My Arrival Part 2

...After a relatively nice flight, on which I continued to face the blood-curdling cries of three babies even after moving away from the first one, I landed at Amsterdam International Airport or, as it is undoubtably written in Dutch: Aaaamstër Däame Inteernaatiönaale Aiirpoorte. Whilst there, I swiftly navigated through customs without showing any special documentation, a surprise given that I'll be living in this giant pancake house of a country through the end of the year. Following customs I went to the baggage claim to obtain my obtrusively heavy suitcase.

Though the wait was long, and the complex Dutch instructions at times disheartening, I eventually found my bag and went to by an enkele reis (train ticket). Unfortunately, as they had done so many times before, another line stood between me and-the train I would need to take to the station where I would buy my ticket to the bus I would ride to the church I would obtain the key I would need to unlock the door, but only after riding the other bus,-to freedom. Needless to say, I wasn't out of the fray yet. While in line and influenced by my mothers erroneous words: "you're bound to meet up with some other students attending UCU the closer you get to the program, I struck up a conversation with a group of travelers around my age. As it so happened, and seems to so often happen, my mother was wrong and the group I spoke to revealed themselves as a group of elitest assholes college students from high-ranking US universities around the country, stopping in Amsterdam before attending a summer program at Cambridge. Bypassing the long lines at self check-out, we went to a teller and each got train tickets. As soon as the teller handed me my ticket, I said my goodbyes and parted ways with the group overhearing, as I left, their discussion about how excited they are to go smoke marijuana and how much they do so in college.

I walked downstairs with my bags and my ticket, waiting for the number three train to Utrecht Centraal. Though my guide and the poster on the wall both indicated the train would arrive promptly at fourteen and forty-four minutes past the hour, every hour, it wasn't until fifty minutes after I arrived that an appropriate train materialized. During my wait, while other trains came and went at their leisure, I kindly and innocuously approached a station conductor for his assistance. He snarled at me with a malice only a dutchman could muster, indicated that this wasn't my train, and walked off. The train ride was brief, and soon left me off at Utrecht Centraal, one step closer to my final destination. As soon as I departed the train, I moved towards the bus section of the terminal and made an effort to procure a strippen kaart (a special bus ticket). I looked around to no avail and went to an information desk for help. The line was once again long, and I was only saved from its engrossing pull by another attendant who came to alleviate the growing number of people. When it came time for him to help me, I immediately clarified whether or not he spoke english, to which he replied: "a little." As soon as I heard this, my heart began to sink. Though he did indicate the proper place for me to buy a strippen kaart, the validity of the alleged "fact" that so many had told me, that seventy percent of Dutch people speak english, began to falter. Seventy percent of people in the Netherlands speak Dutch in the same way that everyone in California is fluent in Spanish: knowing yes/no, hello/goodbye does not constitute fluency, it only gives people a reason to get angry when you don't know their language...

Time to sleep, more tomorrow.