OMG Jay Bought a Ladies' Bike!

Mike Pinder of The Moody Blues once wrote, “Thinking is the best way to travel.” Around here it’s probably a close second. Where I now live and without a bike, my options included my (overactive) imagination and my size 12’s.

Jim's bike (hee hee Jim rides a ladies' bike!)

Thanks to Jim, my means of transportation and my horizons expanded. For the first week in Holland, I walked. At the start of my second, Jim lent me his bike. Life, as I knew it, changed. Last Saturday, I did my best Magellan and went on a ride of discovery. Once away from my beaten path, I found Chinese and Italian restaurants, I found a small grocery store, and I found the bicycle shop where I would buy my very own fiets.

At first I asked about “second-hand” bikes, and not liking what I was shown, I moved on to new bikes. I said something like, "Please show me the least expensive bike you sell." The guy turned to the closest one, the one with the price tag with 1499 euros written on it, and said, “This is the cheapest price.” (Ahh, Dutch humor. I knew it was here somewhere.) After staring at each other in an infinitely brief moment, we both smiled and he said, “OK so I tried.”

The issue for me, according to my salesguy, was the size of the bike. (Not many size 60’s in the secondhand lot.) The next bike he showed me was the one I eventually bought, sort of. I liked it. My size. Three speeds. Hand brakes. Perfect; except for one thing: the bar. (Every ‘merican boy reading this knows exactly what I mean. The bar: the almost daily reminder of the fragility of male anatomy.)

Dutch people speak English. Some speak English very well; others are less comfortable with nuances like metaphor and inference; so when I asked him if “the ones with the bar” were for men and the other ones were “just for ladies,” I wasn’t as clear as he would have liked. I think I said, “This (other) one has no bar. Is it the same?”

“Ya,” he said, slowly getting my train of thought. “The same. This one for men. This (other) one for anyone.”

“For women and old men?” I asked.

“Nay, not for old men; all men.” Then he gave me some statistics to sooth my aching ego. “This one,” (pointing to the bike with a bar), “thiry percent. The one with no bar, seventy percent.” (Ahh, tacit permission; thank goodness. For all of you thinking OMG Jay bought a ladies’ bike! here’s the thing: A bike rider is often required to get on and off the bike many, many times on a single journey. At every intersection (it seems), every tram crossing (for sure), and many crosswalks, you must de-bike. There aine no way I’m swingin’ my right leg over the backend of my bike every time I get on and off.) “Not just old men,” he repeated.

Thinking might be better; but three gears, hand brakes, and a comfortable seat is a lot more practical.

Jan

I shop everyday, at least that’s what I tell people. I am on record as saying the refrigerators, um, let’s just say they could be larger. (Seriously, they could be. Right? In other places, refrigerators are larger, so it is possible that the refrigerators could be larger here, too. But they’re not. At least, mine is not.) So, I shop every day.

Today, while in the grocery store (and without my list!) I remembered that I wanted to buy what the Dutch call Hutten Kaas. (What’s that sound like to you? That’s the trick, you know. The names, in Dutch, will often resemble it’s ‘merican counterparts.) I knew that kaas is cheese, so I figured “cottage cheese” would at the very least look something that. Like every other time I looked for it, I gave up. I gave up until I saw Jan stocking the refrigerated section.

Jan

I asked Jan the question I ask everyone I approach, “Do you speak English?” Anyone who is comfortable with English will invariably say something like, “Yes, of course,” which is what Jan said. Before asking about cottage cheese, I started with an easier request—crème fresh (it’s taco night at Casa Jay). “No problems,” he said as he repeated the words crème fresh. As he walked away, I heard him ask a question.

To make sure he was speaking to me, I waited long enough for him to turn toward me until I said, “Did you ask where I’m from?” He had, and I told him. He turned excitedly to face me and said, “I lived in North Carolina for two years as an exchange student. It is a small world; isn’t it?”

