Den Haag to the Moon

After two weeks here, I'm reminded again of how the Hague is the most segregated city I've ever lived in.

Seattle is not exactly together racially. Just visit a couple of churches in the Central District on Sunday for proof of this.

But it's nothing like it is here. Not even close.

I can walk around the ICTY neighborhood (Statenkwartier, where I just rented an apartment a block from work) and the only non-white people I see are ICTY professionals. Generally, the area is homogenous (like milk).

The racial composition begins to change a little in Jason's neighborhood (Zeeheldenkwartier, closer to downtown). But not much. Homogenous still, with the occasional Turkish Pizza place.

Last weekend, Jason and I went down to a "Werkbazar" (job fair) near Oranjeplein, within sight of the rail station Hollands Spoor. Not coincidentally, this is also where the huge, open-air Haagse Markt is also found. At the werkbazar, the ratio of brown folks to white was at least 9 to 1. It was packed with food stalls selling mostly Surinamese food (yummy spicy, but the way). On the stage, they had a "Hip-Hop Salsa" band, with some American emcees. Outside the official event was a shadow Arab festival.

Said marching orders came on Friday morning, for a flight on Saturday afternoon. Seatac to Schiphol, non-stop, World Business Class. A UN rule says that staff members flying on UN business are entitled to First Class or Business Class if the flight is for longer than a certain number of hours. My nine-hour, forty-minute flight qualified. Much about Business Class is silly, like the piped-in string quartet music that plays during boarding and after arrival and the obsessive use of silverware and porcelain. It's like rich-people kitch or something. Much about it is worth every penny, however. Namely, the seats that fully recline and the extra legroom. I'd consider World Business Class a bargain even without the use of the personal video monitor (I watched "The Interpreter," "The Full Monty," "Kingdom of Heaven," and most of "A Bug's Life" during the flight).

Here in The Hague, I've landed at Chez Dominguez, the house of a friend in Zeeheldenkwartier, near the Peace Palace. Jason is a former L.A. County D.A. who came to The Hague last year when I was an intern. He rented a huge place, and rents out rooms to the sizeable community of transient internationals floating around this place. Between the ICTY, Shell, the International Criminal Court, the International Court of Justice, the OPCW and the various embassies, there never seems to be a lack of young people looking for temporary accommodation. My new roomies are Jason, Isaac (who works at the ICC but is home in New York right now) and Nina, also at the ICTY.

This is temporary while I find larger and more permanent accommodation suitable for the arrival of the family in November, which will not come soon enough. On this rare, gloriously sunny day in The Hague, I'm actually wishing it were already November, even though the weather will by then be suicidally dreary.

On my first day back, I did a few of the things I always do with my family. I walked (down the tree-lined Scheveningseweg) to the Centrum, bought a bag of frites at Polleke (the best frites stand in town), then strolled over to Haagsche Bluf, the shopping plaza, to enjoy them.

My friend Keith Scully was in my orientation group. He's from the same office back home and started on the same day in essentially the same position, working for a different team. His family is already here, and just starting to get a taste of the soul-crushing Dutch and UN bureaucracy. God help them. God help us all.

I sit here with Dario, watching "Finding Nemo" and enjoying my last few days with my kids before being away from them for three months. And how much time do I have? It's a mystery.

I'm supposed to start on August 15, the date the Tribunal reawakens from its summer slumber.

The problem is, I must be cleared medically before the ICTY purchases my ticket. To be cleared medically, the medical officer at the ICTY must examine my latest submissions from my doctor here, proof that I completed the battery of tests required of UN employees. The last documents he sent, at the request of the UN, were the printout from my EKG, the report from the radiologist who shot my lungs and analysis of my blood for various illnesses, including syphilis but no other STDs. I have none of these illnesses, but the battery of tests had my doctor here shaking his head in amazement. He's going to work in Africa for Doctors Without Borders next year, and doesn't have to take half these tests. "Are you training to become a pilot?" he asked me. No, just to sit at a desk in The Hague.

Said medical officer is on vacation until August 11. I won't know until after then when I'm leaving for The Netherlands. Could be the next day. Could be the next week.

Meanwhile, all of The Netherlands is on vacation now, and I can't manage to find a decently priced room for when I arrive. Not that I could tell any of the innkeepers when that is.

Today (Friday, August 5) was my last day as a Deputy Prosecuting Attorney. I titled my farewell e-mail "Tot ziens!" or "see ya later." Does anybody really read these e-mails? They seem to fall into one of about three categories.

1. The Touching Farewell, in which one gushes about how much he'll miss everybody there because they are the greatest people one could ever work with, etc. This works if you are known to be either sentimental or very reserved. If you are anything in between, it just comes off sounding disingenuous. My friend Kristen nailed this one with her farewell e-mail a few weeks back.
2. The Flamer, the wicked "f*** all y'all" missive that slanders your enemies and makes everybody else uncomfortable (but still lapping up every last word). My wife's friend Dewey did this when he left Microsoft back in the day. He attached a clip from the movie "A Bug's Life" (a popular movie at the time) in which the overweight caterpillar Heimlich finally bursts from his cocoon and says, "Look at me! I'm a beautiful butterfly!" As if leaving the place was liberation so sweet as to be compared to emerging from the dark recesses of a small, dark place. He also took his whole team (and their families) to Daniel's Broiler for dinner and charged it to the company. My kinda guy. I only wish had had the stones to send out this sort of e-mail (even though I'd have to feign enmity toward anybody at the KCPAO).
3. The Short and Sweet. Not too sentimental, not too gushy, no hint of avarice. Just, "see ya later." Because I don't feel I've mastered the other two styles, I went with Number Three, the old standby. Out with a whimper.
   

It occurs to me that I should be better at these good-byes, considering I seem to leave the Prosecutor's Office annually. Comedy writing is not my thing. Next time, I'll get Scott Fogg to ghost write my farewell.