Groningen
I like street food. Sure, it’s fun to lounge in a high-end restaurant, savoring the victuals, but who’s got the time? Just think, you can buy a morsel of mouthwatering food right on the street and go on your merry way, barely missing a beat, and it’s cheap!
But not everything’s mouthwatering. How do you choose?
I finished a master class at the Conservatory. No, Mr. Mustard did not kill anybody with a dagger, it’s a music school behind the Oosterpoort, where most of the meetings took place. I spoke to managers, for the government. Outside the United States every country has its hands in the arts. I believe in letting the commercial world decide who’s rewarded, then again, the Netherlands sees the benefit in exporting its culture.
And I learned some interesting stuff. Like Angus Young lives in the Netherlands, he’s married to a Dutch woman. Don’t forget, the Netherlands is where the heavyweights go to stash their cash. People like the Rolling Stones and U2. Technically, I think it’s the Dutch Antilles, but you can be rich in the Netherlands, top tax rate is now only thirty two percent. And no one bitches about paying taxes. Because of what you get back. I spoke with these dudes from Denmark, there the tax rate is fifty percent and there’s a twenty five percent tax on purchases…but the quality of life is oh-so-high. And everybody’s equal. A far cry from our American society where the gap is so wide that no entertainer can bridge it. Look at it this way, Bon Jovi made $108 million on the road last year, they were number one. And if you split the money into four equal shares, which Bon Jovi doesn’t, not every player gets the same amount, you end up with net…not equal to $20 million a band member. Bankers make this each and every year! Which might be why rockers are whored out to corporations. If you really want to take a stand, don’t sell out, be yourself, make it about art first…but then you might end up poor, and that wasn’t the dream.
Anyway, when I exited the Conservatory I had about ninety minutes to kill, so I walked to the center of town where I was confronted with the decision whether to climb the Martini Tower. On one hand it was like Everest, it was there, on the other hand the sky was gray and about to spit rain and what was there to see anyway?
I prayed that the tickets were really expensive so I could rationalize not climbing. But when it turned out it only cost three euros, how could I say no?
Have you seen "The Hunchback Of Notre Dame"? It could have been filmed at the Martini Tower.
I pass through the gate and I’m confronted with the narrowest of brick staircases. Which looked like it hadn’t been maintained since construction, centuries ago. I’m thinking the tower’s gonna collapse upon me, then again, what are the odds it’s gonna happen today? But then I get concerned I’m gonna get claustrophobia and freak out or pass out and like Humpty Dumpty fall all the way to the bottom. It could happen, the stairway is just that steep. And circular. This better not be the same way down.
But it is. What’s the etiquette when patrons are descending? If I’ve got nothing to hold on to…
Oh, I forgot to tell you, as I’m winding up and up I’m holding on to a rope. There’s no railing. This ain’t the stinkin’ United States. Hell, in the U.S. the tower would have long ago been condemned, replaced by a parking lot or a fast food restaurant encased in a miniature rendition of the edifice.
You see in America, we’ve got trust. Someone’s looking out for us. But who’s looking out for me in the Netherlands?
And the rope… It’s wet. Because it’s always raining here. It’s like I can feel 17th century precipitation oozing from the hemp. When was the last time they replaced this thing? And I’m getting dizzy…
I’ll turn around.
But then I’ll be afraid of claustrophobic walkways forever more, unable to traverse them, so I soldier on. Up and up and up…
And I get to a landing. Where they’ve got giant bells. And I’m walking on WOOD! Can’t they lay some concrete? Wood rots, I could fall right through!
And I keep going up until I finally reach the top. Where I can’t find my way out. Eventually I find some shutters and emerge into the vastness. I’d like to tell you the view was spectacular, but I was feeling so damn good about my accomplishment it didn’t matter.
And I’d like to tell you the descent was easy. But I learned that when someone was coming up you had to let go of the rope, it was only fair. And that Dutchmen must have been munchkins centuries ago, because I’m almost always about to bump my head. And it makes no sense, because one surprising thing about Dutch people is how TALL they are.
I felt racist, I thought it was only me. Then I was talking to Matt from CMJ, and he’s 6’2", and he said he had trouble seeing over heads at gigs, that he heard someone complain that they couldn’t reach the urinals. So now I’ve got confirmation. We think the U.S. is the master race, that we’re the tallest because we’ve got the best food, but you’ll forget all this when you come to the Netherlands. And Matt said Groningen is the tallest of the tall. A tall tale? I don’t know.
And now I needed sustenance. And what they’ve got on the plaza are all these trailers, manned by people in white coats. In America, street food…you’ve got to overlook the grunge. But here, all the purveyors and their rolling establishments were spic-and-span.
But I wanted something healthy, and Viennese Frites wouldn’t do the trick. So I kept wandering until I found a stand selling nuts. Yes, I’ll buy some trail mix. Then I realized this vendor was selling pet food.
But when I turned around, they were selling chocolate "Wafels". You know those cookies, the really soft ones that snap so easily, with one waffle-imprinted wafer on either side and cream in the middle? It was like that. But big and round and real waffle and chocolate in the middle. Pure heaven. A ten. Warm to boot.
But I needed protein. But I was afraid of too many of the meats. Especially since there were no lines to buy them.
But I noticed a crowd at the fish trailer. Run by a family. I knew it was a family, because they called the older woman "Mum". I stood there long enough until I figured it out. They’d fry fish for you right on the spot.
Well, that’s not too healthy, but they’ve got shrimp.
But I can’t read the menu.
But even this kid spoke English. Makes you feel inadequate that you don’t know their language…
And I paid three euros and got him to fry up some shrimp, meanwhile everybody else is consuming these giant slabs of fish, I mean whole fish, served on brown cardboard plates. And then my shrimp came. And they were good, but what put it over the top was the sauces. There were multiple varieties, and they were better than anything you’d get at a roadside stand in the States.
So now I’m feeling proud of myself, having figured out how to get fed, so I go to the cleanest, longest trailer around, the bakery trailer. Confronted with too many choices I ended up with this kind of blueberry muffin, which they rolled in sugar, which promptly blew all over me and my jacket, but I was smiling, I felt like a real Dutchman.