It is indeed. When I asked him where he lived in North Carolina, he answered, “Do you know where Wake Forest is?” I told him I did. “About thirty minutes from there,” he said.

I Kinda Promised

I don’t know the whole story, but I have a sneaking suspicion I’d like to. My teammate, Helena Morrison was one of the first people at ISA to offer support. Last Saturday, I met her husband, Abe when he played chauffeur to Helena, me, and another colleague, Heidi on our way to the fifth grade team dinner at the Verkerk’s. (Are you with me so far?)

Abe Morrison and a new friend

After a few hours together and two fairly long commutes into and out of the Dutch countryside, I was comfortable enough to ask Abe his deal. When I asked him why Amsterdam, he told me about leaving England and following the Hippie Trail. Funny, that is. His Hippie Trail led to the Hippie Capital of the world back in 1971, and my Hippie Trail led to changing diapers and long hours figuring out how to get through college. Both trails led to the front seat of his Mercedes Benz. Like I said, funny.

He told me he met Helena (also a Brit) in Amsterdam, and if I had a better memory I might know what brought her to the Holland in the first place. Helena is in some ways a lot like the rest of my team. She is caring and empathetic, and there doesn’t seem to be anything she wouldn't do for others. And, as I learned, she loves President Obama.

Helena Morrison and Heidi Fernandez

This morning when this blog was mentioned Helena wanted to know if she was featured. I thought that was a pretty good idea, and I kinda promised.

But It Doesn't Twist

The Netherlands, home to Rembrandt and Vermeer, a once world-leader in science, trade, and exploration; where water-management remains an international model, is for me, surely the only place on earth that uses these things:

Don’t know what that is? How could you? Here it is in context:

Instead of this:

The Dutch use these:

Here’s the only explanation I can muster: the houses are small. That means that storage is limited by design, which means, of course, that closets are not what most ‘mericans are used to. But most of all it means…the refrigerators are tiny.

The Dutch refrigerated version of Where's Waldo?

Tiny. So small that you are prone to say things like, “Oh look, they give you this cute little beer frig; where is the regular one?” But I digress.

Let me straighten this out…houses are small, storage is limited, ice boxes are tiny, you shop every day…soooo, it doesn’t matter if your bread and stroopwafels are allowed to go stale because the Dutch think these space-age food storage clasps actually work; or maybe they just like stale food.

Mark

When one of the teachers on my team at ISA, Lisa Verkerk offered me a copy of a documentary her husband made in 2006, I was interested. Mark’s film, Buddha’s Lost Children, is the story of Khru Bah, a Buddhist monk in northern Thailand and his work with orphaned boys. I didn’t know much of that when I met Mark at a dinner party last night; at least not until I watched the film this morning.

Lisa Verkerk

It took no time at all to know that Mark Verkerk possesses a quiet brilliance. It comes through in subtle tones—the poignancy of his comments, the astuteness of his observations, the depth of his experiences. Sharing the warmth and genuine concern for others that Lisa demonstrates in all ways, Mark is a truly gentle man.

At one point, in a typical case of not knowing what I wanted to ask before opening my mouth, I asked him if his “accent” was British or Dutch or something else. His response, “I haven’t an idea, really,” was a gentleman’s way of saying, “What the hell are you talking about?” He then went on to give me some background. His heritage is Dutch (thus the name Verkerk) but he was born in Kenya. His life as a filmmaker has taken him all over the world.

Mark Verkerk and a "novice" in Thailand*

Buddha’s Lost Children is his first theatrical-length film (according to his bio on-line). That being the case, I can only recommend that you look for whatever comes next. Buddha’s Lost Children is beautiful. I mean that literally. Without a tiny bit of knowledge regarding filmmaking, you cannot watch this film, as I did, without agreeing. The beauty in Mark’s film is not reserved for the landscapes; it is also revealed in the tale of survival, the tale of rebirth.

