Getting Stuffed and Other Things.

We'll start with the other things.

1. There's No Business Like Snow Business. Well, actually, in Holland, they don't seem to do snow very well. That lovely Schipol Airport is huge, and a destination unto itself. My daughter found it to be a great source of entertainment as she and her beloved watched people stack up, like dogs in a show ring, at the end of the moving walkway. I had time, so I walked the 7.4 miles to my gate, but she tells me the moving sidewalk starts off slowly as you step on to it, then as it progresses, it kind of stretches out and just whizzes you right along, past us walking martyrs, until near the end, where it bunches up and slows right down again, heaping bewildered foreigners into a pile at the step off. 

This would be an ordinary day at Pearson

While I was trekking to my gate, I noticed the few snowflakes that had been caressing the ground en route to the airport were now pounding down with fury, but, I thought, no matter, I have taken off from Toronto with less than stellar conditions, and at such a busy international airport, they would be ready for such petty disturbances as weather.

How wrong I was! We were loaded on to the 747, and BTW, when Toronto built its new terminals, why didn't they build a few double gates like Schipol, to accommodate the behemoth types of jets? Just wondering... Then we sat. And sat some more. After an hour or an hour and a half, the snow had let up. But the airport had closed. I looked out the window. There was snow, but compared to what we are used to in Toronto, it wasn't much. I thought they might just need the time to plough a runway or two, and we would be on our way. Out came nuts and juice. And the kid sitting behind me who continued to beat the back of my seat with his feet. Eventually we tried to leave for the de-icing. I noticed several times the plane seemed to be rocking back and forth, like an impatient concert goer shifting from foot to foot while waiting in line. Finally, we moved away from the gate, only to stop suddenly, and be told that the front landing gear had to be inspected. Why? Because just like we North Americans get caught up in the snow and spin our wheels, and then rock the car back and forth to get out, our close to 800,000 pound loaded aircraft had been stuck in the two inches of snow, spinning its wheels, and that little vehicle that pushes it out while attached to the front landing gear had been the source of that rocking with no one knocking. And possibly damaged the gears. Out came water and cookies. Meanwhile I amused myself with the continued drumming against the back of my seat. And again watching out the window while the dinky toy snow ploughs with soup spoons for shovels tried to round up the drifts. Finally, an all clear, but then for de-icing, like stepping up to the deli counter on the weekend. "Four!" You look at your ticket and see "68". In all, FIVE hours in the soup can with Ricky Ricardo behind me, before we took off. I had something planned that evening back home, I think. Didn't quite land at 1530 like the ticket said.

2. Whitney. A Golden voice silenced, but again here is another person who had a world of opportunity before her, and chose this slow suicide.Can't blame Bobby. She and Mikey are hand in hand up there, and guilty of orphaning their children. That for me is unforgivable. It's too bad she never felt the love in life that was poured out for her in her death. But then, you have to love yourself first. And maybe she never did.

Unlike Ben and Courtney, these birds mate for life.

3. Ben and Courtney. Really, have you ever seen two losers so suited for each other? There must have been a paper bag over his head when the Bachelor execs said "I know! Let's pick Ben!" I mean, is there anyone else in Bachelordom who could at the very least use a bowl and a sharp pair of scissors? He's a whine maker, er, wine maker. He won't be stomping on my grapes anytime soon. And Courtney? How she could ever look at herself in the mirror, well, I guess she couldn't because everyone of them would be cracked by the rush of wind as she stepped up to them. 'Til death do you part, and I'm sure it will be hotter than Puerto Rico where you guys are headed to after that.

Try stuffing him alive.

4. But Stuffing is For Turkeys. Well gobble, gobble. Woke up one morning in Holland with a little difficulty sitting down, which progressed into a huge difficulty sitting down, and no, this isn't Prep H material. So without going into all the gory details, one of my minor nightmares has come true, and since I lack the dexterity of Cirque du Soleil performers (although in a real pinch with a lot of mirrors, I can come close), I now have someone stuffing an area where the sun don't shine. There is no more dignity. The clinic I go to doesn't even supply you with a gown or a towel or even a fig leaf to cover your fruit with. Some nurses step out of the room while you get ready. Others hang in. Some open the rolling curtains just as you are shimmying off your drawers. Major accident at the 401/Hwy 10? That's because they also didn't close the blinds while I was getting ready. Quick! Jupiter has lost one of its moons! Film at eleven!

And that is my little world for now. Up soon - the Golden Girls will be rocking the Southern Caribbean with Princess.  Improv entertainment provided by an as yet unknown member of Cirque du Soleil.

It must have been moon glow....

Salud!

Dutch Treat

I was in Holland for a week walking off the tundra that had made them so itchy at home, and came to love many things.

