It’s going to be difficult to blog about my experiences in Sunderland without sounding like a stereotypical ‘Jewish American Princess’.  However, I am one, and I know it.  But I prefer to think that I’m not that shallow and supercilious.

 

CheeseBoy had been winding me up for months, humming the opening bars to ‘Dueling Banjos’ every time our upcoming trip got mentioned.  I’m not sure what I expected; two-headed cows and people who are very close blood relatives, I expect.

 

Relating things to my own milieu, casual references to ‘South Hylton’ translated, in my mind, to staying in the Hilton South… as opposed to the Hilton North, which would obviously be at the other end of the city.  I’m more of a Leading Hotels of the World kind of girl, but I figured I’d cope.  There are decent Hiltons… I stayed in one once in the airport in Zurich, I think, when I had a misconnection.

 

Uh.  Nope.  We stayed at BooBoo’s sister Amanda’s house.  So there were six of us sharing a space roughly the size of the den in my house in King of Prussia.  With one bathroom.  With a tub, but no shower.  I haven’t shared a bathroom with anybody since I was about ten.  For purposes of illustration not comparison, when I stayed  at Georgia and Ron’s in Ohio, I had one wing of their McMansion to myself (their grandson, Roy, had the other guest wing), which included a bedroom, a sitting room and  bathroom with a tub, a separate shower, and a Jacuzzi. 

 

See.  I sound like a bitch already.  I’m simply trying to illustrate that I was out of my comfort zone.

 

Amanda is brilliant.  I think she looks a lot like Boo, although she was obviously missing in action when the Boob Fairy was dispensing her bounty. 

 

Everybody there, all of BooBoo’s friends, were friendly and welcoming, and very hospitable.  Yes, I did have a great deal of trouble with their accent.  I tweaked Boo a tiny bit (she’s so easy) by saying very earnestly “Wow!  Everybody here must have grown up reading Catherine Cookson novels.”  “What do you mean” she asked.  “Well they all talk the same as her books.”  She looked confused (for a change).

 

Of course that ‘Smith Barney’ thing went on constantly, wherever we were.  I spoke, and the room, or store, or pub went completely silent, until somebody asked “American are you?”  We got our hair done for the party and the hairdresser, after she  asked “American are you?”, actually said “Wait until I tell my brother I blew dry an American’s hair today!” (Does it grow in a different direction?)   I was happy for her.  Really.  I was going to give her my autograph for a memento, scribbling ‘Jean Cohen, American and (occasionally) Italian’.

 

But the best was the guy who asked where I was from.  I am starting to really, really hate that fucking question.  “American are you?  Where are you from?”  Me: “Mumble…mumble.” Him: “Where?”  Then  “Okay.  Philadelphia.”  “Where they make the cream cheese!”  Me (slightly deranged):  “No! No! No!  The bloody cheese isn’t made in Philadelphia!  People in Philadelphia would rather starve than put fucking cream cheese on their bagels.

 

 (Note to self: stop using that goddamned stuff on your bagels; start a bloody boycott.)

 

“I’m not talking about this again” I sighed.  “You know who Rocky is?  He’s from Philadelphia.   I’ll talk about Rocky.  What’s a ‘bagel’?  It’s a … it’s a … tea cake.  Okay?”

 

That was absolutely true; as is the rest of this Close Encounter.

 

“Rocky?” he said excitedly, “I love Rocky.  How’s he doing?  Is he still fighting or did he retire?”  “Sylvester Stallone, you mean” I corrected.  “The actor who played Rocky.  Yeah, he’s still acting, I think.”  (I wouldn’t have a clue; you couldn’t pay me enough to sit through one of his movies.)

 

“No” said Clueless Northerner, “Rocky.”

 

“Um… Rocky is just a character in a movie.  He’s not, like, a real person.”

 

“Are you sure?  I saw his statue on telly and those steps he runs up.”

 

Some days I wish Grandpop had gotten off the boat at Ellis Island and got on the train for anywhere besides Philadelphia.

 

BooBoo’s party was fantastic, as you will see by the pictures.  Oz Ed did giant enlargements of mini-Karen and we hung them all over the room.  And lots and lots of balloons.  And banners.  She had quite a crowd; about 120 people.

 

Of course, El Cheese-o thrilled the crowd with his proposal.  Amanda and I both knew about it weeks ago.  We tried desperately to talk him out of doing it at the party.  Boo is shy; she hates to be the center of attention.  But he couldn’t be dissuaded.

 

When Boo went up on stage to thank everyone for coming-- she said “And especially Jeano, who came all the way from London”.  I said to Amanda “I don’t live in London.”   “They never heard of Weybridge” she replied. “But they’ve heard of London.”

 

Sorry… got off course again.  Anyway, while Boo was delivering her twenty five words or less prepared speech, Lou sneaked on stage, knelt down and asked “Karen, will you marry me?” 

 

Her response, captured perfectly on the DJ’s mike: “Oh fuck, Lou!”

 

“Was that a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’” Lou carried on, proffering the box with the ring (diamond, natch).

 

Of course it was a yes, and the DJ segued into ‘Chapel of Love’ for the newly engaged lovebirds.  They were disgustingly kissy face & huggy bear for the rest of the weekend.

     

With all the stuff going on getting ready for BooBoo’s birthday, I never got around to blogging that I had a date.

 

Guess what?  I had a date. 

 

The emails to and fro were okay; he could spell, form an actual sentence and never once called me ‘hunnie’ or ‘babe’ or ‘darlin’.  A good start.

 

I arranged to meet him at the Grotto, priming Darling Spike in advance so that if the Datee went bizarre-o on me, at a pre-arranged signal from me, Spikey could clock him over the head with a Magners bottle and deposit him in the dumpster.

 

I had a really nice time.  I even hung around long enough for dinner.  (Spikey carved a rose out of a tomato and affixed it to the mesa of the mountain of mashed potatoes on my plate of bangers & mash.  God, I miss Thai food.)

 

Friendly Skies Guy is very nice.  Yeah, he works for United Airlines…at Heathrow.  I loathe airports, except for Duty Frees,  and (a recent animus) the people who hang out at them picking other people up (for money.)  It’s perfectly okay if it’s the Irish Lad you’re picking up and he’s brought back fags or diamonds from South Africa.  Fortunately, United’s gates are at Terminal

One, at the moment anyway.  They’re moving.  I hope they have better luck with BT and Sky than I did when I moved.

 

We had lots to talk about.  My travel agency used Apollo, United’s reservation system, so we could chat about funny glitches ‘Appalled-o’ perpetrated like that time it arbitrarily cancelled the return flight for the entire marching band (plus instruments) from Beijing.  Yeah, that was a hoot. 

 

FSGuy has been positively everywhere, including places I’ve not visited like Dubai, Lebanon and Cuba.   And The States, naturally, but the places foreigners seem to think are ‘America’ like Las Vegas and Fort Lauderdale.  And New York.