I strongly encourage you to watch Buddha’s Lost Children, but if you cannot, understand it is but a small glimpse into the dedication of Khru Bah in the mountains on the border between Burma and Thailand. To describe Khru Bah is to risk minimizing his life. A beloved monk to many, he is nothing short of salvation to the orphans he teaches.

Phra Khru Bah Neua Chai Kositto*

At one point in the film Khru Bah explains:

If you gain a position of influence, one day it will disappear.

If you receive honors, one day those honors will fade.

Popularity is just like a straw fire, so when you get the chance,

you should take that brightness and make poor places, the dark places, bright.

Khru Bah brightens dark places. So does Mark.

(Visit www.buddhaslostchildren.com.)

* Photos not taken by the author are used without expressed permission and will be removed upon direction.

A Story Never Told Before:

(To My Wife on Our Anniversary)

Just a cute little story of a cute little mistake: When I was 17 years old I attended Kenwood High School. Before that I went to Deep Creek Junior High. Actually Deep Creek was a “junior/senior high” because in those days junior high schools housed grades seven through nine but DCJSH also had a grade ten. It was the only one of it’s kind in the school system, and what that amounted to really was that when I did go to Kenwood, most of the eleventh graders had already been there a year. No big deal really except in one really important way.

Going from a big junior/senior high to an absolutely huge high school meant many things, especially the opportunity to meet and make many, many new friends. One such person was Pickle. Pic was loud. Pic was fun. Pic was everybody’s friend, which turned out to be the key to the rest of my life. Let me explain.

Pic lived next to the school, so after school I would often walk with her to her house where we would hang out. She introduced me to Neil Young and to Jethro Tull. Yeah, Pic was cool. Hanging out with Pic was just what I did, like one day when, during a typical visit, three of her friends stopped by. Dianne, Pam, and Debbie. Hello.

Pic explained the deal and the availability of each. Um…you gotta start somewhere; right? She told me that Dianne had a long-time boyfriend named Warren, but Pam and Debbie weren’t going with anybody. Um…yeah, I guess, in hindsight I wasn’t extremely careful about writing down the two phone numbers. See, what had happened was…um…I called. Um…after about seven seconds it occurred to me that either I was the victim of an evil plan or Debbie had answered Pam’s phone or I really had switched the names and numbers. Despite what I thought, I really was talking to Debbie on the phone. (For the record, I never did use that other number.)

For the life of me, I cannot remember exactly when I revealed that extremely cute tale of innocent mix-up. Apparently, no harm done though—Friday 20 January marks year 39, so I’m guessin’ she wasn’t too upset.

Happy Anniversary Sweetie. Wish I were there. H

40 Years Down the Road

Funny how things work out; isn’t it? For me, learning that a limited-opportunity teaching position at the International School of Amsterdam might be available, applying, actually getting the job, relocating, and jumping head first into the deep end of the pool is a living metaphor of the grandest proportion.

ISA, The International School of Amsterdam

Forty years ago—that’s four-zero—I imagined myself a teacher. In what would become an essential component of my teacher preparation at Salisbury State College, I met Julia Crawford. Known as a preeminent breeder of Bernese Mountain dogs, Ms. Crawford was also a well-respected staff member of the Westside Intermediate School, and my cooperating teacher.

WIS now. (Believe me, it did not look like this in the day)

All these years later I can remember clearly the things I learned from my experience in her classroom. I sometimes recall tiny little moments to which I have attached far too much significance. Here’s one: she admonished my use of the then popular expression, “jeese.” (Remember Archie used to say it to Meathead?) Ms. Crawford informed me that it was a crude reference to Jesus Christ and I should refrain from its use. Clear. Here’s another one: when erasing the chalkboard (btw, no one uses chalk anymore—fyi) always erase “everything” lest you eliminate part of a word leaving the remainder to spell out a concept you did not wish to discuss or knowledge you did not mean to impart. In other words, if you erase the “c” from canal and leave the rest, the explanation to inquisitive children becomes unnecessarily mandatory. (Hey, live and learn; it was 1975 on the conservative eastern shore of Maryland. Let’s just say, Ms. Crawford was rather direct in her object lesson—when you erase, erase it all.)

