Presently Home; Formerly Holland..

We’ve been home now for two months, very much settled back in. And with the full refund of our security deposit on our wooden structure in Veldhoven, I am re-publishing one of my entries that caused undue distress and embarrassment to the owner of said structure! Without further ado…

With a delicate ‘ping’, I realized that I’d finally done it. I’d managed to inadvertently break the last of the 16 wine glasses in this house. Feeling a kind of shrill admiration, I realized it was my father-in-law’s wife’s fault. Visiting for ten days, she thoughtlessly left behind an outstanding bottle of red (Hardy’s Shiraz), when she and my father-in-law left yesterday for Brussels.

You may be thinking that 16 broken wine glasses in 72 days is a bit excessive, (or you might be thinking “what? You can’t ignore a bottle of Hardy’s?”) but let me point out a crucial fact. This house is full of distressing, cheap-ass, knock-offs from Ikea.

I’m not asking for Waterford crystal here, but for the rent we pay you’d expect that the wine glasses wouldn’t break if you pour the wine in too fast. Also, given the state of this little house, one feels the need to at least ‘self-medicate’ with any means possible which, when you think about it, only increases the risk of accidents. Scarf, who got dripped on today (coffee – in the car), is in total agreement. Calling a miserable 4x4 cubby home, he/she/it fortunately doesn’t spend much time there as, three months into our adventure, Scarf has only been released from duty on two occasions when the sun briefly came out and the temperatures soared into the single digits. Anyway, back to the glasses. I have to say that a good 8 or 9 of those goblets met their maker via the circular, 8-inch diameter, stainless steel kitchen sink. When you set them on the bottom, the tops stick out above the counter surface and are easily whacked by the faucet (and whacked just for the hell of it). One more met his maker when I dropped it on the fake wooden floor.

The inventory list for this furnished townhouse, when we moved, in was painstakingly detailed. It included a ‘water cooker’ (leaks, no safety turn-off), a little plastic, flexible bread board (the kind I hate), eight used bath towels (as if!!!!) and, um, 16 brittle wine glasses. Not included on the list were unwashed bed linen, toddler clothes (stuffed under a pillow, and left behind in the dryer), a half inch layer of dust that blanketed everything. The kitchen faucet, unbeknownst to us, drained straight into the garage – pity we left our ice-skates behind. One more peeve, the refrigerator is so small that, if filled to capacity, it wouldn’t keep a kitten alive.

We’ve filled the place with oxygen-replenishing plants, tossed a few throws around, ceremoniously discarded the bed linen (and someone’s clothes), and continue to guzzle the red stuff. We escape every weekend – and this one found us back in Maastricht, under a sunny sky (yes – SUN).

Rare is the day that I get to pick on my significant other (don’t ya love politically correct terms?) Recently, on a trip, in the middle of an insanely fast drive on a no-speed-limit motorway, and without warning, I announced that I had a headache. To a male companion, this could be (a) an annoyance on her part only; (b) an impending catastrophe when we get home or, even worse, (c) Flo Rida has to be turned off.

Of course, it was Sunday. Holland shuts down at precisely 6pm Saturday night, and doesn’t re-open until 1pm, Monday. Whether you are Catholic or not, you WILL take a day (and a half) of rest and get it right with God. And you will have limited options where one may purchase life’s necessities, specifically, my choice of headache tablets. A gas station, actually, was our only choice.

So, up to this point in time, Significant Other’s linguistic abilities have put me to shame. Many unintended pleasures have ensued, courtesy of my gob-maggot butchering of the Dutch language. And then there is his French. On a recent visit to Paris, his ‘Francaise’ spilled forth flawlessly. I could have slapped him. Luckily for him, jealousy is not one of my indulgences….

Back to the headache. To save the remainder of our evening, S.O. dashed into a servo and came out with a pack of tablets. “Here you go” he said. My Dutch isn’t polished. Actually, it’s pretty embarrassing. But on closer inspection, I saw that he had bought me Panadol. For children. Oh well, I thought. I’ll just double the dose. Except I shouldn’t. It’s not only for children, but for infants. And tablet-form, it is not. They are suppositories. SUPPOSITORIES. And at the dose they are recommending, I would need to jam in 12 to 15 of them. So much for spewing Dutch over my head and under my self-esteem! A devout believer in gloating, he looked like road-kill after I was finished with him.

