This morning, at an hour way too early to be discussing the King of Pop, I found myself on the receiving end of a series of condolences from my classmates on the death of Michael Jackson.
Then I tried to explain (in broken Dutch) that I while appreciated the sentiment, I'm not feeling particularly devastated about his death, that it doesn't really matter to me one way or another. I'm mean, of course I'm not happy that he's dead, it's just that — oh, never mind. Condolences accepted.
Maybe I'm just a cold person / bad dancer, but my most emotional reaction to the news was my immense relief about not being in the U.S. to live through a harrowing 72+ hours of news coverage and tribute film.
I do feel the need to come out of the closet and disclose that Thriller was my very first cassette tape. Though it came about only after some friends of our family — who were probably exactly 7 and 9 years old — expressed scorn-laced disbelief that I hadn't even heard of Michael Jackson.
Twentysomething years later, I think this proves once and for all that you can take the girl out from under a rock, but you can't take the living under a rock out of the girl.
Those thrilling (ha!) conversations this morning were just the icing on the cake after a weekend of exploring some of the Netherlands' weirder attractions with our friends Josh and Eugenie.
On Saturday, we ventured into the thriving metropolis of Malden, to the De Muse Accordion and Harmonica Museum, Shop, and Cafe. Which was even more awesome than it sounds.
The owner gave us a tour and a detailed tutorial on how accordions work, during which which we all — four musician-types who have day jobs as a mathematician, physicist, physics-leaning engineer and other (me, though technically speaking, I don't have a day job) — listened enthusiastically and asked a million questions.
At one point, Eugenie asked yet another question about the placement of the holes inside the accordion. Mr. Accordion narrowed his eyes at her and asked "What is your field, exactly?" We surmised at that point that most visitors just smile and nod and then ask him to play a polka.
Prickly-but-charming Dutch accordion makers notwithstanding, the museum is a heady melange of harmonicas, accordions, concertinas, bandoneóns, and their brethren:
Plus a requisite diorama, a handful of scary clowns, posters from the heyday of accordion music, and — o sweet oasis in the land of big government! — the Gipper's own personal harmonica.
On Sunday, we went for broke by taking our maiden voyage on Nijmegen's Pannekoekenboot — a.k.a. a 2 1/2-hour pancake cruise on the River Waal.
With all-you-can-eat pancakes. And a narrated tour (in Dutch) of the "sights" along the Waal. And beer. And about 427 Dutch children.
I have to say: I don't think I hadn't really lived until I had spooned an mind-boggling assortment of sprinkles onto a pancake under the watchful breasts of a wooden mermaid. While floating down one of Europe's main commercial shipping channels.
