Hello Pot, Meet the Kettle

Debbie, Jesse, Marissa, and I arrived in Paris about 3:00 p.m. (they call that 15:00 over here and it makes perfect sense unless you’re not used to it in which case the mental math required to subtract twelve from the number and the loss of the next seventeen seconds wondering if you actually did it correctly just aine worth it). Once out of the train we set off to see the sights, and in Paris that doesn’t take very long. From just about anywhere you can see the Eiffel Tower looming magically over the city as it has since 1889, after five years of planning and two to build it in time for the World’s Fair. It stands 984 feet tall but can expand to a height of 990’ depending on the temperature!

La Tour Eiffel, c'est magnifique

The French have several well-earned reputations. Masters of the culinary arts, connoisseurs of wine, adroit in the science of love—they are also known as, shall we say, arrogant. Now it’s true that Americans have a patent on Western Hemisphere arrogance, so we can easily call a spade a spade. (I can hear Nicolas at this very moment: zis spade ease a spade, I cunnot tell what is meant by zis iddy-omm!) In other words, we know one when we see one—they’re as arrogant as we are. Need an example?

View of the Champs-Elysees

OK, we’re walking in the general direction of the Champs-Elysees—do you know this street? Most people do. What most people might not know however is the correct French pronunciation (Shomps-a-leez-aye). So, when a tourist with what sounded very much like an American accent asked a stranger passing by, “Excuse me, can you tell me where is the Champs (like the team that wins the World Series) A-leez?” the obviously French woman stared in disbelief.

She didn’t say it but then again she didn’t have to: Champs-Elysees! Champs-Elysees! It is zee most important boulevard in zee world! Zis is how you say zis? Champs A-leez! Sacre Blu! You are arsehole!

Walking on the Champs A-leez

Instead what she said—check that—what she did was shake her head and pretend she didn’t know the answer. Yeah, right. You don’t know where zee most important boulevard in zee world is—ok.

Before I could satisfy my relentless need to inject myself into other people’s business, the accidental tourist turned and walked in the opposite direction. (I do hope someone helped her find her Champs Aleez.)

Two Weeks in Heaven

My dear, departed mother used to say that absence makes the heart grow fonder. Since the day I arrived, I started counting the days until Gwaz would visit. The big, big numbers only made me depressed, and the small, almost-time numbers made me anxious. I couldn’t win—until she arrived.

Happy Hour at School? Ummm...

No. 1 on Gwaz's list was Happy Hour at school (no kidding; it's hard to explain and real easy to understand!) Besides that, there were more things to see and do. I must admit (and she’ll back me up) my A-typeness was in rare “let-me-fill-every-minute-of-every-day-with-Dutch-stuff” form. For example, we had dinners with local Dutch families (apologies Jim, but when you marry a Dutch girl, have Dutch kids, and buy a very-Dutch house, you qualify as Dutch). Many thanks to Lisa, Mark, and Mariella Verkerk for a fabulous evening in the beautiful village of Moulderberg. We visited Zaanse Schans along with a dozen buses filled with enough international tourists to know we weren’t the only ones who wanted to see real windmills. We spent an evening at the Van Gogh Museum admiring the often-astounding brilliance of the troubled Dutch genius.

at Zaanse Schans

Joined by Jesse and Marissa in Amsterdam, we went with Jim and Eveline, and our French connection, Nicolas and Valentine on a canal cruise. (Hey, tourists do tourist-stuff—that’s the rule!). There is nothing more Dutch than the Keukenhof Gardens, where we saw more flowers in one place than most people see in a lifetime.

I brought my own flower to Keukenhof

We spent parts of four days in Paris. (It took Heart-attack Harry to encourage the others to climb the almost 300 steps to the roof of the Arc de triomphe!) We toured the magnificent Musee d’Orsay, and we all but mastered the public transport system!

A view from the top!

Watching the light show at the Eiffel Tower I couldn’t help remembering our first taxi ride in Paris almost twenty years ago. I told the driver that the only thing I learned from my high school French lessons was the inquiry “Ou est la Tour Eiffel?”

“Ou est la Tour Eiffel?”

In his best tourist-friendly English the driver replied, “But you must never need to ask where it is. Just look up!”

I doubt seriously if any of us will soon forget our two weeks together—our two weeks in heaven.

Nicolas

In 1992 we met Nicolas Gorski. This is how it happened…

Nicolas 2012

I was a teacher at Sparrows Point Middle School where Jesse was an eighth grader. The school participated in a cultural exchange with a school in France. For two weeks local families provided an authentic American experience—Edgemere style. Although there were daily educational activities at school and through field trips, the French students lived with their American counter-parts.

Nicolas and Jesse 1992

Accompanying the eighth graders and two French teachers was Nicolas Gorski, a tall, slender high school student-chaperone of Russian heritage. (Heritage maybe, but a 100% French combination of Maurice Chevalier, Charles Boyer, and d’Artagnan.) Those two weeks twenty years ago were as meaningful for us as he claims they were for him. He enjoyed himself so much that the following summer he returned on his own, and we flew to Florida where Big Lar showed us the sights. The next year when Debbie, Jesse, and I toured Europe, Nicolas met us in Paris for a brief reunion.

Not so long ago thanks to social media, I informed Nicolas of my decision to live and work in Amsterdam. That’s all it took.

The party on Leidseplein (plus Ev, the photographer)

Last week as I approached the American Café on the Leidseplein in Amsterdam, I saw seated beside the fountain the same lanky 17-year old I last saw twenty years ago. It’s funny, you know. Three brief encounters could mean enough that a 37-year old would travel five hours north to a city he (admittedly) never thought to visit before just to see his old friends.

