Bienvenidos a la serie esporádica, “Cuatro manos con Rachel y Gene”. Gene es mi enigmático amigo que sólo puede ser identificado por sus manos. Cuando me venga a visitar, hacemos un esfuerzo para tocar juntos en el piano una de nuestros temas favoritos.
Aquí tenéis nuestro primer esfuerzo: “The Killing Moon” de Echo and the Bunnymen. Enjoy!
Welcome to the sporadic series, “Four Hands with Rachel and Gene”. Gene is my mysterious friend who can only be identified by his hands. When he comes to visit, we make an effort to play one of our favorite songs on the piano together.
I’m the bottom; he’s the top.
Here is our first effort: “The Killing Moon” by Echo and the Bunnymen. Enjoy!
[Read in English here]
Si estás de visita en Barcelona, estás presenciando una ciudad que se está evaporando. Una ciudad conocida por su belleza, encanto, cultura — y las personalidades que expresan y alimentan esa culture — y todo se está desapareciendo bajo una entidad nueva, brillante, globalizada, corporativa, y homogénea. Barcelona se está convirtiendo en Bershkalandia. Es la biografía de muchas ciudades hoy en día.
Pero si tengas la suerte de estar aquí estos días, o si vives aquí, aún te quedan opciones de ocio. Aún no lo han enterrado todo.
Una de esas opciones se celebra mensualmente en el bar Madame Jasmine’s: un extraño, oscuramente iluminado espectáculo de poesía-performance de los artistas barceloneses Dan Glam y Mad Pirvan. De qué se trata? No tengo ni puta idea! Lo que sé es que el evento que asistí el mes pasado se llamaba “Eva y la Serpiente”, pero aparte de la referencia biblica, entendí casi nada.
Por qué? Porque el show tiene lugar en un rincón en el fondo del bar, sin el beneficio de amplificación. Entre mi barrera de idioma aún existente (es muy difícil entender conversaciones en castellano cuando hay ruidos de fondo), sólo pude decifrar trocitos. Además, en la ocasión en que los vi, actuaban a menudo a rodillas, intentando leer del guion tirado al suelo (no tenían atril!), sin iluminación alguna salvo el “foco de luz” confeccionado de la calavera de un perro — un toque 100% Dan Glam.
Suena terrible? Al contrario: era genial! No era necesario entender todo el texto para apreciar su escencia. En mi opinión, ni hace falta entender español. Son artistazos: muy buenos intérpretes, y personajes fascinantes. E igual de fascinante es el show-dentro-del-show. O sea, las reacciones de los clientes del bar cuando las cosas se ponen incomodamente “arty” o corren el riesgo de ensuciar (en un momento, vacían un cartón entero de leche en la cabeza de uno de los participantes).
Sólo echar un vistazo a estos dos es suficiente, con su maquillaje, atuendos, bailes interpretativo, sus perros en el rincón… Sí, damas y caballeros: sus perros asisten los eventos. Es como la versión interespecie de la Familia Trachtenberg. A veces uno de los perros ladra durante una pausa dramática y destruye el momento de tensión, reemplazándolo con risas colectivas. Y está bien.
Ésto es arte y personalidad metidos a saco en la batalla contra el triste y aséptico destino de esta ciudad. Son dos artistas — una bella, frágil (pero sólo de aspecto) con pinta casi gótica de Rumania; el otro un hombre trasvestido en tacones, liguero y sujetador, quemándose con cigarrillos, subiendo a la barra y quedando poseído por un baile extraño y ethereal… para caerse dentro de segundos encima de los cócteles de los clientes; — luciendo sin el beneficio de sonido, luces, o un escenario.
Y aunque si, como yo, no estés seguro de lo que coño acabas de escuchar, estás cierto de lo que has visto: un par de huevos. Dos pares, exactamente. Tenéis alguna idea de cómo tiene que ser, hacer un show para gente bajo condiciones que chillan, “No tengo ni idea por qué estos dos están aquí; no les prestéis atención si os estén molestando”? El hecho de que logran no sólo cumplir el show, pero entretener e intrigar también, no es nada menos que un milagro. Y la razón es obvia: además del encanto y la convicción de los dos organizadores, el adorablemente burdel-kitschy Madame Jasmine’s es el antro perfecto para hospedar tales movidas. Píllatelo antes de que el ayuntamiento/generalitat/legion of doom chape ésto también. Y si, una vez allí, decides que no es para ti, no te preocupes: es gratis.
