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ALMOST NEVER NETHERLAND It was a toss-up between USA and Holland, but Holland won-out in the end. I was being sent to undertake three and a half days of training on our database system – one especially designed for the patents industry. Departure was set at 5.40am on Sunday November 7. Destination: The Netherlands. Iceland almost put a stop to my adventure. On Friday, hours before Shabbos, my boss contacted me. He said that there was a volcano in Iceland that was spewing ash across Europe. Flights were cancelled as the lack of visibility in various areas made air-travel almost impossible. Amsterdam was mentioned and I had better call the travel agent. So I did. They had absolutely no idea what I was talking about but called me back a few minutes later confirming that my flight was to go ahead. A quick check on the Internet revealed that flights had resumed – but there was no guarantee it would stay that way if the Icelandic volcano got angry again over Shabbos. Meanwhile, I received a phone call from the taxi driver who was supposed to take me to the airport. He questioned whether or not I actually needed to leave home at 1.30am for a 5.40am flight. Normally he would be correct in asserting that I would arrive at the airport far too early. However, only a few weeks ago, Ben Gurion Airport opened up a new terminal, Terminal 3, which has been slated as a state-of-the-art complex. We know what this means: teething problems and delays. Even the airport’s website had an announcement requesting that travelers arrive 3 hours ahead of time to ensure that they are processed in a timely manner as delays were expected. As one colleague put it to me: either the new and improved system will make things go super-fast, or on the other hand, super-slow. I opted to take the safe road and managed to convince the driver that 1.30am would be the best option. Motzei Shabbos: a quick call to the travel agent confirmed that my flight was scheduled to leave on time. I spent most of the rest of the evening finishing to pack. I took a quick nap and woke at 1am and readied myself for the trip. I only had one half-filled suitcase and a backpack, which fitted neatly in the back of the taxi. One last wave to Leah and off I went… HOLY LAND TO HOLLAND The higway to the airport was empty and thus my driver felt it necessary to drive at 120km/h in an 80 zone. We entered the airport through the security checkpoint and took the long and winding road to the new Terminal 3. I unloaded my luggage and entered the new and flashy terminal via a short, flat bridge linking the road to the building. The new terminal is huge. A thousand spotlights light the building’s exterior at night and everything looks metallic. Inside, the departures hall is massive. It is spotlessly clean and airy. The roof seems to be three stories high and the floors are shiny and smooth. I made a quick enquiry at the information desk and headed off for row 6, from where I was to check in my luggage. A courteous but stern security guard asked my flight number and destination after which she directed me to a queue of about a million people. This was going to be a very full airplane! I stood behind a Japanese businessman. To my right, in another queue stood about five or six Nordic looking people, all in their mid to late twenties. They looked like they were backpacking around the world. They were speaking Norwegian or Swedish and seemed to be enjoying their wait in their own extraordinarily long queue – to each his own. Behind me stood a young Charedi couple. They were blessed with two little twin boys, dressed identically. One was sleeping soundly on one side of the pram, while the other was practicing to be a Chazzan on the other side. Neither parent was too concerned. They were probably stealing themselves for the flight. Looking ahead, I could see three huge machines, which would occasionally spit out a suitcase or two. The suitcases were gathered up by another security guard who would then attach a sticker to it and hand it to its owner. The traveler would then line up in another queue. The side of the machine was labeled with the “radioactive” symbol. It was obviously some sort of scanning or picturing device. The machine was as large as half a bus. On the outside of the machine sat the operator with a flat-panel computer screen and a myriad of buttons. “Don’t touch the red button…” I whispered to myself, eying the radioactive sign once again. Our line inched forward and then all of a sudden we were almost walking at regular pace to the top of the line. It seems as though the bottleneck had disappeared. My Nordic friends had vanished and were probably somewhere up ahead wondering why their suitcases were glowing in the dark. As I approached the top of the line, a security guard approached me, checked my passport and tickets and asked me the standard security questions. I passed with flying colours and did not have to submit my suitcase to the scanning device. I proceeded to the next queue, which was the actual baggage check-in