One for the Kipper

Murakami is a genius. Sometimes I tend to think that if souls lived in houses, he would be my next-door neighbour. Well, we’d definitely live in the same street. I read three of his books so far: the Wind Up Bird Chronicle, Norwegian Wood, and Sputnik Sweetheart. I must say that Sputnik Sweetheart wasn’t such a remarkable read at all, just the regular Murakami, like an ordinary day in our ordinary street. We can’t be special and remarkable and memorable all the time… can we? Anyway, the Wind Up Bird Chronicle and Norwegian Wood have intrigued me greatly. And now I am caught in this same net with the Wild Sheep Chase.

Could it be that I like books with animals on the cover? Upside-down animals especially! The Wind Up Bird Chronicle has a picture of an upside-down bird on the cover and this simple fact was the sole reason for my buying it. You could call it love at first sight! And they say you shouldn’t judge books by their cover! Bullshit! Another most wonderful book with an upside-down animal, which I just couldn’t put down once I picked it up at an airport bookstore is the Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time… and that book really is quite something. The chapters are numbered by prime numbers and there is an appendix explaining the mathematical proof of some obscure question. And the story is told from the perspective of a very unreal but a very beautiful mind. Who thinks this up?

Anyway, I wanted to blog about the Kipper. ‘One for the Kipper’ is the title of a chapter in the Wild Sheep Chase. Hahaha, I have to laugh at this. What a nonsense conversation, and how I love this nonsense. Okay, check this out, I copy an extract here to illustrate my nonsense point.

“I thought that they always served meals on planes,” she said, disgruntled.
“Nope,” I said, waiting for the hot lump of gratin in my mouth to cool down, then gulping down some water. No taste but hot. “Meals only on international flights. They give you something to eat on longer domestic routes. Not exactly what you’d call a special treat, though.”
“And movies?”
“No way. C’mon, it’s only an hour to Sapporo.”
“Then they give you nothing.”
“Nothing at all. You sit in your seat, read your book, and arrive at your destination. Same as by bus.”
“But no traffic lights.”
“No traffic lights.”
“Just great,” she said with a sigh. She put down her fork, leaving half the spaghetti untouched.
“The thing is you get there faster. It takes twelve hours if you go by train.”
“And where does the extra time go?”
I also gave up halfway through my meal and ordered two coffees. “Extra time?”
“You said planes save you over ten hours. So where does all that time go?”
“Time doesn’t go anywhere. It only adds up. We can use those ten hours as we like, in Tokyo or in Sapporo. With ten hours we could see four movies, eat two meals, whatever. Right?”
“But what if I don’t want to go to the movies or eat?”
“That’s your problem. It’s no fault of time.”
She bit her lip as we looked out at the squat bodies of the 747s on the tarmac. […]
“Well,” she went on, “does time expand?”
“No, time does not expand,” J answered. I had spoken, but why didn’t it sound like my voice? I coughed and drank my coffee. “Time does not expand.”
“But time is actually increasing, isn’t it? You yourself said that time adds up.”
“That’s only because the time needed for transit has decreased. The sum total of time doesn’t change. It’s only that you can see more movies.”
“If you wanted to see movies,” she added.

…

Californian Dreamin'

I’m posting my favourites from the Californian vacation in October 2003. My sis burnt some CDs for us which was just awesome: this music will forever represent the Californian landscapes for me! I will never forget how we drove up to Highway 1, and as we caught the first glimpse of the ocean, a song I no longer remember finished and in its place the first tunes of Californian Dreamin’ began… What a coincidence! But then again, was it a coincidence? Or was it destiny, a tiny piece of destiny, totally unconsequential, and yet so beautiful… I will also never forget listening to Air in the Death Valley, the Madonna songs on the curving roads in Yosemite, Talking Heads on the road 395… Tom Waits in Berkeley, which Tom, our Italian / American friend called the People’s Republic of Berkeley…

It makes me wonder what constitutes memory. I always have this thing with music and with smell. Music brings back memories so vividly it sometimes frightens me. Especially the last month or so I have immensely enjoyed listening to my old favourites; there are times of difficulty when music can be a great comfort. It puts me back on my feet, so to say. Smell, on the other hand, is different. Smell memory is more eventful, it has less to do with evoking a particular emotion or an element of my identity. Well, I’ll have to give that some more thought; I don’t know as yet how to put this exactly in words.