Dan Glam and Mad Pirvan actúan en Madame Jasmine’s un viernes al mes. Próximo show: viernes 24 de Mayo 22:30h. Más info: www.danglam.es
https://www.facebook.com/ElCirculoDelFuegoInfernal
Este post es para cualquiera que esté harto de las prácticas deshonestas, lamentables y casi mafiosas del poquísimo controlado sector de telecomunicaciones en España. Después de mis martirios con Movistar, Vodafone, y Ono, he encontrado una solución que me va muy bien: Pepephone.
Esta empresa es conocida mayormente por su servicio de telefonía móvil. Pero muy recientemente — justo en la primavera de este año — expandió a servicio de internet service también. No he tenido experiencia previa con Pepephone. Sólo dos amigos hablaron bien de la compañia (tenían su servicio móvil), y cuando visité la web de Pepephone, el candor y la transparencia de su manera de comunicar me parecía refrescante. (Te cuentan exactamente lo que ofrecen y lo que no.) Queriendo ser creyente, (traducción: desesperada, exhausta, and disgustada), decidí probar Pepephone.
Retrocedemos un poco. Por qué me interesaba Pepephone? Porque Ono me estaba tomando el pelo. Por sólo servicio de internet (de fibraóptica) en casa, estaba pagando 66€ al mes.
“Qué abusivo!” decís. Claro que lo era! Pero más indignante aún fue cómo me enteré de lo que estaba pagando. Porque hasta hace un par de meses, estaba pagando 40€ a month. Para nada fue una gran oferta, pero era el trato con que acordé cuando reducí mi servicio de teléfono fijo + TV + internet a simplemente internet.
Y tampoco fue fácil obtener esa reducción. Ya que todo en esta sociedad está montado para forzarnos a consumir lo que no queremos ni necesitamos, somos como las ocas de fois gras para el sistema capitalista. Casi todos los días me encuentro luchando por no apuntarme a ese u otro servicio, a no coger ese flyer que están intentando poner en mi mano que ofrece 2×1 de algo que no quiero en primer lugar, a no comprar la plancha más grande, complejo y caro cuando sólo necesito la más barata y sencilla, a sólo comprar la hamburguesa y no las patatas, Coke, postre, y jueguito estúpido.
Por eso, mi experiencia en tratar de reducir mi menu de servicios de Ono fue como un ejercicio de guerra psicológica. Gasté 40€ sólo en llamadas a “atención al cliente”… llamadas en que, mientras te “ayudan”, también te cuestan cada minuto que estás hablando (o, mejor dicho, esperando). Pasé un montón de minutos en espera, o teniendo que volver a llamar porque se cortó la conexión, y tenía que empezar de zero con otra llamada, otro operador… Luego, una vez comunicado (y debatida) mi deseo, me tocaba tener que explicar lo mismo a 2 personas más; o sea, una llamada podría durar 30 minutos… Te hace volver loca. Todo el montaje parece diseñado a hacerte perder la salud mental como castigo por atreverte a coger las riendas de tu vida telecomunicativa.
En fin: después de un montón de tiempo, energía, frustración, rabia, y discusiones con los representantes de “atención al cliente” de Ono — básicamente seres inocentes, unos pobres entrenados a convencerte que lo que quieres realmente no es lo que quieres; sino, lo que quieres es lo que están instruidos a venderte – logré deshacerme de la tele y el fijo, para que estaba pagando, junto con el internet, 80-something euros al mes. Y me informaron que sólo por internet (fibra-optica, lo mejor de lo mejor, según ellos), acabaría pagando unos 40€ al mes. Lo acepté, y estaba contenta… durante unos meses.
