Tuesday, January 27, 2004
The Arrival
The man with the gun on his hip stands in the middle of Eisenhowerlaan, a line of cars in front of him. I walk across behind him, in front of the idle traffic. A guard stops me at the ICTY gate on the other side. Other staffers mill about, many straddling bicycles, all waiting. The line before the security guard grows longer and angrier. Horns that sounded sporadically before now blare. One goes on for at least 30 seconds. The man with the gun is unperturbed.
Before I know it, two BMW's whizz past, one with screens in the back windows to obscure the identity of the occupant. They zoom into the gates, not five feet from me, and into the building. We display our badges for the guard and make our way toward the door.
The man with the gun on his hip steps out of the street, and the impatient traffic jam disappears car-by-car. As I head into the building, I hear a shout lobbed from one of the cars as it passes.
One needn't have understood Dutch to know what the driver was saying.
Before I know it, two BMW's whizz past, one with screens in the back windows to obscure the identity of the occupant. They zoom into the gates, not five feet from me, and into the building. We display our badges for the guard and make our way toward the door.
The man with the gun on his hip steps out of the street, and the impatient traffic jam disappears car-by-car. As I head into the building, I hear a shout lobbed from one of the cars as it passes.
One needn't have understood Dutch to know what the driver was saying.
Srebrenica denier
Mr. Flick has a new lodger on Vivienstraat, and I have a new next-door neighbor. It is a woman in her 50s, recently widowed, she says. She wears black all the time, with a huge gold cross dangling from her neck. My first contact with her was sitting down to breakfast yesterday to hear her chastize Mr. Flick for the slow drain in the shower.
When she learned why I'm here, she began immediately criticizing the Tribunal as being horribly unfair to the Serbs. She was in the former Yugoslavia during the war, she said, and the media got it all wrong. Milosevic she calls a good friend and "clever, brilliant man" who is being ill-treated during his detention. (She didn't answer my question about whether the Red Cross has been permitted access to him.) The UN won't even let poor Milosevic talk to his four year-old grandson, she says. She also says she counts Radovan Karadzic among her friends. Nobody understands, she says, the historical wrongs suffered by the Serbs, that they have been persecuted since the Schism. I said it didn't matter what happened in the past, that nothing could justify what happened during the 1990s. I pointed out that a Bosniac is presently on trial for war crimes, and not the first one at that. This didn't phase her -- she was onto the next grievance against the Serbs.
What about Srebrenica? I asked. What about the 7,500 Muslim men and boys murdered in July 1995? Didn't happen, she said, taking the official Serbian government line. What about siege of Sarajevo? I asked. What about the sniping of civilians? She claimed to have been in the city at the time, to have been nearly shot herself. But, it was the Muslims, she said. They were sniping as well.
I get the sense over here that some Dutch (and this woman wanted me to know that she was Dutch, not Serbian) are ambivalent about the Tribunal and its work, but it's not everyday one meets an actual True Believer, an official Holocaust Denier, as it were. It amuses me to think how this woman would rage at the comparison.
When she learned why I'm here, she began immediately criticizing the Tribunal as being horribly unfair to the Serbs. She was in the former Yugoslavia during the war, she said, and the media got it all wrong. Milosevic she calls a good friend and "clever, brilliant man" who is being ill-treated during his detention. (She didn't answer my question about whether the Red Cross has been permitted access to him.) The UN won't even let poor Milosevic talk to his four year-old grandson, she says. She also says she counts Radovan Karadzic among her friends. Nobody understands, she says, the historical wrongs suffered by the Serbs, that they have been persecuted since the Schism. I said it didn't matter what happened in the past, that nothing could justify what happened during the 1990s. I pointed out that a Bosniac is presently on trial for war crimes, and not the first one at that. This didn't phase her -- she was onto the next grievance against the Serbs.
What about Srebrenica? I asked. What about the 7,500 Muslim men and boys murdered in July 1995? Didn't happen, she said, taking the official Serbian government line. What about siege of Sarajevo? I asked. What about the sniping of civilians? She claimed to have been in the city at the time, to have been nearly shot herself. But, it was the Muslims, she said. They were sniping as well.