 

And he met Condoleezza Rice!  Seriously.  She popped in on Air Force One with WhatsHisName for a three hour visit.  I can so relate.  The Duty Free at Heathrow is divine. I hope she stocked up on Chanel Lip Liner pencils; such a bargain.  FSGuy got some fantastic pictures.  Of Air Force One, not Condoleezza Rice.

 

Anyhow, he asked me ‘when can I bask in your radiance (courtesy of Ruby’s Beauty Course) again?’  Okay… that’s not exactly what he said.  I paraphrased.  I had to break it to him gently that I was off the next morning for a fortnight (I know it was only four days; it felt like fourteen) up north.  Blog in progress; I promise.

 

He sent sweet little texts while I was away.  That prompted me, shamefully, to gripe to BooBoo after about the fiftieth, “Déjà vu all over again!” which she unfortunately didn’t get and I had to explain about Yogi Berra.  And Turd of Camberley.

 

Monday was a holiday here (not that you would notice really) so I decided to have my First Annual Memorial Day Barbecue.  I felt I owed it to British women; otherwise they just wear white any old time.  Sometimes even white shoes with black pantyhose.  (I just shuddered in horror.  I swear.)

 

The weather was crap, but we managed to eat (the Irish Lad barbecued) before it poured.  And since he was a blood relative  of the chef, I had to feed Eamonn, even though he turned up in his Eli Manning jersey.  Pinkie wore her brand new McNabb jersey to offset the ‘Giantness’ and shared with everyone that she also was wearing her Eagles knickers.  She offered to show every(any)body said undergarment, but I don’t think anyone took her up on the offer.  Not too many people were totally blitzed.  

 

Tuesday night was Film Club.  For sure this time.  ‘Waltzing with Bashir’ was … haunting.  It’s an animated film, extremely well done, and will certainly change the way anyone thinks about war.  I’m sure everybody knows it’s about the invasion of Lebanon.  At the very end, when the massacre occurs, the film abruptly switches from animation to real, newsreel footage.  It was horrific.

 

So…FSGuy had to be patient and wait until Wednesday night to see me again.  I promise a full report, including what I finally decided to wear.

 

I survived my expedition to the Dark Side, or Sunderland, if you prefer.

 

I will, naturally, be writing a long blog about Karen’s Birthday Do and my experiences Up North.  Soon.  And posting the pictures and the rest of them from Pinkie’s Do.

 

But I wanted to post an album of snaps I took while I was there.  I realize that only sophisticated readers from the Right Coast, and especially Philly, will appreciate them.

 

Note to British readers:  Tough shit.  They can’t always be bloody castles or the Thames.  Or me looking fabulous.

 

Note to sophisticated readers from the Right Coast and especially Philly:  Bala Cynwyd, Narberth and Penn Valley obviously got translated into ‘Shiney’ in Northern, which is where the Jews must live.  And it must be said:  Is there any bloody place where ‘Washington didn’t Sleep Here?’  Really.  How did we defeat the British and win the War? 

 

And because I had to write a mini-blog anyway, two pieces of news.

 

The Irish Lad and I won the Quiz at the Grotto last night.  We are an unstoppable Amtrak Acela plowing through the Northeast Corridor!  (Wow…that was good.)  We won by a point, which was down to me.  I knew ‘who jumped off the Tallahachee Bridge’.  I started singing the whole damned song, but the Irish Lad begged me to stop.  And a lot of people I didn’t even know.  Thanks to Billy Joe McAllister, we’re in the pints for another week.

 

Lastly, and just a teaser, Cheese Boy popped the question to BooBoo at her birthday party!  The ‘will you marry me’ one.

I’ve decided to go into business; my own little ’cottage industry’ whereby I will make a million bucks in the comfort of my own little pink house at my computer wearing my Eagles ‘jammies.

 

I will write Emails for the Clueless and Inarticulate.  Yeah, that’s the working title for my new endeavor.  I realize it might need a bit of tweaking.

 

As I’d mentioned, I’m back on the dating sites.  I’m sorry but it’s just an urban myth that I’m going to meet the Jewish Dermatologist of My Dreams shopping for raddichio in the Produce Section of Sainsbury’s on a Wednesday night.  (Parking his Jaguar in their carpark would be a bloody nightmare for starters.)  And he probably shops at Whole Foods anyway.

 

I digress.

 

I rewrote my profile, eschewing all those big whoppers about Miss Italia 1992 and a Doctorate in Biochemistry from the University of Saskatchewan.  (I always use Saskatchewan; the capitol is ‘Regina’.  Clever, heh?)   I just said that I was 50-ish, intelligent, sophisticated, well-traveled, a writer and a graduate of Ruby’s Beauty Class- with a 14 – so drop-dead gorgeous and  dressed stunningly.  Simple enough.  And true.

 

What was I looking for?  The same things, obviously; except Ruby’s Beauty Class and being a writer are optional.  Although metrosexual men never scream when they open the Amex bill; they so understand.

 

There are simply not words in any of the languages I speak to describe the emails I’ve gotten. 

 

Female readers, if you own a man already, be nicer to him.  (Unless, of course, you’re Karen, and the aforementioned male is Turd of Camberley.  You just carry on making his life utter hell.) 

 

There is nobody out there.  Oh sure, they might have penises, but they don’t have a brain.  Or anything else, (i.e. class, style) including a working knowledge of the English language.

 

Initially, I just deleted the dumbest emails and the ones whose picture was ‘sitting on my motorcycle without my shirt looking really, really stupid’.  

 

Then I thought I really should answer that 25 year old suave talking guy with plenty of free time since he’s on the dole who inquired ‘hey, hunnie how u b?’

 

‘Dear Tongue69:  I am quite well.  Thank you for asking.  Since my Medicare Part B has (finally) kicked in I’m having that pesky prolapsed bladder attended to.  It certainly got in the way when I had unbridled sex with my last boytoy.  He said the reason he dumped me was because he had to take a cram course for his SATs (he failed them twice; can you believe it?) but I think that wasn’t true.  It was the grey hairs down there.  When can you get to Weybridge?’

 

Tongue69 didn’t write back.  Maybe he didn’t get the ‘American’ references, but I didn’t know the English equivalents…

 

Then I thought I could have written a much better introductory email to me for Tongue69.

 

‘Dear Madam:  I was perusing the profiles on POF.  Your picture and profile intrigued and captivated me.  While it is true that I am younger than you, I have always had an affinity for more mature ladies.  I learn so much from them.  May I take you to dinner at the Waterside Inn (4 stars in the Guide Michelin)?’

 

Now isn’t that an improvement?  I bet Tongue69 could have gotten laid a few times if he used my email.  Not by me, but there must be at least a couple of desperate women out there in cyberland.  Of course, the Waterside Inn is very expensive, but they probably wouldn’t have let him in anyway.  I saw his picture.  Trust me.

 

Or how about Obama Luther X – I’m not making that up. 

 

‘Me here in London you supply coffee me digestives I show you me damn special.” (And I didn’t make that up either.)

