Down and Out in Western Europe

Starring: Jonathan Muchin, Zac Litvinoff, pizza, The Riddler

22:00: I had hardly eaten all day. It wasn't my fault. I was out of food. The grocery stores were closed, this being Easter Monday and also being Europe; these irreligious, irreverent, irascible (not really) heathens seem to take any excuse not to work here. Although, in their defense, I do the same. There was no food in my room, of course, because I had cleaned out all my non-kosher food items for Pesach (again, not really).

22:05: I realize I'm really hungry. I've eaten 1 package of Easy Mac and some pasta in the last 2 days. Nothing else. I'm even out of cheese.

22:15: I can't take it any more; I go to get a pizza with hallmate Zac. We head to Da Roberto's - I always go to the place with an authentic sounding name. We choose a chicken pizza, order it, pay for it. I'm debating what flavor of ice cream to get. Dolce de leche looks good. Waiting.

22:25: A man runs in (hereafter to be referred to as The Riddler). Dressed in black. He's wearing a face mask. I hear shouting. 'Oh shit,' I think, 'is that a holster on his hip?' He's brandishing a pistol in an entirely too aggressive manner (although any manner is probably over-aggressive). He yells something. The woman behind the counter screams. At this point I begin processing what is happening; thankfully, I don't think he'd even noticed me sitting in the front of the store. He couldn't have had much peripheral vision in his mask.

22:26: The Riddler jumps the counter in one swift move. Actually, a pretty impressive athletic feat as the counter was almost 5 feet high. I look at Zac and we bolt. Sprinting. We turn right out of the pizza place, he continues straight, I take another right. I get far enough away and stop running. Don't want The Riddler to see me running.

22:30: Of course, The Riddler passes me. On a bicycle. Not even a getaway vespa. Apparently, he's old school. Let me repeat, his getaway vehicle was his own bicycle. As far as I know, he has no sidecar accomplice.

22:45: I find Zac. We head back home and call the police. Go back to my room and wait. The cops come, question us for our version of events separately. I sign a written statement. The police tell me that the Dutch government will pay for counseling if I need help getting over this incident. I finally crack and cry on the officer's shoulder about how terrified I was (once again, not really)... In a beautifully acted moment, I choke back tears and deny that I need help (nope)... Actually, I laugh and say that I'd use the session to talk about my issues with small dogs. The cop is not amused. He shakes my hand and leaves.

So much for my earlier statement that the Dutch were self-policing and well behaved. The biggest crime in all of this? I had to eat pasta for the 5th consecutive meal.

The Dutch being unamused by me is not uncommon. A little over a week ago, realizing that I was dangerously close to a mullet (or actually my patented mull-lite, as only the back resembled a mullet), I decided to get a haircut. By the way, this will likely be the least interesting anecdote I've written. Haircuts! So full of drama.

My first mistake was allowing a woman with minimal English to cut my hair. On top of that, I always panic when asked how I want my hair cut. It's bad enough at a restaurant with a big menu where I invariably order something I don't want, but in a barbershop there's not even that menu to reign me in. So I mumble that I want it shorter, maybe 3 cm (eww... centimeters) on the top, a little shorter on the side. She claims to understand my wishes, and then proceeds to cut my hair much shorter than I had asked. Whatever. It will grow back. I try to make small talk, sing along to the songs playing (Karma Chamelion by Culture Club in particular). She is unamused; she doesn't say a word to me until telling me that she's done. I come away with a nice, albeit very short haircut. Luckily, you don't have to tip in Europe.

The Germans were even less amused by me. Or really anything. Where the Dutch are friendly (and English speaking), German people are more stand-offish and less able (or willing) to speak English. They don't view laughing as a social nicety (or maybe they just find me really unfunny).

Regardless, last Wednesday, I went to Berlin with a few friends from my program and to visit my friend Emily Sedbrook (who is studying there for the semester). Germany was a beautiful country. I visited Hamburg and Berlin, did a ton of walking, climbed another church tower, saw the remains of the wall - pics on Facebook. Drank some good beer (I know, I know, it was Passover). Strangely, the cheapest place I found beer was the Pizza Hut in the train station. And good thing it was cheap; the pizza was awful. Berlin has no open container law. In fact, I think it may be the opposite. After midnight, it might be compulsory to carry around alcohol.

I went to some cool bars, even ended up at a club (shaking my groove thang of course). (Not really). I took the train home on Saturday, spoke with some Cameroonian migrant workers who worked in the South of France. At least, I think that's what they were. My agricultural French isn't that good. My second block of classes have started as of today. I'm in Political Philosophy and Dutch Art History. Hopefully, I won't be overtaxed. I wouldn't want to ruin my reputation.

Some stray observations (thankfully, not bullets) from Europe:
- The Dutch are incredulous that I'm trying to learn their language. The French are incredulous that I'm not fluent in theirs.

- Belgian train conductors don't say everything in both French and Dutch. Rather, they only use the local language of the city the train is stopping in. But they do always announce everything in English.

- I went to a seder last week. I don't really have an observation. I'd just like some props. I had a good time drinking wine and singing in funny voices and trying to read the Haggadah in Dutch. Luckily, Hebrew is the same everywhere. It was weird not being with my family. Biking home a little drunk was more difficult than expected.

- It's starting to get warmer here. Still, the Dutch don't ditch their scarves. They just get lighter ones. Phew. I still have time to get one.

- Whether in Europe or America, I have a really hard time shutting up. So I'll stop writing now. Keep me updated on all of your lives to any of the readers who made it this far.