Hasta que me di cuenta de lo que me estaban cobrando. En vez de 40, me estaba cobrando… WTF? 66 euros al mes. Por sólo internet, gente. Nada más.
Os pido disculpas por repetir lo mismo una y otra vez, pero así es exactamente cómo reproducía en mi mente: “66 euros al mes… por solo internet. ¿¿Qué coño??”
Naturalmente, llamé a Atención al Cliente de Ono. “Ha habido un error. Estaba pagando 40 y ahora estáis cobrándome 66 por el mismo servicio.”
“No, no hay un error,” dijo el representante. “Ése es el precio.”
“Nooo; el precio es 40, no 66. Ése es el precio que me garantizasteis cuando cambié mi servicio a sólo internet.”
“Puede que fuera el precio entonces. Ahora es 66. Pero ahora tenemos una promoción, en que podrás añadir teléfono fijo y tele por el mismo precio, 66 euros.”
“No quiero tele ni fijo. Son precisamente lo que quería quitar. Ahora quiero que el servicio que me queda, el internet, volviese al precio original, lo cual Ono ha cambiado sin aviso ni mi consentimiento, mangantes!”
“Le digo una cosa. Estoy autorizado a darle un descuento para que le salga, al final, a 55€ al mes. Qué le parece?”
“Que le parece que me quite como cliente, efectivo inmediatamente. Vamos, empecemos el trámite.”
“Pero señora, usted necesita entender una cosa. Si opte por servicio de tele y fijo, le saldrá mucho más en su favor –”
“NO. ESTOY. INTERESADA. Déme de baja de TODOS los servicios de esta compañia, POR FAVOR.”
[Levantando la voz] “Señora. Si usted SIGA INTERRUMPIÉNDOME, no podré informarle de todas las opciones que tenemos para usted –”
“SÁCAME DE AQUÍ. DARME DE BAJA. DARME DE BAJA. Socorro! O mis ABOGADOS [ficticios, claro; cuando empieces a chillar sobre "tus abogados", entonces queda claro que no tienes abogados] se pondrán en contacto con ustedes, MOTHERF*CKERS!“
Veis? Así es cómo te joden. Te reducen a una masa de gelatina histérica, erupcionando a un tele-robot que no tiene otra opción excepto hacerte justo lo que te acaban de hacer. Toda la escena es deprimente.
Entonces empecé a buscar en internet servicios alternativos. Y así es cómo me enteré de la oferta de ADSL de Pepephone.
Ojo: sólo te vale si no estás interesado en tener teléfono fijo y televisión cable. Si éste es tu caso, Pepephone ofrece internet ADSL por 26€ al mes, IVA incluído.
26 al mes, Motherf*ckers. Instalan el servicio utilizando tu línea existente de teléfono fijo. Compra un nuevo router o uno de segunda mano (encontré un modem de Movistar con wifi, por 10€ en CashConFredy’s; funciona perfectamente), sigue las indicaciones de Pepephone para configurar el router (si yo pude hacerlo, cualquiera puede), y estás en marcha.
Y por cierto: en la web de Pepephone, desafían las declaraciones de compañías que ofrecen fibraoptica, diciendo que casi no se nota ninguna diferencia de velocidad entre fibraóptica y el ADSL de 20 megas que ofrece Pepe… y después de llevar dos semanas con el ADSL, estoy de acuerdo. No he notado menos rapidéz que cuando tenía la fibraóptica; me parece exactamente igual.
Además: el servicio de atención a cliente de Pepephone está montado para realmente ayudarte, no provocarte una crisis nerviosa mientras hacerte perder tu tiempo y dinero en llamadas caras y ineficaces mientras recibiendo un trato abusivo.
Tan traumatizada estaba de esas llamadas a “atención a cliente” de Ono que sólo comunicaba a Pepephone por email. Respondieron a cada una de mis preguntas de una manera eficaz, rápida y acertada… y se comportaban como personas reales, a diferencia del típico trato frío y robótico, en plan “Gracias por tu mensaje. Por favor, haz clic en el enlace y entra en el apartado de atención al cliente de nuestra web, en que nadie te guiará adónde necesitas ir, y estarás forzada a buscar ciegamente la solución a tu problema como si estuvieras en la selva. O llama nuestro número 902, que te transferirá de un empleado a otro mientras recitas la misma pregunta repetidamente mientras los cargos van sumando.”