 

Here’s what I’d suggest, Sweetie…  Oh, and it might be a good idea to familiarize yourself with the ‘period’ key.  It’s on the bottom row, next to the comma.  Ask your mate, Malcolm X, to explain what a ‘comma’ is.

 

‘Dear Fabulous Italian American Lady:  Black is Beautiful! Power to the People!  Shout it loud: I’m Black and I’m Proud, if a tad unsophisticated.  May I take you to afternoon tea at the Ritz?  I simply adore older women.  They have lived and have so much wisdom to impart.  I await your reply with cautious optimism.’

 

Quite.  Osama Luther X would have gotten laid too. 

 

Nibbleyou, to be fair, tried to be clever.  ‘Are you writing right now?  Or doing something else?”

 

Hey, if I’m not writing, I’m shopping.  I decided he deserved an answer.

 

‘Hello, Nibbleyou:  Yes, I’m past deadline on a Q&A article for a website on the Italian Consulate in San Francisco and the specific requirements of the Homeland Security Letter attesting to non-American citizenship naturalization and why the ones from state agencies are not acceptable.  Some other consulates will accept them.   The requirements simply cry out for uniformity!  Gee, I hope that was a serious question, ‘cause I answered it!’

 

Nibbleyou didn’t write back either.  Strange.

 

But I would have said to me:  “Hello!  You’re a writer.  How utterly fascinating!  It takes a special talent to transfer one’s thoughts and feelings to paper.  Can I take you to lunch at the fab buffet at Divine Harrods just to listen to your stream of consciousness?’

 

Ditto for Nibbleyou and the getting nooky thingy if I wrote it.

 

Skipping over the married ones with wives in iron lungs or seriously depressed and on anti-depressants (Delete!  Delete!  Delete!  Yo, Mike!  It’s me, you mamzer!) there was Happy69erLove.  ‘god u look gr8!  so sexy.  Yummy! XXXXXXX’

 

For only 5 quid (7.50 if I spelled everything ‘English’) Happy69erLove could have said: ‘Gosh, you look stunning for a 50-ish lady.  And if I may be so bold, you are quite sexy.  Would you be interested in attending an Emili Ametlier exhibit inspired by the writings of Cervantes as a way of getting to know each other?  Provided you are keen on Spanish history, naturally.’

 

Happy69erLove probably would have been quite happy after he sent the email I wrote. 

 

Im Ur Prince certainly needs someone to explain to him that ‘your’ is spelled…  oh, you know how it’s spelled!  I’ve seen his picture; he’s the toad before the beautiful JAP kissed him.  And what can the answer be to ‘hello, babe how r u 2day?’  I couldn’t think of one—that wasn’t sarcastic, mean and nasty.  My reply: ‘Dear Im Ur Prince – me be okay.  Does u no u r STUPID?’

 

I fear even I could not help Im Ur Prince get laid.

 

My favorite, so far, has to be SeamLover, who wrote (pretty articulately) that he was in Majorca and it was sunny there.  ‘How nice for you’ I replied.  Do I give a rat’s ass if some idiot is in Majorca and it’s sunny? 

 

Back came his reply:  ‘What is your favourite time of the day?  What do you like to do when you have free time?  Fav color?  Drink? Film?’

 

Okay.  So it’s either now raining in Majorca or SeamLover is several cards short of a full deck.

 

‘Dear Seam (can I call you ‘Seam’ on such short acquaintance?) Favourite time of day:  9:30 AM – when Bloomingdale’s opens.

 

What do I like to do in my free time?  Shop (see fav time of day)

 

Fav color?  I recently did this Beauty Class with Ruby (she’s amazing…really) and I’m a Warm Autumn (I had my colors done; Pinkie is a Cool Winter—damn her—so she gets all the really good colors and I don’t) so anyway I guess it would be ‘Biscuit’, but not the English kind, the American kind like when you bake Betty Crocker biscuits in a 325 degree oven for twelve minutes.  Any longer and it’s more like ‘Toast’ and I don’t look fabulous in ‘Toast’.

 

Fav drink?  Gatorade and pickle juice (if it’s good enough for the Philadelphia Eagles when they go to Big D, it’s good enough for me.)

 

Fav film?  Tough one, Seam.  I would have to say ‘Brian’s Song’ or any Igmar Bergman film.  I so relate to depressed Scandinavians.  Why don’t they get some anti-depressants?’

 

I keep checking every hour, but SeamLover hasn’t replied yet.

 

I uploaded a few of the photos from Pinkie’s Do; I’m waiting for Cheese Boy to edit the rest.  The bloke with the blue hair in the one with me is Spike, The Mad Chef.  Appearances are deceiving.  The food was truly delicious.  It was so good you would not even know an English person made it.  Honestly.

 

I must apologize to Amy that I missed her regatta in Maidenstone on Sunday.  I was meant to be going with the Irish Lad to cheer her on in her first proper race.  I heard my mobile go off downstairs, and when I stumbled down to check who the hell would be texting me at 8:00 in the morning on a pissing down rain Sunday, there was a cheerful little text from Tee.  “We’re leaving in 15 minutes.”  Right.  “You may be; I’m not” I texted back, “You bloody woke me up!” Amy made it to the semi-finals…Well done, Amy! 

 

Sunday night was the Quiz at the Grotto.  Colin, the owner and mega-Chelsea Supporter (check earlier blogs for definition of ‘Chelsea Supporter’) makes up the questions, and I guess he got tired of us winning every week.  The questions were obscure and bizarre.  And I’m not just saying that because I flubbed both American questions.  One was even about Proper American Football.  We came second, though, so we scored our weekly supply of free drink coupons.  (Thank God!)

 

The Irish Lad’s niece and her boyfriend (Aidan the DJ) met up with us at the Grotto latish for a few drinks.  Colin, who was very drunk, loud and obnoxious at this point…actually I take that back.  He’s generally loud, pissed and supremely obnoxious.  Anyway, he enthralled the entire pub (or so he thought) with a story about having sex with his ex-girlfriend the night before.

 

I know I have trouble disguising my feelings, and I’ve been accused more than once of ‘looking down my long American nose’ at folks who don’t meet my standards.  But I spit about a half a glass of Zinfy across the table when Aidan whispered “Your expression!  Jesus Wept!  That alone was worth crossing the pond from Dublin to see.  I only wish I had the bloody camera with me.”  Colin, naturally, didn’t have a clue.  He’s such a Chelsea Supporter.  (That expression is growing on me.)

 

Tuesday morning I lost my virginity.  Oh, relax.  My waxing virginity.  I’d never, ever had any portion of my anatomy waxed.  BooBoo and I went to Ruby’s grand-daughter to have our eyebrows shaped and dyed (because we both have wimpy red eyebrow hair).  I freaked a bit when Gemma said she would be waxing them (Boo made me go first; in case I died or something on the table I guess).  “Will it hurt” I squeaked like baby.  “Only for a minute” she assured me.   Liar, liar pants on fire.  But I love my brown, well defined eyebrows now.  I’ve almost forgotten how much it fucking hurt. 

