Foreign Police, Flapping Blankets, and Bulls

Bet it's the first time those words have been put together...

Yes, today was the day--my turn to be "interviewed" by the Nederlandse Vreemdelingenpolitie, the Foreign Police. The summons came a couple of weeks ago, in a polite but firm letter designed not to be ignored. The promised outcome of the interview: bedrijfsdocument afhalen, literally "haul off a residence permit". Oke, dan.

Drive from work around Bussum to the Bussum Zuid station, take the stoptrein to Hilversum, a five-minute ride. Lunch downtown Hilversum, window shopping since I was early and it poured rain and the foreign police were only two blocks away. The rain stopped just in time. The sign inside the open door read Neem uw nummertje en a.u.b. door de deur...take a little number and through the door...something. I took one of those little pull-tab numbers and took a seat in the waiting room. The three doors all read spreekkamer, speaking-room. A Russian woman (by her newspaper, the newspaper someone's carrying is always the best indicator of nationality) came out of one room, and the door shut. A waiting French woman offered "alstublieft" and I just went in. Offered my passport, the woman behind the desk took it somewhere, returned to hand me a card the size of a US driver's licence and cheerily offered, "Daag" which in this situation would be Dutch for "we're done here, you can get the hell out." You don't have to tell me twice. My "interview" with the fearsome Dutch Foreign Police was not more than 5 words in not more than 45 seconds. I went outside. It was beautiful. The permit is good for three years, I'll be here one. Just a Dutch driver's licence (don't ask me to spell it in Dutch), and that will be all the bureaucracy. All. OK, that's worth a Heineken.

A few short bike rides recently. The best was the shortest, just around Naarden, the water-encircled fortress town.

I found a nice place to bring a chair and maybe read or write on nice days, of which we will still have a few.
 

I don't want to rub it in or anything, but the weather here is just gorgeous--if you like it cool. As I write this it is the First of September, and I have a blanket on my legs. The windows all closed against the north wind.
 

Standing firm on the spot from which I took the above two photos, I turned to see, flapping in the breeze, this blanket. It was hanging there, on public grounds, for no one's benefit that I could tell. Except mine, I suppose. What worries me (not really) about living here is that little pleasures, anonymous considerations like this, like flowers hung on a fence for no American-style business purposes whatever, the utter lack of billboards (except a few on the major motorways which I avoid anyway), are beginning to make quiet sense to me. No wonder people here can think--they don't always have "BuyBuyBuy" screamed at them. "Hey, it's a nice Sunday afternoon, why don't we hang a colorful blanket in the middle of nowhere?--Ja, that works!" Don't analyze it--if it seems OK and no one will get hurt...try it. I wonder if the ever-practical Dutch don't feel they should secret away their odd flights of fancy. But the flights are there if you look. And it's generally an invitation rather than a pushing. It's very easy to get used to.
 

OK--I warned you about this, a few days ago, on this very blog. I thought I was so smart to pedal down to Hilversum one evening, to see in advance where the Foreign Police office was. These guys got there first. I didn't whistle, but I did just pedal between them as non-threateningly as I could. Nervous about escaping them should it come to that?. I remind Gentle Reader that one of the first sentences they teach you in Dutch 101 is "De stier rent."--The bull runs. Well, the bulls were not much impressed. Which was fine. Obviously I lived to inflict more of this on you.