line. While standing there, I held a very interesting conversation with a Frenchman who was returning to Marseilles via Amsterdam. His extended family resides in Tel-Aviv and he also will be making Aliyah in the coming months with his wife and two children. He spoke to me about life for Jews in France. He was not very encouraged regarding the future of Jews there and told me that many French Jews have either moved to Israel, resolved to move to Israel or are encouraging the youth to make the move. I was really enjoying the conversation (French accented Hebrew is delightful!) when his turn came to check in his bags. My boss at work was giving me a few hints and tips regarding travel and one such tip sprang to mind just then: never stand in my queue because I always choose the wrong one. Well, it seems as though I was standing in his queue. Despite the fact that I was the next in line, my Frenchman friend had some sort of problem with his passport and this caused a delay. However, seeing as though I was a few hours early, I was not too fussed. I checked in my luggage without difficulty and was given my boarding pass. I left the vast hall to enter the duty-free area (also leading to the departure gates). A security guard checked my boarding pass to ensure that I was indeed a traveler and allowed me to pass through. Arriving at yet another queue, I was asked to present my passport and boarding pass for a further check and a stamp. I was then directed to stand in line to put my backpack through an X-Ray machine, while I walked through the metal detector. Again, I had to present my boarding pass and passport before I was allowed to enter the shopping area. On the drive up to the airport I saw a number of signs advertising the new duty free shopping area: 360 degrees of shopping. They were not wrong. The shopping area is a huge circular room. The majority of shops are located along the boundary. You can buy anything from liquor to books, mobile phones and 15,000cm television sets – probably the usual duty-free fare. I took a walk around, looking for a place to buy an international calling card. The Pelephone sales desk had one for sale, which I purchased. I also bought a hip-pouch at an incredibly inflated price. I ventured into an electronics store and bought some international adaptors. All the prices were in US dollars. THE FLYING DUTCHMAN I made my way to the departure gate via an extraordinarily long passageway. There were “moving footpaths” along the side, but walking was faster. The walls were bedecked with Jerusalem stone - a ploy to make me feel homesick already. I found my gate and, after another security check, I surrendered my boarding pass to the official (I wasn’t sure if that was such a good idea as it seemed that my boarding pass was my key through all the checkpoints so far – do you think they would believe me if I told them that “someone asked for it so I gave it to her”?!) I then made my way along the long ramp to the airplane. I was flying KLM (which, for those of you who don’t know, is an acronym for Royal Dutch Airlines!) It was a Boeing 737 aircraft. I was allocated a window seat next to a husband and wife who busied themselves almost immediately with playing some card game on their laptop computer. I made myself comfortable. It was only a short wait until the plane started taxiing towards the runway. In the meantime, the stewardess was demonstrating all the usual safety procedures. It was my first introduction to Dutch. The English translation was more helpful. We taxied towards the runway. It took a long time to get there. It seemed like we were being given a tour of the entire airport complex. Then we stopped. The engines growled and then we taxied some more. Finally, as the light of day began peeking through the light cloud cover, we arrived at our runway. The cabin crew took to their seats, the engines roared (I was fortunate enough to have a window seat right next to the wing so that I was best positioned to hear the engines for the next four and a half hours…great). Then the plane started racing down the runway, I was thrust back in my seat as we began our ascent. Climbing up over the sleepy inhabitants of Tel-Aviv, over the Mediterranean Sea we disappeared above the clouds. The Captain announced our flight plan: over Crete and towards Holland via the southern part of Germany. But at this stage I wasn’t worried about the flight plan. I was worried about davening Shacharis. Before I knew it, they were serving breakfast. I hadn’t davened yet. I then realized that my Tallis and Teffilin were inconveniently stored in the overhead luggage compartment. Unfortunately, I had a window seat and could not get out. My traveling companions were busily tucking in to their meal and I just couldn’t bring myself to make them stand up in room they didn’t have once the trays were folded down with their breakfast on it. I guess I could have bothered them to stand up and let me pass, but I was worried about causing a chillul Hashem, so I decided that I could put on Teffilin later. So, I managed to daven Shacharis