I get the sense over here that some Dutch (and this woman wanted me to know that she was Dutch, not Serbian) are ambivalent about the Tribunal and its work, but it's not everyday one meets an actual True Believer, an official Holocaust Denier, as it were. It amuses me to think how this woman would rage at the comparison.
Monday, January 26, 2004
Rotterdam: Come for the name, stay for the pancakes
For a 6-euro-and-60-cent rail ticket, one can travel roundtrip a few kilometers south to Rotterdam. The first thing one hears of Rotterdam is that large swaths of the city were destroyed by German and Allied bombing in World War II. The new architecture is robust and aggressively (sometimes garishly) modern, including the famous "cube houses", or cube-shaped apartments set on their corners. What's not as often mentioned about Rotterdam is that much of the old city remains.
I hitched a ride down to Rotterdam on Saturday with Remco, a rental agent, and my friend Peter (from Mr. Flick's). Peter rented an apartment with Remco's help, and we rode with him when he went back home to Rotterdam. After a lunch of meatball broodjes (small, open-faced sandwiches eaten with a fork), Peter and I took a Fast Ferry to Dordrecht, a small town just up the Maas River. Three-euros-point-sixty (one way) for a fast, comfortable and high-speed 45-minute journey to a charming and ancient little town. We stopped in the pub (where, over a pint, Peter recounted the time he shot a police officer who was coming through the window of his mining-engineer's quarters in the Congo in the 1960s), then walked to the station and returned to The Hague just in time for another party at the apartment of another intern, on Van Aerssenstraat (Statenkwartier).
[Aside: The intern Sarah from America had a loud, wine-soaked gathering on Friday night, on Zoutkeetsingel. I had a long discussion about Iraq (what else?) with an intern from the Danish embassy. I found myself defending the war to him, just to introduce a contrary viewpoint. Parties here are like parties in Seattle, where the only differences of opinion are about who is more lefty. Nonetheless, these parties are absolutely fascinating. Meeting and getting to know (that is, networking with) this international mix of people is one of the blessings of this internship, but I would happily forego this for even one evening at home with Sheryl, Dar and Sof right now.]
[Aside bis (II): Avoiding alcohol here is rather difficult for me when a glass of bier costs the same as a glass of Sprite, but drinking to excess has been easy to avoid. Maintaining control is more important than the amusing fuzziness of intoxication. I simply can't bother myself to be blitzed in a foreign country.]
On Sunday, I went back to Rotterdam with a group of interns (Emily and Cheryl from America, Peter and Rachel from Canada, Pau from Espana, Lillian, Sonja and Jasmine from Australia, Francesco from Italy, Julian from the U.K. and others) to a film screened at the Rotterdam International Film Festival. Ana y los otros is a slow-moving and contemplative, low-budget directorial debut from an Argentinian, shot on location in her hometown. It's about Ana, an unmarried and independent 30-something, searching for her old flame, Mariano. It would not have been my choice; I got swept up in the moment and gave it a four-of-five, but it's at-best a rental back home.
More significantly, I discovered that Ashes of Time by Wong Kar Wei is also being screened at the Festival, as is Lost in Translation.
Then I found it, the gem of the festival, relegated to late weekend screenings: The Brown Bunny, Vincent Gallo's Cannes stinker, subject of a vitriolic feud between Roger Ebert and the director, the film for which the director apologized to the hostile audience at Cannes for making such a "self-indulgent" film, the film that Roger Ebert continues to call "the worst film ever", a film that has no chance of being released in the States. It's showing Friday at 11 p.m. I must see it, even though this will require emerging from Hollands-Spoor station into the most dangerous neighborhood in The Hague in the wee hours of a Saturday morning, the trams having stopped running hours earlier. It will mean fixing up the bike my friend and co-worker Anees has lent to me (thankfully, an American mountain bike rather than a heavy and expensive steel Dutch bike). I hope the director will be present to flame the audience, but I don't hold out much hope for this.
Before Sunday's film, we ate poofretjes or silver-dollar sized pancakes cooked three-score at a time in a pock-marked, outdoor griddle. Toppings like Grand Marnier, whipped cream or strawberries are extra, but the "plain" version comes covered, nee smothered, in powdered sugar and topped with a liberal chunk of butter carved from the astonishing 10-lbs. block of the stuff sitting on the counter nearby. It was like eating a cake, only with much, much, much more sugar. Sofia will love it.
