Postview.

The following is a rather pointless review of something you probably won’t be seeing on TV, for the very simple reason that it was on last night. So consider this a “postview” rather than a preview.

The BBC One presentation in question was a surprisingly compelling documentary about a pair of high-powered London professionals who were facing, if you’ll pardon the cliché, a career crossroads. Bored by their jobs in the worlds of international finance and PR, the two thirty-somethings decided to chuck it all and become plumbers.

And contrary to what I might have expected, their seemingly daft decision was not used as a pretext for an hour-long exercise in condescension. Far from it. If anything, the show, entitled Posh Plumbers, portrayed their collar-color change—from white to, literally, blue—as a positive, even inspirational experience. Of course, it helps that the two protagonists—a man and a woman—were attractive and likeable, as were most of their new co-workers and even the company boss, and especially a particularly wonderful plumbing instructor. The program didn’t shy away from the more, um, unsavory aspects of a plumber’s job, but even so, as the show ended, the two career-changers said they were completely happy and fulfilled.

It was as if a great weight had been lifted from them.

And I have to say that their stories resonated with me on a personal level. Many times over the past few years, I’ve contemplated doing something—anything—other than the boring, repetitive, tedious IT-ish work I’ve actually been doing. Not that I’m particularly attracted to plumbing—I mean, really, ick—but the idea of starting a career that manages to be at once lucrative, stable, useful, and elementally satisfying is one that periodically haunts me.

Not that anything will come of these idle thoughts. Mainly because of my suspicion that here on the Continent, the idea of a university-educated specialist abandoning a professional career to muck about with wrenches and tubing really would be seen as insane. As opposed to Britain where, according to the program, plumbing courses are vastly oversubscribed—and where most of the trainees are middle-class professionals interested in a career change. Though I should note that Posh Plumbers was listed as a featured program in several Dutch TV listings.

So maybe there’s hope.

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Permalink 9 June, 12:25pm

MOET.

Yesterday I attended the first of ten classes comprising a course called “Maatschappelijk Oriëntatie in Eigen Taal,” or, roughly, “Native-Language Social Orientation.” This is, as I have been repeatedly reminded—first when I picked up my residence permit, then during my intake interview, then during my meeting with my caseworker, and also several times during yesterday’s session—a requirement for any non-European alien who wants to settle in the Netherlands.

Moet also happens to be the singular form of the present indicative of the verb moeten, which means “must.” How very subtle.

This particular class was a joke. For three hours, an English-speaking (I use the term in its Dutch sense) bureaucrat sat at a desk and recited from sheets of A4 paper our obligation to complete a course of naturalization so that we might integrate into Dutch society. The “instructor” was also curiously obsessed with the topic of marriage, particulary the necessity for couples to sign pre-nuptial agreements. I’m sure there’s some kind of story there, but frankly I don’t care.

What’s especially galling is that when I had my second intake interview a couple of weeks ago (as opposed to my first intake interview), I was told that I could take a test consisting of a few questions about Holland and be excused from the class. But no. Everyone has to do it—even educated professionals with full-time jobs who already speak Dutch (like several of my unfortunate classmates).

But then, the Dutch hysteria over immigration had already descended into farce. Consider, for example, the proposal made in March by Immigration Minister Rita Verdonk. She wants the government to issue vignettes, or stickers, to all non-Dutch people residing here, on which their level of inburgering (“citizenship awareness”) would be indicated. It’s unclear whether we would actually have to wear them on our clothing. But Hans Dijkstal, a former MP from Mw. Verdonk’s own VVD (Volksraad voor Verraad en Deceptie) party, is not in doubt:

the plan was sinister and reminded him of World War II. He said the plan was starting to suspiciously look like the Star of David that the Nazis forced Jews to wear [...].

Not that I needed reminding, but once again, the message is loud and clear: the Netherlands doesn’t want me here.

[UPDATE 9-Jun 20:46—Today I picked up a stray copy of yesterday’s De Volkskrant and learned that Mw. Verdonk’s vignette plan was, in fact, withdrawn almost as soon as it was proposed.