Amsterdam

1. Schipol Airport. What's not to love about entering a land that doesn't require fiddle-farty forms to be filled out, only to have someone who can't be bothered to read the forms ask you the same questions on the forms? I walked up to the lovely young gentleman at customs, certain that I had missed the tour on the airplane, you know, the handing out of forms. He asked me what I was going to do in Holland. I did not say "Drugs." "Welcome to the Netherlands. Enjoy your stay." A quick stamp, and off I went to retrieve my luggage. Afterwards, to the "Nothing to Declare" exit. Two security agents on either side. Never a question or even a sideways glance as I passed between them into a well signed venue that had me at the designated pick up point pronto. Take that, Miami, the bane of my travel!

2. Small European Cars. Provided me with so much entertainment while I waited for my friend to pick me up. Reminiscent of clown cars, I would watch a teeny tiny little vehicle pull up to the curb to drop off departing loved ones. The driver door would open, and out stretched a leg with a size 15 shoe on the end into the roadway, the leg longer than the car was wide. The knee, flexed at 90 degrees over the foot. A hip would appear, and in the blink of an eye, the knee would straighten, and both the knee and the outward facing foot would swivel to face the car as it relinquished another hip. Another seemingly endless leg and the owner's behind would be saluting the sun, well, if it had been out that day. The torso, head and outstretched arms soon followed, much like a monarch exiting a chrysalis. And then the being stood up. I swear, 3 times the height of the car. And before it was over, that car would give birth to two slightly shorter specimens, from one of the two doors, before sprouting full sized luggage, back packs and other bric a brac. 

And I'll be damned, if I'll be crammed - oops, wrong verse.

3. Bikes. Purple bikes, blue bikes, pink bikes. Bikes for one, two or three, often carrying more people than seats. More bikes than cars in the church parking lot on Sunday. Bikes parked on the street, dedicated bike lanes throughout the country. Why? Because no matter whether they are tall or short, thin, fluffy, shaped like a washboard, apple, pear or tulip bulb, Dutch women are graced with the most amazing gams, and THAT you don't get from sitting in a car all of your life.

Town Hall, Haarlem.

4. Shopping. I like this anyway, but I love it in Holland. If you hate shopping, the Netherlands will work hard to change your mind. Sure they have malls. I'm talking about shopping in Amsterdam, Haarlem and Amersfoort, and probably a whole bunch of other towns that sport storefronts from somewhere in the 1600's, all beautifully renovated, all with old world charm and personality, which we lack here in our sterile box store setups. All punctuated by cafes and restos with tables and chairs outside, even in the cold, there were tables with lit candles and chairs with warm blankets for the hardy souls, beckoning them to stop and linger for a few moments with a latte.
5. Dutch Butter. As in butter cookies in every way, shape and form, destined to butter the hips. Forget the tins we get here at Christmas, they may say Dutch on them, but they are no reasonable facsimiles of the stuff eaten abroad.
6.Poffertjes. Adorable puffy little pancakes eaten with a smattering of oh so sweet syrup. Destined to make a more adorable, puffy, not so little, version of me.

Waiting for the Bitterballen. And beer.

7. Bitterballen. And because butter is only one of the food groups, you have to fit in something savoury, and these deep fried little balls of stew fit the bill nicely. Washed down by a great local brew. Turning me into a Butterballen.
8. Stroopwafels. Thin sandwich plate sized waffles, hot off the press, spread with a thin layer of ooey gooey caramel. I think this might be related to butter as well. Once more 'round the block.
9. Heineken Bock. 'Cause it's never a vacation without a decent national beer.
10. Filet Americain. A ground meat paste akin to steak tartare. The spicy version became my mainstay at breakfast, spread a little more copiously than is likely proper, over good multigrain toast or fresh bread. Or even from the blade of a knife.
 I did not try herring. I have fond memories of my father consuming pickled herring that came in a small, white plastic barrel with a red screw top lid. He would exclaim that I didn't know what I was missing. Judging from the stink, I knew what I was missing all right, and I believe I came out the winner. Jeannette assures me that real Dutch herring in Holland bears no resemblance to the Abomination in a Barrel, even if the Abomination was imported (directly from Fish Hell, I say). I will reserve the tasting and the judgement for another trip. I suspect Jeannette will be right, as she has been all along.

My "Dream Boat" doesn't snore or require legs. Amsterdam.

I had the most solicitous of hosts, my school mate Jeannette, and her hubby, Robin. And a most delightful Golden Retriever named Toby, who made me miss my doggie more, but who gave me the pleasure of his company as well during several walks about town. And what's not to love about a mutt who presents you with your own mitts when you are going out? And all his toys, one by one, when you arrive home because he is so happy to see you?
And that was the week that was. Proost!