Team America, Fuck Yeah

Team Berlin, now Team Europe, took a weekend in Amsterdam a few weeks back. Our team needs a better name. For awhile, I wanted to be Team America -- so that I could say it with the self-hating cynicism that is the patriotism of Brattle Street liberals like myself. But since the election of Barack, being Team America wouldn't hold the same dark humor, since he's our get out of jail free card: "The U.S. is responsible for plunging stock markets around the globe? Well, Obama will be president in February, so, uh, isn't that enough?" Also, we can't be Team America because a few Brits are part of the crew-- and we don't want to kick them off the island because they say funny things like "rubbish" and "driving a scooter does not automatically disqualify me as straight."

What is Team Europe? We are all expats living somewhere on the Continent trying to squeeze as much sightseeing (read: partying) into as many European cities as possible before we leave. Together, we speak a total of four languages, which is about the same number as a normal EU citizen. And some of us are consultants, meaning yes, there is a spreadsheet dictating where we are going and when. It's all very organized, really. Somewhat like herding cats.


Amsterdam was weekend two in this great experiment and a great experiment it was, let's just leave it at that. We also discovered a toothpaste that makes your mouth feel so fresh you actually think your teeth are vibrating (reminded me of my very first trip to the city with Team Family in '01 "My lips are talking to my teeth!" Man, I hope my bro actually reads this blog so I don't sound crazy. Someone needs to laugh at that).

That was so fucking money. That was like the Jedi mind-shit.

This will be short and sweet -- it's been a good week. Sinterklass showed up on his boat from Spain (he'll be here until December 5), I got a spiffy new fiets (well, a "new" used bike) and learned that I have to pay no damages to the taxi that side swipped me a year and a half ago! Not only that, but they owe me mad €€ (hmmm, doesn't look quite the same as $$).

Bunch of savages in this town

I am bike-less. My craptastic fiets with stolen. It was the biggest piece of scrap metal, I can't believe they even bothered. Maybe it was my uber cool teal green saddle bags that seduced them, the wankers. I don't want to run out and get another one, because what if I don't stay. But 1) I also said that about getting a cat and that was over a year ago and 2) bike:stefinamsterdam::car:suburbansoccermom. Getting home, ESPECIALLY when it is raining (which is seemingly 103% of the time) now takes forever. And my dishwasher is broken. I am pouting.

In some more positive, prestolenfiets news, just got back from Berlin where we had pan-European team bonding. Folks came from Frankfurt and Geneva and we did a good job of touring the city and getting drunk. Thankfully no one insisted we actually go into museums which made me happy -- I'm as cultured as the next schmuck, but when you've got 24 hrs to see shit, the last thing I need to see is art by some guy I don't know or by some guy who's best stuff is in the MET.

A neat thing about Berlin is it really is a city, not a European village. There are fancy schmancy cocktail bars, two different subway systems, a department store that makes Harrods look like a country general store and reasonably not-disgusting sushi. Lots of contemporary buildings juxtaposed by aging churches and 1970s Soviet architecture (and, in the case of the photos to the right, chicks eating sausage).

Also, Berlin has a TON of freaks in it -- makes Amsterdam look like Springfield. We saw at least 20 Rod Stewart look-alikes (men and women) with even worse hair-dye jobs (if that's possible). Good news is, bright blue tights are therefore fully acceptable (as most of you know, there is a side of me that wants to be a freak as much as there is a side of me that likes to pop my collar...I maintain there should be a way to do both at the same time).

America is great indeed. Imagine a country so free, one can throw glass on the streets.

Nederlanders and expatriates all went out for the election, which was a pleasant surprise. (shameful fact: I do not know the name of the Dutch PM...I just wikipedia-ed it so I can feel educated -- his name is Jan Peter Balkenende. Can you imagine a bunch of Americans celebrating the fall of the Christian right in the NL? Watching European football is about as close as we would ever come -- I may not know who the PM is, but I do know who Marco van Basten is.) Pleasant, but also annoying because there were no tickets left for events. It is rare that all the clubs in Amsterdam are packed on a Tuesday night. Rarer still that this would happen for anyone other than a famous DJ (Obama is the new Tiesto).

And, Mr. Smith goes to Amsterdam! It was nice to have a familiar American in town last week -- though she is also an expat in a foreign land. (For any rich people who come to visit, get a reservation at the Dylan Hotel -- Megan and Sylvana had a room that looked like a ski lodge. Some days, I want to be a reporter.) We stayed up late, drank scotch and generally felt good about the state of the union.

So, what are we doing for New Year's?

There was a small window of time in the late summer and early fall when I could have sworn I was growing up. I had a nice routine down, doing the whole "Everything in moderation, including moderation" thing.

Yeah, I was wrong. But I stopped berating myself this morning when I realized it's the fall. And my life is always like this in the fall and therfore I can't be blamed for what is obviously the natural cycle of my existence. Don't want to mess with the chi.

(for those of you who have difficulty reading between the lines, this means that I feel like I've been on a two month bender. But that's not really accurate because I was working, so it was more like an interval bender -- wedding. rest. 30th birthday party. rest. bachelor/ette fiesta. rest. There needs to be a word for that -- maybe "bingerval" or "alcoholism.")

Got home this week -- but interval training continues (no rest for the weary). Halloween party last night with the standard fall back costume: The Toga (Siblings teach you lots of important life lessons in your formative years. How to make a toga out of a sheet should always be one of them. Really, a true life-long skill.). Rest. Election Party (yes, that will be an event to man up for). Rest. Berlin. Rest. Reizen met Coltrane. Rest. Friday Thanksgiving. Rest....and so on and so forth until....well, until CFG/P's wedding.

