My best friend in Amsterdam is named Ken. He is from Osaka, checked into our hostel on the same day I did, plays the classical guitar, and speaks very very minimal English. He rules.
Ken and I ate breakfast together each morning in the hostel. While trying hard to communicate with each other at the breakfast table, I watched Ken eat sandwiches of ham/cheese/peanut butter on toast. I think he created that recipe.
On our third night in Amsterdam, Ken and I walked down the street of our Turkish neighborhood to find a place to watch Turkey play Germany in the Euro 2008 soccer tournament. While getting something to eat (some kind of Turkish sandwich I couldn't pronounce), a large man wearing a Turkish flag as a cape and another Turkish flag as a bandana suddenly appeared and told us to come watch the game next door.
The caped Turk led us into a tiny Turkish coffeehouse packed with about 40 Turkish men watching the game on a flat-screen TV.
Grown men screamed and (presumably) cursed at the television for the entire match. If Turkey had the ball anywhere near their offensive zone, they all stood up and shouted at the screen.
Turkey scored with about 8 minutes left and I honestly thought they were going to tear down the building. Men jumped up and down on tables. Men threw chairs. Men openly embraced and cried tears of joy. One old man turned around to me and Ken and did a hilarious hip-shaking dance of ecstasy. For the next few minutes, guys would come up to us, hug us, and point to the screen and shake their fists. We became enormous Turkey fans. I would've paid $10000 for the opportunity to celebrate a Turkish victory with this group of distinguished gentlemen, but Germany scored very late to win, and I felt like I had been kicked in the groin. Ken and I filed out and kept saying "Awesome." Partly because it was very awesome, and partly because that was one of the four words we could say to each other.
The rest of the time in Amsterdam was spent on a boat ride through the canals, bike rides through the city, and walking through the markets and bars.
The next few days were spent in London....after a 22-hour day of travel, that included a frantic plea to the patrons of a car ferry service in Calais, France, to let me get in their car so I could cross the channel to England. The only ferries running were car ferries, so you had to have a car. Thank goodness for Solomon, a Lebanese man returning home to England. He was kind enough to let me hop into his Nissan, so I could pass through the gate onto the ferry.
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1 comment:
this entry rules hew. rules.
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