We concluded our Rotterdam adventure with a tour of the harbor, the world's largest. At 8.20, it was more expensive and shorter than the ferry, but with narration in Dutch, English and French. Honestly, if you've seen one .... We got sidetracked on the way to the station at Hyper-Hyper, a dance club at rest on a Sunday evening, open only for film-festival goers. It is stark and modern, with red floors and padded cubes for seats, with two turntables resting on air cushions on the bar. It reminded some of the others of the club in A Clockwork Orange. I sat back as my companions had a pint and (in most cases) a smoke. Sheryl would like the look of this place, and the House Industries-inspired logo.
Rotterdam has a thriving shopping district in the center of town that was jumping even on a Sunday. It's certainly worth a return visit, as I didn't even scratch the surface of all it has to offer a tourist. In short: Ugly name, interesting city.
I hitched a ride down to Rotterdam on Saturday with Remco, a rental agent, and my friend Peter (from Mr. Flick's). Peter rented an apartment with Remco's help, and we rode with him when he went back home to Rotterdam. After a lunch of meatball broodjes (small, open-faced sandwiches eaten with a fork), Peter and I took a Fast Ferry to Dordrecht, a small town just up the Maas River. Three-euros-point-sixty (one way) for a fast, comfortable and high-speed 45-minute journey to a charming and ancient little town. We stopped in the pub (where, over a pint, Peter recounted the time he shot a police officer who was coming through the window of his mining-engineer's quarters in the Congo in the 1960s), then walked to the station and returned to The Hague just in time for another party at the apartment of another intern, on Van Aerssenstraat (Statenkwartier).
[Aside: The intern Sarah from America had a loud, wine-soaked gathering on Friday night, on Zoutkeetsingel. I had a long discussion about Iraq (what else?) with an intern from the Danish embassy. I found myself defending the war to him, just to introduce a contrary viewpoint. Parties here are like parties in Seattle, where the only differences of opinion are about who is more lefty. Nonetheless, these parties are absolutely fascinating. Meeting and getting to know (that is, networking with) this international mix of people is one of the blessings of this internship, but I would happily forego this for even one evening at home with Sheryl, Dar and Sof right now.]
[Aside bis (II): Avoiding alcohol here is rather difficult for me when a glass of bier costs the same as a glass of Sprite, but drinking to excess has been easy to avoid. Maintaining control is more important than the amusing fuzziness of intoxication. I simply can't bother myself to be blitzed in a foreign country.]
On Sunday, I went back to Rotterdam with a group of interns (Emily and Cheryl from America, Peter and Rachel from Canada, Pau from Espana, Lillian, Sonja and Jasmine from Australia, Francesco from Italy, Julian from the U.K. and others) to a film screened at the Rotterdam International Film Festival. Ana y los otros is a slow-moving and contemplative, low-budget directorial debut from an Argentinian, shot on location in her hometown. It's about Ana, an unmarried and independent 30-something, searching for her old flame, Mariano. It would not have been my choice; I got swept up in the moment and gave it a four-of-five, but it's at-best a rental back home.
More significantly, I discovered that Ashes of Time by Wong Kar Wei is also being screened at the Festival, as is Lost in Translation.
Then I found it, the gem of the festival, relegated to late weekend screenings: The Brown Bunny, Vincent Gallo's Cannes stinker, subject of a vitriolic feud between Roger Ebert and the director, the film for which the director apologized to the hostile audience at Cannes for making such a "self-indulgent" film, the film that Roger Ebert continues to call "the worst film ever", a film that has no chance of being released in the States. It's showing Friday at 11 p.m. I must see it, even though this will require emerging from Hollands-Spoor station into the most dangerous neighborhood in The Hague in the wee hours of a Saturday morning, the trams having stopped running hours earlier. It will mean fixing up the bike my friend and co-worker Anees has lent to me (thankfully, an American mountain bike rather than a heavy and expensive steel Dutch bike). I hope the director will be present to flame the audience, but I don't hold out much hope for this.
Before Sunday's film, we ate poofretjes or silver-dollar sized pancakes cooked three-score at a time in a pock-marked, outdoor griddle. Toppings like Grand Marnier, whipped cream or strawberries are extra, but the "plain" version comes covered, nee smothered, in powdered sugar and topped with a liberal chunk of butter carved from the astonishing 10-lbs. block of the stuff sitting on the counter nearby. It was like eating a cake, only with much, much, much more sugar. Sofia will love it.