 

Tuesday afternoon was Beauty Class Graduation.  Sob.  That was the bestest fun I ever had at ‘school’.  (And probably the most important stuff I ever learned, except for figuring out how much 30% off is during verkoops, verfaufs, venditas, and lets not forget                                                           מכירה; מכר; ממכר; מכירה כללית

 

Pinkie’s on nights again this week, so she missed it.  She probably would have worn that amazing black & white dress from Amsterdam so I was glad.  I was going to wear the cream outfit from her Birthday Do, but as usual, it was pouring.  Fortunately, I have several hundred other divine outfits to choose from.  Make that…unfortunately.  I changed eight times.

 

I got a 14 in the final exam!  9 to 12 is ‘good’.  A 15 means you have gone over-JAP and you have to take something off (a bracelet, scarf, hat, belt, not the actual clothing).  14 is ‘perfection’.    I’ll stop there.

 

I dashed home again to change because I had Film Club in the evening.  I rang Pinkie to say that I simply had to pop over before she left for work to show off my eyebrows and fill her in on graduation.  I told her I was pressed for time, and darling Irish Lad said he drive me to synagogue.

 

“What’s on at Syn tonight” he inquired.  (That’s what Tee calls it.)

 

“We’re seeing ‘Waltzing With Bashir’” I told him, “It was voted one of the ten best films of 2008.  I’m really chuffed.”

 

He was silent for a moment on the phone and then said admiringly “You are one never dull Yiddisha Mama Mia!”

 

Yeah.  I know.

 

Of course, being me, I had the date wrong.  When I got to Pinkie’s I mumbled quickly that I wasn’t in a hurry anymore, I didn’t need a ride, and oh, yeah…Film Club is next Tuesday.  It’s a good thing I double checked my calendar; I bet they don’t serve popcorn at the Biblical Hebrew class.

 

Well the plans came together beautifully, and despite my kvetching all week “It’s not elaborate enough!” in autopilot JAP bar mitzvah organizing mode, Pinkie’s Birthday Do was brilliant. 

 

Spike, from the Grotto, catered it.  I’ll be posting a picture of The Mad Chef and I think you’ll understand why I was a bit worried.  (I was terrified.)  But the food was amazing.  He turned those cabbages and other comestibles we finally got around to shopping for into the most eye catching and delicious feast.

 

A contingent of the Irish Lad’s wild relatives flew over from Dublin, including his niece’s boyfriend who did the D.J.-ing.  Aidan  was totally fantastic.

 

Due to a hiccup by Her Majesty’s Royal Mail, the pictures of Pinkie in the bath, on the potty, etc. from her Mum didn’t arrive to be blown up larger-than-life-sized.  Of course, I meant when she was a child; not last year.  But there were lots of pink balloons and banners and a giant 4-0. 

 

Oz Ed took Pinkie’s request of ‘no jeans’ to a new level; he turned up in a pink dress with combat boots and his ubiquitous Aussie hat.  I’ve already posted a picture of that.  Blokes being blokes, Cheese Boy stripped the dress off Ed on the dance floor (well into the evening) and donned it himself.  In the car going home, El Cheese-o kept mumbling “I’m wearing a fucking dress… Jeano, why am I wearing a fucking dress?”  And then “Are you gonna put this in the blog?”  “Too fucking right” I thought to myself remembering various incidents of piss-taking perpetrated by him.

 

“There. There” I placated Boy, “Never mind, Sweetie.  You look stunning.”  In truth, pink is most definitely not Lou’s color.  I don’t think he’s a Cool Winter.

 

However, the Cool Winter Birthday Girl did look stunning in a killer Little Black Dress (make-up tips by Ruby We Love You).  Have I mentioned that I loathe Cool Winters?  Having purged that unflattering black from my wardrobe, I went with monochromatic… because I can; divine cream Moschino silk trousers and jacket, a silk chemise from Chloe and matching fuck-me pumps from Miu Miu.  I think it worked beautifully.  Naturally, there will be several pictures of me at the Do posted.

 

There were about a hundred guests and a diverse group it was.  There were Pinkie’s medical mates from Charing Cross, her ‘School Mum’ friends, several of the other quiz teams from the Ash Tree, Birmingham friends from the old days, pub friends, and just simply friend friends and family.  In the ‘I Love Weybridge ‘Cause It’s a Small Town’ mode, I met one of Pinkie’s School Mum friends, Allie, whom I didn’t know as a friend of Pinkie’s.  But I do know her; we work together at Sam.

 

Next weekend I’ll be doing very much the same Do-ing at BooBoo’s 40^th in Sunderland, where I won’t know a soul and they speak a different language.  Should be a real experience.  Boo’s sister, Amanda, is quite nervous about ‘how are we going to entertain your American friend for three days.’  Relax.  I’m sure just being there will be entertainment enough. 

 

I asked Boo what I should pack.  I was thinking “Is it colder there?  It’s, like, Northern England; is it sort of like going to Minnesota?  Will I need my long underwear?”  “Just the kind of stuff you wear when we pop to Tesco’s” she quickly replied.  I guess she was hinting my new jacket and the stunning Paul & Joe trousers might be under-appreciated in Appalachian England. 

 

I was going to wear the divine monochromatic cream outfit (‘cause I can) to Boo’s party.  Hey, it’s a different part of the country; and it’s not like it’s back-to-back bar mitzvahs.  The same people won’t be there.  Boo said no, I’d only end up covered in beer.  I don’t think so, Tim.  I’m still pondering what could possibly be in my wardrobe that might softly murmur “Hillybilly! I bought it at Wal-mart… on sale.”

 

I’ve got a busy few days before we head North: volunteer shifts, graduation at Beauty Class, getting my eyebrows dyed, Film Club, and a date on Wednesday night.

 

Yes, I’m bored and I went back on the dating sites.  This one sounds promising—at least he can write a cogent sentence – but I’m not terribly optimistic.  Honestly, some of the emails are so unintentionally funny or pathetic.  How can a guy write a six word message and manage to misspell five of them?  I employ the delete key a lot. 

 

Maybe I’ll just bring the Irish Lad on the date with me this time in case it all goes pear-shaped.

 

As I predicted, positively everybody, including folks I don’t even know, sent me scads of sweet, uplifting, sentimental, ‘friends are precious’, ‘love is…(whatever), tail-wagging puppy and mischievous kitten chain emails.  And why do they always have that ‘Young and the Restless’ or ‘Days of Our Lives’ kind of music making them even worse?  I’ll share a few of the most revolting.

 

Just kidding!  I got carpel tunnel of the index finger hitting the fucking DELETE button so many times.