So, here’s the Californian list.

California Dreamin' / Mamas & Papas
Intuition / Jewel
Psycho Killer / Talking Heads
Safe from Harm / Massive Attack
Wild Wild Life / Talking Heads
Dancing Queen / Abba
Downtown Train / Tom Waits
Hollywood / Madonna
Love Profusion / Madonna
En La Noche / Amparanoia
Unfinished Sympathy / Massive Attack
La Maldicion / Amparanoia
Hymn of the Big Wheel / Massive Attack
Ella Baila Bembe / Amparanoia
Dear Prudence / Siouxsie & the Banshees
Give the Anarchist a Cigarrette / Chumbawamba
Man Next Door / Massive Attack
Heaven Hell / Chumbawamba
Rent / Pet Shop Boys
Across the Universe / David Bowie
Halo / Depeche Mode
Fu-Gee-La / The Fugees
Hooligan / The Heart Throbs
Beautiful Stranger / Madonna
Can't Take My Eyes of You / Lauryn Hill
Five Miles Out / Mike Oldfield
Girl You'll Be A Woman Soon / Urge Overkill
Downtown Train / Tom Waits
All That She Wants / Ace of Base
Happy Nation / Ace of Base
La Fiesta / Amparanoia

italian

i'm learning italian, and it's great. just a short post to give you an idea of the beauties of the language. soft winter translates as 'morbido inverno.' morbid inferno??? amen.

J vs PE: the tragedy of choosing the wrong time and the wrong place

One thing I never mentioned in my blogs about Theo van Gogh is that I truly despised him for his rude and cruel language. How do you even think this up to call muslims goat fuckers? I found him very insulting and it always bothered me that nobody apparently cared and this rude language was allowed on television in plain daytime when you may want to prevent your children from hearing this!

So deep down in my heart I was grateful to Minister Donner for raising the issue of blasphemy. The Christian Democrats have a moral touch to their party and this is neatly in line with their vision of politics; their approach is normative almost by default. The most recent example is our CDA Prime Minister and how he has been struggling with the issue of norms and values since he took office. His thesis is that norms and values have disappeared from contemporary Dutch society. The CDA motto ‘fatsoen moet je doen’ translates something like ‘politeness is action,’ and at face value it is a very appealing vision of reintroducing some basic politeness in public life. Alas, this debate of norms and values never took any concrete shape. Politeness? Fine, but how, where, when and what exactly is meant by this??? The CDA failed to produce more to this vision than slogans, they had no answer to the question of how this all should take shape in practice.

Until Donner took on the issue of blasphemy. Finally! Somebody dares to give some real content to this abstract issue: forbid religious insults in the public. Who could disagree? If you ask me, this should be just the first step in the direction of defining some real actionable norms and values for our society in the new millennium. I fear if we don’t, we’ll continue calling each other goat fucker and homo pigs, and people will leave trash in the streets, and young people won’t offer their seat to old people in the train and the whole public space will be one garbage can and battle ground for individual benefit and profit, ideally at the expense of someone else and no doubt at the expense of the state. Because the state doesn’t care anyway.

But now the state seems to care, and you may wonder, why doesn’t everybody appreciate it? It is very simple. This stupid state cares for the wrong issue at the wrong time in the wrong place. One year ago, two years ago, but in any case not now the issue of politeness in the public domain would have been received differently. Now, after the murder of Van Gogh, the whole debate about blasphemy seems to suggest that he actually deserved to be killed. It seems to justify the anger on the part of the muslim community because they have been insulted and this should not be done. Of course it shouldn’t, not the way Van Gogh did, but what on earth is the real issue now? Instead of debating the issues of muslim terrorism, and more generally the issues Van Gogh himself addressed such as muslim oppression of women and homophobia, the responsible minister is digging up an old law which was last applied in 1968 and which was actually drafted by his own grandfather in 1932, and which addresses the least significant of issues at this very moment, verbal insult. In other words, while we fidget in parliament over whether the word goat fuckers can or cannot be used in public without running the risk for going to jail for a maximum of three months, another mosque or church or muslim school burns down…

Another unfortunate edge to this whole debate of blasphemy is the strong resemblance to a similar debate in January / February 2002 when Pim Fortuyn was expelled from Leefbaar Nederland after publishing a controversial interview in one of the popular national dailies, the Volkskrant. Fortuyn then pleaded for abolishing the first article of the Dutch constitution prohibiting discrimination on the grounds of race, sex, religion etc. Fortuyn’s argument was simple. As what you could call an openly practising homosexual (he made no secret of visiting dark rooms, and once remarked that the male leader of the social democrats had a gorgeous ass), Fortuyn was often receiving insults from muslims labelling him a homosexual pig and a disgusting sinner. Fortuyn’s response was to label the islam a backward culture on the account of oppressing women and homosexual and a few other well-specified criteria. But this kind of language, this kind of response was not allowed. It was discriminatory and it was forbidden in the constitution!

