Where am I? Part II

Leg lock

The question entered, not so much as it blasted into my head. It fired through my nerves that screamed out in pain. My knee was not meant to bend this way!  After I tapped him twice on the ribs, I began to regain the sense of the rest of my body. I felt his grey pony tail on the side of my foot.  My knee was locked in between his knees. His hips were pushing into my thigh and his ankle was lodged into the bend in the front of my hip. My back was in a pool of sweat on the mats of the gym floor.

The sweat couldn’t pour out fast enough. This was somewhere in the second hour of my second session of jiu jitsu training in an old goat barn. The rock and mortar walls of the barn had been there long before the pine floor had been set down on tires to mitigate the impact of throws and takedowns. The man who was one good crank away from separating my knee was an nth level Black Belt of multiple martial art disciplines who ended up in Bulgaria after pursuing his craft all over the world. 

Stuffed peppers for lunch? Yes please.

Every night after training a tasty meal is hot and ready for us from an British ex-model. We sit down share scratch spread with a ex Royal Navy officer who rounds out this quiet expat compound in rural Bulgaria. After dinner comes cold beer and a gorgeous view to ease into the night after a day of work and training. It’s hard to believe only four hours of work a day could get me all this.  I am here due to a reference from and internet work/holiday network, but the immediate explanation only gives a weak a basis for the answer to the question.

The Bird

“You know what they say about a chicken with its head cut off,” he smiled. I looked back up at him, he continued but I didn’t hear anything. I could only see on the blood that had splattered on his glasses and cheek.  The chickens head was at his feet, the contours just visible in the fresh crimson blood.

I was glad it was over, mostly for the chicken. Ten minutes before, I had been chasing the doomed cockerel around his pen. Finally he cornered himself and I snatched him.  I held him by his legs and hanging that way, he finally settled down. “Grab him like this,” and he showed me with his thumb and index finger, “right behind the head. Hold tightly and stretch him as far as you can. Give the neck a quarter turn and jerk it sideways until you hear a ‘crack.’”

Cruel and unusual punishment would only begin to describe this bird’s demise. Chased around, and paralyzed after two attempts to severe his spinal cord, it was only over after two hacks with the hatchet. “It takes practice.” the woman would later assure me.

"Get that one. He picks on the others."

I had plenty of time to contemplate the whole event, not to mention the whole concept of raising, slaughtering and consuming meat while I plucked the bird. I sat in midday sun in the garden pulling against the grain as I was instructed. I think it was when I was pulling the feathers, still covered in half dried blood, on the front ridge of the bird’s wing, when the question came to me. 

It came first as a rumble in my stomach and then as a tightening of my throat and finally wafted around in the air with buzzing flies and the smell of chicken innards. As more feathers came off, the question subsided. Eventually the bird had more in common with the ones you see in the supermarket freezers than the one that had woken me at down that morning with his persistent call.

Conscience/ body separation was not enough ease my mind from this task. It was only when I rationalized the situation by accepting that the bird had made metaphysical change of form that I became hungry for the chicken chili at lunch. I guess it’s good that I didn’t have to gut and clean it before I ate.

Where Am I? Part I

Sunrise

I was far enough away that the sounds of the seagulls and the waves sweeping in were audible over the pumping electronic beats behind me. I was sitting next to an Indian guy who I met from a South African guy who I met because his girlfriend was the son of a Bulgarian-American who I met on the plane. The Indian was telling me something about the waves and the music that, after a night of partying, sounded pretty metaphysical. As I sat in the sand watching the sunrise over the Black Sea and listening to this guy, I took the last pull of my beer and the question drifted into my head.

It had been a great night, if you could call it that. I got off the plane 18 hours before. I met this dual citizen because we struck up a conversation after he overheard me speaking English in the Amsterdam Airport. He offered to help get me on my feet when we got to Sofia. Apparently what that means in Bulgarian is get a taxi for us to the train station, show me the best place to change currency, treat me to one of the best meals I’ve eaten in my entire life, tell me about a party on the Black Sea, set me up with a bus ticket and give me a sightseeing tour of old Communist Sofia from the eyes of a former rebellious punk teenager.

