it reflects  an alarming lack of judgment and a criminal disregard for one's health.) 

I recommend Annecy.  To almost everyone I know.  And to you, whoever you are, reading this.

I recommend it with the caveat that there is absolutely nothing I can do about the Euro and the exchange rate.  It seems that even Portugal and Greece can not turn it to our dollar-based favor.  Damn.  Ulys thinks that our only hope is to move to and to work in Singapore.  Problem =  we absolutely don't want to.

Okay now for the mysterious asterisk from above:

French Strangeness:

The cops here are extremely and obviously well-armed and there are many many different types of cops.  Yet, when we were waiting for the first cyclist to come down the road (Annecy Triathlon on Sunday), motorized and pedestrian traffic control seemed pretty casual to me.   Later, after several competators had pedaled by, a few teenagers walked lacksidasically across the official and police-defined guarded  path.   

The well-armed policeman yelled at them:  "Yeah, that's what you do, eh?  Not look around?  Not NOTICE that you are traversing a major sporting event?  The most important?  You do whatever, eh.  Yeah nice.  Really classic."

A few seconds later, a man followed them -- same route, same attitude.

The cop yelled something at him and he responded.  Then the cop:  "Yeah, I bet you are their father.  No surprise there.  You should be real proud.   Real.  Proud.   Bah!"

And I was thinking,  "What the . . .merde?  SHOOT 'em!"  (I am not very evolved.)

Biking!

Inspired by yesterday's triathlon (more on that later), we all rented bikes today.  We intended to tool around town, which has loads of dedicated bike paths.  So I rented a a simple city bike --  the kind that usually has a daisy basket on the front.  And off we went, me in a skirt and flip flops.  It was  fun, and being flat,  easy.   

The last time I rode a bike was . . . a decade ago?  After we moved to Portland, Ulys bought a used mountain bike for me.   I went into the basement to take it out for a ride.  It was gone!  I asked him where it was and he said that he'd sold it.

"What?!  Ulys!  How can you sell MY bike?"

"Narda, you never use it."

"That's not true!"

"Narda, I sold it TWO years ago."

Clearly, though I loved biking in High School, it's not been of recent interest.  But today it was so much fun that, when Ulys, Z and T turned off to go to a beach,  I kept going.  The countryside is magnificent here -- sharp, rugged, Alpine mountains that plunge into a Lake Annecy -- a remarkably beautiful lake (the cleanest in Europe since strict environmental controls were placed on it's use in the 1960s), that is 8 miles long and 1 mile wide.   Though not a fan of chalet architecture (except in a National-Geographic-look-how-the-natives-live way), the countryside is beautiful, with fields, canals, flowers, orchards, horses, stables, villages, gardens, campgrounds . . . so beautiful that before I knew it I'd biked over 10 miles (18 km)!   Turned around and biked the return 10 to everyone at the beach.  My sit-bones are not happy!   I also wish that I'd taken something to drink.  But what bothered me the most was that about 5 miles in, I became convinced that I very closely resembled the mean biking woman at the beginning of The Wizard of Oz, so for the next 15+ miles I had the "ta da de ta de da da"  tune on continuous play in my head.  (Reminder video below)

Maybe I'll start biking again . . .

RE:  fourth of July:  Happy 4th Everyone!  The kids had hot dogs and fries for lunch and are in search of a red, white and blue dessert.

FYI:  I have SO MANY photos to share!   Will put up some albums.  Also a few more stories, but they'll have to wait.  I'm a little tired and am busy studying French  (i.e. watching "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" dubbed).

Narda Biking Today