in my seat – as much as I could by heart – without siddur or Teffilin. Leah told me that they would most likely serve eggs, which they did, as well as a potato latke, a muffin and two rolls. Conveniently, the rolls were hamoitze so in order for me to eat them, I would have had to climb over my two traveling companions (who were busily hoeing into their food) to wash my hands. I decided to make the best of my situation and bagged the rolls for future consumption. The flight was relatively uneventful, without much turbulence or aliens landing on the wings, tearing out the engines (I would have been responsible, you know, it was my watch!) Touchdown in Amsterdam at Schipol Airport (pronounced with a guttural “ch”, or “kh”). After disembarking fairly quickly, I headed off towards a bathroom to wash my face, put on a jumper and a hat (one of those old-style golfing hats – the ones that look a little like a ship-captain’s hat, only squashed down at the front). I was told to wear a hat, rather than a kippah as there is a very large Muslim population in Holland with which I was advised to avoid contact. I was warned that a kippah would be a veritable invitation. So there I was, looking like a typical Jew who was trying not to look like a typical Jew. I followed the signs (in English) and found myself at the baggage collection point. I was standing there, watching the empty carousel go around and around, when I noticed a well-dressed man standing next to me. He was wearing a kippah so I thought I’d introduce myself, just to make small-talk and pass the time. It turns out that he lives in Betar Illit and is in Amsterdam on a mix of business and pleasure. He works in the raw-materials industry, importing iron into Israel. He grew up in Amsterdam and was visiting his parents. He kindly offered to take me to a kosher shop so that I could stock up on food before heading down south to where I was to do my training. After a quick passport check, we met his parents at the arrivals gate. A lovely couple who seemed as kind and generous as their son. I told them that I would like to store my suitcase in a locker before leaving the airport. You see, Schipol Airport also boasts a train station. Since my training was to take place in a town about two hours south of Amsterdam by train, my plan was to store my baggage in a locker and tour Amsterdam for the day and collect it before getting on the train. Being Sunday, training would begin on the following day. They agreed that this was a logical plan of action and agreed to wait for me while I organized my bags. I returned to our meeting point only about ten minutes later to find my gracious hosts engaged in a strange conversation with a baseball-capped man. Apparently my new friend’s kippah caught this man’s attention (see, what did I tell you?) He was also Jewish and in a spot of bother. It seems as though he came to Amsterdam from Antwerp to meet his brother who was to be arriving from Japan. His brother never showed and this fellow was left stranded in Amsterdam without any money. So, using my new friend’s cell-phone, he called his brother in Japan to find out if everything was OK and when he would be arriving. The conversation went on for a little longer than expected and it was costing my poor friend a small fortune. But it turned out in the end that this guy’s brother missed his flight and will be coming on the next one. In the meantime he will somehow get some money across to help out his brother who was by now spurting forth a hundred thank-yous. My host was trying to let this guy know that the conversation was over – a mobile call from Amsterdam to Japan is not cheap – but he wasn’t taking the hint. Finally, he hung up, thanked my host endlessly and scooted off somewhere in a hurry. AMSTERDAM FOR A DAY We left the airport, crossed the road and got into the car. After only a few minutes we passed a massive building on our right-hand-side. The sign on it said ING (a bank) but I thought to myself that it looks like the Little Old Woman had upgraded. The building was in the shape of a shoe, but the walls were made of glass and steel. I was told that they designed the building to maximize natural light in every corner of the building. It really did look like a shoe, though. After weighing up a few options, we decided that they would drive me to a kosher shop that was close to their house. From there I could take the train into the city. I was grateful for the ride. I had a list of kosher shops and their addresses, but being a complete foreigner, I was bound to get lost. These wonderful people really did me a big favour. We stopped by their home to drop off my new friend and his mother, while his father took me a few streets away to a kosher shop. He gave me brief instructions on how to get into town and drove off. There it was. In the flesh. A kosher shop – my life-saver for the rest of the trip. My original plan was to leave this to last as I had intended to purchase meat, which may spoil during the course of the day. However, the free ride saved me a lot of heart-ache in trying to