Tentative Conclusions

My blog description promises culture AND curveballs and I realize that I have been slacking on the latter in favor of descriptions of over-abundant aviary populations and apologetic bicyclists. So, for those of you curious about the state of baseball in Holland, these are some of the tentative conclusions I’ve discovered in my interviews and observation this month.

Firstly, I must address, the most difficult of my project - since August – has been truly defining what “amateur” refers to.  In the US it is easy to point to a professional baseball player and say “he is a professional,” noting a semi-pro ballplayer is a bit more difficult and non-descript, but for the most part any team in independent ball is probably a good barometer of that, but as for amateur, the boundaries are not as clearly defined.  You have the Cape Cod League with collegiate athletes who are amateurs in the sense that they have not yet turned pro, and you have the Cranberry League where you have amateurs in the sense that they have given up on ambitions of becoming pro, but are good enough to still compete.  Furthermore there is beer league softball which can be even more informal and unstructured than any other level (hoping to find one of those in Boston this summer, for my own amusement)

In Holland, however –

Sidebar:  My project is now between Holland and New England, not the US and Netherlands.  There is a difference.  Holland is in the Netherlands and made up of Noord (North) and Zuid (South) Holland which are only two provinces out of the twelve that make up the Netherlands.  Because the most famous towns and cities (The Hague, Amsterdam, Rotterdam, etc) are in Holland, most people refer to The Netherlands as synonymous with Holland, such as today’s article about a 7 foot Dutch pitcher from Oss, The Netherlands.  Oss is not “South Holland,” it’s in North Brabant, which is in the southern part of The Netherlands.  Sure, ask someone from Holland and they will have no problem agreeing that The Netherlands and Holland are the same, but ask someone from one of the other ten provinces and it can get pretty animated and impassioned.  Because I have interviews from Holland natives and will only get interviews from teams in New England, I will be narrowing my focus in this way.

-- teams are a bit more difficult to categorize.  EVERY team is amateur and every level is within the same club.  Take for example, the Amsterdam Pirates.  They have teams set up by age group with teams that are the equivalent of little league, babe ruth, pony, legion, and Cape-Cod-League-amateur.  It’s like a perpetual AAU team and when you get to a level that isn’t quite good enough to be head-class, they have satellite programs which are much like the regular amateur leagues in the US.

 Because this is so difficult to differentiate, and really it seemed as though I should be comparing the latter group – the satellite program – with teams in the US exclusively, I have made the executive decision to focus on all players encompassed within my Project Plan.  I went back into the work I’ve done the past nine months and looked at what I had planned to do and how I defined that.  My definition of amateur is any player, paid or unpaid, who plays baseball while simultaneously maintaining another job.  Here that is everyone, even at the national level (which is awesome because they practice in Amsterdam and so I don’t have to track them down haha) while in Boston, players in the CCL most likely have host families for the summer so the only after-work game would be in the Cranberry and Park Leagues, etc. 

So far while being here, I’ve noticed that baseball seems to benefit from being a minority sport. Almost all of the players I have interviewed point to soccer as being too competitive and too intense, to the point that it is un-enjoyable.  This is not to say that none of them LIKE soccer (though some have admitted that they hate it), more so that there is too much pressure to perform because everyone is trying to go pro with it and so if they do play, they prefer a pickup game with friends.  Others, say that they hate soccer because it is too simple, there isn’t the strategy and thought that baseball provides (see, I knew it wasn’t just me).  Most plan on playing until work or family knocks them out of the game.  There isn’t the “this IS my relaxation time” mentality that I have found with baseball in the states.  Rather, people often say that baseball is time-consuming; taking up weekends and time after work.  The sport here is an afterthought, they enjoy playing it and it's social, but they would rather socialize with their teammates by going out for a beer the night before (or sometimes right before) the game.

When it comes to drinking, even the practice facility has a bar.  It’s like a VFW of sorts where people come to watch practices or socialize after them.  I’ve even conducted an interview in this manner more than once.  It makes the interviews themselves more social and informal and has led to conversations rather than interviews.  This is often where parents spend their time during practices, grabbing a beer or tea and walking into the warm room to socialize and watch.  As far as why people play baseball, my main finding is that it IS a much more relaxed outlet for friendly competition.  Friendly, here, is the most important word.  If someone messes up, it’s not a problem, nor is it held against them, it just happened and the game continues.  People are inherently competitive, but not necessarily intensely competitive.  It wouldn’t be a game without competition, but the adage rings true here: it’s just a game.

Road Rage and Other Intercultural Phenomena

I watched this happen.

While waiting for the ferry last night, I witnessed one bicyclist, en route to the Buiksloterwegveer Ferry (adjacent to my own “Ij Plein”), T-boned another bike being walked alone by its driver towards the Ij Plein ferry.  There were no variables involved here.  No pedestrians to be suddenly avoided or a rush to get to the ferry as the gangplank was raised.  The weather was even fair (much unlike tonight where it’s snowing.  I can’t avoid it).  No, with only witnesses surrounding the immediate area, this woman plowed directly into the center of an essentially immobile bicycle, knocking it over to the point that the plastic covering the chain cracked and was left dangling from the pedal.