So in this memorable interview, Fortuyn said something very simple and yet very revolutionary. He pointed out that the articles 1 and 7 of the constitution are in conflict; article 1 forbidding discrimination and article 7 protecting freedom of speech. But where does discrimination begin and freedom of speech end? Is there a thin line between the two or is it in fact impossible to draw such line and solve the conflict between the two principles? Fortuyn made his choice. He advised to elevate article 7 above article 1, because freedom of speech is one of the most precious foundations of our democracy. And if, Fortuyn maintained, the conflict between the two could not be solved, then article 7 should prevail, and article 1 should be abolished altogether. Bang. And in political terms a rather big bang because this statement led Fortuyn to be expelled from the more moderate Leefbaar Nederland and to found his own, more radical, Lijst Pim Fortuyn.

And now, two years later, the country is experiencing a deja vu. The same subject, yet a different setting. Now more than ever freedom of speech should be praised. Because verbal insult DOES NOT justify a murder. Sadly, this government fails by all means to convey this message. And even more sadly, what seemed a very meaningful appeal to norms and values now appears more ridiculous than ever before.

J vs PE: Across the Border

I couldn't sleep yesterday so I went downstairs to watch television. As I switched channels, avoiding some of that less appealing late night variety, I came across a Belgian debating programme and was startled. Not by the fact that they were discussing our number one incident of last week, the profoundly unholy murder of Theo van Gogh, but by the seriousness and the focus with which they debated the situation in the Netherlands, a country which in their view now really went mad en masse.

Earlier last week our minister of finance and deputy prime minister Gerrit Zalm proclaimed war on muslim terrorism. Zalm himself is a remarkable phenomenon. He has the kind of a natural authority you would hope more politicians would have; he always has a smile for the camera but he also leaves you in no doubt that he is well in charge. By the way he featured in this Van Gogh movie COOL! which I mentioned in the Jihad vs Potato Eaters blog. His part was a bank employee in the bank which got robbed. That's the kind of person Zalm is, in for a joke, in for some fun, but always cool.

A war on terror is not the kind of words you would expect Zalm to use. If you hear him saying it you think it must be gdmn serious. In the Dutch media, his statement was rolled over like a canister with explosives which just turns out to contain milk. They say the statement is inappropriate, the Dutch word for war is defined as an armed conflict between two nation states and that is not the situation we're in, so there is no talk of war and we shouldn't be using such confusing language. But what most people so far fail to do is address the problem to its core rather than fidget over its name. Sadly, this also sometimes happens in the academia, when problems get so-called solved by defining them away. But if somebody like Zalm says we're in war, it clearly is no time for scrabble.

The Belgians were fascinating to watch as they puzzled over the sudden frenzy of their northern neighbours. And they did focus on the core of the business: what happens next? How can you actually struggle against something so fleeting and yet strongly anchored like (muslim) terrorism? How will the moderate muslims react to this new hardened rhetoric? How should we distinguish between those muslims who are fine citizens and those who are prone to terrorism? The Moroccan killer of Van Gogh was after all a perfect example of intergration by assimilation. He was born and raised in the Netherlands and spoke perfect Dutch; so where does his calling come from and are we naive to believe that the so-called integration in our society inhibits these radical tendencies?

The most startling was the appearance of one of the leaders of the Vlaams Blok, a Flemish right-wing anti-establishment protest party. This party has existed for some time now in the Flemish (Dutch-speaking) part of Belgium and has been electorally strong particularly in the city of Antwerp. However, it never got the chance to participate in government so it follows the more or less predictable path of a radicalising opposition force with no responsibility for policy of its own. The most recent development is a series of changes in Belgian law which now allows for proclaiming the party as unlawful on the account of discrimination against ethnic minorities and 'advocating hatred' against these groups. I do not know enough about them to judge whether this is justified. They have a point when they say that they don't violate the law, instead the law is being changed to maneuvre them into a situation where they do. They also have a point when they address the real problems which stem from the poor integration of ethnic minorities (and most crucially muslims) in Belgian society, like high unemployment and crime, but also violence against women and homosexuals. All in, they're no saints themselves and their rhetoric really sometimes goes too far, but they do have a point in addressing these very real problems.