locate it. I entered the shop and the walls were lined with Osem products (just like home). I bought an Osem orange cake, a loaf of bread and a variety of cold cuts, which he vacuum-packed for me to last the day’s touring. Before I left Israel, I was told that the Dutch are experts in making cold cuts, so I was eager to buy some and try out the legend for myself. The shopkeeper was keen for me to try a bit of everything, and I did (well, almost). He spoke flawless English, which made it very easy for me. Following the instructions I was given, I took the number 51 tram into town. I entered the tram and stood before the ticketing machine. All the instructions were in Dutch and I had no idea how to work the thing. Another couple got on when I did and they had as much difficulty as I did in deciphering the instructions. The lady said something in English and her accent was somewhat familiar. I asked her another question and she turned to her husband and repeated my question – in Hebrew! I expressed surprised that they were speaking Hebrew and it turns out that they are also tourists from Israel. Together we managed to work out how the ticketing machine worked. I got of the tram somewhere in the city of Amsterdam, but not where I intended to get off. I was in Waterlooplein. I took an educated guess and started walking in the direction of the part of the city I was really intending to see. I was only a couple of stops too early, but this way I got to see more of the city than I otherwise would have. The main area of Amsterdam is very pretty. There are lovely rivers flowing through the city, the architecture is magnificent (blending the old-style buildings with the new). The bridges are ornately decorated and everyone – yes, everyone – rides bicycles. In fact, the road system is designed specifically to cater for the cyclist – a special lane is dedicated to cyclists on every road. One web site mentioned that the cyclists have their own lane and if you decide to walk on their territory, they will show no mercy. That is an understatement! My main destination for the day was Anne Frank’s House. I had researched the city quite thoroughly on the Internet and decided that if I only saw one thing, it would be Anne Frank’s House. Using the map that I printed from the Internet, I took a very very long walk around the city. Each street has about fourteen letters and it took me a while to get my bearings. Amsterdam is actually designed as a half-wheel so that it is reasonably easy to find your way around. On my way to Prinsengracht, which is where Anne Frank’s House is located, I passed by the Dam. The Dam is more or less the center of the city. It is a large square with one side of the square dominated by a very large palace – the Queen’s palace. I was given a short guide by a well-dressed gentleman who was waiting to meet his friend. He told me that the Queen rarely stays at her palace in the Dam. She lives and works in The Hague and only ventures into Amsterdam a few times each year. On the other side of the square is a large monument to those who fell during World War II. A magnificent shop to the left of the palace housed a branch of Madame Tussaud. Paul McCartney and one of the Three Muskateers smiled down on me from their perch outside the third or fourth level. I also think that there was a flower market at the Dam, but I can’t quite remember. After another short walk through the picturesque streets (some of which were absolutely teeming with people), I found a sign directing me to “Anna Frank Huis”. Rounding the corner, I was stopped in my tracks by the queue of people waiting to enter the house. I read that Anne Frank’s House is The Netherlands’ most visited site. In fact, the advice was to get there early. I arrived at about ten-thirty or eleven in the morning and there were about one hundred million people lined up waiting to get in. I decided that I will patiently wait in line – after all, I wasn’t going to miss out on this opportunity because of a few measly minutes wait. A half an hour went by and I entered via the flashy looking lobby on street level. I took an English language guide-pamphlet. The house itself is in the back of the building. At first you are greeted with a display of various items of the Second World War era, particularly those items belonging to the Frank family. There are a number of video presentations by people associated with hiding the Franks (and the other family whose name I cannot remember). There is also a video of Otto Frank taken some years after the war. He reflects on the diaries and how the thoughts in the diaries differed from his recollection of his daughter. I climbed a number of stairs and I was quite unsure as to where I was most of the time – the design of the building is confusing. Moreover, the restoration/preservation work mixed the old wooden floors with metal staircases and glass panels so it was a little difficult to know if I was in the new section or the old section. However, once I stepped through the aperture behind the bookcase, which hid the Franks for a number of years