Cultural Notes, Volume 1: Bikes, Fat, Beer

First off, a few housekeeping issues:
1. If you leave a comment (and I do thank you all for leaving them), please leave it after the most recent post. This makes it much easier for me to notice them. Leaving comments at the bottom of the page is much less useful for everyone.
2. You may note that you can click on the photos for a larger version. I actually invested in a pretty decent camera, so the photos are high-resolution. So, this is worth doing, ESPECIALLY for the church photos below.

So. I am in Europe, as those of you who know where The Netherlands are have already figured out. This is the land of very high gas prices, very small cars, and narrow, winding streets. So, nobody drives a car. I see a few of them, like big enclosed golf carts. A lot of people ride the bus, which is expensive. A lot of people walk, which is slow. However, there is one form of transportation universal here in Utrecht. I'm going to post some photos and see if you can guess what it is.



Now, what you need to realize is, I didn't have to go all over the city to find those unusual concentrations of bicycles. That's every direction you look. They're just like cars here. You've got people with kinda weird baby-carriages stuck to the front, saddlebags on the back, baskets, bells, whistles, lights, everything, all over the place. Everywhere there is a road, there is also a sidewalk and a bike lane, generally separate from either. What I'm getting at is, bikes are ubiquitous. Now, I am a believer that when you travel, you don't act like the American dude everyone is supposed to make way for. You adapt to the culture you're in. Also, I hate walking for miles every day and didn't want to pay all that much money for bus passes (strippenkaarts, literally strip cards.) So, I went out to buy a bike. Being as how I am only here for a short period of time, I figured I'd buy a cheap, used bike, which is what every other law student has also done.

Now, what that means is, we've descended like metallovore locusts and stripped the bike shops bare of cheap used bikes that are not completely worthless. Well, I got one for very low price of fifty euros (plus the cost of a lock and saddlebags. Bike thievery is so rampant that I could get a whole other Cultural Notes post out of the topic. Perhaps I'll get lucky and somebody will steal the damn thing, then I can write about it.) It is not the happiest purchase I have ever made. In point of fact, that bicycle is not merely a material possession. It's actually my arch-nemesis. The tires try to send me flying every time I cross a curb. The seat is like a torture device. I somehow have bruises on my hands from the handlebars. Seriously. Like on the palms of my hand, which is demonstrably one of the most resilient areas of the human body. The rear tire attempts to eat the fucking saddlebags with alarming regularity. The fender thingy seems largely there to merely redirect muddy water onto the cuffs of my pants. In essence, this bicycle was designed in hell by the devil.

You can't see all the rust and stuff clearly in that photo, but trust me, it's there. I have named the bicycle Trixie, because it sounds like a prostitute's name, and Trixie for sure sucks more dick than an aged two-dollar whore on welfare night.

***

So, this leads me into the next point. You're probably wondering: "Gee, Nathan. You hate that bike so much that it sounds like you're going to throw it into the canal before you leave, rather than try to recoup some of the expense by selling it to another unsuspecting victim (And you're right! I am!) Why don't you just get a month-long bus pass and ride the damned bus?

The answer to that is simple: it's exercise, and I would like to lose a few pounds peddling my fat ass up and down the cobbled streets of Utrecht. You see, I noticed something on arriving here. Utrecht is full of the highest concentration of hot women I have ever seen. Shortly after I adjusted to this great plentitude of pulchritude, I noticed why that is: There are no fat people here. Seriously. I am like the fattest man in the entire country. I mean, I didn't gain weight on the flight, I was already a tubby bitch back in the states. This is okay, however, because there were tons more fat people there, and tons of people more fat than me. No matter how jiggly my love-handles, there was always that spherical, twinkie-munching lardball who had to buy his fodder from an electric cart in wal-mart, because he couldn't even walk to the hostess snack cakes and cola. Well, that dude isn't around anymore. I am sitting all spread-out and lonely at the top of the food pyramid, and I have to say I don't like it.

So. I walk and ride my bike all day, the portions of food are smaller (and groceries are more expensive, so I tend to plan meals a little more carefully), and I am suffering the enormous peer-pressure of being the only bearer of man-boobs in sight. I can see how European culture, diet, and lifestyle produces this effect. Now, I need only let it work on me, and I might be a little lighter by the time I get home.

***

Okay. I'm right next to Germany. Some of the same cultural attributes apply. There is beer everywhere in this joint. It is crazy how much and how many different kinds. There's a bar here in town with two hundred kinds. You can buy it in grocery stores, you can buy it in the little CAMPUS grocery store. You know the picture of my dorm down the page? That thing in the middle, on the ground-floor between the two towers? That's the bar. Yes, there's a fucking bar in the basement of my dorm. It opens at nine, I may check it out. It's not just beer, either. Grocery stores have their own brands of wine. Like, imagine if there was Hy-Vee or Wal-Mart wine. That's what we're talking about. Also, the beer is amazing, if you like real beer. I drank some beer with lunch today that was made by Trappist Monks. If you know aught of beer, you're jealous right now. Yes, it was amazing. Anyway, here's a picture of my friend Robert. The beer has convinced him he's strong. In fact, it is only the beer. Examine those labels carefully, and stare in awe at the outputs of a mature culture.