And now this representative of this not all too kosher party used the example of the Netherlands, our very own no-longer-happy-go-lucky Gerrit Zalm, to justify their cause: look where toleration leads to! Murder! We're in war, like we've been telling you all this time! It was almost scary to see this man defending his party's cause by comparing it to the official Dutch government policy of the moment; we're equal now! Only two years ago the liberal party of Zalm as well as the whole range of other 'established' parties used very heavy rhetoric against the new emerging party of Pim Fortuyn. They even used the example of Vlaams Blok as a warning: look where we should avoid to end up. And now the official Dutch policy is almost identical to what they despised and condemned only recently!

So far the Dutch government hasn't ventured to skate on the thin ice of anything close to outright provocation, generalist slogans or big words awaking big fears. Everybody is very cautious to not generalise the problem to the entire muslim community but limit the debate to the fundamentalist few. Though you still may wonder what a statement like 'we're in war now' will produce in terms of reactions in an already hardened climate... And you may wonder, are these the feelings of the underbelly, can they still be labelled irrational? I fear not. We apparently do have a problem and we do have to look it right in the eye and address it by its name. I only wonder why it had to take a murder (two murders, in fact) to come this far?

Back to France Part Two

Dark Fears
I easily get scared, especially in the dark. I never watch horror movies and sometimes even have a hard time with regular thrillers. I also never read thriller-books, they give me nightmares. I know these are my rules, they do me good and I should stick with them. But on occasions, I get lured into doing something foolish, like this summer, on our memorable trip to France.

This summer a few friends & colleagues, independent of each other, recommended to me to read a book. THE book of the season, Dan Brown’s bestselling Da Vinci Code. And I agree, I would also strongly recommend it to everybody. It’s brilliant! So much conspiracy theory and such revolutionary interpretation of Christianity is just breathtaking and admirable and a very engaging read.

But as I said, I easily get scared. It could be in my genes, but I think some part of it I owe to my big sis and our girl cousins and my big sis friends. Looking back, it really is laughable how I used to believe their stories of vampires and especially the one about ‘cachticka pani,’ a mythical witch who killed pretty girls to bath in their blood with the ultimate purpose of achieving eternal youth. As a child, I saw vampires and this cachticka pani behind every corner and in the night I swear the room was full of them. Anyway, this summer the albino beat them all.

The albino is the evil element in Brown’s book. He goes about murdering people and he does it in ways which really put you off. It was in the Pyrenees that the albino really gave me sleepless nights. We stayed in this pretty hotel in the middle of nowhere with a gorgeous view over the mountains. But in the evening, the whole scenery turned black, so black like it only does in mountains; it was so dark everywhere it made you wonder if there ever would be light again. And on top of that it was full moon and I swear there were wolves. Or maybe they were owls or dogs or some other creatures but they sounded like wolves. And there was I reading about an albino murderer.

I sometimes wonder if there are many people, adults, with similar irrational fears. I would like to believe that they go away as you get older, but in my case there seems to be no way of getting rid of them. I sometimes hope I would be more concerned about real dangers like air pollution and nuclear waste, but until now, it’s always just been darkness that succeeds in haunting me.

Anyway, it was very special to read this book then and there. We even visited La Couvertoirade (I hope I spell it correctly), which had been a village of the Knights Templar in the middle ages and which was just fascinating to see in the context of the Brown book. All in, I strongly recommend it to everybody, the book, and if possible in combination with a trip to France. And if you have the luxury of choice, pick Paris because much of the plot happens in and around the Louvre. Do you think Mona Lisa is ugly?

Jihad vs Potato Eaters

My new homeland has gone crazy. On Tuesday, Theo van Gogh, a descendant of the Dutch painter Vincent van Gogh was murdered by a Moroccan 26-year old. The killer ran a few bullets through Van Gogh and afterward slid his throat with a nife. He then left a note attached to Van Gogh's body with a smaller nife. The note proclaimed jihad on those who hate muslims and on those muslims who have gone astray from the right path of Islam. How is that for surreal, it happened nonetheless.