Linguistic inadequacy (ability) aside, we have entered the home stretch now. 6 days to go (7 hours, 29 minutes) till we leave for NY. Of course, everything has been left to the last minute. Like packing. Big boxes were brought home over a week ago, and there they sit, in the hall, in the way, a reminder of what a procrastinating sloth I am. I nearly got to them yesterday – but today, I will probably ignore them one last time and then that’s final! The question, of course, is whether to ship Scarf home, or whether to let her join us on the plane (after her last emotional outburst there is no doubt that “it” is a ‘she’ – and with “Permanent Menstrual Syndrome to boot). On the one hand, she deserves a spot on the aircraft with us, but I am afraid that an unexpected outburst could get us tackled by some undercover air marshalls. I say cargo class it is.

Not contented with her 8x8 padded cubby, hibernation evades the choke-hold when busy-ness surrounds her. Cramming in last minute playdates, favorite food and weekend road trips, Scarf bristles and hisses at every failure to include her. But she’s in luck. Our Spring here has ended apparently, and we are back to wind and rain – inches of it actually – so probably, her enforced sabbatical will be postponed until, at least, we leave.

A Courageous Battle

There was no denying it anymore. After sweating through more than a few days in sleeveless t.shirts and grumbling at the lack of air-conditioning in the car, it was with profound regret that I accepted the fact that Spring was truly here, blooming profusely along the daffodil-laden boulevards here in Eindhoven. It could only mean one thing - Scarf’s work for the season was over.

How do you break the news to something that has worked so tirelessly under extreme elements to protect and to serve? I decided to cushion the blow with a lovely weekend in the higher-terrained, landlocked country of Luxembourg. Unlike pancake-flat Holland, the Duchy of Luxembourg is quite hilly. And unlike WWII ravaged Holland, those hills often serve as foundations for centuries-old castles, fortifications and secret tunnels (known there as ‘casemates’). As I struggled with the tri-lingual barriers in this small country (about 20 x 40 miles in size), Scarf dove into the task at hand as we hiked and crawled our way through some of these medieval ruins. After taking the obligatory photos of S&H inside various turrets and atop cannons, we decided Scarf’s weekend would not be complete without a visit to the capital, Luxembourg City. Straddling gorges and two rivers, Luxembourg City winds its way around its own set of forts, some dramatically dropping into narrow valleys. After crossing a 200 foot tall stone bridge that connects the new city to the old, we took an elevator down through the inside of the cliff face to a tunnel that lead us out to the bottom of the gorge below. As I huffed and puffed up and down the steep slope of the valley park, Scarf began serving more as a sweat rag than a neck warmer. I think we both knew that the time had come.

Later, back at the hotel, and without warning, Scarf threw a spectacular tantrum, the likes of which I hadn’t seen since SpongeBob demanded kissy-kissy on his boo-boo. Trying to reason with a winter accessory is like trying to converse with a foot-stool. It was futile. Scarf was clearly overcome and, at last, he/she/it let out an agonizing wail and collapsed onto the floor motionless. No pulse, no dilating pupils, no fog on the looking glass, no nothing.

I decided to work through my own grief by writing its/his/her obituary. Luckily I found this handy fill-in-the-blank form on the Times Union obituary resource section.

“Scarf lost its/his/her courageous battle against (dire illness) on (date), surrounded by its/his/her loving family. Scarf was an avid (sports team) fan. Its/her/his hobbies included (list 3 to 4 hobbies) - travelling, hiking, standing in the cold, shoveling the driveway, and waiting in the car. With diligence and unending loyalty, Scarf fought against the elements, sometimes without complaint. Scarf was the devoted accessory of Elise. Also survived by a host of relatives and friends. By Scarf’s request, there will be no funeral or calling hours. In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to a charity of one’s choice”….

It was this last sentence that broke the camel’s back. Scarf made a miraculous recovery. In a complete reversal, it/he/she begged for ‘a little more time’. As an act of pity, I promised to take it/him/she to Australia with us in August – winter for the southern hemisphere. It was a reconciliation of sorts, and so, for now, we’re good.