Being a Bostonian, I can’t help but rubber-neck, a cultural norm which is not lost on the Dutch.  We all waited to catch a glimpse of the scorn the bike’s owner was certain to demonstrate with a well-executed stink eye and perhaps a select word or two.  Surely, the broken bike and his own discomfort (having been knocked over in the process) would certainly warrant such a reaction, after all, trams avoid bikes better than this girl.

But no: he laughed.  He stood up, looked at the offender, and laughed.  My Dutch isn’t very good, but I’m pretty sure he even apologized, the proceeded to force the rest of the shattered plastic from the chain and went over to meet up with his buddy and continue to laugh and recount the scene.

Toto, we aren’t in Kansas anymore.

Damn…that analogy doesn’t work for me since Ben (another IF-er) is actually FROM Kansas.  And judging from the pictures he and Dan have posted, the Scarecrow was trying to point to Prague.

Anyway, back to Amsterdam.

It’s school vacation week, and the Dutch take vacations like it is their job (….wait) so even if I DID want to be a tourist today (and I DID have every intention of seeing the Picasso exhibit at the van Gogh museum) I couldn’t.  Time for another round of “Dutch Mafia.”

I followed only one bicyclist today before arriving at a street vendor that I keep passing by train and meaning to pay a visit.  Lucky me the merchant specialized in herring, a Dutch delicacy, which I am more than ok with.  Determined to put some of my Dutch into practice (again, not good) I placed my first order in the native tongue: “een haring  alstublieft.”  Apparently I must have said it correctly (though I question my spelling [of course I looked it up]) because the vendor responded with Dutch….

Now normally, you can try speaking Dutch and they appreciate it, but to be nice, they will respond in English, knowing you wouldn’t know the response anyway.  However, the problem is, even when I DO manage a correct Dutch phrase, he will respond in Dutch and I still won’t know what he is saying.  Hoping not to tip my hand, I thought ahead and knowing that the next part of the cadence is usually “would you like pickles and onions?” I nodded politely and mumbled an English, “yes, please.” 

…Apparently that wasn’t an option.   He had been asking if I wanted it for here or to go, but my constant approval and nods were not enough to convey that I did want it here (with pickles and onions…) and the jig was up.  The rest of the conversation was in English.

Toto, I’m not ordering wings in Boston anymore.

...despite the snow.

Peter Black and other Short Stories

The Adventures of Peter Black

I mentioned last week that I attended my first couchsurfers meeting and had one of my most “radically open” sessions since being on locale.  Having had such a positive experience, I felt that my friends Ashlee and Pete, also looking for intercultural development, would benefit from an outing with the couchsurfers.  However, what good is stepping out of your comfort zone if you do so with safety pads on.  To that end we decided to not see each other while at the meeting and to be aware of our “other selves” while there, so that if we did meet in a group, it would be as if we had just met.  I would be from Boston since people already knew me, Ashlee would be from Pittsburgh since she has family there.  Pete decided to be from Montana.  I don’t know why, but we saw a brand new Pete

Peter Black is a 22 year old accountant from a farm town in Montana (because what else is there, he assumes).  His company put him up in a flat in the west part of the city.  He has been starting to travel and wants to go to more exotic locations, but his firm sent him to Amsterdam.  He can’t ride a bike well because he is too used to horses. He wishes he could be back in school so he could do a study abroad program and meet up with people like couchsurfers.  After all, there were more people in the bar that night than in his Montana hometown.

Peter Black is a 20 year old Boston College student from a farm thirty minutes south of Boston.    He lives in a dorm-style apartment that BC arranged, but he pays for.  He has never been outside North America, but his Spanish is good enough to be considered conversational in Amsterdam.  Given the choice, Amsterdam was probably his first choice locale.  He can’t ride a bike because the one he bought was too deformed from the person before him and he was forced to buy another.  He is in college and plans to attend couchsurfer meetings regularly, though having someone stay over probably won’t happen.  Can’t say I blame him.

Polly Want a GPS?

Today is the first sunny day in a week and I have to wait in my apartment so my landlord company can come and have me sign off on my lease.  However, determined to get outside for a little bit, I decided to explore a bit of Noord, as I probably should have done by now, but other than the market up the street, I haven’t.  The city is much more appealing, but going to the ferry by bike, I’ve noticed a lot of places that I would have otherwise overlooked, so I decided to go to a corner bar and throw some darts while being warmed by a bier and a tosti for lunch.  While getting ready I ended up sitting in a chair I don’t normally sit in so I could put on my shoes.  This chair is angled to look out the window.  Out the window there is a tree.  In the tree there were two parrots.

Parrots.

Green parrots.

People of Amsterdam, is this common?

PARROTS.

WILD. PARROTS.

