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Feb 18, 2012

The Better Story

A few centimeters of snow has turned into a natural disaster in the Netherlands today. My train from The Hague to Utrecht stopped just short of the station and idled. I had to catch a train to Frankfurt at 12:10. As noon rolled around on our stalled chariot, I knew I would not make the train. It was in fact 12:30 before we finally pulled about 100 yards forward, into the station.

I looked for the ticket desk and pressed my way through thousands with my guitar, a backpack, and a suitcase that I know for a fact weighs 69 pounds. I found a line and stood in it until a lady announced, in three languages, “If you are going to Germany, go outside all the way to the left. There will be a bus that will take you to a station from which you can catch a train to Germany.” Practically the entire mass of people emptied out through a quarter mile of corridors, down a flight of stairs, past a compressor-powered hurdy-gurdy where people collected donations for something I never figured out, and out onto the bus platforms. The first bus filled up before I could get on. I waited 30 minutes for another bus and it became clear to me that, because I had a suitcase that had to be loaded before I could get on, I would never get on in the crush of people. I went back to the ticket counter to see if I could get to Switzerland through Brussels and Luxembourg. Transfer through France.

The escalator wasn’t working and I had to lug everything up a flight of slushy stairs. Blocking my way to the office, a security guard entertained a crowd at the door. He had a great smile and was obviously trying to protect the ladies inside from a riot. As I got close, he leaned into me and asked what I needed. I said I needed to get to Switzerland, but maybe I could go a different route and avoid Germany altogether. He said, “Yeah, but you’ll never get out of here. You, you, and you, FOLLOW ME.” He spoke in the language of confidence and everyone understood.

We followed him like the pied piper as he told us about the new station they were building and joked that he was now a tour guide. He led us back out to the buses and said, “Everyone going to Germany, go to the last platform.” In English first, then Dutch, then bad German. I can only assume that if you want the most people to understand you among Germans and Dutch, you speak English. Another man supplied a megaphone and our friend from security became an entertainer for hundreds, answering questions, repeating directions, cracking jokes. He never lost his smile or his cool.

In fact, another bus came, but people flooded into the street and rushed it full before it even made it to the platform. I fell in with a few young people on their way to Frankfurt and they all complained that we were too nice and we might never get a bus standing here. One guy had just come back from Australia and was not prepared for negative temperatures. He said, “I’m speaking English because my lips are too cold to speak Dutch.” He was a brilliant guy and kept going around to people, asking questions while I watched his suitcase. He wondered out loud whether he should catch a bus back home and take a car to Frankfurt, or wait here possibly for hours in the cold to catch the bus to the train.

I said, “Which one will be a better story?”

He said, “You’re right.” And we shook hands on it. The other two were a beautiful young couple, a young German student and his Dutch girlfriend. She was only waiting with him to hold on to love to the last minute. He was going back to Frankfurt for school. “I don’t think you’re going to make it tonight,” my new buddy said.

A new bus came, commandeered from some other route, and the security guy made sure it made it to the platform. The crush began. I threw myself into the human funnel with burdens that nearly outweighed me. The security guy stepped into the doorway, allowed passengers to disembark, and held back the masses with that smile. He forced the driver to close the back door, lest the dam break back there before anyone could board up front. He boarded people one by one, and the driver squeezed by us to open the luggage compartment. He actually had to push me over to get there. I had nowhere to go and fell against the pressure of the crowd. I got upright again and shoved my big suitcase back toward him. The girl from the young couple shouted, “Hand it to me! I’m not going.” I pushed as far as I could reach along the icy curb and she grabbed it. I turned forward and wedged my guitar in front of me. I haven’t seen my suitcase since, but I didn’t see it on the curb as we pulled away, either. But who knows? There must have been another hundred people on the platform and I couldn’t see everything. I have no empirical evidence until we get to den Bosch, but I have faith.

Faith is not evidence. Faith is not believing against all evidence. Faith is believing when there is no evidence. I believed in that girl, whose name I later found out was Chelline.

Anyway, the security guy grabbed my arm, blocked the crowd with his body, and said, “Get on.” I don’t know why me. Maybe it’s the hat. Maybe it’s because I told him earlier that I appreciated his help and that I didn’t want his job today. But I’m on the bus. Possibly with 69 pounds of CDs and long underwear. I definitely have my guitar, most of my clothes, and my electronic devices. Oh, and a fantastic toothbrush.

The bus is jolly. Everyone is laughing like old friends. I think the happiest people in the world are the ones who have just survived a disaster.

Posted at 12:06 AM

Feb 18, 2012

Breakfast

I’d like to take Europeans out to breakfast. All of you. It’s a great meal; perhaps you’ve heard of it. An egg or two. Perhaps some meat. You don’t have to get crazy like the English and have every part of all your domestic animals in one meal, but it is possible to make it to lunch without feeling faint.

Just after I got to The Hague last night, the trains shut down. The snow and cold had frozen the relays, the joints where trains switch off from one track to another. In such a tight system, many trains use the same tracks. The locals were indignant, saying they had promised that this wouldn’t happen again this year, that they had fixed the problem.