during the war, there was no mistake as to where I was. The floors were wooden and creaky, the staircases were steep, the walls were covered with posters of the era (protected by an outer-layer of glass), the plumbing was undoubtedly 1930s as was the colour scheme. It was at once fascinating, eerie and inspiring. To think about how this family hid under such conditions in this very spot was lump-in-the-throat stuff. After passing through the house (really an apartment), there was an exhibition of “memorabilia”, including the diaries themselves, encased in a glass cabinet. All around the apartment were excerpts from the diaries – and here were the diaries themselves. What struck me about the diaries themselves was that Anne’s writing (in German or Dutch?) was really very neat – adult-like – each word flowing like she knew what she was going to say before she said it. The pages were not worn, but were a little yellowed with age. I imagined little Anne writing in the diaries on her bed in the apartment and then Otto Frank reading the diaries after the war when his secretary presented them to him saying that she found them in the apartment after the family was taken to Auschwitz. How terrible. I left the building via the bookshop, which was selling almost every edition copy of the diaries in almost every language. I emerged into the crisp air of the Amsterdam day. My next stop was the Jewish Museum. I had read on the Internet that the Jewish Museum in Amsterdam was home to Jewish artifacts that date back 400 or 500 years. I was keen to take a look. Following my trusty map, I managed to find the museum. In fact, I was standing on the street certain that the museum was right there when I lifted my hand to ask a passer-by. At that very moment, I saw a large sign advertising the museum which was in the gigantic building I was standing right next to! I paid my entrance fee and stowed my backpack in a locker - it was mandatory to do so for some reason (probably just in case someone walked off with a 400 year old Torah scroll!) I was very disappointed with the museum. The current exhibition was a photographer’s 25-year journey around the world taking photos of all different types of Jewish communities – from Brooklyn to Barbados to Yemen and the former USSR etc. It was quite interesting, but not what I came for. I noticed a set of stairs leading down towards a lower level. There I found an exhibition that was set up for non-Jewish students, displaying various items of Jewish religion and culture. There was a Torah (behind glass) open to Az Yashir, a scale model of the Second Beis Hamikdash, El-Al paraphernalia etc. Unfortunately, the exhibition I was after was closed for remodeling. I realized that time was marching on and I needed to find a place to daven Mincha. The man at the reception desk of the Museum told me that there is a large shule across the road. Of course I knew that because I had marked it on my map – I was just checking… To enter this shule, you have to press a buzzer. The man inside lets you into an anti-chamber and then buzzes you in to the main area. I found myself in a shop full of Jewish icons (channukiyot, talleisim, postcards of Amsterdam etc) and asked him where the shule was. He pointed the way, but asked me to pay before entering. I thought that this was a little strange, but never the less, I paid the entrance fee. I found myself in the courtyard. Ahead of me stood the main shule. In fact, there were three shules on the grounds. At first, a small shule was established, but once the community grew, a new shule was built. Soon, the second shule became too small for the community, so they built a massive shule. Before entering the shule, I met a family of Chassidim, obviously in Amsterdam from out of town. I spoke to them in Hebrew, enquiring as to whether or not they had davened – perhaps we could get a minyan together. Alas, to no avail. They were in a rush to get to wherever they were going. I stepped through the huge double-doors into the shule. Numerous elaborate brass chandeliers were suspended from the roof. The ornate bimah was made of carved wood, as was the Aron Kodesh. Rows and rows of intricately designed benches filled the vast space between the bimah and the Aron Kodesh. I found a semi-secluded spot in the front corner of the shule (next to what was once probably the Rabbi’s chair) and laid Teffilin and davened Mincha. I was trying my best to concentrate, but there was a noise coming from the ladies’ gallery. Talking. Talking. Talking. I tried to ignore it and I finished davening. I quickly packed up and then turned around. There, only meters away from me sat about 50 students who had come to the shule on a tour. They were not in the ladies’ gallery at all – they were only a few steps away! The tour guide was obviously explaining the meaning and workings of the shule to them while there I was, a live exhibit! I snuck out of the shule and chuckled to myself that this is the first time I had to pay to daven Mincha on a weekday in shule! – They should have given me my money back for adding