I know they were wild because I looked around and saw no falconer, and I thought I had seen birds similar in the past month, but was never really certain, thought they might be finches or something.  Now, it would be one thing if I had studied somewhere in Africa, as I’m sure they have any degree of colorful wildlife, but I’m not even close.  Forget the cracker, Polly needs a map.

***disclaimer – according to my neighbor, the parrots in this region are “green parakeets” that are native to the Tibetan mountain region.  Some guy brought a bunch over in ’96 and released them into the wild and because the climate here is so similar, they were able to reproduce.  Dad says the same thing happened with a pet shop in Rhode Island***

Romeo and Juliet

Including parrots, there are a number of regional birds here.  Due to the canals in the city and around my apartment, I’ve been afforded the opportunity to see these birds, which are rather odd as compared to the same wildlife in New England (I’ve also yet to see a squirrel, I imagine they aren’t here).  Otherwise there are Magpies, Crows, unusual looking (and sounding) seagulls, and big black ducks which travel in packs that look like something from a Hitchcock film.  There are also herons.  Big. Freakin’. Herons.  I thought the pigeons in Boston were daring, flying wherever they want and waiting until near-death to fly away from something, but these herons are borderline domesticated.  They also get some serious air, perching in trees in flocks and landing on buildings.

Anyway, this has offered me an opportunity to get up relatively close to them in this time, the weird part, however, is that every time I see the herons in my apartment complex, there is always one on a roof with the other immediately beneath it on the ground.  The title pretty much speaks for itself.

Stalkward

Today I was spontaneous

(Yesterday I went to a library, two very opposite Kevin’s)

I had planned to hit up a number of museums and maybe even a bar trip with my friend Pete, fortunately he woke up sick.

Yes, I mean fortunately (sorry Pete I really hope you feel better), because otherwise I would not have had the day I did, nor would I have had my best idea since being on locale.

Upset at the loss of the prospect of doing some touring today, I reluctantly googled a nice café in which to spend my day reading.  Not even working on my project, the day had “bad IF student” written all over it.  I made it to the ferry and had a coffee at the dock-side café before getting on the boat.  When I got off the boat, however, things seemed different: the pavement felt slightly downhill, the bike (my automatic mood-booster) was riding a bit smoother, and, surrounded by other cyclists, I decided on a new route: wherever the people in front of me go.  I call my new game “Dutch Mafia.”

The rules of Dutch Mafia are simple enough:

-          Pick a bike and follow it until it stops

-          Do not follow a rental bike, as they are most likely tourists too

-          If a group splits up, follow the one going down a street you don’t recognize

-          If it stops at a house or office, keep riding until you find a new mark

-          If it stops at a shop, bar, or restaurant, go inside

-          Always go down side streets

-          If you get made, make a friend

-          Bonus points for keeping up with a scooter

-          Negative points for following a horse (should be obvious)

Essentially the game is a combination of people watching, community exploration, and my other favorite game, “American or European” (but that’s usually exclusive to loud, UGGs-clad girls falling on each other in Leidseplein)

The first few marks ended uneventfully, in a random neighborhood and then in the Red Light District, the mark meeting with his friend.  I think he made me because he ducked around a crowd and looked back at me, but no matter.   The third was the best, having followed her through an unknown neighborhood, I ended up on a familiar street at a bookstore I had not yet recognized.  That was the beauty in the game.  I might end up in a place where I had been before, but I was visiting it in a different way.  The game makes things so spontaneous that even normal and known occurrences are special.

Once inside the bookstore I attempted my hand at flipping through the Dutch books, only to resign myself to the English section.  I found my apartment in a book about “Dutch Architecture” …beautiful as my apartment is, the building itself is not so much.  It looks like a concrete McDonald’s play place which had no business in the same book amongst the Taj-Mahal-and-Sears-Tower-esque of other buildings and structures in Amsterdam.

The next mark didn’t last long, but the yield was exponential.  Two blocks from the bookstore we landed at a pancake house where the mark worked.  Now, the good and bad of this spot; First the good:

A.    I’m pretty sure it’s the same pancake house my cousin Jill mentioned to me just last night (as it is near the Anne Frank House)

B.     The pancakes were amazing. They are the thickness of a crepe, mixed with meats like some sort of batter-omelet the size of a bar pizza.  I got mine with chicken and a glass of baileys. an excellent choice. The pancakes go down rather easily, but be warned, they hit hard.  I could do more than one more often than once, but I don’t think InterFuture wants to pay for another seat on my flight home.

The bad, however:  While it appeared as a hole in the wall with a small, painted marquis advertising “Pancake House: The Best In Town,” it was a bit of a tourist trap,as evidenced by the Brittney Spears being pumped through the speakers and the girls exiting to “Those were literally amazing”…oh were they? ‘LITERALLY?’

…Fall in a canal.