In addition to many, many fundamentals of instruction I also learned the captivating power of reading aloud to students. Seems obvious; doesn’t it? In the three short months with Ms. Crawford, she read Half Magic by Edward Eager to our class. They seemed mesmerized while she read.

Victory Villa Elementary School (Get the WWII reference?)

My first assignment was as a fifth grade at Victory Villa Elementary School. It happened like this. I graduated from Salisbury State College and moved back to Baltimore. I applied to the Baltimore County Public Schools, and in the meantime began substituting at VVE. On my first day as a long-term sub, the principal, Pete Galley, delivered a stack of curriculum guides and teacher’s manuals to me in “my” new classroom and essentially did his best Knute Rockne pre-game speech. What he left out was why they needed a substitute for the last three weeks of the school year to begin with. I quickly learned that the class had been without a regular teacher for sometime. They had effectively run-off a series of short-term subs with their behavior. Reports of furniture being thrown out the windows and other less dramatic antics were reserved in case I lived through the first day with them.

I lived. Oh I lived all right. I lived first-hand what I would hear Ruth Ragland say one year later at her retirement dinner when describing the secret to her longevity—“I decided a long time ago, if it was either them or me; it wasn’t going to be me.” Me either. Looking back, I’m glad Ms. Crawford wasn’t there to see me treading water the first few days alone with my furniture throwers. Like I said, “It wuttent gonna be me.” What I know now is what I didn’t realize then—the things Ms. Crawford taught me would become the essence of who I became as a teacher. So, what did I do? I read to them. Mythology. They forgot about rearranging furniture long enough to sit down. They sat down long enough to listen. They listened long enough to learn.

In fact, there were no fatalities during the last three weeks of that school year unless you include the demise of my romantic notion of what teaching really is—yeah, we lost him in the first six minutes. There was a birth, of sorts. Born in me was the conviction that I could do this job.

Applying, relocating, and diving into the job at ISA is vaguely reminiscent of all that. The metaphorical “stack of curriculum guides” delivered to me this time was no less overwhelming. The enormity of all things considered—the instructional philosophy, the technology (if only there were a 16mm projector; alas), the jargon, the meetings; jeese; don’t get me started!) the resources (let’s just say, my teacher-buddies back home would not believe what is available; no kidding, the operating budget must be millions upon millions of dollars)—the impact is staggering.

Staggering, yes; but it takes an awful lot to knock me down (although it does appear that they are trying.) For the first two days (teacher-prep days before students arrived), I thought maybe it had all passed me by. I thought maybe the stack of curriculum guides was finally too heavy. I thought too much.

Forty years down the road

Forty years down the road, Ms. Crawford isn’t far away. My class at ISA has been without their regular teacher for sometime now. Like I did all those years ago, I will finish the year with them. No, there are no horror stories waiting for me in case I live. But waiting for my best effort each day, there are 18 faces with migration stories to which most American students simply cannot relate.

The "Reading Corner" in rm. 144

Last Monday as the kids returned to the room after lunch and took their various favorite locations in the reading corner of the room, someone asked if we were going to hear another tale by Hans Andersen (there’s much to be learned there). “No,” I answered. “Today we will begin a book I first heard a long time ago. It first appeared in 1954, same as me…”

Het Huisarts

At first I was sure there was no waiting room. (I was wrong. There was one.) The second thing that struck me was that they filled out the forms. The third thing I noticed was that there was only one form (and all I did was sign my name). What am I talking about? “Het Huisarts,” of course--the house doctor.