But still.]

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Permalink 9 June, 10:11am

Transit.

And now for a public-service announcement: Just seven hours until Venus transits the sun. It will be visible here in Holland from roughly 7.30am to 1.30 pm tomorrow.

Cool.

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Permalink 8 June, 12:15am

Sigh.

I’m no longer where I was a week ago.

More to come…

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Permalink 7 June, 6:23pm

Liberation.

The fortunate ones would go home, changed forever. Thousands would never return. And today we mourn their loss. But on that gray dawn, millions—literally millions—of people on this continent awaited their arrival. Young Anne Frank wrote in her diary these words: “It’s no exaggeration to say that all Amsterdam, all Holland, yes, the whole west coast of Europe talks about the invasion day and night; debates about it, makes bets about it and hopes. I have the feeling friends are approaching.” The young men who came, fought for the very survival of democracy. Just four years earlier, some thought democracy’s day had passed. Hitler was rolling across Europe. In America, factories worked at only half capacity. Our people were badly divided over what to do. The future seemed to belong to the dictators. They sneered at democracy—its mingling of races and religions; its tolerance of dissent. They were sure we didn’t have what it took.

Well, they didn’t know James Rudder or Ken Bargmann, or the other men of D-Day. The didn’t understand what happens when the free unite behind a great and worthy cause. For human miracles begin with personal choices—millions of them gathered together as one, like the stars of a majestic galaxy. Here at this place, in Britain, in North America, and among resistance fighters in France and across Europe, all those numberless choices came together.

The choices of lion-hearted leaders to rally their people. The choices of people to mobilize for freedom’s fight. The choices of their soldiers to carry on that fight into a world worn weary by devastation and despair. Every person in the democracies pitched in. Every shipbuilder who built a landing craft. Every woman who worked in a factory. Every farmer who grew food for the troops. Every miner who carved coal out of a cavern. Every child who tended a victory garden. All of them did their part. All produced things with their hands and their hearts that went into this battle. And on D-Day, all across the free world, the peoples of democracy prayed that they had done their job right. Well, they had done their job right. [...]

If we should ever falter, we need only remember you at his spot 50 years ago, and you, again, at this spot today. The flame of your youth became freedom’s lamp, and we see it s light reflected in your faces still, and in the faces of your children and grandchildren.

We commit ourselves, as you did, to keep that lamp burning for those who will follow. You completed your mission here. But the mission of freedom goes on; the battle continues. The “longest day” is not yet over. God bless you, and God bless America.
– President Bill Clinton, Colleville-sur-Mer, France, June 6, 1994.

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Permalink 6 June, 12:13pm

Meanwhile.

As I was sitting here in the bowels of the Pan Am Moon Shuttle—I mean the Hillside Su—and reflecting on my trip thus far, I came upon some interesting reflections by a Turk visiting the southwestern U.S.

To reciprocate just a little: As I drove from Antalya around the coast to Kalkan and back, I was constantly reminded of bits America. Antalya itself is a drier, exploded Honolulu. South and west you find bits of Sonoma and Santa Barbara counties. And inland, you might as well be driving through central Oregon, with all the espresso stands replaced by gözleme stalls.

Bye!

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Permalink 1 June, 8:59am

Günaydın!

Greetings from Kalkan, a small outpost of Hampstead on Turkey’s Mediterranean coast. This is not going to be a long post; suffice it to say that Turkey has, so far, been lovely. Nice people (mostly), gorgeous weather (overwhelmingly), good food (generally), and tasty scenery (invariably).

For those of you who care about that sort of thing, my itinerary thus far has been: Amsterdam-Antalya-Çirali (or Cirali for those of you without Turkish character support)-Arykanda-Kaş-Kalkan. Today I’m planning to visit the ruins of Xanthos, then return to Antalya where I shall spend the night at the fabulous Hillside Su Hotel. Then it’s on to İstanbul.

Here, in no particular order, are some things I’ve recently done for the first time:

And some things I have yet to do:

But I imagine it’s only a matter of time till these things happen.

Bye!

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Permalink 31 May, 9:24am

Fuck.