Theo van Gogh was a journalist and a film maker. By his looks you wouldn't find him particularly appealing, big, fat, unwashed hair, sloppy outfit, cigarette hanging from his lips. I suppose you could liken him to Michael Moore, a modern vagabond, one with a mission, one who says exactly what he thinks and when he thinks it, and one who is not particularly appreciated by significant public others. Van Gogh was a fervent defendant of free speech, which may sound ridiculous in a modern democracy like the Netherlands but which makes perfect sense if you know the context.

The hot issue is of course muslim terrorism and more generally the integration of muslim immigrants in Dutch society, and free speech is no less than addressing freely the problems which relate to minorities and their mostly poor integration in Dutch society. And eventhough there has been more free debate on this issue going on since 9-11, Van Gogh still often complained about the persistence of the stifling political correctness of the Dutch media which tend to label allusions to the issue as racism and xenophobia.

Van Gogh was very clear about it. It's no shades of grey. You either respect equal rights for men and women or you don't. You either obey the law and respect basic human rights or you don't. You either make an effort to make your immigrant country a new home by learning the language or you don't. As simple as that. By all accounts he hated inequality and oppression of all sorts. In the summer he made a short film together with a Somali female MP, herself a former refugee and feared victim of ritual family revenge for escaping a pre-arranged marriage. The film is called Submission and shows images of women, their bodies bearing scars of violence and their genitals mutilated by circumcision. In the film, these women painted their bodies with texts from the Koran. Apparently the letter left on Van Gogh's body referred to this short film and promised death to this woman MP who participated in making it.

We already had one political murder, on 6 May 2002. The victim, Pim Fortuyn, was a star politician on meteoric rise to power, and the murder took place just ten days before the elections which he was expecting to win. After the assassination of Van Gogh they mentioned in the news that the number of days between the two murders is exactly 911 - is there any symbolism there with 9-11? Whatever it may be, it is clear that two years ago everyone was reliefed to hear the killer was a white man of Dutch nationality. Now we are dealing with a Moroccan national with a Dutch passport, who dresses in traditional Moroccan clothes, commits a ritual murder and according to the latest news has links to a terrorist network operating in the NL. It's almost like it can't be true.

So today I went to see Van Gogh's latest film. Never saw any of his previous films, didn't read his columns either, he only published on the internet and in a newspaper freely distributed in the trains, no national daily had wanted to employ him for his outspoken views, as it turns out now. As a matter of chance, but probably simply due to its recent release, this film titled COOL is playing in one of the cinemas in my town this week and it wasn't even sold out which surprised me, given the acuteness of the situation and all the media attention that the case is receiving (why is it the tragic fate of artists to receive most recognition only after their death? I thought this went for the 19th century, past times, but not here and now.)

COOL was amazing. It told the story of a youth gang from Amsterdam suburbia, Turkish, Dutch Antilles, Moroccan, and even native Dutch, engaging in petty crime and ultimately robbing a bank which went terribly wrong. The rationale of the movie was to keep your head cool, no matter what happens and to stay who you are, no matter what happens, just keep your head cool. This message is so very ironic, now that the film director is dead only months or maybe even weeks after the film was released. It almost gives you this eerie feeling like he was expecting it to happen and this is his message for the whole nation, to just stay cool and stay who we are, not let us be frightened by the threat.

But can this country really keep its head cool? It won't be easy.

Back to France Part One

It's been a while again since I blogged last. It's been hectic at times and we also (and again) had some computer trouble but now the machine is live and kicking and it's time to blow some wind in the blog-sails.

Where was I. Last time I promised to blog about our French trip. Now as I recollect, there are indeed a few of stories worth documenting, while the rest of our two-week trip is a blur.

A blur of a vacation. I think we kind of overestimated our capacity to drive around France AND enjoy our vacation SIMULTANEOUSLY. I don't know where to trace the flaw, I suppose we were just greedy for sights and less prudent about our options. Anyway, we drove from the Netherlands through Belgium to Central France where we stayed a few days, then drove on to the Pyrenees, and the last bit we spent at the Cote d'Azur. We made trips, mostly by car, almost every day, and I think in the end it added up to some 4 to 5 thousand km. It was my first time in France and I can say I've pretty much seen it all!