Pepephone avisa que puede tardar hasta un mes (!) para cumplir el proceso de instalación de ADSL. En mi caso, sólo tuve que esperar una semana y media. Además, éso incluyó la complicación de tener que pagar a un técnico de Telefónica para que instalara una línea fija (75€ — creo que tiene que ver con el monopolio que tiene Telefónica sobre las líneas físicas de telefonía del país, pero desconozco los detalles; os animo a clarificarlo en los comentarios porque tengo curiosidad).
Entonces, para sumar: ADSL con Pepephone: 26€ al mes, de calidad, sin engaños, sin sorpresitas.
Parezco un cómplice de Pepephone? Whatever. No me pagan nada. Bueno, si lo pienso: unos 40€ al mes, si comparo lo que pagaba a Ono con lo que pago ahora. Entre 66€ y 26€ al mes por el mismo servicio, son ahorros de 60%.
Además, creo que una compañía como Pepephone merece todo el éxito que le venga. Si este post ayuda a quitar clientes insatisfechos de la mafia española telecom y trasladarlos a Pepe, me alegro. Hay tan poca justicia en España, todo el mundo está harto, y siente realmente bien encontrar algo que funciona.
Para mi, es una decisión fácil, porque mi vida es bastante complicada sin tener que preocuparme por ser empujada al precipicio de locura y matar a mis vecinos con una hacha, todo porque Ono cree que es aceptable subir mis facturas 50% sin aviso ninguno.
A la mierda con Ono y todos los demás. And viva Pepephone.
This post is for anyone who’s fed up with the craven, mafia-like and woefully underregulated Spanish telecom companies shamelessly deceiving and ripping them off at every possible turn. After my martirios with Movistar, Vodafone, and Ono, I’ve found the solution that works for me: Pepephone.
This company is mainly known for its mobile phone service. However, very recently — in the Spring of this year — it expanded into internet service as well. I’d had no experience with Pepephone. But two friends spoke glowingly of it, and when I visited the Pepephone website, the no-bullshit, seemingly transparent approach seemed refreshing to me. Wanting to be a believer (translated: desperate, exhausted and disgusted), I decided to try out Pepephone.
Let’s back up a bit. Why did I want to try Pepephone? Because Ono was ripping me off. For only internet service, I was paying 66€ a month.
“Outrageous!” you say. Of course it was. But even more outrageous was the way I found out. Because up until a few months ago, I was paying around 40€ a month. It wasn’t a great deal by any means, but it’s the deal I ended up getting after I reduced my service from landline + TV + internet to simply internet.
Not that that was easy to obtain, either. Everything in this society is set up to force you to consume what you don’t want or need. We are like fois gras geese to the capitalist system. Nearly every day we’re engaged in some kind of struggle for our right not to sign up for this or that, to not buy the larger, more expensive and complex gadget, to just buy the burger and not the fries, soft drink, dessert, and stupid toy.
Thus my experience trying to reduce my menu of services was like an exercise in psy-ops. I spent 40€ alone just from calling their “customer service” numbers which charge you per minute, at which I spent countless minutes on hold, having the call dropped and having to call all over again, explaining my request to three different people in the same call… it’s maddening, and it’s obviously designed to drive you crazy as punishment for wanting to take control of your telecom life. After a great deal of time, energy, frustration, rage, and arguing with the Ono “customer service” reps — who are trained to convince me that I don’t really want what I’m asking them for, but rather, what they are instructed to sell me, I managed to get them to get rid of the T.V. and landline service, for which I was paying, I believe, 80-something euros a month. For just internet (fiber-optic, at that! Ooh-la-la!), I’d be paying about half, or around 40 a month. So I was content… for a few months.
Until I noticed my bills. Instead of 40, I was being charged… WTF? 66 euros per month. For just internet, folks. Nothing else.