value to the museum! By this stage, the sun was beginning to sink and I was really quite tired. I had been walking all day – backwards and forwards, around and around the city. Over bridges, under bridges, dodging bicycles, trams and cars. It was a satisfying day, but I was beginning to feel like I needed to sleep. I hadn’t eaten all day and was looking forward to my hotel room where I could relax. The first thing, though, was to get back to the airport. This did not prove difficult and I caught a tram bound for Schipol. The thing that really struck me was that everyone spoke English – and a high level of English, too. I later found out that in Holland it is compulsory to learn Dutch and two foreign languages, one of which has to be English. So asking directions from people was no problem at all. TIPTOE TRHOUGH THE TULIPS I arrived back at Schipol, retrieved my suitcase from its locker and went to the ticket desk to buy a ticket to my “ultimate” destination: Breda. I purchased a ticket, enquired as to when the next train leaves and was told that it leaves the station in 3 minutes. I was instructed to go down the escalator behind the Burger King. I schlepped my suitcase at high speed to the escalator behind Burger King, descended to the platform only to find that I was on the wrong side of the tracks! I raced back up to try to get to the other side, only to hear the whistle and the sound of the train pulling away. I returned to the ticket counter and informed the same person that I had missed the train. I didn’t know if the ticket was still valid for another train and I was going to ask for a refund. However, the ticket could be used anytime on the same day, so I was safe. He told me to take the escalator behind the Burger King and wait for the train, which was scheduled to arrive once every half hour. Fine. But just to be clear, I asked him to point me to the correct escalator. Then I realized that he meant the escalator “in front” of the Burger King – so much for flawless English! The train arrived and I boarded it without too much hassle. I managed to get the suitcase up the two steps into the train and then down a few steps into the seating area. The train was very modern and when it pulled out of the station, I could barely hear the wheels moving. It was smoother than the plane and it felt like we were riding on a cushion of air. I wanted to see the scenery – I imagined old-style windmills set among vast fields of tulips. Unfortunately it was pitch-black and I could not see a thing. I’m not sure how long it took, but it was probably about an hour or forty-five minutes when we arrived in Dordrecht. I disembarked and waited for the connecting train to Breda, which arrived in short time. While waiting, I put a call in to the hotel to enquire as to which stop in Breda I needed to get off at. The receptionist at the hotel gave very good instructions: there is only one train station in Breda! BREDA The train from Dordrecht to Breda was an older model and not nearly as comfortable, but the ride was smooth-ish and I arrived only half an hour later or so. The Mercure Hotel is right next to the train station – which is both good and bad. It was good that I didn’t have to schlep my suitcase too far, but I was dreading being in a room on the train-station side. I checked in at the hotel and found that my room was on the other side to the train station – from my room I could not hear a train nor see a train. It was a standard room and nothing fancy – but boy, did I fall asleep quick smart. Breda, it is an interesting story of how it got its name. 500 years ago there was a major war in The Netherlands. Breda (named something else at that time) stood at a strategic point in the south. The Dutch army (such as it was then) set up a stronghold there and it became a major link in the supply lines. When the invading armies captured the city, they pillaged and plundered – their supply lines had been severed and were without fresh rations for weeks. They came across the main bakery and secured it with a ring of soldiers to guard it 24 hours a day. As a statement of victory, they posted a big sign above it in red lettering “Bread”, except the soldier who wrote it was dyslexic and wrote “Breda” instead. That’s how it got its name…did that sound convincingly authentic? Actually, I have no idea how it got its name, but that story COULD be true…ahem…moving on… Frank, my contact at CPI where I was to do the training, collected me at 9.30 on Monday morning and walked me to the office. The route we took was quite beautiful: through a park (the main park of the city), through the grounds of a military academy (apparently the most highly respected military academy in all of Holland), through some winding cobblestone streets and to a main street where his modern office stood. GOING DUTCH I was told by my boss who had once traveled to Breda (for the same sort of training that I was doing) that they took him across the border to Antwerp to dine in a kosher restaurant (the border is about 20 minutes away and the center of Antwerp only less than