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?