Anyway, being alone, the hostess asked me if I would mind sharing a large table with another party…of course not, I’ve been stalking people all morning.  Radically open is the name of the game (that would be a good name, actually, come to think of it).  Sitting with another group was an opportunity I expected to offer the chance to speak with other travelers (as many in the shop were speaking English, including the 6-year-old playing with an ipad…really?), but my particular table-guests were not even speaking to one another, let alone me.  The majority of their wait was spent on iphones, stopping only to discuss the actions of said device.  I people watched and read.

The remainder of my day took me deeper and deeper into the western part of the city, doubling back along the waterfront and tram-tracks that I take to baseball stadiums.  None were particularly entertaining after the pancake house, though all took me into areas I was unfamiliar with and that was the point.  While not out of the ordinary, the remaining few offered quite the chase.  I think the most fun were the ones who ran red lights, which were numerous.  My choice was hold the tail or be hit by a tram (we've been over the transit hierarchy).  I avoided both.

Having lost my final contact after chasing a commuter from Centraal Station to the East I turned into and wandered through a park.  I had lost focus, but I considered my day: these people would never know that they had been followed all day, what if I had been followed too?  What if InterFuture had people on the ground responsible for following me day to day to research me? Sure there was Rick, but what about someone I didn't know, someone I couldn't ever make?  Fortunately I didn’t have Ashlee riding on the back of my bike sending me into a building and embarrassing myself in front of this stranger. 

Alone Again, Naturally

Spoiler Alert: come the end of the year, Feb 16 might be listed as one of my top days in 2011

For the first time since being on locale I forced myself into radical openness of a solitary kind.  I had once read an article regarding bucket lists (as became popular following the box office bust) which suggested taking a trip alone so as to build self-reliance.  Though worried coming to Amsterdam and knowing I was living alone, I saw it as an opportunity to strike this item from the list.

 However as you probably know, while I’m studying baseball in Amsterdam, one of my fellow IF scholars, Ashlee, is studying about an hour away in Utrecht.  Meanwhile, my friend Pete is staying even closer while studying at the University of Amsterdam.  While this is not the first time IF students have been in close proximity to one another, or even with other American friends, it is not necessarily carte blanche to socialize with these people, not that we don’t still wish to embrace the opportunity, we are just all aware that we don’t wish to exploit it. 

This is not my first interaction with solo travel, as I spent much of my time in Washington, DC alone wandering through museums, though in DC I had the advantage of a large school group in the mornings, as well as six roommates when I returned home at night (aside: I miss Grosvenor).  In addition, I had cell service where “cha-cha” or “KGB” could direct me around via text.  Here, so far I have spent a good deal of time with Ashlee and Pete and most of my solo time has been interacting with persons at the Amsterdam Pirates facility.   Even when I attended my first CouchSurfers meeting alone, I did so with the reassurance that everyone else was out of their comfort zone as well.  Determined to make my own way, Tuesday night I set in to plan my day alone.

First on the list was FOAM; a photography museum covered by my museum card (two more museums and I get a free one! I wonder if they have a sandwich deal…)  Knowing that my compatriots were not interested in this stop as I was, I made it my first priority for the day.  The first obstacle was to actually LOCATE the museum by bike.  I knew the general area, but had never taken my bike in said direction before and, as stated in past posts, bike lanes mixed with directions do not mesh well with me.  Likewise, when the museum is on “a street that starts with a K,” one that you can’t pronounce even if you COULD remember the name, things become a bit more challenging.

Nevertheless I made my way to FOAM (only overshooting the street once) where the exhibits on display followed the theme of the day, portraying pre-civilization isolation.  Additionally, other halls portrayed the history and discovery of photojournalism –

***Quick background on my career aspirations:

5^th grade: recognize a desire to be a sports journalist
8^th grade: aptitude test tells me to be a sports journalist
11^th grade: A week around law and politics at Boys’ State causes me to question sports journalism.  Lawyer is a much more serious profession
12^th grade: Apply to college as a poli-sci major
Freshman year:  DC and Rotondo’s class make me realize I have no interest in law or gov., I become and English major
Junior year:  My work with InterFuture and my umpiring ambitions shift my focus back to sports media***

– While in this exhibit, a video shows the subject discussing what it means to be a journalist and what it means to be passionate about journalism.  Having the opportunity to take in this video came at a time in my life where my career goals are in transition as a result of my project.  It’s safe to say that this exhibit provided me with the mental push I’ve needed to re-access and re-accept my future and my goals in the next five years (after I try my hand at umpiring of course)

Moving as the photos were, the exhibit hall was much smaller than many I had spent time in the past week or so and I was done rather sooner than I had expected.  Calling an audible on my day, I traveled to Leidesplein to watch a few games of chess, which I’ve yet to do in full.  My favorite part about watching these matches is that everyone has an opinion and no one has a problem with approaching one of the competitors to suggest a maneuver while everyone else chats and points among themselves on the sidelines…does chess have sidelines?  The theme of my trip has been bonding over a common interest in a game and this was no exception.  Language barriers be damned, games plus body language seems to throw down the trump card on international hindrances.

