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 . . . “
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