an hour away). I was hoping that they would do the same for me as I could do with a nice square meal. Unfortunately, this was not to be. Once I revealed that I could not join them at a non-kosher restaurant, they dropped the idea (drats). Instead, for lunch they took me to a supermarket (!) Apparently this is what they normally do – go to a supermarket to buy their lunch and return to the office to eat. So I joined them for the walk. I bought some bananas and tomatoes to supplement my cold cuts and bread for dinner. I walked with them to the supermarket each day, mostly for the walk, rather than to actually buy stuff. I had a mini-market near the hotel where I could buy whatever I needed (which wasn’t much), so it wasn’t really necessary to go shopping – but it was good to get out and stretch my legs. Each day I ate “noodles in a cup” for lunch, which I brought with me from Israel. All I had to do was add hot water and, whalla, instant meal. At least it was hot. I had brought a kettle with me from home for use in the hotel. The office had a kettle I could use. After work each day I went for walks around the city. Breda has about 200,000 residents. The shopping area (about three or four very long streets) is bustling with activity. I was told that many people come to Breda to shop from Belgium because the prices are lower and there is a larger variety – it is all European Union so the currency is the same and there is no problem crossing the border if you have an EU passport. On my last day in Breda, after the half-day of training, Frank (my “Personal Trainer”!) gave me a guided tour of the city. He told me that he has absolutely no religious beliefs whatsoever, but was very proud of the four hundred year old church that dominated the Breda skyline. I was happy to look at it from the outside and declined an invitation to look at it from the inside. He took me through the streets of Breda, winding in and out of alleyways. We went into the grounds of a nunnery, the reason being that they have beautiful landscaped gardens in which many people get married. I was afraid that the tour would be a tour of churches, but I was pleasantly surprised. There was quite a lot to see. They have an interesting concept called “city gardens”. Apartments and town houses are built around a landscaped garden setting. Anyone can walk in and out during the day, but at 6pm (and on weekends), the gates close and it becomes a private garden for the surrounding apartments. We walked through a number of them, some of which were quite beautiful. Frank took me through the grounds of the municipal council and through the shopping center to a large plaza. Apparently twice a week there is a major market in the plaza with hundreds of vendors. Unfortunately, I missed it but it is supposed to be something special. As we were walking, Frank was describing the situation in Holland. Right now, there is a rising tide of violence – people getting shot for their political opinions, a large Muslim faction that is propagating race-hate, rising prices are taking hold and unemployment is also on the up. From where I was standing, Breda seemed to be a little city out of the way of anything. Frank said that it correct and that is why he stays there while the rest of his family has sought their fortunes in Amsterdam or Utrecht. We passed a weird looking structure. It looked like a giant copper slug – with ventilation shafts. In fact, it is a nightclub for the youth, specifically built for them so they don’t have to use the theater, which is located in a suburban area. About a year and a half ago, there was a fire in a bar somewhere in Holland. All of the emergency exits were blocked and 55 people died. So they designed this building with a wide hatch at one end (really an entire wall) that folds down in an emergency to allow numerous people to escape simultaneously. The building is made with copper plating on the outside. I’m told it is quite modern inside, too. Further along the street is a museum. Actually, the officers from the military academy have their residences there and the museum was built around them – a modern museum surrounding old-style officers barracks. An interesting combination, I must say. Just down the road is an apartment building called “The Gates of Breda” as it used to be the entrance to the city, before the city expanded. It is now an apartment building for the very wealthy. At one end of the apartment building is a dome about ten or twelve stories high. The top two floors of the dome is one apartment, which sold on the first day it was on the market for 1 million Euros – about 5.5 million NIS (or about $1.7 AUD). We walked back to the hotel through the park where there was a pink and orange candy shop. This prompted Frank to tell me about Queens Day in The Netherlands. Apparently, on Queen’s Day, the whole country is bedecked in orange – everything and everyone (sort of like green in Ireland) – and the park is filled with people having barbecues, singing and doing everything dressed in orange. I just wonder whether the traffic lights remain