Next on my agenda (as spontaneous as I’m trying to be, I’m still me and plans and to do list are omnipresent) was the brouwerij ‘’t Ij.  That’s Dutch for brewery in a windmill (actually the Ij is a river, brewery on the Ij).  But seriously, IN A WINDMILL, talk about immersing yourself in a locale.  Fortunately, I managed to stay under the radar as a traveler given that the two guys who walked in ahead of me were wearing backpacks and asking for tours.  The regulars around the bar drunkenly called them out on it.  I, however, managed a discussion with the bartenders over the egg-based names of the beer (i.e. Columbus, natte, etc).  I also managed brief conversations with newly married Scottish and Brazilian men, apparently already eager to be out of the house and at a bar one week in! Also, a bit of history: this windmill is the tallest of 8 in Amsterdam and has been moved between multiple locations in its history, which begs the question, how do you move a windmill? …other than wind

 Having sampled all the offerings (the Columbus was my favorite on tap, Struis was the heaviest, but it was bottled) I made my way towards my final destination.  A tall order of chipsy king and a misplaced bike later I entered Club Alto for a Jazz show.  Unaware that the doors opened at 9 for a 10pm show, I was rather early, which gave me my choice of seating.  Having selected a seat with good viewing range and room for company, I was fortunate enough to be joined by a German couple vacationing for the weekend and a mother and daughter pair from Raleigh (though they were Dutch-born, so it counts)  We chatted for an hour before the show and then again during the intermission before having to leave to catch our respective ferries and trains.

After such a day however, my bed was welcomed refuge. Being radically open is both rewarding and exhausting.

“I got my brown shoes, my button shirt, my scaly cap”

Two weeks in so let’s asses the accuracy of the wardrobe and, quite frankly, the validity of all the “Do’s and Taboos” blogs that I read over the past 8 months.  This one’s for you Dan.

First the shirt:  …actually no.   not the shirt.  As long as it looks good it’s pretty standard and trans-cultural.  And let’s face it; the kid looks good.

Next the scaly cap:  pre-departure I had developed the hypothesis that the only reason I get made fun of for the scaly cap – or anything really – is because people have known me for so long as the kid wearing sneakers, t shirts, and baseball caps that any change to my style as I grow up out of such slovenly styles will be so obvious that questions of  “where did you park your cab?” and “how much for a newspaper?” become inevitable.  Because really, I like the hat as do many members of my extended family (thanks grandma!), and of course mom thinks it’s cute, while dad tends to contribute to the group curious about what I’m doing with my “Newsies” money. Europe seems to be the right place to put this theory to the test, right? Right.

So I put the scientific method to the test.  My “other” IF project, if you will.

Question:  Is my hat worthy of ridicule? 

Hypothesis:  The jokes are merely the product of evident change combined with my jesting nature. 

Results:  I have stopped hearing the cabby comments.  Yes, now its “how was your trip to Paris last night?”  (I enjoyed that one)  I asked my advisor, Rick, what the consensus might be regarding my hat.  He responded that it might be “more French,” but that “certain circles here might also appreciate the gesture.”  Fair enough.  So it’s French.  I’m taking that as a win, I just said the scaly cap was European, I didn’t specify which it was, I just overshot being totally correct by a few hundred miles.

Finally the shoes:  Now my personal opinion is that I have adequately blended by virtue of the shoes and very much stood out on the day I wore white sneakers on the tram.  I honestly got looks that day.  Otherwise, most everyone wears some form of nice shoes, usually brown, but sometimes black, with jeans.  They aren’t the EXACT same shoes, but at least it’s the same idea generally.  Even the women are riding bikes in heels (female equivalent of a nice shoe turned casual).  There was, however, one bump in the road of my seamless assimilation.  Sunday, following a group interview with three baseball players after practice (I’ve seen this skit before.  I’m pretty sure my response was “I have no intention of conducting an interview this while on locale”…oops), my interviewees were kind enough to treat me to a beer in the clubhouse.  While we discussed my project and informally chatted about the state of Dutch baseball, the conversation broke off as one player pronounced, “hey, I gotta ask, what is it with you American’s and wearing nice shoes everywhere?”

I couldn’t contain myself.

I explained to him this whole social experiment and how I had read that Europeans, Dutch specifically, wore nice shoes, not sneakers, and expressed that I was just trying to not stand out.  He agreed that the Dutch won’t wear white sneakers and dressier shoes may be common, but “Jordan’s” are perfectly acceptable.

More importantly, he agreed with my hypothesis that the kid looks good.

The City That Never Sleeps...

…is located on the Hudson River.  Just because New York is formerly New Amsterdam, does not mean that the public transportation is open all night here. 

So let’s talk transit: New York is the ONLY place where I have seen such an occurrence.  Here, the trams and buses close at – you guessed it – 12:30.  Say what you will (and I will) about the MBTA, but in Denver, DC, and Amsterdam between 12:30 and 1:00 is also the standard closing time. 

The difference?  There is a schedule, and by God, if it says 11:57, a bus will be turning the corner at 11:56.  And this is for every stop, not just the major stations, leaving the average street stops to fend for themselves and ballpark a timeframe.