The Hotels
It was high season so we figured we might just as well book accommodation in advance. I had some French in college so I was in charge of phoning and making the arrangements. Nonetheless, I opted for what I thought a safer strategy: start in English and if necessary switch to French. The standard conversation went like this: Hello... Do you speak English? The person at the other end of the line would say: Oui, un peu. Okay, no English.

Now the strangest thing about making hotel reservations in France is not only that they refuse to speak any other language but French even if you sense they're capable, but also that they don't conform to the familiar concept of accepting your credit card details. You are either required to make a bank transfer in advance, or even encouraged to send them cash (CASH!) by regular mail. How peculiar, we thought, it's not like southern European postal systems have the reputation of being very reliable, but what can you do? I suppose these people get cheated by tourists all the time, so they take these precautions. Sad, we thought, but in retrospect I can only confirm the places were gorgeous and they were certainly worth the trouble. Anyone planning a trip to France I recommend you consult guidesdecharme.com, it's great.

McDonalds: Where Art Thou?
One great thing about France is the food. Every stereotype of French gourmet cuisine is absolutely true and if only for the food, I would go live there right away. But the budget. The budget can be a problem. You can't really eat foie gras every day, can you. And it's not like the French make it easy for you to sneak out every now and then and enjoy a low budget Big And Tasty. Their own consumption of fast food is minimal and it's generally very difficult to find a fast food place, especially outside the big cities.

But on our way from yet another wonderful trip to the French Pyrenees, we suddenly spotted a billboard on the way advertising a McDonalds! To be or not to be? We decided to go to the hotel first, freshen up a bit, and then return to this same spot and follow the signs from there. I was all excited about this unexpected development, reminding me of the times they opened the first McDonalds restaurant in Ostrava after the revolution and how we thought it so special to buy a hamburger. I remember Daniela always took the McChicken and we shared the fries. Great times. Anyway, about an hour later we returned to this spot and started our adventure.

The signs pointed in the direction of Montrejeau, a town near where we stayed. But as we approached this town, there was a new sign pointing in the direction of St Gaudens, another small town in the area but a little farther away. We decided to take the chance and went on following the indicated direction. I was getting a little worried as we went on driving and no new signs appeared. My initial enthusiasm was turning into dismay as we had to improvise at times and I made a rather uneasy joke that perhaps the next sign will point in the direction of Toulouse, one of the larger cities in the region and some hundred km from where we were.

Not that I possess any prophetic qualities, but the next sign indeed indicated Toulouse, at which point Louk remarked: I'm not driving to (*bad word*) Paris for a hamburger! And resolutely set out to turn the car and go back to where we came from. It took some effort to convince him that maybe we could drive just a little farther to see if perhaps we see the restaurant and then after five minutes or so we can always turn back. Somehow I succeeded to define the situation as an adventure and we continued toward Toulouse. No signs, we persevered.

Good news! We found the place in the end. And it wasn't even very surprising to find it right at the next motorway entry, where it proudly served the mediocre purpose of helping occasional drive-through's and us with another bunch of starved French locals some of whom indeed apologetically projected the silent message of we-just-didn't-have-the-time-to-look-for-a-better-alternative. The rest just merrily stuffed their bellies with McMana. For our part, we had a feast of a meal with salad and fresh fruit (McDonalds goes healthy!) and of course a wonderful Big Mac (Big Mac's a Big Mac but they call it Le Big Mac. == Yes, they do.) and lots and lots of fries with lots and lots of mayonaise (And you know what they put on French fries instead of ketchup? Mayonaise! They f... drown them in this sh..! == And so we did.)

When we were leaving I jokingly suggested I would take my huge cola back to our hotel, as a kind of a daring almost anarchist act, but finally decided against it. Who knows they may refuse to give us our room keys, after all, our hotel had its own four star restaurant and every morning the receptionist inquired whether we wished to make a reservation for the night. After all, this was already enough adventure for one day.

European integration… the Dutch style!

So the European Union is integrating. Great. When I was a kid, I was a real idealist and I believed in European integration, like we’re all one big European family and our national borders and identities are secondary to the larger European purpose. Something like the US but then on the old continent. At school I learnt there were two dimensions to European integration: widening and deepening. Widening stands for geographic integration, literally the widening of the political area called the EU. Deepening on the other hand stands for the increasing intensity of cooperation, covering more areas other than just basic trade, something like now that we have the common currency, in the future we may even have a common foreign policy. Nobody believes it, but that’s the idea.