We concluded our Rotterdam adventure with a tour of the harbor, the world's largest. At 8.20, it was more expensive and shorter than the ferry, but with narration in Dutch, English and French. Honestly, if you've seen one .... We got sidetracked on the way to the station at Hyper-Hyper, a dance club at rest on a Sunday evening, open only for film-festival goers. It is stark and modern, with red floors and padded cubes for seats, with two turntables resting on air cushions on the bar. It reminded some of the others of the club in A Clockwork Orange. I sat back as my companions had a pint and (in most cases) a smoke. Sheryl would like the look of this place, and the House Industries-inspired logo.
Rotterdam has a thriving shopping district in the center of town that was jumping even on a Sunday. It's certainly worth a return visit, as I didn't even scratch the surface of all it has to offer a tourist. In short: Ugly name, interesting city.
Friday, January 23, 2004
'Almighty dollar' indeed
What I know about the foreign currency markets is limited but deeply personal: On a good day, I'm getting around 80 euro cents for every dollar I spend here. It goes like this: Look at the price in euros, add twenty percent, and even that Turkish pizza I ate last night sets me back $2.54.
It's been my luck to move to Europe at the same time the dollar has hit record lows against the euro, around $1.29 a couple of weeks ago. Thus, I've become an obsessive watcher of the "forex" markets, checking the rate on the Economist.com even before I check my e-mail in the morning. My pre-paid mobile has a conversion function, and each morning I dutifully punch in the new rate and recalculate my major expenses. My stay at the bed-and-breakfast now costs $175.43 per week; it cost closer to $168 when the dollar briefly "rallied" last week and dropped to $1.21.
My forced education in the vagaries of the currency markets has taught me that U.S. exporters like a strong euro, because they pay their widget-makers in dollars (or pesos, more likely) and get more money for the same price when they sell these widgets in Europe. As I see my expenses increase with each bump of the euro, they see their margins rise without having lifted a finger. Not a bad result in the midst of an economic recession in which policy-makers want to spur growth however possible. European exporters, on the other hand, are hit hard. That Porsche manufactured over here just became more expensive to sell in the States, forcing retailers to raise their prices or just suck it up and wait for the dollar to start pulling its weight. But when were we ones to care about Europe in George W. Bush's America?
Then there's the skittishness in anticipation of the G7 meeting in Florida early next month, and the question of European interest rates and whether they've been cut enough (Americans say no, which drags down the dollar by making European investments more attractive). The diviners seem to think the Europeans will wait until the euro hits $1.30 before they start "jawboning" and drive the euro back down.
Meanwhile, American officials remain mum, the bastards.
Lost in the mix are poor, penniless expats trying to live on dollars in an all-euro world. I'm spared the embarassment of my currency being valued at 50 times the local notes (as in the Philippines) or 40 times the local notes (Thailand). It's easy to feel self-conscious in such riches. Here, on the other hand, I look in the cozy livingrooms of my neighbors on Vivienstraat in their 700,000 euro homes and feel decidedly "other." I wonder if they know they are living an embrassment of riches?
It's been my luck to move to Europe at the same time the dollar has hit record lows against the euro, around $1.29 a couple of weeks ago. Thus, I've become an obsessive watcher of the "forex" markets, checking the rate on the Economist.com even before I check my e-mail in the morning. My pre-paid mobile has a conversion function, and each morning I dutifully punch in the new rate and recalculate my major expenses. My stay at the bed-and-breakfast now costs $175.43 per week; it cost closer to $168 when the dollar briefly "rallied" last week and dropped to $1.21.
My forced education in the vagaries of the currency markets has taught me that U.S. exporters like a strong euro, because they pay their widget-makers in dollars (or pesos, more likely) and get more money for the same price when they sell these widgets in Europe. As I see my expenses increase with each bump of the euro, they see their margins rise without having lifted a finger. Not a bad result in the midst of an economic recession in which policy-makers want to spur growth however possible. European exporters, on the other hand, are hit hard. That Porsche manufactured over here just became more expensive to sell in the States, forcing retailers to raise their prices or just suck it up and wait for the dollar to start pulling its weight. But when were we ones to care about Europe in George W. Bush's America?