London

Every now and then, I glimpse what I’m in for in the near future – my 10 year old is becoming more and more the sullen teenager he will soon become. Even though I’ve been copping one word answers to innocent-enough questions, along with the ‘what the hell’ look he gives me, I still acquiesced and allowed him to join a week-long skiing trip in Austria.

With an emergency mobile phone zipped safely into his ski jacket, he had strict instructions to call twice a day, along with the usual admonitions – obey the rules, remember your manners, don’t talk to strangers, and buy me something fabulous in Villach.

Farewelling his class on the gargantuan bus that left last Friday night, I thought he was going to burst a blood vessel with excitement. He called us twice before it even turned the corner (“well, we’re leaving”, and “we’re off!!!”)

Our daily conversations went something like this:

Me: “What’d you do today”
Him: “Ski”.
Me: “Did you have fun?”
Him: “Yes”.
Me: “What else did you do?”
Him: “um… ate lunch.”
Me: “Did you have a shower yet?”
Him: “No. Can I go snowboarding tomorrow?”
Me: “No”.

As for the shower part, his excuse was that he fit right in because, apparently, everybody was ignoring the ablution facilities as well.

A week later, we’re back together and somewhere else now – London. Somewhere in London – within Zone 1, technically, but eons away from conveniences. Travelzoo had a promotion that couldn’t be ignored for this 5-star Chelsea Harbor hotel. Oooohhhh, Chelsea Harbor. Yep, we haven’t heard of it either… Its closest underground station is a brisk 45 minute walk down Kings Road – a well known shopping district but we’re in the other direction. The hotel is extremely luxurious, with great views of the Thames and, in the very far distance, the tourist attractions we kind of wanted to be near. But who cares when they mistakenly upgrade us to the balconied ‘Marina View’ suite. The ‘extras’, however, floor me - $30 if you want to connect to the internet, $30 for hotel porn (just kidding – it’s $20 but still you could get the real thing in Amsterdam for that), and room service that would max out your credit card. There is the usual corridor of essentials – hair salon, gift shop, massage parlor - but no convenient 7-11 type store. To be specific, depending who’s reading this, I was hankering for an off-license/liquor store/bottle shop type of place. So, that’s where the advantages lay with our daily shuffle back to the hotel from Earls Court station – plenty of food and beverage options to supplement our evening of Sky TV in our suite. (And just to add to our evening pleasures, we found another Prime Example – this one a submarine thriller starring Cary Grant, a cardboard model boat and a bathtub).

We covered a lot of ground – Westminster Abbey, Trafalgar Square, Covent Garden, Changing of the Guard (a yawn-festival for the kids), Science and British museums, then over to London Bridge and the Tower of London. To my own personal amazement, I really did go up and over the London Eye, the giant bicycle wheel famous for breaking down on its maiden spin on 31st December, 1999. But it motored along like clockwork this weekend. And I actually conducted myself with some decorum this time (unlike the Eiffel Tower), but I did need a cold pint afterwards.

Catching the train back to Europe, I wondered how the British and French sorted out all their little pet peeves, preferences and differences to get this engineering handshake off the ground (well, under the English Channel). One thing I noticed, leaving Kings Cross station, the announcements were in English first, followed by French. Emerging out of the tunnel near Calais on the French side, however, the announcements began in French. Fair’s fair, I guess, in love and war, and French fries and chips.

And where was Scarf during this great weekend away in sunny London? Home. Rediscovering her/his/its cubby. Arriving back very late last night (we missed the connection out of Brussels), we were greeted by the same damp, overcast, windy weather. Unfortunately it looks like it will be some time before Scarf can retire for the season. I have it on good word that the sun will shine on around July 15 or thereabouts, for a couple of days. Pity we’ll be gone by then.