Imagine the subway shutting down in New York City. It’s how they get around. Still, when people start complaining, my eyes glaze over. I’m just so damned grateful to be alive and here we are with a guitar and a case of beer; whatever will we do?

The trains are running again today. I have to get to Switzerland. It’s eastern North Dakota-flat here, a snowy pool table, but the Dutch fields are gorgeous, laced with canals, dotted with fat sheep, the picture of efficiency. In a land with so little room, rural land is sacred. There are little subdivisions of cottages in places, organized communities of gardens for people who live in apartments in the city. The plots are cheap and people use them well, growing flowers and vegetables and keeping the garden sheds loved. What a singular joy it must be to dig in the good earth when you live in a closet. To trade the songs of birds for the flushing of your neighbors’ toilets.

We just passed through the largest greenhouse complex I’ve ever seen. Square miles of them, centrally heated. I could see the beating heart in the middle, a small silo, an office, and a plume of steam.

I had a nice tour of The Hague this morning on the way to the train station. We passed the International Court of Justice, where countries can take each other to court to settle fishing rights, borders, and other sticky issues, in a civilized fashion. My host said, “There are 9 judges. They are paid an enormous amount of money and they work about three months out of the year.” When I first saw it, I thought it was a cathedral. Stunning.

Later, we rounded the corner and she said, “These are the royal stables.” A stately city block, with double wooden doors two stories tall. “Of course, they keep cars in there now. Not the queen’s personal car, but the official ones.”

“This is one of the royal lanes in The Hague. At the end there is the Escher museum.” There was a large, famous piece rendered large outside, the one where a flock of geese become farm fields. “The balcony there is actually gold leaf.” Which was obvious. She didn’t have to tell me that.

And then the parliament building. “The oldest part, where you see the towers, dates back to the 11th century.”

We turned left and there was an enormous concrete block, six stories tall, with narrow windows and no visible door. The front entrance was shuttered with metal armor. Around it, there was a high metal fence, surrounded by a moat, surrounded by another high metal fence. I said, “That must be the prison.” She said, “That’s the American embassy.” I laughed out loud, not because it was funny, but because it hurt so much.

I think that building could be converted to a diner, and the Dutch could be converted to breakfast eaters. Six stories of hash browns, scattered, smothered, and covered. First, we take The Netherlands. From there, we can dominate the continent with beautiful calories. We’d have to give up our terrible coffee, though. That’s where the partnership is formed. Our food, their coffee. We can make history. Or at least breakfast.

Posted at 12:06 AM

Feb 18, 2012

The Magic Pocket

Over here, credit cards have chips in them. Mine doesn’t have a chip and mostly is not accepted, regardless of the company knowing I’m over here. But check it out: problem solved. I just played my first Dutch gig! I spent every last pfennig of my pocket money to get to this door and now my pocket is full of money again. It’s a magic pocket!

Big thanks to Joanna Serraris for feeding me big cheesy pasta, giving me two eiderdowns because I’m a southern boy, and bringing the crowd. One guy bought seven CDs; I only have five titles with me. Someone videotaped and got my set lists. What fans! How much fun to teach you about NASCAR, the War of 1812, big trucks, chicken wire, wild ponies, and white oak. How riveting to see my country reflected in your eyes, to be amazed again at the Great Experiment, the wild bucking castaways of Spanish ships and failed religions, the almighty More is More. So great to get you singing, “If you got it, a big truck brought it.” Wow.

The room I’m sleeping in has a copy of Bill AND Hillary Clinton’s biographies. Quick show of hands from the Americans: anybody have two biographies of contemporary Dutch political figures? Yeah. Me neither. I suspect that it’s not because we’re more awesome. Quick: who is the prime minister of Canada? Ah ah ah, no googling. Does anyone really believe that Americans are receiving a competitive education? There’s nothing like visiting the neighbors to jerk the curtain back on your own Oz.

Tomorrow, to Switzerland on a train. What kind of fool am I? I gotta get a different currency again. But I’m gonna yodel in Switzerland! What kind of cool am I? To hell with credit cards and ATM machines. I got a Lone Star boot full of Old World loot!

I’ll be the one not wearing black.

Posted at 12:06 AM

Feb 18, 2012

London Heathrow

London Heathrow. Met a couple of Australian dudes and it took me a minute to figure out they were speaking English. God help you if you’re sensitive to fragrances over here. I think I’m the only person in this whole airport not wearing black. Or navy, to be fair. Anyone who thinks that the Native Americans are gone needs only to come to Europe and see what white people actually look like. The bathrooms are incredible. As if they were built yesterday.

On the plane, seated next to me, a young man who was far too tall for his seat spooned muesli from a plastic bag. Later, he read a mass of photocopied pages from Antonio Barcelona’s ‘Clarifying and Applying Metaphor and Metonymy.’ It was, as far as I could tell, a big heap of deconstructionist bullshit designed to keep Mr. Barcelona employed at a university. I’m not judging the book by its cover, but by a few photocopied inner pages. My apologies to Antonio.

