First a translation. A professor of mine once said that it doesn’t count as travel if you don’t go to a place in which people speak to you in a language other than your native tongue. This, then, counts as travel because I’ve had people shouting at me in foreign languages before even boarding the plane to Nairobi. Honestly, Netherlands, if you’re going to write all your airport signs in English, you ought to teach your flight crew members that if they’re going to yell “Excuse me!”, they might as well do that in English too. Between this piece of etiquette and having ordered my dinner in German, I’m in a foreign language mindset. So, the title of this post is my broken-Deutsch approximation of “It’s Snowing, and I’m Left Out in the Cold.”
My flight to Amsterdam was approaching the airport right on schedule, and thanks to a city map in an onboard magazine, I had already planned out my time frame and route for my excursion into the city. However, I was disappointed to find that the flower market, the royal palace, and the old Westkerk would have to wait. A blizzard had made the Amsterdam runway impassable. After circling for half an hour while hoping that the ground crew would be able to make a way through the snow, our pilot decided to re-route us to Brussels. Did you know that it takes less time to travel the distance from Amsterdam to Brussels in a plane than it takes that same plane to reach cruising altitude? “Brussels,” I thought. “Well, at least I’ll get a good waffle.” No such luck. We were grounded at Brussels and restricted to the cabin, not even allowed to check out the airport, while our pilot awaited directions from Amsterdam. However, others around me had more than missed tulips and waffles to bemoan. The fellow directly in front of me was ultimately headed to Brussels, and hoped that they might just let him off while we were at the airport. Not only did the Belgian officials decline this idea, their re-routing of our plane caused him to also miss his flight in Amsterdam. Guess who got to drive through the central-European snow for an hour instead of flying the twenty minute flight he’d paid for? Worry not though, dear reader: because of his decided resemblance to Hurley “Hugo” Reyes, I’m sure he was in good humor about the whole affair.
While grounded, the crew served us breakfast in Brussels. Alas, still no waffles. After choking down my otherwise-delicious-but-now-spoiled-by-non-waffle-status omelette, I had a rather interesting conversation which began with an Iranian woman’s desire for grapes. I had not deigned to eat the fruit served with my omelette, as I have no fondness for melons that are not grilled, nor grapes that are not made into jams nor sun-dried and baked into breads. Seeing this, the woman beside me said, “Excuse me, but I see that you have not eaten your fruit.” “No,” said I, “Do you want it?” “Yes, please—only—only my son would be so embarrassed. You look like him. He’s twenty-three.” “Funny, so am I.” “Oh! Well, it’s just that I feel that it’s a crime to waste good fruit.” “I feel the same way about cake.” “Ha-ha! You don’t look it.” “You’re very kind.” After this conclusion, I turned back to my in-flight movie. Yet, my fruit-hungry companion was not finished with our conversation, which was alright since she really was a very pleasant woman. “I like the Amsterdam airport,” she told me. “Things are so close together.” “Oh?” I inquired. “So, you go to Amsterdam often?” “Well, it’s a connection for me. To Tehran.” ‘Tehran?!’ I thought. ‘What kind of a person makes a habit of going to Tehran?’ What I asked was, “Oh, Tehran? Is that safe these days?” “It’s alright,” she told me. “I’m going for a high school reunion. Really, the only trouble is with the government. If you leave the government alone, you can have a very nice life in Iran.” ‘Sure you can,’ I thought. ‘That’s why you immigrated to America.’ But, to be fair, I have heard similar things from people living all over the Middle East. “Where are you going?” she asked. “Kenya,” I replied. “Oh…” she drawled, in a tone that suggested great wonder and deep misgivings. “Is it safe? One hears such things about Africa…” This was almost too much for me. It was all I could do not to quip, “I’m surprised one is able to hear anything at all about Africa in a city where the roar of frenzied radical Muslim mobs is considered background noise.” But, I suppose my mother’s worries about my safety become much more understandable when Iranian expats are expressing concern for me.
After this conversation, and another two hours of waiting, we finally arrived in Amsterdam, much too late for me to leave the airport. I settled for dinner in front of a gigantic plate glass window, watching the snow blanket tarmac, planes, and distant houses alike. The only shortcoming was that I couldn’t get out and make snowballs to chuck at unsuspecting Dutch passers-by, a la Calvin and Hobbes.
So, that’s the first leg of the journey done. Lessons learned: 1.) You can have all the flight technology in the world, but a blizzard will still make you feel like a helpless caveman; 2.) Jet lag is nearly non-existent if you just don’t sleep and instead tell your biological clock that its exhaustion is due to the fact that it’s dark outside, nevermind the fact that it’s noon back home; 3.) Iranian women are very friendly, don’t particularly mind their terrible government, and have a great fondness for fresh fruit; 4.) Heineken is just as bad on tap in its native country as canned anywhere else in the world; 5.) Dutch stewardesses are recruited as friendly fashion models who are just past their prime.
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