Taking the kids to Amsterdam for the weekend posed a problem, namely, how do you show them the landmarks of one of the world’s greatest cities, while steering them clear of the other ‘attractions’ that are probably the major draw for 90% of the tourists there. There are some fabulous kid-things to do here – all within walking distance of anywhere. But they also happen to criss-cross the center of Amsterdam, where lies the famously tolerant red-light district. And even if you gave it a wide berth and walked around it, adding an hour to your journey, there’s no escaping the 180 or so coffee shops. And even then, if by some great sleight of hand, you were able to avoid those as well, there is no avoiding their ‘casualties’- bewildered, aromatic, choof-heads, looking like they’d been kicked out of a homeless shelter, all sporting the same “no-one-home” look. One ‘victim’ we stumbled over was parked in a crumbled heap on a bridge, astonished at the frites he was holding. I’m guessing that he simply forgot that he was making a vain attempt at gaining enough sobriety to get let back in to the Christian Youth Hostel, the cheapest bed in town.

Despite this pretty picture, we still managed to do a lot of walking (punctuated with some good coffee breaks). In old Amsterdam, every street is lined with 17th century row houses, – quaint, incredibly narrow and sometimes crooked - they lie right in front of a canal that looks exactly like the one we just passed. After a while, the houses start to look identical too, and before you know it, we hear “hey Dad, where are we?” or “didn’t we pass this already?” A word of caution when visiting Amsterdam - don’t leave your hotel without a good map, a day’s worth of provisions, cell phone, compass and emergency numbers.

A big highlight was the TunFun – a 5000 sq foot underground playground, situated in an old overpass that has been converted into kid heaven. Watching (and worrying) over S&H, I calculated the reasons why we can’t have this in America. Only one real reason - Liability Insurance. With a climbing structure some 5 storey’s high, kids run, climb, jump, swing and bounce around out of sight while parents park themselves in bean bags, sip on koffie verkeerd, absorb complimentary newspapers, surf the net and switch off. Even if you found an insurance company ready to cover it (and even if you could afford it), a broken bone, black eye, or scalded mouth (from that latte) would still end it all. But not in Holland. If you think about it, you never see hordes of Dutch people limping along cobblestone streets sporting ancient wounds from unsupervised fun, so probably this more tolerant approach works out just fine.

We gave Anne Frank’s house a miss – the queue goes around the block now. When I suggested Van Gogh’s museum, I was met with that backwards gulping sound you make when a drink goes down the wrong way. But we did manage to drag our sorry cookie-asses to three street markets, where we found fabulous cheeses, hundreds of tulips (of course), bicycle accessories and designer cast-offs from Italy. We also found a midget car, pictured above. Amsterdam is only an hour and 20 minutes away by train from Eindhoven. As a famous neighboring Austrian twice said – “I’ll be Back”.

Carnival

Searching for an explanation for the festivities currently consuming Eindhoven, Wikipedia gives a rather sanitized version of what we have been witness to these past two days –

“Carnival is a festive season which occurs immediately before Lent; the main events are usually during January and February. Carnival typically involves a public celebration or parade combining some elements of a circus and public street party. People often dress up or masquerade during the celebrations.”

Nicely put. It also involves copious amounts of Bavarian beer, consumed openly and with gusto from the crack of dawn. Furthermore, Carnival seems to involve the liberal placement by publics works personnel of ‘relief’ centers, 4-station open urinals. Think of a giant plastic collection tank with four funnels on top at each corner. Discretion, I guess, is not part of Carnival. There’s one in front of a McDonald’s in the outdoor mall and another next to the post office down the street. Hey, who cares about privacy and that stiff, open breeze when you really, really gotta go. I wonder how they lift the tanks back on the truck. I’ll have to get up early Sunday morning to find out.

I’d like to see the local municipality’s pre-Carnival organization department's ‘to-do’ list… “Hang festive banners between light poles in the old square – CHECK” … “Assemble crowd gates along parade route – CHECK” “Drain urinal tanks and re-position across town – CHECK”…

The “public celebration or parade” seems to be one and the same. Wading through the crowd to get a ‘good’ spot to catch some of the floats, Scarf and I found ourselves next to a group of giants. They wore 70s costumes which looked like they were sewn from my mother’s polyester blend curtains. Predictably, they sported oversized afro wigs and staggered out of line in leopard skin platform shoes. Their chain-smoking female companions, looking like they just spilled out of a nightclub, were equally fetching in their ill-fitting nurse’s uniforms. With unquenchable thirst, they drained their beers in between belting out nationalistic ditties, like “Brabant”. Strategically, they had also positioned themselves within 8 feet of one of those urinals. Obviously, these folks were Carnival veterans.