The pilot came on and said that we were in a queue, and that there were five planes ahead of us, and that one took off every minute so that we were five minutes from take-off. On the inside of the young man’s left wrist was written “Oxfam,” in ballpoint pen. He scribbled “pilot” on his right hand, for no reason I could find on the photocopied pages.

As we rose over London, de-icer swirled on and poured from the wing outside my window, blue-green as a swimming pool. I wondered how much glycol rained on London and where, once a minute, all day. Throughout the flight, it glistened across the broad silver plain of the wing and pooled excitedly in any crevasse it could find.

Paul, the young man, was working on his PhD, something like “Hidden Implications in Political Speech.” Metonymy, by the way is calling something by something else intimately related to the thing you’re actually talking about, like “he has a good head for numbers” or “Washington vetoed Kyoto today.” There’s a more specific force at work in the city of Washington. It’s so sneaky, we don’t think about it much.

A sign read “toilet at rear.” I like to think that, on British Airways, they knew what they were doing when they made that sign.

Paul had just returned from two weeks in Ghana. Vacation. He lives in Berlin, but had booked the return flight from Amsterdam. Paul said he had friends in Amsterdam, but they were all out of town and he had not contacted them until he’d landed in London this morning. “It’s okay. I will get very stoned and then take the train back to Berlin. It’s a good place to kill two hours.”

Immigration was barely there. Everyone spoke perfect English. Security rode bikes. Outside baggage claim, a place called Juggle Juice had a “smoke cabin,” a glass closet that fit about four people standing. A slight hint of reefer hit me. I didn’t really expect it in the airport. American airports are basically military installations at this point.

At about this time, I realized that I’d drunk several glasses and bottles of water, two orange juices, two coffees and a tea and hadn’t peed since 6pm last night. I tried. I really did, but I think all that moisture just humidified the cabin.

I tried to buy a train ticket. My credit cards didn’t work. My ATM card didn’t work. I changed 53 bucks to thirty-some Euro and spent about eight on a train to The Hague. I hope I have enough for the cab to my hosts house, cause it’s too cold to walk. The snow is gorgeous, falling thick and even, brightening up this flat, wintry land. Everywhere looks great with a fresh snow.

Let’s hope I don’t have to busk for cab fare. At least I recognize the English language here. In Holland.

Hey! There’s a trailer park. That makes a brother feel at home. Boy the snow is great. Even the trailer park looks cozy.

Posted at 12:05 AM

Feb 18, 2012

Starting Over

A few weeks ago, my 2006 mac started acting strange. Of course I have it backed up. It finally shut down entirely. I haven’t had a day in one place to get it fixed, so I bought a hard drive yesterday and youtubed the repair on my kitchen table. The backup will not restore. I’m flying to Amsterdam aware that I may have lost everything. Hundreds of thousands of words of a novel I’m working on. Journals.

It’s okay. Creativity abhors security. The forest needs a fire. I’m good with it. I know how the book goes.

I bought a suitcase and stuffed it with 220 CDs and all my clothes. My carry-on has a winter coat, gloves, boots, scarf, and the offending backup drive, in hopes that it will work after I threaten to flush it at 40,000 feet over Greenland.

At 11 today, we went to the fire station. It was awesome. The guys gave us a first class show, spraying water, extending the ladder on the truck, and dressing Mary up in all the gear. Rowan was scared and crying at first, and then finally crawling into places he shouldn’t oughta go. On the way home, all he could say was, “T(r)uck.”

At the airport. The suitcase was 4 pounds overweight. I somehow got three pairs of corduroys and two microphones in my carry-on and made weight. $60. Cheaper than shipping 220 CDs.

Rowan and Mary and I took the same elevator and escalators until we were all worn out. Okay, Rowan could have kept going. In security, my section of the belt looked like an assembly line at Foxconn. They tested my credit cards for bomb dust. They are dangerous, but not like that. The man behind lusted after my boots out loud. He had an unfamiliar accent and tortoiseshell glasses.

My favorite things about RDU are 1)even the TSA is friendly and 2)there’s a used bookstore. How genius is that? I bought Cat’s Cradle and Steppenwolf, and sold three of their Cormac McCarthy books to other customers. I sold All The Pretty Horses to the cashier, reading the “nation and ghost of nation” section to everyone in the bookstore out loud. It’s not like me to be quite so outspoken, but she said she didn’t like Cormac and I had to say to hell you don’t, listen to this. She smiled when she knew she’d been beat.

I’m homesick already. Honestly, I spent the last two days terrified. Sick to my stomach. I can recreate the novel. Rowan will never be two again. I love you, buddy. I’ll send you some songs after I redownload Audacity.

Posted at 12:04 AM

Nov 06, 2011

Alberta/Yukon 2011-11

Alberta/Yukon 2011-11

Posted at 9:16 PM

Nov 06, 2011

Alberta/Yukon 2011-10

Alberta/Yukon 2011-10

Posted at 9:15 PM