Then there's the skittishness in anticipation of the G7 meeting in Florida early next month, and the question of European interest rates and whether they've been cut enough (Americans say no, which drags down the dollar by making European investments more attractive). The diviners seem to think the Europeans will wait until the euro hits $1.30 before they start "jawboning" and drive the euro back down.
Meanwhile, American officials remain mum, the bastards.
Lost in the mix are poor, penniless expats trying to live on dollars in an all-euro world. I'm spared the embarassment of my currency being valued at 50 times the local notes (as in the Philippines) or 40 times the local notes (Thailand). It's easy to feel self-conscious in such riches. Here, on the other hand, I look in the cozy livingrooms of my neighbors on Vivienstraat in their 700,000 euro homes and feel decidedly "other." I wonder if they know they are living an embrassment of riches?
Thursday, January 22, 2004
Cross-X in Slobo's House
I attended a lecture last night on cross-examination, given by a nattily dressed U.K. lawyer of some stature (apparently). Cross-examination is a mystery to continental lawyers because, in inquisitorial systems, the judge asks all the questions. Unfortunately, it is somewhat of a mystery to most common-law prosecutors as well because we don't get as much opportunity to practice it as our defense counterparts. The lecture was entertaining and helpful, if essentially repetitive of other lectures I've attended on the subject in law school and at the KCPAO. I don't think I can study the practice any further. It's all practice now.
The lecture contained a few short, classic (British) crosses, in which the prosecutor nails the defendant in some fantastic way. Most crosses aren't so immediately effective, and I think much of the anxiety we have about them is we feel this need to score some dramatic points. We want to break down the defendant into confessing, like in "Perry Mason", or force him into some long, contemplative pause at one of our devastating questions, like Jack McCoy. This rarely happens; the point of the cross is to grind out facts you can weave together in an effective closing argument. Nonetheless, we feel as though we have failed if we don't score those points, and we take unnecessary risks in pursuit of them. Our expectations are too high.
These lectures are given each Wednesday and are intended (I think) for the junior lawyers in the tribunal. They are held in Courtroom I. Last Wednesday, I sat in a judge's chair (the lecturer always sits "in the dock"). This time, I sat in the prosecution section. It takes me a half-hour each time just to get over the sensation of walking into that place, where Milosevic is presently on trial.
The lecture contained a few short, classic (British) crosses, in which the prosecutor nails the defendant in some fantastic way. Most crosses aren't so immediately effective, and I think much of the anxiety we have about them is we feel this need to score some dramatic points. We want to break down the defendant into confessing, like in "Perry Mason", or force him into some long, contemplative pause at one of our devastating questions, like Jack McCoy. This rarely happens; the point of the cross is to grind out facts you can weave together in an effective closing argument. Nonetheless, we feel as though we have failed if we don't score those points, and we take unnecessary risks in pursuit of them. Our expectations are too high.
These lectures are given each Wednesday and are intended (I think) for the junior lawyers in the tribunal. They are held in Courtroom I. Last Wednesday, I sat in a judge's chair (the lecturer always sits "in the dock"). This time, I sat in the prosecution section. It takes me a half-hour each time just to get over the sensation of walking into that place, where Milosevic is presently on trial.
Wednesday, January 21, 2004
Statenkwartier v. Scheveningen
Headway in the house-hunting front! Though I'm still enamored with the over-priced flat in Centrum, I viewed two more reasonable alternatives yesterday, both of them in the vicinity of ICTY. One is on Van Edmondstraat, the other on Helmstraat. The Helmstraat apartment (Statenkwartier/Scheveningen) is one unit of a 19th-century (maybe 18th-century?) mansion that's been chopped into apartments, and, thus, more charming. It has a balcony that looks great but could be deadly to Dar. It's the impractical, sentimental favorite of the two. The other is on the ground floor in a quieter but only slightly less-accessible neighborhood (on the fringes of Statenkwartier, as it were). It's cheaper and more reasonable, but has these cold white tiles in the livingroom. I'm such a priss. Anyway, having this choice has lifted my spirits. I'm just trying to not think about how much I'll have to pay for these places plus the mortgage back home.