This guy is the epitome of cool. After I rode an overnight bus across the Bulgaria to Sunny Beach on the Black Sea, I arrived at 2 am. I met up with him, his daughter and her boyfriend and we partied and danced to the music of an internationally renowned Dutch DJ until the sun came up. It’s easy to put the sequence together now but at that time the question was as potent as the beats.

Ferry Corstien at Cacao Beach

Sunset

The sun behind the hills left an orange glaze on the warm evening air. I stared out over a field of sunflowers weighed down heavily and ready for harvest.  The train rumbled west and the breeze was refreshing after peeling myself off the seat after a much needed nap.

It was a long trip.

I finally had the energy to address the questions swirling in my. If I was this rested at the beginning of the day, chances are I would not be here right now. I could still be partying in Sunny Beach or driving to Istanbul with the Indian guy. As I have found, when traveling in a sleep deprived hungover stupor, luck largely outweighs reason as the explanation to for most consequences.

It was luck that walked me by the small Sunny Beach bus station the night before while searching for a cheap hotel. It was luck that woke me up at 11:34 to get out of my hotel before noon checkout. Luck got me on a bus whose last stop happened to be the Burgas train station.  Really dumb luck justified buying the train ticket two a city I had never heard of and who’s name, among other things, I could not even read thanks to the Cyrillic writing on the ticket. But most of all luck taught the lady in my train car enough Spanish for her to: help me buy tickets on the train, tell me how to meet my connecting train and allow me to use her cell phone. Her destination was even only one stop before mine on the connecting train! As the British woman I planned to and actually did end up meeting here told me last night, “Sometimes life depends on the turn of a lucky card.” Sometimes it depends on a whole deck.

Gratitude II

An Open Letter to the Blue Devils,

It was over as fast as it began, faster. After spending the summer as my blog describes, “playing, coaching and learning about baseball in the Netherlands,” faster than you can say “Play Ball!” it all came to an abrupt stop. 

I found out it was not possible to extend my 90 day European Union visa around the 90^th day of my stay. I am not exactly the most law abiding citizen, but I do not consider myself and international criminal either. At the risk of being deported, paying fines and/or a three year black list from traveling to Europe, I opted to leave. 

Obviously it was a hard decision. My team only had 3 games left and it may have been possible to stay under the radar until mid-September but after pouring over many a internet travel forum the chances of getting caught really began to outweigh the chances of the alternative. 

I left out of Schipol airport on August 18^th, 93 days but the same day three months later that I entered the country. I made it out and maybe I could have stayed, but what’s the point in looking back. For being the first time in over ten years that the club brought in an American player, we had a successful summer. The juniors learned and ton and it has been evidenced in every one of their practices and the men’s team went 6-3 in the time that I was there and will maintain their place in the 1^st division. It was too short but it was a success.

It was a great success for me too. I probably learned as much about coaching as the guys than they learned about playing and had a great time playing with the guys. I thoroughly enjoyed playing and clowning with both my teams and learned that the celebration in the club house after the game is even better than winning the game. I hope someday my junior team will get to discover that.

Thank you to everybody who made it possible for me to get there, my new Dutch family, all the people who took care of me while I was there, everybody who was willing to speak English to me, everybody who was willing to forgive me for my Crazy American ways, everybody who bought me a beer, the great bartenders of the club house, my catcher, everybody who taught me something about Meppel or Holland, the parents who drove us to games, my teammates, the grounds men for the beautiful field and club house, everybody in the club. Also thank you especially to Nanno, yes Nanno, Bert, Bert, Bert, and Peter. I am forever grateful to all of you.  I really hope is that the guys I coached learned a lot and will enjoy the game with their new knowledge and make the 90 days turn into a future of good, fun Blue Devils baseball.

Thanks so much,

De Amerikaanse

Getting It

Friday, August 12th

The birds are chirping outside. I hope that means it’s going to stop raining. There is a soft to drizzle and grey skies. It’s a nice fall day here. It’s August 12^th.This kind of rain reminds me home in fall. It’s the rain you welcome because you need it. It provides the time to look out the window, take a much needed breath and reflect. It’s especially nice when you are as hungover as I am. Last night I was at Meppeldag and this morning I learned the phrase, “'s avonds een vent, 's ochtends een vent”  From what I understand, the translation is essentially this: Drink like a man at night then act like one the next morning. Whatever, I’m just going to type this morning.