I’m sorry to keep repeating the same sentence, but that’s exactly how it played and replayed in my head: “66 euros a month… for just internet. What the hell?”
So naturally I called Ono customer service. “There’s been a mistake. I was paying 40 and now I’m paying 66 for the same service.”
“No, there’s no mistake,” the rep said. “That’s what the price is.”
“No it’s not! The price is 40, not 66. That was the guaranteed price when I switched to just internet.”
“That may have been what it was, but now it’s changed. Now it’s 66. But right now there’s a special promotion going on, where if you want, you can add a landline and T.V. for the special price of… 66 euros, for everything.”
“Why the hell would I want T.V. or a landline if those are precisely what I wanted to get rid of? I want the original price that was offered to me and which was changed without my awareness or consent, you crooks!”
“Tell you what. We can give you a nice discount so you end up paying 55 a month. How ’bout that?”
“How ’bout this: remove me as a client, effective immediately. Let’s get the procedure started.”
“But Ms. Arieff, you need to understand one thing: if you choose to have TeeVee and phone, it results much more in your favor –”
“I’m NOT. INTERESTED. Take me OFF this company’s services, NOW.”
[Raising voice until he's shouting] ]”Ma’am, if you KEEP INTERRUPTING ME I won’t be able to tell you about the good offers we have for you –”
“GET ME OUT OF HERE! GET ME OUT OF HERE! I’ll have my LAWYER contact you motherf¨ckers if you don’t TAKE ME OFF ONO, NOW!!!”
See, that’s how they get you. They reduce you to a screaming mass of jelly, erupting at a tele-robot who’s got no choice except to do to you exactly what they’ve just done. The whole scene is just sad.
So I started to do internet searches for alternative telecom services. And that’s how I found out about Pepephone’s internet offer.
If you don’t have use for a landline or T.V. at home, Pepephone offers you ADSL internet for 26€ a month, taxes included.
26 a month, Motherf*ckers. They install the service right over your land telephone line. Buy a new router or one from a second-hand shop (I found an old Movistar modem, with wifi, for 10 bucks at CashConFredy’s; works like a charm), follow their directions for configuring the router (even I could do it!), and you’re ready to go.
And by the way: that fiberoptic claim seems like crap. I mean, yes, fiberoptic exists, but in no way have I noticed higher speeds from fiberoptic than what I have now with the 20 MBs of ADSL with Pepephone.
Plus, the customer service with Pepephone is set up to actually (gasp!) help you, not to drive you into a mental breakdown while wasting your time and money on inefficient, abusively-conducted phone calls.
So traumatized was I from these “customer service” phone calls to Ono that I only communicated to Pepephone through email, which also has the added value of being free. Every single one of my questions was answered in a timely and accurate manner by a real person, as opposed to an automated response like “Thank you for your message. Please click on the link and enter into our website’s customer service department where you’ll receive no guidance and be forced to stumble around looking for answers like you’re lost in the jungle. Or call our help line which will shuffle you around from person to person as you ask the same question repeatedly as the charges for the call add up.”
Pepephone warns customers that it can take up to a month(!) to complete the process of installation of ADSL, but in my case, I only had to wait about a week and a half. And in my case, that included having to have a technician from Telefónica come in and reinstall my landline (75€).
So there it is. ADSL with Pepephone: 26€ a month with no hassles, no bullshit, no surprises
Do I sound like a shill for Pepephone? Whatever. I’m not getting any money from them. Well actually, I am: about 40€ a month, if I compare what I was paying with Ono with what I’m paying now. Between 66€ and 26€ a month for the same service, by Ono, that’s a savings of 60%.
Besides, I believe that a company like Pepephone deserves whatever business comes its way. And if my post helps to take some business away from the Spanish telecom mafia and give it to Pepe, all the better. There is so little justice in Spain, it feels good to be able to tip the scales even a tiny little bit.
It’s a no-brainer for me. My life is hard enough without having to worry about being driven to the brink of insanity and ax-murdering my neighbors just because Ono thinks it’s okay to raise my bill by 50% without my knowledge or consent.
