A wrong turn in Israel

Here is a story for you.  I’m not entirely sure if it’s the best one to tell you, but it’s the  first one that comes to mind whenever I think of Halloween or Israel.

It was October 31, 2004 — Halloween — and I found myself in Lud, Israel.  Lud is a terrible, desperate place. I’ve sometimes heard Palestinians from the Gaza Strip refer to it as “hell.” There are sections of the city where the houses are constructed of stapled aluminum siding and dried mud. The more civilized sections are fortresses. Most of the residents live in giant concrete blocks. The city elite (cops, politicians, and drug dealers) live in walled mansions. Lud’s dealers pioneered “ATM drugs”: the junkie walks up to a tiny slit in the wall of his or her dealer’s mansion, deposits some shekels, and out pops their heroin.

I had just returned from the north, visiting Nazareth, Akka, and Haifa, and other places.  I saw the minarets of Qalqiyah and Tulkarem peeking out over the top edge of the notorious Separation Wall and tendrils of black smoke from burning tires licking the blue sky.  I visited a small village called Kufr Manda, a poor farming community of Palestinians that had lost two of their sons in protests and whose hearts I would later break.  And I drank coffee with Bedouins — it had been brewed for three days and had the sharp texture of fine red wine.

On the return journey by train I was aiming for Ramle, near Lud, but overshot and ended up in Beer Sheva, deep in the south.  Israel’s a small country; such things can happen.  Several hours later, deep into the night and even deeper in the Negev desert, I sat with two security guards in the railway terminal of Beer Sheva. One guard was a newly immigrated Russian; the other, a second-generation Sepharadi. They had just finished their mandatory military service. They both served in Gaza, protecting the Israeli settlements there.

“I once saw a terrorist with a rocket,” the Russian said. “I shot him.”

“I ran over an Arab with my tank,” the Sepharadi said. “I don’t know if he was a terrorist.”

They both grinned with a savage joy. The Russian was twenty-four; the Sepharadi, twenty-one.

It figures: come to Europe, catch the Plague

Since my last blog entry I have been very sick.  Don’t panic, but yes, the symptoms have matched those of the flu, and yes, it has demonstrated the speed and intensity that distinguishes a certain bacon-based export from Mexico.

Happily, after sleeping away my week, I’m feeling 75% normal.  I’ve still got one of history’s most disturbing coughs, Droopy Dog sniffles, and persistent fatigue.

I intend to spend this weekend trying to get back in the loop at neweurasia and school.  I’ve got lots of articles to edit and philosophy to read.  Can Medieval Islamic Aristotelian thought cure me?  Let’s find out…

Hahaha it seems that Belgium is full of wonderful surprises for me! *cough *cough

“Houston, the Eagle has landed”

The Dondeynehuis Project gathers for Friday reflections.

It’s been a long, eventful week of orientation, registration, and assimilation.   My Dutch vocabulary has already expanded threefold and I’m even picking up on the basics of grammar and tenses.  This coming week will prove challenging in a new way: choosing courses and arranging schedules.

I’m continually amazed at the sheer amount of hobbies and social activities of the Flemish youth, and while Americans may be far more mature when it comes to working and self-sufficiency, we lag way behind in intellectual and emotional maturity.  The family is also very prominently at the core of Belgian society, symbolized by the dinner table — something that used to be true in the United States.

Clearly there is a difference of values: we judge a person’s merit by their ability to work, while Belgians judge by their social well-being.  (More thoughts to come…)

An American Astronaut on Planet Vlaams

Where the hell am I?

My first full day in the Dondeynehuis Project here in Leuven.  Totally surrounded by people speaking an alien language with alien customs, including some kind of bizarre ritualistic square dance.  Having fun but also quite bewildered; it’s actually a bit exhausting.  Feels like I’m living an episode of Farscape.

Destroy all humans! (Belgian-style)

Still getting myself situated here in Leuven. Found this discotheque down the street from the university’s international office. For all you Futurama and transhumanists out there in the “Schwartzosphere” haha!

Click on the photo to go to the discotheque’s website.  Party like it’s 2999! }:-)

Inside the Doomship

A Sumerian themed plaque. "Bijenkorf", by the way, means "bee hive".

This tour of Den Haag’s commercialist doomship is for my good friend Todd Keyser.  It’s an exquisite example of art nouveau or what the locals call jugendstil.  In truth, I suspect it’s from slightly later (I’ll ask the folks at the municipal music what they know about it).

Warning: this is a big post.

Meteorology, thy name is Den Haag

The thermometer has pulled an Icarus and soared sunward here in Den Haag.  There is no escape because the Dutch apparently do not believe in air conditioners.  I’m told this is due out of part environmental concerns (AC destroys the earth) and part Calvinist miserliness (AC destroys the wallet).  Fair enough.

I’ve been sick all day, in a kind of torpor, as though I were a lobster being boiled alive.  Why?  It can’t be the heat itself because I’ve been in seriously sunny places — the Holy Land isn’t known for its hot temper for nothing — and I’ve worked physical labor through multiple summers.

No, it’s Den Haag’s meteorological attention deficit disorder that’s hurting me.  Situated as it is on top of the North Sea, the weather in this city can change dramatically throughout a single day.  Only a few days ago it was chilly and breezy; now it’s sweltering and humid, and rumor has it that tonight the mercury’s going to drop again (we’ll see).

Yet one more reason to get the hell out of this place.

Revenge of the Digital Camera

I finally got the drop on my inner spendthrift, clubbing him over the head and locking him in the closet long enough to purchase a new digital camera. It’s a Sony Cybershot DSC-S930. As the saying goes, it’s nothing to write home about (although that’s what I’m doing now, isn’t it?) Cost 99 EUR plus another 37 EUR for a memory card and rechargeable batteries. I tremble to think about how much this means in USD.

The Media Markt salesman seemed to take a liking to me as soon as he discovered I’m a journalist from the United States. He enlightened me to a lot of things — how his father is a deadbeat in New York City and how I can steal Media Markt products by cutting open the boxes a certain way to remove the security sensors. Nice guy.

So, without further ado, here are some photos (videos to come later)…

Southwestern entrance to Grote Marktstraat, the main thoroughfare of the Hague.

Sojourn to Leuven

I spent the weekend in Leuven, Belgium, visiting my friend John Hymers and his family, as well as seeing the sights.  If all goes well, this September I’ll begin classes at the Katholieke Universiteit Leuven.  I’m hoping to continue now ancient undergrad work on the Muslim Aristotilean philosopher Ibn Rushd, and just in general get a good European-style education in Belgium’s philosopers bootcamp.

Yours truly with Leuven's famous city hall behind.

Pimping Ben’s new apartment

Right around the corner from the Grote Markt.  Photos by Alison.

Looking sexy with that roller, Ben!

Painting Alison.

A surprisingly studly picture of yours truly. *sizzle