 

Pinkie and I did a search & seize mission early on Thursday morning shopping for food for the party.  Spike, the chef at the Grotto, is catering and gave us a list of ingredients to get.  We went to the greengrocer at Kempton Market.  Yes, you don’t have to tell me this was a mistake.  Despite the blood pact in the car park to buy only cabbage and other edibles, we somehow found ourselves where the clothes are.  I tried on a divine skirt.  To go with the new Mariner Blue jacket (endorsed for Warm Autumns) I bought on sale, practically free, the other night when I was helping BooBoo shop for an outfit for her birthday party.  But it was too big.  Damn.  I tried on some cool jeans and a gorgeous top, and Pinkie bought a skirt.  Then we hit the make up stall.  (We love you, Ruby.) 

 

Somehow, we were running late; it’s not like we wasted time or anything.  We still had to hit Bookers and Tesco, and I had to do my shift at Sam.  We put the pedal to the metal in the general direction of Weybridge or another mall (whichever came first).  We got a flat tire on Oatlands Park Drive.  Pinkie called her neighbor, who came over and put the spare on.  He ordered us to go immediately to the tire place to have the other ones checked and air put in the spare.  We grumbled a bit, until we realized the tire place is right next to the really, really posh clothes shop next to the fancy Spanish restaurant.

 

 “Check those tires slowly and carefully” we told the mechanic.  “We’ll be back in an hour… or two” as we hoofed it to the boutique.  Pinkie dropped me at Sam at 1 minute to 1:00 for my shift.   

 

I skipped the Quiz at the Ash Tree on Thursday night.  That was terribly selfish, I know, and it left just Cheese Boy and Pinkie to defend the honor of the Bitches.  Pinkie texted me at 11:30 PM to say they’d come second, and got all ten questions right in the Wipe Out Round, scoring the five point bonus.  Of course, I only have Pinkie’s word for this accomplishment without my help.  You may be sure I’ll ask the Scoobys, the Scary Fairies, and Forgotten at Pinkie’s Birthday Do on Saturday night if she lied or exaggerated.   Some people do; not me, of course, but some other people are prone to such inappropriate behavior.

 

Pink did say everybody asked where I was.  It’s nice to be missed.  Pinkie explained that I ditched them all for an ‘intellectual’ evening at my Book Club.  I have no idea why people found that hilarious.  They said stuff like “Jeano is where?” or “Jeano can read?”  Pinkie rejoined (as reported by her) “Yes, she can read.  And she can write, too; really well.  She looks so cute and smart with her reading spectacles on.”   

 

I’d joined the book club at synagogue, and certainly enjoyed the first one I’d gone to, after we read ‘The Yiddish Policemen’s Union’.  It’s not on a fixed night, and after I’d bought and read ‘The J-Word’, (try finding a copy of that in Surrey) they changed the meeting night because the author, Andrew Sanger, who was joining us, had a scheduling conflict.  Hence my scheduling conflict.

 

I enjoyed the book.  I enjoyed the author.  I wouldn’t have minded really enjoying the author—if you know what I’m saying.  He was pretty hot, if a tad short, and being Jewish, he met that most important criteria relating to a foreskin.

 

I always look for a phrase that summarizes the book I’m reading.  “The only thing Jews believe in is being Jewish” was the theme of The J-Word.  The main character, an 80 year old English man who has renounced his Jewishness, is forced to confront what it means to be a Jew when he is mugged and beaten in a hate crime.  (There was a lot more going on; that was just the main plot.) 

 

The discussion of the members’ observations was thought-provoking, and I had to offer my opinion that I still find Jews in England to be ‘wimpy Jews’, unlike the ‘in-your-face, hey! I’m Jewish’ attitude of American Jews.  Derek pointed out, and I’d truly not thought about it, that there is a State Religion here so I guess they don’t want to piss off the Church of England or anything by being too Jewish.

 

It was fascinating to learn how a published author got that way, and how he researched the various sub-plots, and created characters to specifically orchestrate key elements of the story.  I’m sure everybody’s dying to read the book now.  You can’t borrow my copy; Andrew signed it for me.

 

We discovered that we both have a book published on Lulu.com, and promised to buy and read each other’s book.  I got my picture taken with Andrew (I’m holding a copy of the book) for Haderech.  I’ll post it if I can get a copy from Cousin Bernie.

 

The next blog will include every single detail from The Birthday Do and, of course, tons of pictures.  Pinkie’s been too preoccupied to edit the Amsterdam ones, but they will get posted eventually.

 

The Irish Lad had to go to Ireland on Monday, so Pinkie and I wandered up Monument Hill to the Grotto minus our cleverist quizzer.  Cheese Boy turned up late – mumbling about ‘traffic’; where have I heard that excuse before – so Sister and me (both of us looking totally ‘Vogue Do’ thanks to Ruby) had to go it on our own.  The honor and bragging rights of ‘Pinkie & the Brains’ were at stake.

 

We came second, losing by two points, but I got all the American questions right, except Stevie Wonder’s real name.  Oh, please! How often do you think that comes up in conversation? 

 

I have finally discovered what people mean when they say ‘Chelsea Supporter’.  They mean ‘asshole’.  So why not just say it?  The clientele at the Grotto these days seem to all be fans of Chelsea and loud, obnoxious, drunk and uncouth.  The Jewish Dermatologist of My Dreams will certainly never turn up there unless his Jaguar gets a flat tire outside the pub.

 

On Sunday night, Neil spoke to me.  This is Drug Dealer Neil I’m referring to, not any of the other seven blokes there sharing that particular name.  I usually just ignore him or if he comes anywhere near enough to touch me I stare him down like he’s a cockroach and I’m holding a can of Raid.

 

“My mate thinks you’re gorgeous” he confided.  I was a tiny bit surprised, to be honest.  I didn’t think he could string a bunch of prepositions, nouns and verbs together to form an intelligible sentence.  “Well yes, of course I am” I agreed, “But doesn’t your mate know how to talk?  And which ‘mate’ are we referring to?”  Those Chelsea blokes seem pretty much interchangeable to me.

 

“It’s Rob” he said (that was a good start; at least his bloody name wasn’t Steve, Peter, Mike or Colin) “But he’s afraid of you because you’re American.  Where are you from?”

 

“Yeah, good on him” I said, “He should be afraid of me.  I’m very bitchy.  (I didn’t want to implode what little brain power he might have left with the ‘JAP’ sobriquet.)  “I’m from Philadelphia…and don’t say one word about cream cheese.”  Drug Dealer Neil shut his mouth very quickly.

 

I figured out which bloke was Rob and, oh dear, no…no…no. 

 

“Thank him for me, Drug Dealer Neil” I declined politely, “but I am so out of his league.  And I had my ‘bit of rough’ for this millennium already— everybody here talks about him-- Turd of Camberley.  I’m afraid I’ll have to take a pass.” 

 

I think Rob was a little miffed.  He kept glaring at me the rest of the evening.  I made BooBoo come outside with me every time I wanted a fag for protection.