F. Ono and the rest of ‘em. And viva Pepephone.
[Leer en castellano aquí]
If you are visiting Barcelona, you’re witnessing a disappearing city. A city noted for its beauty, charm, culture — and personalities that express and inform that culture — disappearing under a newer, shinier, globalized and corporately homogenized entity. Barcelona is becoming Bershkalandia. It’s the story of many cities.
If you’re lucky enough to be here at this time, however, you still have some entertainment options available. They haven’t plowed everything under, yet.
One of them happens monthly at Madame Jasmine’s: it’s a strange, dark, poetry-performance show put on by local performance artists Dan Glam and Mad Pirvan. What’s it about? Hell if I know! The event I attended last month was called “Eva y la Serpiente”, but other than the Biblical reference, I understood next to nothing. Why? Because the show takes place in a far corner of the bar, without the benefit of a sound system. Between my still-existent language barrier (it’s hard for me to understand Spanish amidst loud background noises) and the conversations and clinking glassware at the bar, I could only make out snippets of text. Plus, they’re performing half the time kneeling, trying to read the script placed flatly on the floor, with no illumination save the “light stick” made from a dog’s skull, a DanGlam original.
Sounds terrible? On the contrary: it’s genius! At least to me it was. I didn’t have to catch every word to appreciate the essence. You don’t even have to understand Spanish, in my opinion, because equally entertaining is the show-within-the-show: in other words, the reactions of the bar patrons when things get uncomfortably “arty” or dangerously messy (a carton of milk is completely emptied on one of the performers at one point).
Just looking at these two is enough: with their makeup, costumes, interpretive dances, and their dogs in the corner… Yes, their dogs are there too. It’s like the interspecies version of the Trachtenberg Family. Sometimes one of the dogs barks during a pregnant pause and completely destroys the dramatic moment, replacing it with collective laughter. It’s all good.
This is art and personality engaged in a heroic battle against the odds of this crumbling city. It’s two artists — one a fragile-looking, gothic beauty from Romania; the other a cross-dressed man in heels, garter belt and bra, burning himself with cigarettes, climbing onto the bar and breaking into an ethereal dance sequence, only to accidentally tumble down onto the customer’s cocktails; — strugging to say something without the benefit of sound, lights, or even an appropriate stage.
And even if, like me, you’re not sure what the hell you just heard, you’re damn sure of what you saw: pure balls. Do you have any idea what it’s like to do a show for people under conditions that scream “beats us why these two are here; pay no attention to them if they’re bothering you”? The fact that they can pull it off is nothing short of a miracle. And the reason is obvious: besides the charm and conviction of the performers, the adorably bordello-kitsch Madame Jasmine’s is the perfect place to host such shenanigans. Catch it before the money-hungry municipal government shuts this one down too. And if you decide it’s not your cup of tea, no worries: it’s free.
Dan Glam and Mad Pirvan perform at Madame Jasmine’s one Friday per month. More info: www.danglam.es
In Barcelona, a city in the midst of a profound economic crisis, there are strict codes governing what a private business can and cannot put on the sidewalk immediately in front of its establishment. Being Barcelona, these codes seem to be enforced selectively, depending on what kind of business it is (or whose business it is), which neighborhood it is, and other factors which I cannot know.
I do a cabaret show every month called “Muérete conmigo” in an intimate, unique and utterly charming bar called 23 Robadors. This friendly, cozy bar offers fantastic live music shows, from flamenco to latin jazz to everything in between, at rock-bottom prices (between 2 and 5 euro cover charge) as well as reasonably-priced beverages and tapas. Whatever money the artists and this modest bar — a local business which employs residents from this marginalized neighborhood, has an amicable relationship with the less legit neighborhood trades and the artists — make, it’s certainly minimal. We’re talking very small profit margins here. But what this bar contributes to the city as far as culture, affordable entertainment, and general good vibes, is priceless.
Enter the municipal government of Barcelona. According to regulations, it is illegal for Bar Robadors to put this tiny little chalkboard you see at the top of the page on the sidewalk next to its door, advertising what’s playing that night. Judging from its relationship in size to the bidet sitting next to it, you can see it’s not much of a space issue.