on orange all day…? Frank walked me back to the hotel. It was so cold that when he shook my hand, I thought it was going to shatter into a million pieces on the floor. The weather in Breda had been slowly getting colder over the few days I was there. On my first day it was about 8 degrees. When I left it must have been about 5. Also, it wasn’t very windy, so there was no wind-chill factor to take into account – just pure cold. Luckily the hotel had an excellent hot water system. I was told that Holland has too much water – so I had no compunction taking long hot showers to thaw out. DOUBLE DUTCH After checking out of the hotel, I took the train back to Schipol for my flight home. I stopped off in Rotterdam Central to change trains. As soon as I got off my train, another one pulled up. According to the schedule that Frank printed out for me, the next train to Schipol wasn’t for another twenty minutes. But I became suspicious when I saw the sign on the train said “Schipol”. I asked someone and they said that it was the right train so I hurriedly got on. I realized that I had entered the first class cabins so I quickly alighted and tried to get into the train via the second-class door, which promptly shut tight before I could reach the handle. I thought that I had missed the train when someone shouted something to me from afar. It was a railway Official of some sort. I didn’t understand what he was saying to me as it was in Dutch, but I noticed that one of the carriage doors was open where he was standing so I ran to him and said “Schipol?” he rattled off something in Dutch which I assume meant “yes” so I got on the train. See, how hard is Dutch anyway? All you have to know is English, a bit of Yiddish and then take an educated guess! I was sitting in my seat for no more than five minutes when the ticket inspector pops in for a visit. He says something to me in Dutch, at which point I give him my ticket (see?!) which he inspects and then stamps. He then says something to me again in Dutch. I smile politely, nod my head and say “Dunk U” as he leaves. The Asian guy sitting opposite me realizes that I have no clue what the inspector just said and clarifies for me (in English) that he was giving me instructions as to which station to get off at. Right. I knew that. HOME AGAIN HOME AGAIN JIGGEDY JIG Arriving at Schipol Airport a few hours early, I stored my baggage in the lockers for a while so that I could do some last minute shopping. I then retrieved my suitcase and enter the departure area. Before checking your bag in, you have to obtain your boarding pass from an automated system. In fact, I am quite surprised that it works very well, considering that it is run by a computer! All I had to do was insert my credit card (for identification) at which point the computer automatically knows which flight I am on. I could choose to move seats if I wanted to, confirm a kosher meal etc etc. When all was done, it printed my boarding pass, which I presented to the baggage check-in lady. I then went in search for my departure gate: D43. Great. I was at D1. I walked and walked and walked and walked until finally coming upon D43. I went to D47, which was empty, so that I could have something to eat in peace and quiet. I then made my way back to D43 at which point I was directed to stand with the rest of the travelers in another queue for security checking. I was questioned about my stay in Holland and was asked all of the routine questions. Then, I presented my boarding pass and was asked to step through the metal detector. I had forgotten to remove my money belt and the thing buzzed. Instead of asking me to remove my belt and trying again, I was asked to step to the side. I found myself confronted by a huge, hulking security guard who asked if I minded being searched. What choice did I have? He searched me from top to toe and eventually let me pass. I had previously davened Maariv towards the side of the departure lounge but was now asked to help make a minyan. They had enough people to say Kaddish followed by Borchu (I think it is a Chassidish/Sefard minhag to say Kaddish before Borchu) – and just enough time before boarding the plane. The flight back was uneventful – there was a little turbulence at some stage, but not too bad. This time I understood all of the safety instructions in Dutch (!) and I arrived at Ben Gurion only half an hour after the scheduled landing time. A driver was waiting to take me home. He was a jovial fellow who told me that he had to be back at the airport at 3am to collect another NDS employee who was returning from Hong Kong. We made good time: again, about 120km/h average on the way home – we arrive at my building at about 2.30am. I hope the driver made it back on time, which, by the way he drove, I’m sure he did! When I arrived home, Leah gave me a cup of tea, I went around to all of the kids and gave them a kiss (it was so nice to see the little angels again!) and I plonked into bed, falling asleep before my head hit the pillow… Regards, Yossi |
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