 

Tuesday was Beauty Class with Ruby.  This week was ‘Applying Make-up”.  I did wonder for just a millisecond if I was becoming more breathtaking than any woman has any right to be given the encounter at the Grotto with …whatever his name was and that teensy stalker thingy going on at the moment.  (No, I’m not sharing.)  After all, I’m wearing the perfect colors, in the most flattering shapes, and after Skin Care Necessities class, I’m glowing.  Pinkie said “Jesus Wept!  Get over yourself!” and off we went to Hersham toting our suitcases full of war paint.  Wow.  Did we look amazing when Ruby got finished with us.  Too bad all we had planned was to go to our respective homes and watch telly in our jammies.  We should have planned that one better.

 

On Wednesday, I went to a harp recital.  In my own defense, when Jennette asked me, I was probably multi-tasking and not paying close attention.  I even wrote “Isiah Thomas’ and the time on my calendar.  I remember thinking “This is cool.  Isiah has a lot to answer for: destroying the Knicks, the sexual harassment lawsuit, and being mean to that cute center from Senagal, Mouhamed What’s His Name.  I hope Mr. Detroit is ready for some tough, probing questions from the press (me).”

 

Imagine my confusion. (I know; it's not very hard.) Keziah Thomas is, like, a 5’ tall white chick from Wales or some place weird like that with a big mother harp that she plays.  I don’t think she should be allowed to even have a black person’s name let alone try to cash in on Isiah’s notoriety just because she was wearing Air Jordans with her evening gown (to push the pedals of the big mother harp).

 

Fortunately, there was food… and lots of wine.  The venue was the Riverhouse in Walton and it’s lovely.  Keziah-not-Isiah is apparently quite well known outside basketball circles by harp groupies.  They do lots of concerts at Riverhouse.  Perhaps Brett Favre plays the cello…

I had a busy week, although not a particularly exciting one.

 

I’ve done a lot of shopping.  No, not for myself.  That’s a daily occurrence.  I’m frantically searching for The Perfect Birthday Present…times three.  I need one for Pinkie, and one for Booboo, amazing and appropriate for women turning the big 4-0, plus a gift for Lulu, who’s turning 30.  That’s a tall order, even for someone who always scores a perfect 10 in the Shopping Olympics.  So far, all I’ve managed to buy are three birthday cards, and a stunning cream skirt.  (The skirt was a present for me; I wore it to shul on Shabbat. Positively everybody complimented it.)

 

I did my shifts at Sam and the Senior Centre, and went to dinner on Friday night with friends.  Just ordinary stuff.  Oh yeah.  We lost the Quiz at the Ash Tree on Thursday night—badly.  We were next to last.  Sic Transit Gloria Mundi, or as Cheese Boy says repeatedly, and especially when we’re losing, “It’s only a fucking quiz!”  Tell that to the Marines.

 

It was Jerry’s birthday this week, on Thursday.  I was really down.  It’s been a long time, but obviously not long enough.  If there ever is a ‘long enough’.  Probably not.  I still really miss him, and I think about him every day.  This year was harder than the last couple have been.  I analyzed my feelings, and it’s not so odd.  I feel cheated.  Why did the one who was so much ‘a keeper’ have to go and die, yet the turd who dumped me so ignobly is alive and well and living in Camberley?  At least I assume he is.  Gee, he doesn’t call; he doesn’t write either.  He sure doesn’t turn up at 3:00 AM for little heart-to-heart chats. Chance would be a fine thing.

 

And that’s not the only question in relation to The Turd that I just wish I knew the ‘honest’ answer to so that I can stop obsessing over what really happened.  I hate not knowing things.

 

At shul on Saturday, I had a reading (of course it was in English).  Honestly, Adonai keeps talking to me.  Maybe He was trying to cheer me up.  The section I read from the ‘Verses of Song’ dealt with our ‘togetherness’ with all others and how we treat people, and our covenant with God.  The line that stayed with me and obviously was referring specifically to Mike and how he treats people was ‘U’ch’sheani L’atzmi mah ani’ –‘If I am only for myself, what am I?’ 

 

Moving quickly off that subject, I got another bizarre email from the paisons the other day.  My first thought was “Merda!  They’re pissed that I went to Holland instead of Italia.  I hope they don’t want the passaporti back-a.”  The email was in Italian, of course.  Why they just assume everybody goes around speaking Italian is beyond me. Thank Adonai for Babelfish.  I was seriously freaking out.  It was so official. 

 

“Gentile Signora:

 

Le trascrivo qui sotto l'avviso che abbiamo pubblicato anche sul nostro sito, riguardante il referendum abrogativo del 21 giugno prossimo.

Attiro la sua attenzione sul termine del 10 MAGGIO entro cui chi intende votare in Italia dovrà esercitare l'opzione.

Se Ella è interessato/a, dovrà collegarsi al sito internet e inviarci l'apposito modulo.

Altre notizie riguardanti il referendum (e le Elezioni Europee) sarannopubblicate sul sito web del Consolato via via che perverranno.

Con i migliori saluti,

David Morante
Console Generale”

 

See what I mean?

 

The Babelfish translation made absolutely no sense, but I figured out that it’s about a referendum that’s coming up for a vote in June. I’m trying to figure out what we’re arguing about now, (Italians always argue) so that I know what I think.  So that I think what I know … about whatever we’re arguing about now.  This dual citizenship business is hard work; you try being twice as patriotic and politically astute.  It makes my brain ache like eating Ben & Jerry’s too fast.

 

This week I have a Beauty Class with Ruby, a harp recital (no shit; I’m not making that one up), Book Club (we read ‘The J Word’) and final battle plans and decorating with Irish Lad for Pinkie’s Birthday Bash on Saturday night.  I admit that I’m a bit more over the top than Tee; I approach all Dos like it’s a bar mitzvah for 500.  Plus the Grotto quiz.  So I should have lots to blog about this week.

 

And I’m back on JDate. Ugh!  Let’s not go there right now.

 

Finally, we all get inundated with stupid chain emails; sometimes more than once from different people.  I don’t even bother opening some of them, especially if they’re from people I know are inordinately fond of vomit-inducing kittens and puppies or the subject sounds like a mushy Hallmark card.  I always open the ones that I think will be really, really dirty.  And I appreciate them if they’re clever.  (Those opinions probably doomed me to getting 700 of those suckers in my mailbox this week.)

 

Anyway, I got two this week that I enjoyed, which I’m going to share.

 

The first is from David.  Oh, just check your bloody cheat sheet!

 

“The Buddha teaches us that we should practice loving kindness to all sentient beings. So tell me, would it hurt to find a sentient being who also happens to be a Jewish professional?

 

The Buddha teaches us to admit our errors and forgive those of others. And if that doesn’t work, try my cousin Hymie, the lawyer.”

 

 The second one is from License to Injure Slightly.  His stuff is always worth opening.  I thought this one was really apt, especially in my life right now.

 

“Women are like apples on trees.  The best ones are at the top of the tree.  Most men don’t want to reach for the good ones because they are afraid of falling and getting hurt, or they’re lazy.  Instead, they take the apples from the ground that aren’t as good, but easy to get.  The apples at the top think there is something wrong with them when, in reality, they’re amazing.  They just have to wait for the right man to come along; the one who is smart enough and brave enough to climb to the top of the tree.

