Easier to overhear than to converse

Most of the Dutch speak English, to the extent that they pretty much categorically refuse to let me practice my Dutch by about a half-sentence into any given conversation. And by "most of the Dutch" I of course mean "students and shopkeepers."

Blue-collar workers, however, don't generally have any need to keep up their Engels skills.

On the one hand, this is cool, as it forces me to really dig into my vocabulary and hone my listening comprehension skills whenever a repairman crosses my path. On the other, it makes me sound like a fool.

Especially over the phone.

Usually, my Dutch phone conversations are limited to me saying "he's not here" or "I'll go get him," since no one ever calls for me. But today a plumber phoned up—let's call him Henk—and launched into a lengthy, mostly one-sided conversation that went something like this:

me: hallo.
Henk: grble scharben Sarphatistraat 674 hartshmink walls -
me: uh, this is Sarphatistraat 682.
Henk: kolachedm smifften under-neighbors itsje water on the ceiling gijdesch korble come upstairs -
me: uh huh...
Henk: brijter kerbing op niedepor take a look at prijstenk rarster -
me: uh. huh.
Henk:
me:
Henk: sortgrap eenarm -
me: i, um. i don't speak a whole lot of Dutch.
Henk: your under neighbors, in 674, they have a laaking so i will come up to take a look.
me: that sounds. that would be great. yeah.
Henk: ok see you soon!
me: yeah. bye!

Henk popped round a few minutes later, covered in plaster and exceedingly interested in our floors. I was able to tell him that "it hasn't been wet," and that "a plumber should be coming here but i don't know why or when," but he didn't seem very impressed with my information. I called my roommate and offered to put him on the phone with Henk, who looked doubtful.

"He speaks Nederlands?" Henk asked.

"Ja," I said. Their conversation was, from what I could follow, about 40% about me and my communication skills.

"Your floor is not wet," Henk told me as he collected his tools.

"Nope," I agreed.

"You don't have a leak," he assured me.

"Great!" I said, and he left.

We have someone coming to look at the oven later this week. Maybe I should study or something.

The Big Not-As-Easy-As-It-Looks

I love seeing pictures of NBA players doing things—anything, really—in street clothes. On the court, their sheer size and gangliness is usually obscured by their baggy uniforms and similarly large teammates; it's easier to assume that the league hires midget referees than it is to grasp the hugeness of these ballers.

So I've been enjoying all the pictures from NBA All-Star weekend in New Orleans, when a bunch of the league's hottest players took some time off to help with the rebuilding effort. My favorite link is, a video of highlights from the NBA Cares day. What you can learn from this video:

1. NBA players are fragile, so you must encase them in plastic.
   
2. NBA players basically all could have backup careers as painters. These guys don't need ladders at all—watch Dirk Nowitzki paint an entire room without even having to stetch!
3. BUT, NBA players appear to be generally horrible at painting. I had to avert my eyes when watching Steve Nash and Jason Kidd slap paint on a door. Dad, actually, please just avoid this video entirely.
4. And, there's always the danger that a reporter will come along and disctract your player/worker at a photogenic moment, which will both waste time and result in him scratching the hell out of the window he's supposed to be cleaning.
5. Still, I might not mind living in a patchily painted house, as long as I got to tell visitors, "See that dent in the top of the doorframe? That's where LeBron James banged his head while carrying a bucket of caulk."

a hint of llama

I kind of love the Artis, the Amsterdam Zoo. Maybe I love all zoos but don't think to visit them unless I'm actively exploring a new city, or maybe it's just an especially nice example. Maybe my proximity to it—my building is across the street from the zoo's southeast corner—gives me more of a sense of fraternity or ownership.

Whatever the reason, I love the Artis. It's somehow comforting to know that all those mischevious otters, sleepy monkeys, exuberant sea lions, and fearless butterflies are there, across the canal and beyond the fence I bike past every day, going about their artificial yet seemingly carefree lives.

What's less good about those little guys is their aroma.