Speaking of ballparks: unless I’m going to one (which is on the other side of the city) the best way to get around is – without question – a bike.  Now I realize I am in Amsterdam and to make such a claim is not entirely astute, but allow me to explain.  While bike lanes are virtually non-existent outside of Cambridge, here they mirror the streets and sidewalks at every turn.

Essentially, the priority scale of the right of way goes like this:

Bikes > Pedestrians > Trams > Buses = Taxis > cars

As long as pedestrians stay off the bike lanes they are fine and trams and cars are smart enough to yield and rather than trying to beat them through the crosswalk by jumping the curb while leaning on the horn, flipping off said pedestrian and straining for scathing eye contact.  As for the bikes, the bike lanes and side streets are theirs for the riding with minimal peril.  I even slowed down as the bike lane crossed a rotary and what happened?  The driver looked at me with a motion that suggested “well aren’t you gonna go?”

The hardest part is that I THINK that there are directions and places you have to move to while on a bike in order to be in the right bike lane.  I have no idea what the rules of the road with bikes really are and the ones that I have learned, I’ve learned the hard way.  For example, there are stop lights for the bike lanes, but they are rather counter-intuitive coming from Boston.  When the light is red, it counts down until green, much like the crosswalk lights count down until you actually have to yield to traffic again.  I ran a lot of red lights the first day.

Trams move amongst the traffic much like any other vehicle, but there are also tram only lanes…that the buses can go in.  Ok that makes sense…until the taxis enter them too.  Fair enough that’s public transportation too, but then cars follow them.  I have no idea what can and can’t be in the bus only lane.

However, motorized scooters hold the trump card.  They are bikes so they can go in the bike lanes, they are motorized so they can keep up with regular traffic, but they are too damn fast so they always go past the bikes and you don’t know that they are coming because you hear the motor but assume that it’s in a vehicle lane where such vehicles are suppose to be.

In any case, I love my bike.  It keeps my culture curve on a constant positive and makes it exciting to get to and from places.  My favorite part about my bike, however, is the ferry.  While it is the one pitfall of riding a bike (because it too closes), it’s a rather social experience taking the ferry together.  The best part is that it is the one means of transport that is free.  “How do they manage that?” you might ask, I certainly did.  Apparently they are subsidized through the Dutch government being classified as “moving bridges” and “you can’t charge for a bridge”

…tell that to Mass DOT

Why I Hate Soccer

As a correlary to "Have You Met Ted," I must admit, tonight I ate ribs with one of my best friends from high school while watching the Bruins at a local sports bar.  Being "radically open" 24/7 is exhausting...

In the time I was at this bar tonight, Real Madrid managed to go up 1-0

Simultaneously, the Bruins lost 4-2, while the Rangers went up on the Penguins 5-2

That’s 13 scores to your 1 soccer.  As my interviewee stated today, “soccer is just failing 90% of the time”

Have You Met Ted?

It’s hard to adequately express how truly incredible last night was.

One goal to Amsterdam was to play a rousing game of “Have You Met Ashlee,” my variation of “Have You Met Ted” from How I Met Your Mother, where one friend introduces the subsequent, unsuspecting friend to an equally-unsuspecting stranger and walks away.  I succeeded (albeit at the expense of the top of my beer) on Super Bowl Sunday as well as the previous Friday with my neighbor, Maarten (the name of the game having been altered accordingly).  However, last night I played wingman to no one but myself, alone in a room of travelers doing the same.

Couchsurfers is an international organization founded to help travelers meet people abroad in hopes of scoring a few free nights on a host couch, kinda like the “Tale of the Sex-less Innkeeper” (I really miss How I Met Your Mother), or to just generally meet people even if no couch can be provided.  I fall in the latter group.

Thanks to Juli, my fellow IF scholar, I was able to make it to my first Couchsurfer weekly meeting last night.  The evening began with a pre-meet-up around 8 PM (20:00 here, I can’t get used to military time) with dinner at Talia, a cozy Italian (or rather, ‘Talian as it were) bistro providing reduced prices on probably the best slice of pizza I have ever purchased.  It certainly gave the North End a run anyway.  Here I shyly entered the lounge to the welcome of a Lisa and Jasper, a charming, involved, and extremely well-traveled couple from Utrecht who chatted with me for an hour and a half about their time with the program and my travels from Boston, sprinkling the conversation with Sarah Palin and Monty Python jokes; my kind of people.

From Talia, we met up with the main meeting at a pub next door.  We were among the first to arrive, or so I assume, given that we watched many travelers after us enter the pub “like giant questionmarks” curious to differentiate between those there for the meet up and those who had simply stumbled upon a good bar.  Within the hour, however, the questionmarks had faded as the bar became overrun with travelers and locals alike associated with the program, all others moving to somewhere more usual.

This event was anything but usual.  First we met a Polish girl interning at a local university bio department attempting to prove life on Mars; certainly a conversation starter.  Next, a newly-migrated couple from Milan and soon our table had extended along an entire wall of the bar, and the bar itself quickly became a melting-pot boiling over; a Tower of Babel antithesis. 