Sign on the waiting room door

I learned a while ago that the Dutch health care system is not like ours. (Is anybody’s like ours?) Here, everyone—and I mean everyone—must register with a “huisarts” (a general practitioner also known as a house doctor). Through the house doctor, and only through the house doctor, can referrals for specialized care be obtained (emergency care notwithstanding; even then, under critical circumstances, a house doctor would be assigned before emergency care would be administered—that reminds me of the joke about the cowboy on the runaway horse who screams “whoa, whoa, whoa” until he realizes that it won’t help. Then he yells, “Gittyup damn it! You will listen to me!”)

Why register at all; right? Wrong. Without registering there will be no referrals and certainly no prescriptions; quite literally, no care. I registered. Last week I asked Nurse Anita, the resident medical expert at ISA to recommend a house doctor. I learned that one must register with a house doctor in one’s postal zone. In my case, she recommended Dr. J. A. Boodt. With a classic Dutch accent, Nurse Anita informed me that Dr. Boodt is…uh…he is stern. He is not for children. He was a Marine; I think. You will like him. (I do wonder why she suspected that I would like him.)

Huisartspraktijk (General Practice)

Let me back up. I already told you that I had an understanding of the house doctor thing. I figured I was in no hurry because despite my inconsistent track record, I feel healthy. Wait, check that; I felt healthy—as in I felt healthy before I got to Holland. Before I started walking to and from work. Before I started carrying too much weight in a backpack. Before I started living in a cold, damp, overcast environment.

If you don’t recognize the medical condition called costochondritis, that's your good fortune, cuz that means you don’t have it. If you do know it, chances are you just said, “Oh crap” out loud. Yep. You know. I just wish that colorful expressions like “Oh crap” alleviated the symptoms—they don’t. Believe me, I know. They don’t.

A waiting room poster: What do you do when an emergency occurs in Amstelveen?

Defined as an inflammation of the cartilage that connects the ribs to the breastbone, costochondritis is often described as harmless chest pain. Harmless. Harmless huh? The guy who wrote that doesn’t have it. When active—as it has been 24/7 since last week—it can be mind numbing. The sharpness and seemingly random onset of severe pain in the ribcage has prompted far worse than “Oh crap!”

OK back to Heren Dokter. Today I registered—easy peasy—show up, sign my name, leave. I broke from standard protocol when I asked to see the doctor. “That is not possible; as I told you,” said the doctor’s assistant/receptionist. (Wait, she told me? When did she…nevermind.) I have been studying Dutch tendencies since I got here, so I said, “I understand. May I have the next available appointment?” No kidding, she looked in her appointment book (oh yeah, paper and pencil) and said, “You could come back at 2:20.” (It was 1:50. Like I said, no kidding.)

Among expatriates, Dutch house doctors have a reputation as being, let’s say, less than proactive. More than one colleague warned me that the standard response by a house doctor would be some version of “drink plenty of fluids and take three days off work.” Although that is probably sound advice, it would not serve me well, so I did the very thing I recommend to anyone dealing with Dutch people—be direct. I asked Heren Dokter for a prescription. He gave it to me.

Nurse Anita was right. I do like him.

Erwtensoep

Most people have a notion of Dutch icons: windmills, wooden shoes, Hans Brinker, etc. (Most Dutch people have never heard of Hans Brinker! Talk about your basic stereotype.) The one thing that should be on that list probably isn’t: erwtensoep.

erwtensoep with brown bread and raw bacon

I have yet to see a real windmill. The only wooden shoes are those sold to tourists, and like I said, Hans Brinker is a foreign invention. What I do see, and, in fact, look for whenever I can is erwtensoep, a thick stew made from green split peas. A typical serving will include katenspek (pork), selderj (celery), uien (onions), prei (leeks), wortelen (carrots), and aardappelen (potatoes). Slices of rookworst (Dutch smoked sausage) are added prior to serving. With the soup will be roggebrood (rye bread) with spek (bacon), kaas (cheese), or boter (butter).

Erwtensoep is a winter speciality available in every restaurant and at small food and beverage stalls (called “keok en zopic”) which can be seen (in winter months) usually near canals, lakes, or rivers where ice skaters are found. It can also be found in a "heat 'n serve" form in grocery stores.