It's only been really noticeable in the past week or so (when, incidentally, the weather has turned clear but cold), but the Artis smells like the cages of a thousand chinchillas, plus the swiftly decomposing bodies of a million fish. It's a smell that the wind seems unable to carry: once you pass the far corner of the zoo the air is fresh and springy again, but for that one block, the scent is overwhelming.

One of the gorillas has a blog, which I'm currently trolling for answers to this redolent mystery.

the customer isn't right if you don't realize you have customers

Once, when my mom and I were in a market in Turkey, we met a very persistent merchant. Actually we met many; actually, every merchant in Turkey, as far as I can tell, is pushy to the point of nearly assaulting his customers. This one stands out in my memory, though, because he impressed me.

"You would like a necklace for your pretty daughter?" he asked my mother. "I don't speak English," Mom answered in German. "I speak only Deutsch."

"No you don't," countered the man, correctly, and fluently, also in German.

He had her number—that was his job, to see through excuses and communicate with everyone he could. He and his bretheren accost you as soon as you're in range and don't let go until they've made a sale or you've somehow scampered away. Being aggressive salesmen is how they make their living, which is not to say I particularly enjoy either having products pushed on me or soliciting dontations myself.

Anywhere there are salespeople in the world, there will be an attempt to greet potential customers, tempt them with products, close the deal.

Except in the Netherlands.

Here, the stallkeepers at the street markets go out of their way not to hassle you. It took me 15 minutes to buy 100g of shiitake mushrooms today: after I finally got the man's attention long enough to ask the price, he immediately turned away to fiddle with his stock of beets; eventually I snagged him again long enough to weigh my order; it took a while longer before he remembered I should be getting some change.

Honestly, I like this way much better.

In stores here, no one rushes up to you within three seconds of your entrance to cheerily ask if you're looking for anything in particular and give you a name you'll invariably forget by the time the cashier asks who was helping you. The salesgirls will never "[pick] out a few other skirts [they] think might look really cute on you." Here, you'd be lucky to find someone willing to look in the back for another size.

This can be great—I love not having to repeat "I'm just looking" seven times during a wander through a too-expensive clothing store. And it's relaxing to know that no matter how long I sit reading over an empty cup at my favorite cafe, no one will come over to hurry me on my way on the pretext of asking me if I want anything else. But this breezy neglect cuts both ways: it can often take upwards of 20 mintues to get the attention of a waiter at all, first to get the menus, then to place an order, and finally to get the check.

I once made eye contact three times with the waitress at the cafe where I am a regular, the first time nodding a little as if to say, "yes, I'm ready to order." She nodded back and went on stacking cups. The next time she looked my way, I smiled and waved a little, in that (nearly) universal way that means "I'd like you to come over here so I can give you my drink order." She smiled and waved back.

The third time, I gave her a stare that (to most of the world) clearly says "hello? do you not see me sitting here? the girl who looks thirsty and kind of irritated?"

Her gaze slipped past me, over to the window, and she walked over to the bagel oven to check on the current batch.

the wheels of democracy

I voted in the Democratic primary. Which means, yes, that I've finally chosen to participate in the American political process... now that I no longer live in that country. But there are finally Democratic candidates to get excited about, so for the first time I actually care about the pre-national election part of the system.

Who did I cast my ballot for? Well, I'm in the category of young, well-educated people, and voted accordingly.

How did I vote, from Amsterdam, if I've been a resident of Massachusetts for a while but still might possibly be on the California census? It seems the Democratic Party is aware that many of its constituents have fled the country in recent years for places where government is about policy and progress, rather than legislating morality. So the Democratic Party set up Democrats Abroad, which has 23 delegates (!!!) dedicated to it, and allows anyone with a passport to sign up and get civic.

There is not currently a Republicans Abroad, possibly because too many Republicans dislike that which is foreign to make up a significant expat community. Or because they don't have as many missing Michigan and Florida delegates to make up for.

In any case, here's to change, if only so the Europeans will stop sniggering whenever they hear the phrase "American foreign policy."