With my Central European background, I figured widening was the more relevant bit considering my own current situation. After all, the Czech Republic would become member of this European elite club and life would be much easier for all of us in terms of travel, study and work. After six years of residence in the NL I assembled huge piles of documents testifying to my being a decent citizen and allowing me to extend my residence permit, one year at a time. All this would be over in May 2004. Now May 1 used to be celebrated in socialist Czechoslovakia for very different reasons; you know the workers’ day or day of labour or what the official title may be. Since 2004, May 1 will be remembered for another reason: the Czech accession to the EU!

Like every previous year, I sent my papers to the IND (the Dutch immigration office whose poetic name translates literally as the Integration and Naturalisation Service (service?)). I thought this year and all the coming years the procedure would be simpler, after all, we’re now European brothers and sisters, right? I waited and I waited and I paid my fees and I waited and I waited. No sign of a new permit. My permit expired in July and it was already end of August so I waited some more and then made a phone call. I mentioned the 0900 concept with regard to Casema, well, the IND uses it as well. Only their waiting time is like double.

Finally I get a Dutch lady on the line. Hello, … (they’re always so friendly on the phone, I wonder why the whole thing is such a bureaucratic mess nonetheless). I say I’m inquiring about my new permit and I sent them my papers a long time ago and paid my fees and all and there’s no sign of a new permit and I need it for various purposes (like applying for jobs, my most crucial activity lately). She says aha, understood. The whole IND is running far behind their regular schedule and it may take another three months to process my application. Three months? That makes it six months of waiting time altogether, and the silly permit is only valid for a year to begin with, so that means half the time I don’t even have it and by the time I receive it, it’s nearly expired.

So I say what next, I need a proof of legal residence. Aha, the woman says, we’ll get you a stamp in your passport and that should bridge the time until you get your new permit. Okay, I say, how? It turns out I have to travel to Zwolle (another obscure Dutch town, I have never been before). Okay, I say, deal. A few days later I’m on my train to Zwolle, I treat myself on a cup of hot chocolate and the passing landscapes are in fact quite nice. Moreover, after an initial reconnaissance of the town, I find out that Zwolle has one of the biggest Benetton stores in the country, so I buy myself two nice warm woollen jerseys for the winter (a white one and one in chocolate brown) and the whole trip becomes a lot more acceptable with this unexpected catch. Now get the stamp.

The place is easy to find and I get seated behind a counter facing a trendy clerk in jeans and a striped T-shirt, pretty much out of place but then who said the Dutch were keen on formalities. He even fills in my form which I just as well could have been asked to fill in myself, and stamps my passport with this typical male swing. Okay, we’re done, I conclude. Not quite. His last innocent question takes me by surprise: you were not intending to travel abroad the coming months, were you?

I actually was… I have to travel to Italy in October and then again in November. Is that a problem? Well, it turns out the stamp in my passport does not allow me to leave the country, or better (worse, in fact), it doesn’t allow me to return after I once left. Now that is peculiar. I explain to him my train of thoughts: Czech citizens never needed a visa to enter the Netherlands. I could always travel freely with my passport and nobody could stop me. Moreover, on May 1 the Czech Republic joined the EU (hello!? rings any bell?!) which means I can travel double freely now and double bloody nobody can stop me.

Not quite, and here’s why: I have a regular permit to actually live and work in the Netherlands, rather than just visit it as a tourist. So I need proof of my legal residence when I enter the country, and the stamp he just gave me is not good enough for that proof. So I say, can’t you give me another stamp then, now that I travelled all the way here for pretty much nothing (nevermind my Benetton buy)? He says, the stamp you need is only valid for three months so it won’t be valid in November when you need it again. It implies I have to wait a few more weeks, calculate the dates and get the stamp just about in time to cover both my October and my November trip. Great. It all started so nice, one European family. Now you would think I am privileged by having this Dutch residence permit, but no, in practice it only gives me trouble. Why???

I think I’ll just forget this second stamp and see what happens at the airport. My Romanian friend told me the last time she travelled without a valid permit, the immigration officers just laughed and let her go. Even they, it appears, don’t have high regards of the tragically slow procedures. But maybe I change my mind and use the opportunity to visit that huge Benetton store again… :-) The Dutch European dilemma?!