For an hour, we stood in the cold and watched giant floats lumber past, the first one, of course, celebrating the very reason for Carnival in the first place – beer-drinking. Except that it’s not – like the raucous Mardis Gras in New Orleans to the pancake feast on Australia’s Shrove Tuesday, Carnival and its other international versions is supposed to be the last big indulgence before the traditional fasting of Lent. Or something like that. But, back to the parade – lots of confetti, silly string, projectile candy, and stocking-clad, tap-dancing 6-year olds (why are they in every parade?) Finally, hunger prevailed and we were able to peel the kids away with promises of waffles, hot chocolate, free toys and a visit to Disney Paris.

The day before, their school dispatched crossing guards to close off several area roads, and the costume-clad students skipped around the neighborhood in their parade. Hanieka was “Pippi Longstocking” and squealed uncontrollably when she saw me aim my camera. Sawyer, a pirate (again! – same as Halloween), shuffled past with the uplifting “you forgot to give me the hat.” The teenager in him is making appearances every now and then. Can’t wait. Here are shots of Pippi, and, the one above, Sawyer today in Eindhoven, complete with parade detritus.

Germany

We woke up slowly yesterday morning, grumbled at the rain outside, shrugged our shoulders and decided to drive to Germany, for want of something better to do. Ahh, Germany, the great “pick-me-up”!

The weather here can be a bit of a downer and, after my parents called to remind me that they were truly dying from heat over in Australia, and after trying to watch another Prime Example (a bad American movie – they seem to ship volumes of them to unsuspecting non-native speaking countries, ‘fixed’ with altered sub-titles), we stuffed pancakes down our throats and hit the road. Following our TomTom precisely (“turn around when possible”), we by-passed Aachen, and decided on Cologne. I vaguely remember a pretty big cathedral there on one of my fly-by European visits a couple of decades ago. Being a typical filthy backpacker then, I had no money and spent the day ‘sightseeing’, which consisted of hanging out in whatever protected me from the elements – church, visitors center, Hare Krishna restaurants – and as I recall, in Cologne, Germany, it was this one big, gothic cathedral. No wonder the Germans hated me.

Happily, they seemed to have warmed up a bit. I’ve got cash this time, so I can actually have a beer with my $2 French fries. Having something like 22 breweries here, it would be criminal to turn to another beverage when in Cologne. We wandered the streets, bought some Eau De Cologne, admired the architecture and noted two outstanding landmarks. The magnificent cathedral was started way back in the 12th century, houses the remains of the Three Wise Men, and is the single most compelling reason why people visit this part of the country (it’s really pretty industrial otherwise). Actually, the whole reason for Cologne’s existence is that some Duke or Bishop-like Duke stole the bones of the 3 Wise Men from Italy about 1,000 years ago and decided to set up the ultimate medieval “tourist” destination. With pilgrims flocking in from all over Europe, there was plenty of cash to build the giant Cathedral and the tourism continues to this day (got my money too). If I ever become Executive Director of some Economic Development Agency in a rust belt US city, my first brilliant idea will be “How about we steal some sacred bones!”

I remember my first visit to Germany – East Berlin, actually, in 1989, when the wall was crumbling down. There, in a giant cherry picker, was none other than David Hasselhoff, blasting away in a ‘free’ concert. I’ll never forget what he was wearing – a leather flight jacket, covered in flashing, giant, light bulbs. Soon as he started ‘singing’, the lights flashed to the beat, reducing the hursuited one to a human Christmas tree. I thought I had seen it all, in life, then another ‘first’ in Cologne…. feeling humbled, a little overwhelmed, and somewhat emotional after some sad news from home, we strolled around aimlessly, until we found Cologne’s other outstanding ‘landmark’ – this, from the menswear department of a Macy’s/Myer’s equivalent. It just can’t be beat… maybe there’s a poster of David Hasselhoff somewhere, modeling this kind of underwear.