*Pause* Today’s “pretentious phrase of the day”: Tower of Babel antithesis.

*Un-pause*  I had some of the most exciting and genuine conversations of my life in this time, language barrier rendered non-existent (fortunately for me, that barrier was destroyed with English.  I’m trying not to think that way, but given my best, failed, bi-lingual efforts, what other option do I have?).  One of my best conversations was 45 minutes with a Russian woman who admittedly spoke minimal English.

Two elements were the most telling.  One, I got there at 8 and left at 2.  Six hours more than well spent. Two, by the end of the night people around the bar who had come in separately were laughing and hitting each other as if they had grown up together and planned to meet tonight per usual.  At the end, not only had I had a great time, with great people, at a great price, I also felt that I had accomplished something.  The organization helps put the “Inter[cultural]” in “InterFuture.”

Parties And Socials explicated - per request

To put this post in context:  since June, I have been compiling a playlist of songs that remind me of either different events with my InterFuture (IF) classmates or even just about my project and the organization in general.  I burned this playlist to a CD after the January conference (I forgot “Bicycle” – Queen and “Bottled in Cork” – TL/RX, but I’ll deal. I neglected that damn World Cup song as I despise it more than anything).  I have already mentioned my useless archive of random memories which constantly cause me to give pause and ponder, “imagine what I could know if I didn’t know that” this is just an extension of that J

Here Comes Your Man – The Pixies: I believe Amanda made the comment when I gave her this CD that “what is it, a bunch of Belle and Sebastian a la Kristen’s car?”  No. I don’t have any Belle and Sebastian, but if I did then yes, that would have been the first song given our first conversation with Kristen after being picked up at the Beverly train station in June.  Rather, this was playing in Kristen’s car on the LAST day of the June conference as she drove us BACK to the station.  Also, it was the first song that came on my ipod when we I went to get my car out of the Iona College parking garage on the last day of the August conference.  That double appearance would have been enough, but then Ben also noodled it on the guitar the night we had dinner at Dan’s place on my birthday.

A Certain Romance – Arctic Monkey’s:  was playing at the café in Salem where Jenn and I spent the afternoon during our first community exploration

Ooh La La – The Faces:  Before we went to the August conf. Ashlee’s friend gave her an ipod with only one song on it.  Guess what that song was? Anyway, for that entire week she listened to that one song.  While doing some work at the conference, I made a “genius” playlist and this was on it.  I didn’t even know I owned it.

Slow Ride – Foghat:  The song played “on the radio” during Amanda’s simulation in August where Elias the sketchy cabby attempted to abduct her.  Turns out the song isn’t about a car ride at all…

Jenny 8675309 – Prozac Daisies: First of all: yes, I know this is by Tommy Tutone, but the versions I found were too long or something, I don’t actually remember why I didn’t use that version.  Anyway, it was the title of Jenny’s skit where she had to conduct a phone interview with a poor cell connection.  Get it? cell connection…it’s a prison pun…are you there Basel?

Chelsea Dagger – The Fratellis:  This was the first song playing as we left Iona.  It was also on an Amstel commercial so it reminded me of Amsterdam which reminded me of IF, full circle.

Hook – Blues Traveler:  Played on the drive home as well and someone in the car commented on it so it was forever associated with IF anyway.  Kind of a cop-out, but I had to for my own sake.

Santeria – Sublime:  In the car with me after the conference and our pit-stop at Juli’s house were: Ben, Juli, and Ashlee…all of whom fell asleep by the time we hit the Pike.  Great driving companions guys :) Fortunately I had my trusty “Car Playlist 50” to keep me company.  Now, in my opinion as a creator of traveling music, this might be (one of) the best car sing along songs (which is different than a bridge song, Doug, Pete, and Ian), but again I was, for all intents and purposes, alone…until Ben woke up and started singing along from the back seat…then Juli woke up and joined in.  By the time Ashlee woke up to it, the three of us were successfully cranking some serious sublime, which was then followed by….

Lie in Our Graves – Dave Matthews Band:  Now I realize these are a lot of songs from one car ride with less than half of the group, but stay with me.  “I can’t believe that we would lie in our graves wonderin’ if we had spend our own living days well” pretty much sums up my view of InterFuture as a counterweight to this idea and really this fear and I had this on repeat while doing my PP Take 1 in July so it was going to make the CD anyway, but I needed a better excuse.  Jack gave me that excuse when HE started playing it at Dan’s dinner party as well.

Zombie – The Cranberries:  When we had to pick a celebrity from our locale, Amanda went with The Cranberries which spawned spontaneous breakouts of “zahhmBAY” for most of the January conference

Walcott – Vampire Weekend: following a conversation about Vampire Weekend and a game of spoons, the same thing happened with Walcott.