Despite my hangover my eyes are wide open. These last three weeks have been like a whole summer for me. In that time I have done more than any one summer playing baseball in the Midwest. I have been looking back through the bits and pieces in my journal trying to make sense of it all. I read them and the feeling in my chest is something between, gratitude, appreciation, and the question of how I could be so lucky. I got to spend 8 days living with people from Spain, 10 days living with people from Czech, and the better part of a summer living with people from Holland. I have gotten such a perfect taste of Europe. I don’t think I would have it any other way. 

These three peoples are very distinct and represent very different perspectives and ways. The three countries came from different language families, religious backgrounds, climates, battles, and peoples. Whereas I am tempted to speculate on why they are the way they are, I think it’s probably best that I describe them based on my experiences. 

When I left Holland for Spain, I had questions about what I was doing in Holland. I had a hard time understanding the people and the place. When I got to Spain I was overjoyed. What a change! I heard the people speaking a language I could understand. The weather was dry and warm and people were out just enjoying it. I watched them and I got it in 10 minutes.

 In the week I spent with the Spaniards at the English immersion program, I found passionate people who were very open and expressive.  It reminded me of my life in Puerto Rico. I had a fairly good understanding of these people and their open nature makes them easy to understand. I spent a week smiling, sharing, talking, laughing, eating, and dancing. I got to act naturally and it was easy.

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When I returned to Holland for a few days, I said to myself, “What the f*ck? La gente esta muy loca.” (This is a line from a popular dance song here now.) It was cold and wet again. I spent some days in my room, riding my bike to the baseball field and resting. 

When I went to Czech, as I said in my first post about Czech, I thought this place is very different. It was very different from anywhere I had ever been. I spent the first few days watching the people. I watched people watch each other. It seemed like people were always aware of each other and watching out of the corner of their eyes.  Sitting on a train is a great place to see the subtleties of non-verbal interaction. The people sat straight in their chairs and faced forward, eyes covertly observing the others. I can’t help but to think there is still a residual sense for the obligation for order from the era before. I watched them talk to each other. Their faces moved minimally as they spoke. Not understanding the language didn’t help me understand either. I thought it was hopeless.

Finally, I asked. It was the peak of my frustration. I saw a lot of pretty girls in Prague. A lot. My problem is, when our eyes met, their eyes would shoot directly to the ground or sky or just about anywhere else. I wondered what I was done wrong. Finally I just gave up trying to make sense of it and I asked a member of the sister baseball club in Prague why this was happening. He chuckled, “Maybe this is how they make you more interested.” “Oh, interesting,” I replied.  What I meant was, “This is lame.”

On the train ride home, my world turned inside out. A typically pretty Czech girl sat across the aisle and one row in front of me. I looked and she looked away. I watched without watching and then I saw everything. This description is for another post but I discovered a subtlety in the people that I previously could not have even imagined. By the end of the third day I got it.

I took my new insight and began to pay attention. The people talk with their eyes, barely. If you aren’t watching closely you won’t understand anything. If you stop making eye contact, a kick to the leg of the table, a clearing of the throat, a tap on your arm, or my favorite; batting eye lashes will bring you back in. As I write this I feel a little guilty to essentially bastardize the subtlety but for those at home, this is too good. 

So we ate, drank and talked. I was treated like a king as is the Czech tradition of treating guests. I spent a day a few days with a couple families and in their own homes they are some of the warmest people I have ever met. We ate and then I ate some more and was I offered more until finally I just had to say no. The delicious Czech beer kept flowing and the conversations broadened. Finally, I was exposed to insights to Czech and the real attitudes and real criticism of America. I love sincerity and honesty. That’s what makes the beer so delicious.

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So I returned to Meppel. I came back with a cursory understanding of the relationship between the Czechs and Dutch that has developed since the time of communism. I thereby began to understand the Dutch. When I returned it was like somebody flipped the switch and there was light on the Dutch people. I began to hear the things that go unsaid. 

On the second night back it was Donderdag Meppeldag (Thursday Meppelday). This is a real Meppel party. Live music in every square in town and the beer poured more than the rain. The people came to life and I began to get it. Two and a half months later, I began to get it. 