This is my dance space. This is your dance space.

I like to get jiggy on the dance floor.

This results in a bit of a conundrum in the Netherlands:

1. There are a MASSIVE amount of hip clubs, that play anything and everything you could ever want to hear. I have been to maybe 11% of these and have loved.them.all. Clubbing is also not restricted to short foreign men or wealthy bankers, who order bottle service but don't actually leave the table. It's typical Dutch to end up at a club at the end of the night, often until 5am or so -- even for the tall, blond, awkwards.
2. Despite the mainstream popularity of clubs and dancing, the Dutch have not progressed beyond the white man's shuffle and think you are some sort of alien if you actually get down.

Erin B (which sorta sounds like Eric E) rolled in from the Village of Chocolate & Fondue last weekend for a little "back to school" bonding. The daring and inquisitive soul that she is suggested we try some place we've never been and try to make out with Dutch guys -- primped and pre-partied to the nines, we headed out to Hotel Arena. As the first "real" night I had been out since, oh, the Equinox, I was stoked and the evening started on a good note with an aged cabbie hitting on us (I am loved!) and impeccable timing -- we walked in right before the lines started outside. It was Disco classics night. Different. Awesome.

But, sure enough, X songs and Y drinks into our night, some guy comments to Erin B that he knew she wasn't Dutch because she moved too much when she danced. And some tall mofo said the same to me, noting it was his "first" with an American (dude! it's dancing, not sex, chill). This isn't the only occasion I've caught this sort of flack: Around this time last year, a guy called me out on my non-Dutchness because I was too "dancey" (actually, I am going to the next iteration of that birthday party tonight -- I hope he's there so I can pump my ass in face and ask if that's too "dancey" for him, the smug balding wanker).

Legitimately, I have been critiqued by non-Nederlanders in the past for, uh, overly aggressive, freak-a-licious dancing. But please recognize that I am now a mature adult and no longer try to "bring sexy back" by doing splits in bowling shoes or bend bassakward while using my dance partner as a pole (though this may be attributed to a "grown up" lack of flexibility as opposed to actual maturing).

So -- mission critical this weekend is to rip into at least one guy bobbing his head to the beat while shifting from one foot to the other with his hands in little fists (how do you like me NOW!). And, I'll also try to be more observant of my fellow woman, see what it is exactly that makes us Amerikanen more prominent dancers. Let's hope it's not the pelvic thrusting -- I mean, who's going to give that up?

I don't know anyone who deserves to get chopped up and fed to a hungry plant (part II)

Frankenstef quickly learns that liability insurance is something that every Dutch person has, especially since the monthly fees are never more than €2. But what is liability insurance for, Frankenstef wonders, other than this sort of freak accident? Well, if you drop a friend's camera out the window, liability insurance covers it. If your dog knocks a Delft vase off the table, liability insurance covers it.

How come Frankenstef does not have this ridiculously cheap, "normal" form of insurance? Because no one told her to get it. Within days, she's purchased this somewhat strange form of coverage (in short, it prevents the need of small claims court...Judge Judy would not do well here) and is completely stunned at how easy it was to procure.

Unfortunately, it's not retroactive (duh) and the "I didn't know I was supposed to have it" argument does not matter to the insurer or the law. So when the sun went down on the last day of November, she did what any normal Dutch person would do -- put it off for a couple of months until the holidays are over. (not kidding -- maybe the only silver lining of all the bureaucracy in this nation is that people are willing to let things take....for...........ev...........................er)

Returning to the Netherlands, Frankenstef plays the ignorant & poor card and makes an appointment with legal aid. They kindly tell her she makes too much for the free help and ship her off to a nice personal injury lawyer who begins investigating the possibility for recourse given that the Taxi is believed to be AT LEAST equal in blame.

"So they don't have this kind of insurance in the U.S?" asks the lawyer. No, says Frankenstef. "Well, what do they have?" Nothing. (this then deteriorated into an argument about whether I was actually right. I'm no lawyer and my only experience with law was the LSAT and keeping corporate records -- not exactly ambulance chasing. But I have asked numerous, non-JLo adults. I maintain there is nothing like this as a "regular" option to "regular" Americans.) "Do you have photos from after the accident?" Funny you should ask, I refused to have them taken. "What about the clothing you were wearing?" In a sick twist of fate, I was in short spandex and an already blood/paint-stained t-shirt to exercise in. "Hmmm. Well, make a list of your costs -- if we can get them to pay half, then we may be able to argue that you shouldn't have to pay more than half of the taxi's." But isn't the Taxi at fault? "The taxi company did a smart thing and listed the accident as 'an act of god' and in fact, the police report seems to put you at fault. But it doesn't list vehicle speed." (Act of God is actually a legitimate choice in filing a police report? WTF?) So that's a good thing because it means it's incomplete? "Yes. And the insurance company did not originally know there was an injured party -- that is why the request for funds took 6 months to arrive." So another vote for incomplete? "Yah." Is there any way to make an argument that it is impossible that I could have caused this much damage to his car? "That is difficult." (there was never really an answer as to why....) But my costs were so minimal. "What about lost work time?" Ah, well, good thing that my hourly rates are pretty steep (fun fact: I cost a little less per hour than a prostitute in the red light district).

Winter turns into spring. Spring becomes summer. And on one rainy day in July (note that this is now 15 months after the accident) the insurance company agrees to pay half my expenses. Receipts and proofs are submitted.

And then Frankenstef waited. And waited, and waited, and waited.

There she sits today, still waiting for a word of resolution. Some early mornings, when the rain falls on the quiet streets, you can here the clicking of the keys as she types email after follow up email, begging for it to end.

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