Heat and Serve soup in a plastic bag

Windmills, clogs and other symbols of Dutch cultural might be a little difficult to come by, but if you want to experience an authentic Dutch speciality go to http://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/7187/erwtensoep-dutch-pea-soup. Add a few bottles of Duvel, an absolutely delicious Belgian beer, and you’ll begin to appreciate delicious Dutch cuisine can be.

No Wonder They're Everywhere

You cannot help but notice the propensity of bicycles in this country; I already told you that, but just today I read some stuff that I thought was interesting. Get this: the Netherlands has more bicycles than inhabitants. It has the highest bicycle density in the world. And, as if you might not already know it, the Netherlands has the world’s highest density of bicycle thieves as well.

It is estimated that the Netherlands’ sixteen million inhabitants own some twenty million bicycles. Why? Because many Dutch citizens own different bikes for different purposes. Many own a “decent” one for trips and travel and a “regular” one—usually an older model—for daily use, like shopping.

Estimations of stolen bicycles are as high as 800,000 per year! You will see bikes chained with several locks, attached to any immovable post available—street lights, trees, fences, and bridges. Then again stealing bicycles is big business, so it doesn’t really matter what is used, the thieves are way ahead with shears, grinders, and bolt cutters. Chaining the wheels and not the frame often results in the obvious.

My limited research on this topic indicated that the single most common excuse for lateness to work is—you guessed it—a flat tire.

Look Both Ways, Three Times

If you haven’t been here, then you don’t get it. Bicycles are everywhere, no no—e-v-e-r-y-w-h-e-r-e.

You cannot avoid them. In fact, you are often one of them. Me? I walk to work. (I haven’t found a bike old enough or cheap enough so as not to be stolen). It takes me almost 15 minutes. No problem; right? Well, let me tell you…it’s no problem if I remember one simple—but essential—rule: Look both ways, three times.

That sounds like hyperbole; I know. But that’s the point; I do know. Bicycles, motorbikes, motorcycles riding in bike lanes, cars and trucks, metro streetcars, trams and who-knows-what-else are ever-present.

Every street has clearly marked bike lanes

Believe me, somewhere in every Amsterdam travel guide it’ll mention that you must not walk in bike lanes. It’s not kidding. Besides the nasty looks, jingle-jangle bike bells, and hostile comments, personal injury is certain.

Here in Holland, bikes rule.

Sunday

I have known for a while that I would meet Cindy and Ronan in Amsterdam. A few months ago I told her that this whole thing might happen. She assured me that if it did we would spend some time together in Holland. When I got here, she immediately arranged a “Sunday brunch” for me. What I thought would happen was not what actually happened. Let me tell you…

About eight o’clock on Sunday morning I realized that I didn’t know how to get to the Van Gogh Museum where Cindy told me we would meet. OK, here’s a geography lesson: I live in Amstelveen (pronounced like a weather vane), which is the next area over from Amsterdam. It’s definitely close enough to say, “Yeah, that’s right, I moved to Amsterdam” but, as Cindy knows, that is not exactly correct.

It was about nine when I realized it would take about and hour to get to the Van Gogh Museum using the metro/tram system. At that point, I wasn’t quite as panicky as I became about an hour later when I realized that my brain was processing “Oranjebaan” “Van Baerlestraat” and “Museumplein” as “yergonnagetlost” “goodluckcharley” and “ohmanthisoughtabegood.”

One phone call to Ev and Jim clarified the entire trip. (Funny, once something is clear in your mind, it’ll be clear when you make it happen. There’s a lot of things like that.) See, I had it all wrong. I took the 51 metro to Oranjebaan where I transferred to the 5 tram (just like Jim said). Cindy found me at Museumplein (park by the museum) where I met Cindy’s companion, Chelsey—the Energizer Bunny Husky. After a delicious brunch at Cindy and Ronan’s apartment, the four of us set off for a walking tour of old Amsterdam.