There is a ubiquitous and all-pervasive aural blight upon the European soundscape. It’s a song performed by an untalented, adenoidal, tone-deaf, pig-faced American R&B “artist” named Eamon, and the chorus goes something like this:

Fuck what I said it don’t mean shit now

Fuck the presents might as well throw em out

Fuck all those kisses, it didn’t mean jack

Fuck you, you ho, I don’t want you back

The inspiration for this charming ditty was a real-life relationship gone sour. However, Mr. Eamon’s ex, a young lady called Frankee, is not letting him have the last F word. Far from it.

Fuck What I did, was your fault somehow

Fuck the presents, I threw all that shit out

Fuck all the cryin’ it didn’t mean jack

Well guess what yo, fuck you right back

Apparently Ms. Frankee’s song has already displaced Mr. Eamon’s hit single from the #1 spot on the UK pop charts.

I should perhaps point out that I am, as a rule, completely unoffended by the word “fuck.” And the insane hysteria that surrounds profanity in a certain large pseudo-democracy is little short of absurd. However, I must admit to a certain amount of discomfort when I hear Mr. Eamon’s song blasting out of the speakers at Burger King and entering the fragile little minds of well-scrubbed prepubescent schoolchildren.

Besides, I firmly believe that profanity should have a purpose. Take, for example, this analysis of recent events in the Fertile Crescent:

I’m starting to think that people are getting fucking stupider. I mean, look at this fat fuck Rush Limbaugh. Who the fuck listens to this fuck face? Why the fuck is he making more money than me? I’m sure you’ve heard all this bullshit about him saying what the army did to those towelhead camel-fuckers was like a frat prank. How does he get away with this shit?

Not especially artful, but with all due respect to Eamon and Frankee, at least he has a fucking point.

As does Eric Idle, who weaves the word “fuck” into a fucking awesome critique of Republican hypocrisy and stupidity. So now I expect the shit-eating chickenhawk fucks to take a break from jerking off to pictures of Lynndie England, so they can issue a fatwa against Eric Idle—because he, along with the rest of the Pythons except maybe John Cleese, has failed their fucking Patriotically Correct™ litmus test.

To which my only reply will be: Who the fuck cares what you think?

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Permalink 22 May, 3:47pm

Damn.

I got my FRP (Fucking Residence Permit) today.

Now all I have to do is: go to an intake meeting with the inburgering (literally, “citizen-becoming”) people so they can see how well I understand the Dutch and their language; wait for the results of my intake test; attend several hundred hours of stupid citizen-becoming classes; and, oh yes, try to find a job in a shrinking economy. By these means do I intend to become a fully functional member of Dutch society.

But as has already been pointed out to me on numerous occasions, my very propensity to bitch ‘n’ moan means that I’m already, culturally speaking, as Dutch as a tulip-shaped windmill made of cheese and liberally sprinkled with hagelslag.

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Permalink 14 May, 4:33pm

Vigilantism.

Belgium’s far-right Vlaams Blok party has announced the creation of a new hotline that citizens of Antwerp will be able to use to report illegal aliens.

According to Blok provincial assembly member and proposal author Van der Sande, the Antwerp city government is not doing enough to get rid of the 10,000 illegal aliens that he says are living in the city.

For this reason, the Blok is about to begin a campaign to encourage citizens to report, via a mobile number, their suspicions about where illegals are living and working. The party will then pass the information along to the city authorities and the police.

Left unanswered, at least in this article, is the question of how exactly an average Antwerper is supposed to know who’s illegal and who isn’t.

Hey, I know! Why doesn’t the Blok—which happens to be the largest single party in Antwerp—force all illegals to sew big fabric I’s onto their clothing? They could make them yellow.

And once the illegals are identified, it would be a simple matter to round them up and place them into an appropriate detention facility of some kind. Maybe one located close to one of Antwerp’s many chemical factories…

[UPDATE 14-May: My Antwerp informant Non Tibi Spiro tells me (in comments) that the Blok has withdrawn the plan.]

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Permalink 13 May, 11:36am

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