Plus, of course, if you’ve ever been to Robadors Street, you know what kind of a place it is. Put more bluntly, you know what it’s (in)famous for: the prostitutes, pimps, and mysteriously lurking men on street corners and doorways. A child’s-size chalkboard hardly stands out amongst such scenery, but according to code, it’s detrimental to the quality of life of Barcelona.
However, if you walk down a street in the wealthier Eixample neighborhood, you’ll see something like this:
Quite a bit more conspicuous than a small chalkboard, but for some reason, this is okay. And it’s so much more attractive, too.
¡Barcelona, posa’t guapa!
One of my conclusions after my 5 days in Amsterdam is that the Dutch have almost no emotions. Maybe I’m wrong, but shit, people: you sure didn’t make your case very well while I was there.
I mean, they say the Catalans are an inexpressive people, but compared to the Dutch? I’m living in Cuba!
The Dutch struck me as a strikingly… beige people. I don’t mean that as a criticism; after all, these are the people who created New York City! So as far as I’m concerned, they can act however the hell they want!
However:
Unlike the British, who have a reputation for repressing their emotions, or the Germans, who have the reputation of being repressed + angry + self-loathing, the Dutch displayed neither simmering fury nor glee lurking beneath their impassive, Zen façade. There simply was… nothing. Just calm, cool, and collected… neutrality.
I could never have sex with someone like that. I’m sorry. I know this kind of character would probably be an infinitely more healthy choice than what I prefer, but there’s just nothing to draw me to such a conflict- and angst-free personality. Nothing to fascinate me.
Are you offended, my dear Dutch friends? Well please feel free to write me an infuriated email about it. I’d love to see you get all worked-up like that. All red-in-the-face and sweaty, with your hands balled into fists. Yeah, that’s how I like it. Mmm-mm-mm-mm-MM!
Believe me, I tried! I took an informal survey whenever the opportunity presented itself: in shops, in bars, in restaurants. Always the same question: “Do you people ever get angry?”
Always the same answer! From a waitress: (First a bemused look) “Not really. Why would we want to do that?”
From a vintage shop-owner, who was most friendly and charming, in his own aseptic way: “No, only when we watch football.”
“Oh, really? Football brings out the rage?”
“Well, you know: we get upset when our team loses. But even then, when the opposing team comes here, we have a tradition of going out with their fans and getting drunk together before the game.”
Okay. So the pre-football love fest with the opposing team kind of cancels out the anger, in my opinion.
Taking advantage of my last opportunity before I flew back to Spain, I asked a boat captain seated at the bar. “Do you people ever get angry?”
I held out some hope for him because he was the manly type: strapping and muscular, with a weathered, deeply grooved face, rugged clothing and a woolen cap, as he’d just come in from finishing his shift for the day.
“Of course we do. Well, sometimes. But we keep it inside. Or we only show our families.”
Then he laughed nervously and changed the subject. Maybe my question was hitting a nerve. Maybe he’d left his house this morning filled with the bludgeoned corpses of his family. Which brought up another question:
“Hey, are there any Dutch serial killers?”
“Let me think… Noooo… don’t think so. The only psychopath I can think of is Joran Van der Sloot, but he wasn’t a serial killer.”
“Oh, right. I thought there were a few Dutch serial killers, but I must have been thinking of the Belgians.”
“Yeah, we’re not that interesting.”
After a little while he got up, bade farewell, and left the bar without even hitting on me. Of course he didn’t. He knew he had all that blood to clean up once he got home.
But the final test of Dutch (hetero)sexuality came the morning of my departure. On my short walk through the Jordaan neighborhood on my way to get breakfast, I came upon a construction site.
A construction site! YES!
Finally, I would get to experience that ages-old testosterone attack that women are conditioned to expect whenever they approach a gaping hole in the earth surrounded by piles of bricks, heavy equipment and a team of horny, bored men.
Sure enough, as I came closer, the men turned their heads towards me. I braced myself for the gauntlet of unsolicited sexual attention.
“Hal-loooo! Hal-looooo!”