Everyday – Dave Matthews Band:  During the January conference Ashlee mentioned that she had this stuck in her head.  I, in my infinite and relentless irritation, proceeded to hum it loud enough for her to hear during any downtime or general silence between sessions.

Other Side of the World – KT Tunstall:  …that one kinda explains itself

Protection – Ben Folds:  Now this one is a stretch, but again, for myself it had to be on because it constantly reminds me of traveling abroad because of the first line “Tourists wear their wallets in high places when abroad So as not to be ripped off in ways to which they're not apprised.” There were a few other lines, but that was it.

What To Do – OK Go:  It was actually more appropriate for my first week here, but in any case “it seems like all the people want to do is roam the streets of Amsterdam.”  Also, if you don’t know OK Go, among other things, this is why I love them/this song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vy545VgWWz8

Amsterdam – Guster:  The only more cliché last song would have been “closing time,” but I digress.  Obviously this is also self-explanatory, but its twofold: our wrap up conference is in Amsterdam, thus maintaining the integrity of the CD, which moves chronologically from conference to conference.

Head Spinning Like a Windmill

As mentioned, I am ten days into my trip, but lets start at day 1

After shoveling my way to the ghost-town Logan Airport calls Terminal A, KLM flight 230 or Delta Flight 6030, or some combination of the two, departed as the sole flight out of Terminal A en route to the comparatively tropical (42 degrees) Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam where I had my first encounter with the Devil-spawn known as “Exchange Rate” while making a worthwhile payphone call home.  After parting ways with classmates for a final time, I passed through customs and met with my country contact, Rick.  Good thing too because while everyone may speak English here, street signs and rail-pass kiosks are in Dutch. 

For an English major known for using pretentious vernacular such as “pretentious vernacular” being illiterate does not suit me very well.  It also messes with my ability to be a human GPS when I can’t pronounce the street names (though that didn’t stop me from directing a Baltimore native last night).  So Rick demonstrated the proper ticket purchasing protocol and we proceeded towards my apartment.

This is a cultural comparison program, so let’s compare:
Boston Apartment: 3 bedrooms, 2 roommates
Amsterdam Apt: 3 bedrooms, 0 roommates

Plenty of room for activities

Also plenty of room for the furniture I didn’t have. 

People often asked “what’s the first thing you are going to do in Amsterdam?”  The answer: spend the day moving furniture from a fully furnished apartment, across the apartment complex, into my room.  Ten hours and a removed banister later, my apartment contained a bed, four chairs, a couch, and a TV connected only to a DVD player.  While this may not sound ideal, “serendipity” is another pretentious word I’m fond of.  While moving in, my neighbor, the first person my age I had seen all day, came home and invited me upstairs for a beer and we watched How I Met Your Mother.  I realized I have an addiction to one of those two things, guess which one.

Having stayed up 36 hours straight (I’m not counting the two hours on the way over in the flying shakewieght) I was more than confident I had overcome any possibility of jetlag and successfully woke up the next morning at 9 AM…Eastern Standard Time, that’s 3 PM in Amsterdam for those of you keeping score.  After a beer with Pete (so much for waiting a while to hang out with my high school friends in Europe haha) I joined my new friends in an evening out in Leidseplein, which is “Light Square” in Dutch.  You can tell you’re in Leisdseplein because everything is decorated in Christmas lights, unlike Rembrandtplein which is decorated in Christmas lights… that distinction would have saved two hours of walking past the same building on Super Bowl Sunday.  

In any case, with jetlag rampant and my first night in “Adult Disneyland” under my belt, Saturday morning also came at sunset, which was just as well given that I managed to score my first entranceway into my project the following morning.  With no choice but to wake up before 5 PM on Sunday, Saturday was rather relaxed and consisted of a dinner of Avocado (forgot to bring the stove over from apartment A) and some last minute work on my interview questions.  Enjoyable as it may be here, having taken the first step in both my project and my social interaction abroad, at this point, my head was still spinning like a windmill in Holland.

Elevator Pitch

"Hi my name is Kevin and I am in The Netherlands to study what motivates people to play amateur-level baseball"

OK, now the long version: for the last 8 months, I and my InterFuture "cohorts" (probably my favorite word to come out of this program aside from anything DR says) have been developing a number of incredibly varied and incredibly interesting research projects and we are now finally on locale and ten days into our intercultural excursions.  InterFuture is a unique study-abroad opportunity where students develop and engage in an intercultural research project of their chosing in anywhere from 2-3 different locales.  So basically we get to skip class for a semester or two and travel...something like that.

A year ago my friend told me that when I go abroad not to "think about all the things you are missing out on at home," because, "you only get this opportunity once." She also suggested I keep a journal, only to correct herself saying "though you do have a freakish memory so maybe you don't need to."

Well. I was just thinking about missing Wednesday night trivia, so I tried to think about what I was doing here instead, and I couldn't remember! (despite my 'freakish memory') So to rectify that, rather than journal, I decided I would take a crack at blogging figuring maybe my family (and hopefully friends) will care enough to follow along.

And so begin the Tales of the Illiterate English Major