In love with Amsterdam

I am very much aware of the fact that I come from a small, dusty little place in the desert where politeness is rare and rain is even more rare, but arriving in Amsterdam yesterday was like walking into a dream sequence from a movie. Compared to the humid heat of Israel, Holland's weather is heavenly. The weather may not have seemed like anything special to the locals, but to us the cloudy sky, light drizzle and cool breeze was a form of therapy.

Once we recovered from the weather surprise - we begin to look around and notice the quaint little streets, canals and bicycles. Bicycles are everywhere - old ones, new ones, all sorts. What impresses me the most about the cyclists is that sturdiness with which they seem to travel - the bikes mostly have a very comfortable, old fashioned design - and the riders pedal slowly and seem to move almost effortlessly.  

Almost every sight one comes across is so breathtaking, they look like they should the subject of a postcard or puzzle. Streets and canals look so gorgeous, they should have rows of painters and photographers busy trying to capture them. The canal boat houses each have their own distinct characters, some new, some barely floating. There are many tourists about, but then why wouldn't there be. This place is special.



         

The challa stand-off

It wasn't that he could not understand me. My Hebrew might be shocking, but I manage to make myself understood with most Israeli’s. I could even say the Hebrew words without too much of an Anglo accent. So why was this guy not hearing the words coming out of my mouth? We just locked eyes and that was it. No one was going to back down. The last challa at the bakery and we each had a hand on it.
It was still warm from the oven and very soft. If either of us pulled, it would be the end of the challa. It was a true stalemate .. or should I say, fresh mate. The other shoppers around us were frozen in anticipation of what would happen next. You could have cut the tension. with a knife. A bread knife that is.  
Sheli - I repeated slowly. Surely he understood. That is Hebrew for ‘mine’ for those who don’t know the language. He growled and snarled, but I was not going to be scared off by these tactics. He had already tried the shouting thing, but I had held my ground. Israeli’s often make a lot of noise to get their way, but it’s just a scare tactic. Its the quiet Israelis you need to be scared of. So the staring and low growling went on.
It was time for my Anglo tactic and I switched to English. ‘Listen old chap, I had my hand on this challa before you did. Now you can let me have it or you can bend over and let me ram it up your behind’. The growling stopped as his brain attempted to register what I had just said. It had sounded polite enough and from the look in his eyes, I knew he had no idea what I had just said. The tactic had worked. I was now the superior being. He was a mere local. I was the one from over the great sea, from a land where people queued in single file and did not argue with policeman. In his confusion he lost focus and tried to behave more politely, even smiling slightly. It was then I slipped the challa out from under his hand and into my trolley. Shabbat Shalom bud!