This was said in a deep-voiced yet sing-songy yodel, which took away substantially from the deep-voiced part.
This was followed by an operatic scale: “La-la-la-la-LA-la-la-la-laaaa!”
And that was it.
What a weird country.
What a weird country.
My friend Basia traveled to Italy and, besides experiencing the wonder that is Italian cuisine, she also became acquainted with a wine that definitely calls your attention if you speak castilian Spanish: Follador.
Which, in Spanish translates to — not roughly, either; exactly! — “fucker”. As in: “one who fucks”. That’s correct, class.
Not a bad name, actually, when you think about why people drink in the first place. Now that’s a name that holds promise for the evening! “Cameriere? Er, one more bottle of Follador, please.”
This is a serious question. When you become intrigued by a people, you become curious about everything. Do the pathologically even-keeled Dutch ever get angry? Are they able to orgasm? What are they like when drunk? How many times do they fall into their own canals? Stuff like that. Sooner or later, such curiosity is going to lead to one thing: how do they poop? Or, in the case of the Dutch: do they ever poop?
I ask this because I have seen no such evidence in the five days I’ve been here. Having taken all my meals outside my Air BnB room, I’ve seen several different public toilets per day. And in not one of them was there any evidence of human waste. Not one.
This is incredible, people. Every toilet as pristine as the last. And these bathrooms in Amsterdam are tiny, people! I’m talking about one small anteroom which holds the sink (which barely allows the door to swing by as you open it) leading to a tiny closet which holds a single toilet, a waste basket, a toilet brush, and always — but always — plenty of rolls of extra toilet paper. More on those rolls of toilet paper later.
Never has a restroom had any odor. Never has a toilet had skidmarks on the bowl, let alone a big dump stewing in there like the other night when we did Anti-Karaoke in the big room at the Apolo!
Yes, folks: some motherfucker — some motherfucker who I worked with that night! — took it upon himself (yes, “himself”; I know it was a male because I was the only female working up there that night) to take a huge shit in MY toilet (the one backstage, the backstage area which I and only I occupied)… and then didn’t even have the decency to flush it down!!!!
What the fuck???
I mean, this person had to know that I was the only one back there who had any possibility of using the same toilet. That there was a pretty damn good possibility, in fact. So they not only choose to lay their stinky load in my only available toilet, instead of the public restrooms which were completely unoccupied and completely cleaned in anticipation of the evening, but they left it loaded with their filth.
“But was the toilet broken?” you may be asking. “Maybe the person didn’t flush because he couldn’t.”
The toilet flushed fine. I flushed it myself, while working hard to keep my dinner down. So whoever you are, you sick, disgusting pig: thank you, and you’re welcome.
But I digress…
Yes, the Dutch toilets are pristine. Why? How? Is it that people really do heed the signs that are, without fail, taped to the wall? “Please leave this bathroom as clean as you would like to find it.” If so, they are the first people on the planet to do so. Not even a scrap of stray toilet paper on the floor, mind you.
Conclusion: either the Dutch diligently scrub the toilet bowl after they finish… or they just never go in the first place. Do they wait till they get home? What is their system? Dutch people, do you have an answer? Ledereen?
One other thing I noticed about the toilets of Dutch establishments: they always have a generous supply, openly displayed, of extra rolls of toilet paper, usually stacked neatly on a shelf above the toilet. Genius.
When will Spain follow suit? Let me just focus on Barcelona: what would it take for restaurants, bars and clubs to stock some goddamned toilet paper for their customers so that, when we do our business, we don’t have to experience that familiar, awful realization that we have nothing to clean ourselves with?
It’s like Groundhog day, except that instead of beginning as the alarm clock rings while you’re lying in bed, you’re squatting on a crapper. “Oh, goddammit. Not again. Of course there’s no toilet paper. Why didn’t I grab some when I left the house? Why do I always leave unprepared to enjoy this lovely and sophisticated city?”
In my nine years of living in this country, I have used flyers, socks, even — once, on my first visit to Barcelona — a dollar bill.
Luckily the U.S. dollar isn’t worth as much as the euro, so I felt like I was getting a real bargain.