I'm contemplating a trip to Rotterdam and the Rotterdam International Film Festival this Saturday with a group of other interns. And on Sunday, my new best friend has promised to take me to Germany. Peter is a computer engineer from England, here in The Hague for a job for a year. He's got a wife and daughter Sofia's age back home, and has insisted on being my European travel guide during our stay here. His wife is Chinese-Malay, so his daughter is mixed as well. He's determined to quiz me on all things American; all he knows is what he sees on television. I fear I'm replace one warped view with another.
This Holland experience has been so other-worldly for me, a fact of which I'm reminded as I eat dinner with a Brit like Peter or attend a conference on civil law practice taught by a lawyer from Spain while sitting with law students from Australia, Canada, Italy, Hungary, Spain, Greece and the UK. It is 180 degrees from my usual life, and I have to sit back and remember this whenever the drudgeries of house-hunting or finances get me down. I did this for the adventure of it, and I can't let the mundane details get in the way.
I'm starting a list of things for Sheryl and Dario and Sofia to do once they get here, with Peter's help. He's got a binder of ideas and suggestions he prepared for when his own family visits. I can't wait to see my family again. It's a much-diminished adventure without them.
Today, I'm going to spend the day in the library reading about civil law (what a confusing mess), go to the Milosevic trial (winding down before a three-month break for him to prepare his defense) and a lecture on crimes against humanity. Uplifting!
I'm contemplating a trip to Rotterdam and the Rotterdam International Film Festival this Saturday with a group of other interns. And on Sunday, my new best friend has promised to take me to Germany. Peter is a computer engineer from England, here in The Hague for a job for a year. He's got a wife and daughter Sofia's age back home, and has insisted on being my European travel guide during our stay here. His wife is Chinese-Malay, so his daughter is mixed as well. He's determined to quiz me on all things American; all he knows is what he sees on television. I fear I'm replace one warped view with another.
This Holland experience has been so other-worldly for me, a fact of which I'm reminded as I eat dinner with a Brit like Peter or attend a conference on civil law practice taught by a lawyer from Spain while sitting with law students from Australia, Canada, Italy, Hungary, Spain, Greece and the UK. It is 180 degrees from my usual life, and I have to sit back and remember this whenever the drudgeries of house-hunting or finances get me down. I did this for the adventure of it, and I can't let the mundane details get in the way.
I'm starting a list of things for Sheryl and Dario and Sofia to do once they get here, with Peter's help. He's got a binder of ideas and suggestions he prepared for when his own family visits. I can't wait to see my family again. It's a much-diminished adventure without them.
Today, I'm going to spend the day in the library reading about civil law (what a confusing mess), go to the Milosevic trial (winding down before a three-month break for him to prepare his defense) and a lecture on crimes against humanity. Uplifting!
Monday, January 19, 2004
Lusting for Noordeine
Monday and raining again. The rain has fallen horizontally here (with the attendant wind), so even my poor umbrella is of little use. Still, I try.
I explored the city yesterday during a rare break in the weather, and even on Saturday when it was still raining. Sunday, I went from Scheveningen through Westbroek Park to Archipelbuurt, then down to Centrum once again. The beach was absolutely filled with people at play, despite temperatures in the low 30s.
On Saturday, I took Tram 17 to Centraal, then walked to Hollands-Spoor and along Parallelweg to the open market. Absolutely fascinating, and the most un-Dutch place I've yet visited. From there, I walked back toward Centrum, walked around near the Passage and back up Scheveningsweg to Vivienstraat. Centrum is beginning to feel like home, and I'm lusting after an over-priced flat on Noordeine at Maziestraat in the heart of everything. One bedroom for 1300 ($1,582.62) inclusive is outrageous, but the living room overlooks Noordeine. Oh, to be rich!
I've viewing Willem Kuijperstraat 78 tonight, in the south of what could be called Scheveningen. A bit remote, as it is south of the main Scheveningen shoppingstreets but a few blocks from the Fred, but I can walk there from the ICTY.
I've burned through my first Strippenkaart. It lasted one week, and got me back from Centrum on Thursday night, down to Centrum and back on Friday night, down to Centraal on Saturday and back from Centrum again on Sunday. That's five trips, each over two zones. At 6.40 euros per card, each of these trips cost me roughly $1.56 at today's (slightly improved) value. Not very affordable, I must say. At this rate, I'll spend $31.17 on the tram next month alone. Still, to justify the 55 euro ($66.96) mothly pass, I'd have to ride the tram more than twice as much (nine Strippenkaarts).