 

Now men… men are like wine.  They begin as grapes and it’s up to women to stomp the shit out of them until they turn into something acceptable to have dinner with.”

 

 

No less than three people emailed immediately after I posted it to say that the Amsterdam blog wasn’t up to my usual caliber of excellence.  And a few actually rang to complain. 

 

Tough shit.  It took me three days to write it; I got interrupted a million times, and I guess I got kind of bored with the whole subject towards the end.

 

And Note to British readers:  Never mind ‘who the hell is Howdy Doody?’  If you don’t know, I’m not about to try and explain it.  That line worked perfectly and it was very clever.  The Americans loved it.  Suffice to say Howdy looks a lot like Alfred E. Neumann, who strongly resembles Ted Koppel.  That should make it much clearer.

 

I bet you guys don’t even know who Mr. Greenjeans was either.  Besides obviously being a Warm Autumn and a greengrocer*.  And that reminds me.  Did I mention the stunning green jeans that I scored on sale practically free at Zara?

 

*At the bookstore at Heathrow, when we were leaving for Amsterdam, I picked up a dictionary—American to English/English to American.  I still get confused about what the hell people are talking about.  BooBoo and I practically had a row about ‘straight pins’ the other day.  I needed my beautiful new Paul & Joe trousers (English word; they’re not called slacks) measured to be shortened.   

 

I went to the Oneg Shabbat at shul on Friday night.  As usual, Adonai had an awful lot to say to me.  The discussion after dinner was about ‘accountability’.  I thought at first He might have been referring to that unfortunate decision I made to blatantly wear my new white trousers before Memorial Day.  I expect I shocked a lot of people.  The Vogue ‘Do’ Editor probably cried when she heard about it.  Sometimes I just feel like breaking the rules and flying in the face of convention.

 

However, it was about hurting people, even tangentially, and who is guiltier (me, obviously), the sinner or the person who facilitates or encourages the sinner to sin.  And who bears the bigger burden of moral responsibility for the sinner’s actions.  I guess that would be me, too.

 

I had a date with Peter on Saturday night—we just went to the Grotto.  And while I’m thinking of it, we won the Quiz again at the Grotto on Sunday night; CheeseBoy, Irish Lad and me.  Is all that winning getting kind of boring to read?  El Cheese-o and the Lad don’t seem to find it a chore having to use up all those free drink coupons we keep winning.

 

But I think Colin, the new owner, might be getting a bit annoyed with us; it’s like four times now.  Another team even cheated and we still beat them.  One of the questions was ‘What is the full name of Martin Luther King’s widow?’  It’s so cool when they’re ‘American’ questions and I know the answer.  I wrote the name down and gloated to Tee “Nobody else here is going to get that one right” looking around at the pub full of loud blokes in Chelsea shirts.  Well, another team did come up with ‘Coretta Scott King’; they called 118 on their mobile for the answer.

 

On the Bad Shit Keeps Happening front, Karen is still worrisomely depressed, Scary Fairy is definitely not crossing the pond for the Birthday Dos, and Stuart is scheduled to have arthroscopic knee surgery next week.  I wish bad stuff didn’t keep happening to the people I care about.  Of course, I hope that bad stuff will continue happening, and get much worse, to the people on my Shit List.  I am a Humanist, but I’m not perfect … yet.  And Yom Kippur, and The Book, is months away.

 

Some really exciting news: Leonard Cohen is coming to Weybridge!  He’s doing a concert at Mercedes-Benz World in Brooklands on July 11.  (I guess it’s okay to go there; it’s not like I’m going to buy one.)  I’m trying desperately to score some tickets for Irish Lad and me—at least ones that don’t cost 150 quid each.  Lulu has a friend who has a contact, and so on.

 

CheeseBoy suggested ringing Cousin Lennie up and asking for the ‘family discount’.  If I had his number, I would.  And of course he’s welcome to stay at mine while he’s in town.  I just won’t let him anywhere near BooBoo while he’s here.  She’s depressed enough.

 

Wow!  I just had a brilliant idea…  Maybe he’s related to Cousin Bernie…

 

I’m happy to report that Amsterdam still rocks.  It’s been a few years – quite a few, I guess, time flies – and it might have stopped rocking while I was doing other stuff.  But it didn’t.  It’s as cool as it ever was.

 

We checked in for our KLM flight at Terminal 4 at Heathrow with no problems.  I was a bit apprehensive.  Not about the leaving part.  Britain is always jolly glad to see me go…anywhere.  It’s the coming back part that’s tricky; they get all shirty when I turn up again wanting to get back into the country.

 

I had morphed into Tour Escort Mode as soon as Irish Lad booked the flights and was primed to do my thing.  The first surprise was that the flight wasn’t 7 hours and 52 minutes.  Pinkie kindly pointed out that I was probably baffled again, imagining leaving from Philly, and I really didn’t need eight bags of hard candy, two paperbacks, a book of crossword puzzles and my MP3 player for a 45 minute hop across the Channel.  Who knew Holland was so convenient?

 

Happily, the Dutch were pleased to welcome Italian Me to their cute little country when I handed over my passaporti marone.  The Immigration Officer said – and I am not making this up – “Come sta?” I stared at him (he was pretty hot) for like a minute while I processed his question.  “Oh!” I said finally, “’How am I?’  I get it.  That was Italian!  How cool was that? Yeah.  I’m absolutely fine.  How are you, Sweetie?”  I don’t know, maybe he wanted to have a conversation about his mom and the alleys in Naples.  But he just shook his head and waved me through. 

 

I’d arranged a mini-bus transfer to our hotel, which was kind of a mistake.  Traffic in Amsterdam is horrendous and it took forever.  But I wasn’t completely sure exactly where the hotel was and was nervous about training it into the City.  I’m used to a big tour bus waiting just for me (and forty-five or so kvetching clients) to whisk me to my destination.  When Pinkie fills out her Escort Evaluation Sheet, she’ll probably complain about the mini-bus ride.

 

But she certainly didn’t complain when we got to the Die Port Van Cleve.  It was right next door to a Designer Outlet Mall.  I excitedly translated the ‘Verkoop!’ signs in the windows into English…’’Sale!’.   This is one of my many talents; I can read ‘Sale!’ in fifty-six languages, even if it’s in the Cyrillic alphabet or Hebrew (one of the very few Hebrew words I can actually read).

 

Our hotel was right at Dam Square, where positively all the action is.  It’s got a 4 Star rating, but I probably wouldn’t give it  4, maybe 3.5.  I know… I’m too (a) picky or (b) Jappy .  Hey, it wasn’t the Krasnapolsky, but it wasn’t (thank God) the Jan Luiken either.  It was fine. 

 

In deference to Pinkie, we had a non-smoking room.  We weren’t in the room much, and some of my more interesting conversations occurred at odd times like 2:00 AM when I went outside in my jammies for a fag.  The coolest people are always the fellow smokers you meet huddled in a corner outside buildings.

