linden

Having the drinking age in The Netherlands be sixteen is cool, I guess, for a lot of reasons, not the last being that we can go to bars and hang out and have drinks and everything. We went to the Linden last night, which for those of you reading this who don't know, is one of the bars in Well. It was our first real night here, so a lot of the castle kids headed down to legally purchase some beer, wine, or other assorted drink - but as we all speak only English and quite a lot of these Dutch people speak only Dutch (go figure), it was a little difficult to order anything but 'beer' or 'wine.'

(One of the problems, incidentally, with the low drinking age, at least according to straight men like Greg, is that "you can't feel safe checking out any of the girls because they might be sixteen!")

I'll tell the truth - I don't usually like beer. The taste just doesn't appeal to me - too tart, toosomething, I'm not quite sure. I think, though, beer tastes like whatever color it is. The lighter the beer, the lighter the taste - not in terms of... heaviness, but in terms of taste. Does that make sense? A very light beer tastes yellow. I had my first really dark beer last night and OH MY GOD. It didn't taste at all like any beer I'd ever had, It was sweet, tasted browner, like iced tea. Delectable.

The bartenders were all women last night, women with crooked teeth, huge smiles, and short spiky hair. Actually, come to think of it, a lot of these Dutch people have short, spiky hair. I tell you, the amount of hair product collectively in that room could probably grease... I actually don't know. What kinds of machines need grease? Printing presses? A lot of hair gel, is the point. That whole 'hair flat but flipped up in front' that caught on in fifth grade is apparently still cool in the Netherlands, especially with young boys.

Oh, yes, that's right, there were tons of children running around the bar.

That's because the people in Well are all preparing for Carnival - yes, that Carnival. (I think.) They take these things VERY seriously. They tell us they've been rehearsing for this thing for weeks. And we saw firsthand just how intense Carnival will be.

Let me back up a little.

So, we get there, and it appears to be a very normal bar - or at least it fits my mental image of a bar. Everything is made of smooth wood; a rich, deep brown, pockmarked with spots of darker brown. There is a light haze of cigarette smoke in the air, and the lights are dim and swinging from the ceiling; a bright, jarring yellow slot machine dings in the corner. It's nice, sure, and the bartenders are pleasant.

Then a man wearing a long blonde wig, purple lipstick, and a black skirt falling just below indecent wandered out of the bathroom.

It took just a second for us to double-take.

In the Linden, there is a door marked "Toilette," and going through it leads to a short hallway; two open doors lead to bathrooms on your right. Further down the hallway is a closed door. From behind the door was a muffled thump-thump of music. Like Harry Potter drawn to the door of the Department of Mysteries, so were we drawn to this closed mystery door.

We peeped, we peeked, and I don't think I can articulate in words what was going on behind that door.

It was a thudding in our ears and children with red and black facepaint running around in blue jumpsuits. Flashing rainbow lights and men in huge costumes and towering, shimmering hats. Screaming, yelling, singing along in Dutch -  oh my lord, was it ridiculous. Every so often, someone would wander out of the super secret rehearsal, bedecked in sparkles and streamers, would yammer in Dutch for a little while, then turn back to Narnia.

We weren't allowed in. A very large Dutch woman told Greg, my roommate, that he couldn't come in.

"No," she said, "you not in here. Back to your cafe."

Greg backed off quickly, or so I hear.

Those Dutch people sure are crazy.

In the bathroom, I was spoken to twice in Dutch by middle-aged men. The first asked me a question - while I was peeing, mind you, and I know that might be TMI, but deal with it because I'm not changing it. I looked at him for a second, and then tried to say "English" in Dutch - "Engles" - and he laughed. I must have succeeded, because he switched to English for the rest of our conversation. This is how that went:

Drunk Dutch Gentleman: "Ohhh - how are you?"

Brian: "???!!!??!?"

DDG: "You sleeping?"

Brian: (attempt at casual laughter) "No, not really."

DDG: "Carnival, ehhh?" (gestures in the direction of the Narnia party)

Brian: "Yeah, it sounds like fun."

DDG: "You no have Carnival, yes?"

Brian: "No, we don't."

DDG: "Ah. You will enjoy!"

Brian: "I'm sure I will!"

He then departed the bathroom and returned to the party. I paused to regain my bearings, then returned to the rainbow-light-less part of the bar.

A second time, I walked into the bathroom and it was a little more crowded, and a balding gentleman started garbling at me in Dutch, and didn't stop. I think he might have been trying to tell me all the toilets were taken, but he just. didn't. stop. So, awkwardly, I left.

I returned to a table where several friends were deep in conversation about Carnival with a jolly Dutch man named Oro. He was wearing a pointy periwinkle blue hat sequined with darker blue sparkles and decorated with blue and white tassels. It glittered and waved whenever he moved his head. Gold and silver medals danced and clacked on the lapels of his blue suit coat. He was, as we found out, the emcee of Carnival - a very big deal.

All around Well, we've been seeing this neon bird symbol, and one of us asked Oro what the deal was. He explained that every town has its own symbol for Carnival, and Well has the bird. Oro gestured to a carved wooden bird hanging around his neck.

Curious, Collin asked what the symbol for Venlo, a nearby city, is.

"Oh," said Oro. "You know. It is... the chicken, but... not the chicken with the wings." He flapped his arms here for effect. "The chicken... with the balls," he said, struggling for the word. "The one that... that fucks the chicken," he finished, thrusting his hips.

We all stared, slackjawed, laughing, and then Collin burst out, "A rooster?!"

"Yes!" cried Oro, hitting Collin on the arm. "Rooster!"

The one that fucks the chicken.

Chicken fuckers.

I mean, seriously.

Whoa. Okay.

I start class tomorrow, which blows my mind. It feels like such a vacation here.

I think I ought to peel back and give those of you who haven't been to the castle a better visual, so we'll talk more about that in a little bit.

Meanwhile..

We've (still) got the party with us.