On with my search for a bicycle.
The euro is at $1.21 something today. Keep on rallying, dollar!
I explored the city yesterday during a rare break in the weather, and even on Saturday when it was still raining. Sunday, I went from Scheveningen through Westbroek Park to Archipelbuurt, then down to Centrum once again. The beach was absolutely filled with people at play, despite temperatures in the low 30s.
On Saturday, I took Tram 17 to Centraal, then walked to Hollands-Spoor and along Parallelweg to the open market. Absolutely fascinating, and the most un-Dutch place I've yet visited. From there, I walked back toward Centrum, walked around near the Passage and back up Scheveningsweg to Vivienstraat. Centrum is beginning to feel like home, and I'm lusting after an over-priced flat on Noordeine at Maziestraat in the heart of everything. One bedroom for 1300 ($1,582.62) inclusive is outrageous, but the living room overlooks Noordeine. Oh, to be rich!
I've viewing Willem Kuijperstraat 78 tonight, in the south of what could be called Scheveningen. A bit remote, as it is south of the main Scheveningen shoppingstreets but a few blocks from the Fred, but I can walk there from the ICTY.
I've burned through my first Strippenkaart. It lasted one week, and got me back from Centrum on Thursday night, down to Centrum and back on Friday night, down to Centraal on Saturday and back from Centrum again on Sunday. That's five trips, each over two zones. At 6.40 euros per card, each of these trips cost me roughly $1.56 at today's (slightly improved) value. Not very affordable, I must say. At this rate, I'll spend $31.17 on the tram next month alone. Still, to justify the 55 euro ($66.96) mothly pass, I'd have to ride the tram more than twice as much (nine Strippenkaarts).
On with my search for a bicycle.
The euro is at $1.21 something today. Keep on rallying, dollar!
Saturday, January 17, 2004
American minority
I've ventured out of my top-floor room once again in search of familiarity with the city and a bike. I'm walking north today, toward the sea, where I heard I can find a cheap used bike. It is typically blustery; my poor umbrella is not likely to last another week in this weather. I'm weary of this weather, to say the least.
OVERVIEW: We interns number greater than a score, representing 12 countries, including U.S., Australia, Hungary, Israel, Greece, Italy, Denmark, Switzerland, UK, France, and (apparently) two other countries I can't recall at the moment. I work in an office with a Belgian, a British-trained Indian and a German. There are a lot of Australians here, and just as many Americans as Italians in the intern group. Walking through the halls of the ICTY, one hears all sorts of foreign languages. It's very interesting. Learning Dutch is difficult because of the Dutch enthusiasm for speaking English.
I'm at a library where it costs 1.60 euros per half-hour to use the internet, so I must be efficient. More to come.
OVERVIEW: We interns number greater than a score, representing 12 countries, including U.S., Australia, Hungary, Israel, Greece, Italy, Denmark, Switzerland, UK, France, and (apparently) two other countries I can't recall at the moment. I work in an office with a Belgian, a British-trained Indian and a German. There are a lot of Australians here, and just as many Americans as Italians in the intern group. Walking through the halls of the ICTY, one hears all sorts of foreign languages. It's very interesting. Learning Dutch is difficult because of the Dutch enthusiasm for speaking English.
I'm at a library where it costs 1.60 euros per half-hour to use the internet, so I must be efficient. More to come.
Friday, January 16, 2004
A place to hang my hat?
RENTING: I'm still searching for an apartment to rent, a task I hoped I'd never again have to do when I bought 5518. Both of the places I have viewed thus far seen inadequate. One, the attic of a rowhouse, would have been absolutely deadly to Dari. Treacherous. As to the second, the landlady is considering whether she wants children there, and she lives in the upstairs unit. I'm calling other landlords now. Thank God for the cheap, pre-paid phone for which I need not pay for incoming calls.
WEATHER: Bad even by Seattle standards. Dreary. Dark. Rainy (every day this week). Windy. Blah. Welcome to The Netherlands.
WEATHER: Bad even by Seattle standards. Dreary. Dark. Rainy (every day this week). Windy. Blah. Welcome to The Netherlands.