The Reunion

He brought with him his “lady-friend,” Valentine, his iPad full of photos from our times together, and his memories of us. If you can imagine impeccably spoken English (Nicolas meticulously structures his sentences much as I imagine his matronly French-born English instructor would have insisted) with a beautifully lilting French accent, you will hear Nicolas as we do. “Mr. Principal, (preen-see-pal) do you remember zee gift you gave me when I left America?” he asked. (No offense taken, but it is unimaginable that I might not remember giving him his first baseball mitt.)

“I do,” I replied.

“You see, every day when I return home, I see my glove. I tell Valentine…I told Valentine many times about zee gift you gave me.”

He’s not the only one who received a gift; believe me.

Did I Mention I’m American?

Hey, it only took parts of four months but I finally showed myself in public.

This phrase “showed yourself” it doesn’t mean what it looks like; right?

Oh, no, no it means, um…imagine your mother saying, “You better not show yourself when we are in the shopping center!” Get it? That’s showing yourself.

See, what had happened…

Sunday morning I got the big idea to take the #300 bus to Schiphol Airport to scope out Gwaz’s arrival route and help her understand the airport.

Was that where you showed yourself?

Hold on; I’m getting to that.

Anyway, I did all that. While I was there I couldn’t help but count the number of times in this one trip that I noticed the single most irritating phenomenon of Dutch culture. How often and guiltlessly someone blocks your way. Let me explain. (I might need a blood pressure cuff while I tell you all this.)

People stop. No, listen. People stop anywhere, any time they feel like it. They do not give a second thought to whose path they might be blocking or how inconvenient they are making things for other people; they stop. (If you think I’m making this up, come on over; you’ll see. Man, where’s that cuff? I can’t even write about it without getting worked up.) At the market, the grocery store, on the street, believe me it doesn’t matter. They’ll stop to chat right in a  doorway! It drives me absolutely out-of-my-mind!

Right in the doorway! In the doorway? Really?

Is that why you showed yourself?

If you don’t hold on, Ima show you.

OK so I left the airport after I made my plan for Gwaz. (Oh wait…four. Four different times someone either pushing a luggage cart or baby stroller stopped dead in front of me. OK It doesn’t matter; let me calm down.) Anyway, I got back to the bus stop where my bike was locked up, and I left the bus. Coming toward me was a new one on me—street skiers. Too cool. I scrambled for my camera. Not in my pants pocket. Not in my coat pocket. I unzipped my Thule bag and did my best impression of Gwaz trying to find her car keys in the rain. The closer they got the more panicked I felt.

Street Skiers

At that moment what did I hear? A grunt. A grunt? Yes, a grunt. It was clearly a grunt. It was sort of a moan, but really more like a groan than a moan, but more grunt than groan. I turned to my right and was looking square into the stomach of the tallest human being in the entire world. (Did I mention how tall Dutch people are?) Annnd, I swear he did it again. So I lifted my chin so that I was face-to-face with the belly button of a real-life, no-kidding freak of nature.

I said to his belly, “Did you grunt? Is that what you did? You grunted? Help me here Lurch! I been in this water-logged sea bed for three months and not a G-D day goes by that one of you don’t park his hiney smack-dab-in-my-way. Not one. Ever been to the grocery store Pal? They don’t give a crap if you’re behind them; they stop. Ever been to the movies? They block the door to get in. Heaven forbid I should try to get by—noooo—and what do I get? Grunts! That’s right. Grunts. Oh OK I get it: Dutch people can block the way whenever they dang-well feel like it, but Americans like me who were taught to respect the personal space of others are not. Is that it? Do I get it now? Here! Hey, look down here when I’m talking to you!

Oh my, I do understand showing oneself now.

Nah, I didn't say any of that.

Actually, when he grunted (what was he like six inches behind me?) I turned toward him and said, “Am I bothering you?” Like every other Dutch person I’ve met, he wanted no part of a public confrontation and (in the words of my German grandmother) he hello-ed. He got the heck away from me.

That doesn’t sound so bad. So that’s "showing yourself"?

Ummm, see, ummm, I think the "showing myself" part is when I told him to go to hell.

Did I mention I’m American?

The Exhibition—with a capital T

It’s like this: The Exhibition is not an exhibition, although there is an exhibition at the end of The Exhibition; see, I’m talking about The Exhibition, not an exhibition. Got it? Better let me start over…

Since early February my students have been engaged in a unit of inquiry labeled with the unfortunate misnomer—The Exhibition. The reason that name is misleading is because the unit is all about the inquiry, not the presentation at the end. Yes, they will present to an audience what they have learned in eight weeks of guided independent research, but the focus is not on the twenty minutes on stage at the end; or at least it shouldn’t be.

All students at ISA are keenly aware that as a culminating experience in the Primary Years Program (grades K-5), fifth graders “do” The Exhibition. As soon as possible and repeatedly thereafter, the point is made that the two-month sojourn is about structure, persistence, and discovery. It is about maintaining focus, and yes, it is about learning. As soon as possible and repeatedly, we downplay the last and least significant portion—the actual exhibition. We do that for no better reason than the anxiety and excitement generated by the actual presentations is palpable.

The kids in my teacher-manager groups selected and narrowed broad topics such as animals, movie special effects, video games, movie directing, and acting. Using a central idea (how we express creative thinking impacts ourselves, others, and our future) as a guide, these broad topics were refined and shaped into lines of inquiry. On their own, with the least amount of intervention, but with as much assistance as necessary, my students have researched their topics, interviewed professionals in that field, planned and attended field trips, and generally been responsible for their learning.

When my time at ISA is over, I won’t soon forget The Exhibition. It has been a wild ride.