 

Let’s get the major issue resolved first.  No, we did not ingest hallucinogenic substances—in any form.  The opportunities were certainly there, but we had more important things on our minds.  Specifically, shopping.  We barely ate because it took away from the shopping.  One of the days, we ate French fries with mayonnaise for lunch out of a paper cone on the run because we were trying to do the entire Albert Cuypmarket in an afternoon.

 

It was raining when we arrived so we checked in, dumped our suitcases, and hit the Mall.  That does too count as ‘seeing the sights’ and ‘mingling with the natives’.  The sight I saw was a divine pair of Paul & Joe trousers, and the mingling with the natives part was whipping out my color palette from Ruby and engaging the entire shop in a discussion of which shades work best with stunning ecru trousers if one is a Warm Autumn.   They were on Verkoop!; reduced from 395.00 Euros to practically free.  We pondered.  At least I pondered; Pinkie said “Buy them!”  I decided to think about it.  And there were a million stores we hadn’t hit yet. 

 

On Wednesday morning, after lusting over the Paul & Joe trousers all night and running it past the Night Manager at 3:00 AM while we were having a fag and a coffee outside the hotel, I rushed Pinkie through breakfast so we could be at the mall when it opened.  Seriously, it was just like the After Christmas Sale at Bloomies.  I was the first shopper in the door.  We dashed up to the boutique and I snatched them up before some other Warm Autumn got her paws on them.  Pinkie tried on some lovely black trousers (I hate Cool Winters) but we didn’t like them on her.

 

However, at a boutique at Albert Cuypmarket, Pinkie bought the most incredible dress ever.  She bought other gorgeous stuff, but this dress was amazing.  I told her quite seriously “If the fucking dress was any color besides black and white, you bitch of a Cool Winter, I would duel you with pistols for it.”  That’s how drop dead gorgeous it is.  And Pinkie only mentioned it and Cool Winters about 762 times the rest of the trip.

 

Not that we only shopped and didn’t sightsee.  We did.  I’d outlined a comprehensive ‘overview’ that included the Rijksmuseum, the special ‘Starry Night’ exhibit at the Van Gogh Museum, a jaunt to Haarlem to the Franz Hals portrait gallery, and, naturally, the Jewish History Museum and the Sephardic Synagogue.  We missed all of those.

 

We did tour the Anne Frank House.  I would have felt guilty if we skipped that.  I’d pre-booked our tickets so we just bypassed the blocks long queue and waltzed right inside.  What is there to say about it?  It’s sobering and moving and still frightening.  At the Oneg at shul on Friday night, every single person asked me “Did you go to Anne Frank’s House?”  “Of course” I answered.  “And did you go to the Jewish History Museum?”  “Naturally” I replied, an only moderately big fat whopper since I’d been there with groups like six times, and I can ‘talk the talk’ and bullshit about the Erwin Blumenfeld exhibit and baking my own personal matzo if cornered.

 

Pinkie was eager to go to Madurodam, the miniature Dutch city, so I’d booked us on a coach tour.  In addition to Madurodam, which is so damned adorable, we toured Den Hague and visited the Delft Pottery Factory (serious tourist trap…worse than the Diamond Center).

 

And we walked.  And walked.  Everywhere.  Pinkie took tons of pictures, which I will post. 

 

Our last day in Amsterdam, however, was a bit of a problem. 

 

When we booked the trip, I had no idea that April 30 was the Queen’s Birthday Celebration.  No…not that one…the Dutch one….Queen Beatrix.  We had planned to do the museums and art galleries on the last day, and had booked an 8:30 PM flight back to Heathrow in order to utilize the full day in intellectual pursuits.

 

(Haha!  Haha!  Haha!  Sorry.  We still had shopping to do.)

 

Everything was closed.  Wilhelm (the Night Manager) had warned me, but when I stumbled outside for my first coffee and fag at 6:00 AM, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.  The entire city was one giant flea market.  Anywhere there was an inch of space, including the tram stations (trams weren’t running) people set up stalls.  It’s the only day of the year they don’t need a license or any sort of permission. 

 

“Sweetie, this is surreal” I told Wilhelm as he got me my first cup of coffee of the morning and lit my fag.  “This is nothing yet” he warned me, “It’s only 6:30; wait until the crowds come.  And I like those pajamas.”

 

I rushed upstairs to wake Pinkie and tried to explain what was going on outside.  We popped outside before we went to breakfast, and Wilhelm was right.  The streets were a solid mass of people in serious party mode.

 

I have to say here that it’s unfortunate that Dutch people celebrate by wearing orange.  It’s so wrong.  Especially if you’re a guy and the article of clothing is pants.  I could never, never live in Denver and be a Broncos fan.  Come on; Orange Crush?  Honestly.  Orange doesn’t work for anybody except Howdy Doody.

 

I told Wilhelm (God, I’m going to miss him) all about the Irish Lad.  If this seems especially ‘Jeano-ish’ and pointless, it’s not.  It makes perfect sense.  Tee does work for the largest paint company in the Solar System.  And he’s always got dozens of those little books with a million different paint colors laying around.

 

I just figured that if only Tee could go back in Mr. Peabody and Sherman’s Way Back Machine from Rocky & Bullwinkle to the time when Will was thinking about what would be a cool color to wear in about 300 years, he could stop William of Orange from becoming, you know, William of Orange.  (Gee… now that I think about it, the Irish Lad actually looks like Mr. Peabody when he’s wearing his glasses.)

 

Anyway, Tee could show him some samples that aren’t orange and he could just as easily be William of Persimmon or William of Sensual Jade or William of Starry Sky Blue.  I personally like William of Enchanted Forest or William of Churchill Vanilla, both of which work beautifully on Warm Autumns.  

 

Anyway, I saw on-line when I got home that there were 800,000 people wandering the streets in Amsterdam on Queens Day.  We didn’t know until we got home that some nutter tried to kill the Dutch Royal Family during the festivities, but that didn’t happen  in Amsterdam. 

 

So Pinkie and I wandered through the streets too (most definitely not wearing orange), shopped and watched the entertainment and the 799,998 people who were high and/or drunk.  We had to walk to Central Station to get a train to Schipol but we were honestly relieved to get out of Dodge at that point. 

 

We relaxed in an outdoor café over a few Zinfys and then hit the Duty Frees and shopped some more.

 

It was only forty-five minutes back to London, too.  Holland is, like, next door to England.  We can pop over again, anytime we feel like it and the Irish Lad is feeling generous with his KLM miles we agreed happily during the flight.

 

Surprisingly, amazingly and unbelievably, Immigration was a snap.  The officer put my Passaporti Italiano in the little machine and the light turned green!  I was prepared for that trick question about ‘Come sta?’ or something else, but he just handed my passport back to me without saying a single word.  He wasn’t remotely hot either.  It's very peculiar; they never ever are in England. 

 

So I guess I can travel outside England now and get back home to Weybridge without worrying.