I am beginning to understand the narrow bounds of what is normal among the Dutch. If you don’t walk inside them, they will know and you will too.  They will continue to extent a warm welcome to a visitor as is the typically Dutch way but an outsider will remain just that until they give a little way. I am starting to play inside these lines and it’s getting much easier.

The birds aren’t chirping anymore and the clouds look like they mean business. Well, I’m back in Meppel, but for some reason it feels different. I look out of my window at the world outside but now the only thing between it and me is glass. People asked me when I came back from Spain, “Are you happy to be home?” and I always returned a vague reply about being happy to be back but this was not my “home.”

My perspective changed while waiting to claim my luggage in the Amsterdam airport. I asked my host and my Czech travel guide, “Are you happy to be home?” He paused and he replied, “I feel at home in both places.” After 60odd years living in Meppel he had not fixed himself to the notion that home is a person’s origin. The answer is staring me in the face. I look across the living room to see a little decoration that says “Home is where the Love is.”

Ge

So I am back in Meppel with a different feeling because I think I am finally getting it. I’m living in the lines and spending less time trying to figure everything out (that is never going to happen) and more time enjoying the place and its people. The care from the people is there, maybe acceptance is next.

Sto Roků Každý Den

Todaz is the last daz of mz staz in Praha. As zou can probablz alreadz tell, the Czech kezboards have put the y and z kezs in opposite places. For the sake of ease and authenticitz, but mostlz ease, I will tzpe normallz. This is going to look great in google translate.

If zou have read anz of mz previous post, zou can probablz tell that I like to write things thematicallz. There are manz good details but I think mz posts are long as it is. The onlz waz I could understand Prague is thematicallz.It was all about time.

The tour guide books dont even make the slightest effort to explain the true significance the places thez describe. For instance the famous Charles Bridge is described as "linking the citz across the River Vltava," reallz! "it can be difficult to appreciate the beautiful carved statues of former citiyens due to the incessant crowds and trinket stalls." I guess I should have got a better guide book. But the truth is the citz would take volumes to fullz explain.

The National Museum makes an attempt to tie it all together through about 800 meters of displazs. The thing that struck me most in the exhibit was that spans from prehistorz to todaz was the man whose bones had been excavated. He had sustrained a blow to his skull but ultimatelz died of diseas. He lived to be 42. In 42 zears a man could spend his whole life building the monumental St. Vitus Cathedral and onlz see one twelvth of its completion.

He and seven more generations of his familz could be have lived under the reign of Austrian Empire. He could have been born under the rule of Austria, liberated, lived through the rule of the Nayis, liberated and then die under the rule of the Russians. He could have lived almost his entire life under communism.

That is onlz a short list of occupants of Bohemia through historz and this is what makes Prague so amaying. Its all there, still standing. The Czech people have largelz been a peaceful people and instead of fighting off their invaders thez preferred to wait them out and so each phase of influence is still there. Like the Jewish cemeterz in the old Jewish Quarter where 12000 headstones remain in an area of about an acre, Prague§s historz was built lazer bz lazer.

The historz has facinated me and I have been luckz to get a small feel for the most recent lazer. I have tried to ask mz hosts here about thier experience with communism. I havent gotten manz details because it is a time that thez would most certainlz rather forget. From what I gather, I think I would have rather been in prison. It seems like a fair comparison but in prison at least zou know the boundaries. The picture I have of communism is the same as the grez buildings that were constructed during the time. People had to live in their box which was the same as all thier neighbors boxes in a building that was the same as all the other. Go to work and do good or do bad, it doesnt matter. There is alwazs someone watching, listening. There is no expression, no exploration. The onlz escape is temporarz but he hangover the next daz is worsened bz the realiyation that the daz is the same as before. I wish I could paint the picture as grim as the tone of thier voices when describe the time to me. I suggested that to one of them that it must help people appreciate life but he onlz replies, "mazbe its better to never have to experience it at all."

I would thank god that its all over but god left when the Communists came. All the same, I have enjozed spending time with the people here. Thez are wonderful hosts and thez reallz know how to have a good time. I want to get some more details of mz time with them. Hopefullz I will ahve the time.

Who would have thought that we use so manz y and zs_