Cindy, Ronan, and Chelsey the wonder dog

When you think about it, many, many people know stuff about Amsterdam; even if they don’t stop to think about it. Anne Frank hid here. Red lights prevail in a small district. Canals make it the “Venice of the West.” Rembrandt lived and painted here, and just like his art, Amsterdam is stunning.

The Anne Frank House

We walked for parts of four hours. (I appreciate that Ronan failed to realize that I am, in fact, not a 30-something Irish footballer, as he is. I was embarrassed to admit how exhausted I was.) We saw it all (although I don’t quite understand the red light bulb area; perhaps a return trip will be important); like I said, the architecture, the canals, the houseboats, the bicycles, the churches, the squares, the people—awesome.

Sunday could not have been much better. As I reached the Oranjebaan metro stop on the return trip, my phone rang. One delicious dinner later, Jim was dropping me off at the luxury digs I call “home.” Witnessing first-hand the demise of the Bengals and (the next day) reading the travails of you-know-who made Sunday a day to remember!

Ouderkerkerlaan

Saturday marked my second full day. After a grocery-shopping trip with Ev, I decided to try out the tram, the metro, the public transport. At the other end of that decision was the Apple store (inconveniently called iCenter, so it seemed impossible to find on the mall directory since I was looking for “Apple” or something with the word Apple in it.)

The front desk attendant, Sonia made it sound easy peasy. Just “walk down this street, I dunno da name it is, but find da Ouderkerkerlaan and take da 51 to Amstelveen Center. No problem, yes?” Wait, what? No. If I’ve learned anything it’s that Dutch people are direct, so they prefer if I am, too. My response was something wordy like, “What did you say?”

“Ouderkerkerlaan.”

“Uhhh, can you write that down?”

She did, but to be honest I had no clue what the heck we were even talking about. As it turns out, it was as easy as it seemed to her (with one important additional example of what appears to be the Dutch willingness to help.) At the platform of the 51 tram, labeled “Ouderkerkerlaan” I could tell easily which direction I would need (you try it; it isn’t as easy as it might seem.) But, I could not tell from the signage how to pay. Enter the next person I have asked the most helpful question of all—do you speak English? She did (thank goodness) and her explanation came replete with the admonition that violating the honor system was risking a huge fine if discovered by the authorities that apparently monitor such things. (OK no worries, I intend to play by the rules.)

To any Dutchman reading this, it would all seem so silly. Of course, it is perfectly obvious; but to a guy from Essex it wasn’t. Here’s how the system works. You load a credit card-looking thing called an ov-Chipkaart with money from your bank account. So far so good? The machines used to transfer money are found in many places, especially on platforms where you can engage public transportation. I have an ov-Chipkaart , loaded with plenty of euros. As it turns out there is a post with a device mounted to the top against which you hold your ov-Chipkaart when you want to ride. That’s it. The system then knows that you are starting your trip. When you depart, you find another such post and show your card (in other words, you don’t even swipe it). The system then calculates how far you traveled and deducts the appropriate amount of money from your ov-Chipkaart account.

Did I mention that it's cold?

It is surprisingly easy. Much to my delight, I didn’t travel far either. The Amstelveen Center was the next stop, and after only about forty seconds at fairly high speed, we stopped at the Center. I still had no clue where to go or what to do (other than find one of those posts and record my “ov” destination.) I did what any clever boy would do—I followed the crowd. Hey, it’s a mall, so I figured that’s why everyone else was there.

Once inside, I could not read the directory very well. Like I said, I was looking for the word “Apple” among the store names. Silly me. Two inquiries later, I found it and the part for which I was looking—the Mini-DisplayPort zu HDMI Adapter (Video & Audio*). Why, you ask, go to all this trouble for a Mini-DisplayPort zu HDMI Adapter? Because this is the device I will use to display my computer screen onto my HD television just as soon as the first NFL playoff game begins!

Go Ravens!