So we visited Amsterdam, and we also walked its length and breadth, and now the time has come to sum up, which is characterized by three central elements: light, whiteness, and silence.
Why light? Because night there refuses to fall. At 9 pm they pray Mincha, and even then there is still a long hour until it starts to get dark. They don't sing "Night by Night the Moon Looks Out" to children. It's irrelevant when the sun is still shining. Why white? Well, Dutch people, they're all bright. That's probably why it's quiet, Don't be angry.
Example?
On the first day we tried to stop a shiny Mercedes taxi. Behind it was a kind of rickshaw, a driver who pedaled with two passengers behind him. The taxi driver signaled left and turned in our direction. Only then did the rickshaw, which was traveling at high speed, forcefully entered the taxi and the driver was slammed into the trunk lid, making a nice 'headlight' on it. We rubbed our hands and expected the familiar dialogue from the exit junction of the city, every city in Israel.
But then the taxi driver got out and said to the rider: What, you got stuck in the car hard, I stopped suddenly, huh?
"Yes," the rider said calmly, "my neck met your bumper, and my head was almost decapitated. I'm surprised I'm still conscious.".
I'm not sure your head was almost cut off, the taxi driver said pleasantly, at most you would have lost consciousness, crushed two vertebrae in your spinal cord and remained disabled for the rest of your life.
"That's right," said the cyclist, suddenly realizing he had completely exaggerated. "I shouldn't have gotten into the beheading part." The taxi driver stroked the impressive crease that had formed on his car, didn't ask the cyclist for details, and simply got in the taxi and drove away.
So did the cyclist, who continued to rub his aching neck. Did I exaggerate? Ask Izzo and Zalman, who were with me.
By the way, Atsu and Zalman were with me, I was less surprised.
After all, unlike them, I am European and aware of the European culture and atmosphere. I know this because I have a French burgundy passport.
It's true that I only accepted him because my father was also born in France, but from the moment I was adopted into his arms at the French Consulate in Jerusalem, I realized how different I am from the average Israeli.
Even when we arrived in the Netherlands, dozens of journalists, all of whom had to wait at passport control for about 57 minutes, and even the chief rabbi who was with us only passed through after 25 minutes.
They all met me sitting on the other side, where I was pushed after 10 seconds, thanks to my high-quality passport.
That's how we Europeans are, quieter, more efficient, and faster.
The only thing that clouded this was the fact that my wife, and also my father-in-law, who is always ready to help, repeatedly asked me not to walk next to them on the streets because I talk loudly, shout without paying attention, and arouse discontent towards them from the locals. Strange.
housewife
From there we continued to a cool, young hotel called Ibis (especially recommended for the religious among us, as besides the pleasant stay, it includes a kosher breakfast, a Shabbat key, and even a shabbat lamp. Yes, in Amsterdam), and on the way we realized something else.
The Dutch are polite, but as long as you don't step into their bike lane. There are more cyclists than cars in Amsterdam, and thousands of them cycle through the city on special lanes spread out at every corner and junction.
There is no greater sin than to tread on a path used by cyclists. I will never forget that dark-skinned man who was talking to his friend with his foot resting on the marked path. A nice Dutch housewife, in a plaid apron, who passed by on an old bicycle, smiled politely at us, then opened her mouth and a diarrhea of ugly curses in beautiful Dutch poured out of her mouth onto the dark-skinned man's head, who quickly leapt to land.
So what do we do in the Netherlands?
We go to Dam Square and from there we walk around the city. This is the recommendation everyone gave, and that's what we did.
Dam Square is a large square with a large monument in the middle, and huge ancient buildings surrounding it. You would assume that everyone would know what the monument is for, and millions of tourists from all over the world gather around it, but it turns out that this particular piece of information is quite absent from the tourist consciousness.
Opposite the monument stands the Royal Palace building, which we were told is ancient, and that's a good thing. A dog wouldn't call these gray stones a palace. Next to it is the famous Madame Tussauds museum, where you can meet and even touch wax figures of the world's greats.
That's how we met Merkel, Obama, Einstein, and several other exemplary figures who enriched the world with their intellect. Mrs. Adele was also there, and several dozen other Dutch singers, who, apart from the guards at the place who seemed surprised when we asked their names, no one knew who we were talking about.
Of course, we sailed through the many canals that crisscross the city, and we kept asking ourselves: why is the water green, and does anyone live in the beautiful, endless houses on the riverbank, or do we only see their facades, which are intended for tourists, and behind them there is nothing but mountains of garbage and Dutch children who die laughing at the innocent tourists.
Addictive substances are sold on every corner, and the Israelis we met were proud that they had tried everything, and were mainly angry about the fact that drugs are illegal in the country, and a few other things we couldn't quite understand from their happy smiles.
This finally made it clear to me why the Green Leaf Party will never pass the electoral threshold, as long as Israelis abroad cannot vote.
Amsterdam also offers a visit to the Anne Frank House, but you have to make a reservation in advance or wait hours. To be honest, as an Israeli who passed by the place on a bicycle told me: What's special about the place is the fact that it's the only one in the world, other than that, there's nothing else there.
I thought about his words and realized how much depth there is in them. Niagara Falls, the Eiffel Tower, the Dead Sea, and the Statue of Liberty are also nothing more than boring sites, apart from the fact that they are unique in their field.
What's more, there is a fishing village called Zaansa Sahans that God has touched.
So beautiful. You ride there on a bike and feel like you're in an endless postcard. The only thought that bothers you is the fishermen themselves from the 19th century, who must have lived in mud, filth, waded in their ugly national wooden clogs - what happened to those shoes? - and ate pale Dutch fish, until the authorities arrived and turned the place into a paradise on earth in the 21st century.
The locks again
In the Netherlands, unlike France and the US, we hardly met any Muslims. A stall with halal slaughter, for example, only came across our path once. On the other hand, we didn't exactly see any Jews either, if you ignore, of course, a nameless man on the train who talked to himself constantly, and every two minutes came up to me and said, "Peace be upon you." The third time I suggested he switch to "Welcome, peace be upon you," but he missed the joke.
There is a Jewish area called Amstelveen, where there are a few kosher restaurants and also a kosher section in the local supermarket. At the restaurant I ate hummus with meat, paid a few euros, and then the owner of the restaurant, a dear Jew named David, approached me and informed me that on Sunday afternoon he was inviting all the Jews in the area to a free, all-inclusive meal in honor of Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai.
But on Sunday morning I'm flying through Belgium, I told him with deep sadness, and picked some more meat from the hummus.
On Shabbat, David told me, you can pray with us, in the small Portuguese synagogue.
The synagogue received its name because of its difference from the Great Portuguese Synagogue, which is considered one of the most magnificent in Europe. The synagogue, David told me, can be found near the police building.
He was right, except he forgot to tell us that police buildings in the Netherlands look like small fishermen's huts on stilts.
It's a bit hard for a person with a head full of criminal thoughts not to think that a police building measuring five feet by five feet [exactly!], placed on four pillars in the middle of the street, doesn't really deter thieves. Only the descent down the stairs from the shed gives the thief time to escape the area.
And what happens when it comes to a gang of three thieves, how will they enter the police 'structure'?
Anyway, after some detective work, we identified the police building and searched for the synagogue. Then a young man approached us and asked if we needed help.
Yes, we answered, the synagogue. It turns out he was from security.
Who invited you? Mr. Shemesh, we answered. What is his first name? I wasn't sure.
Uncle? I tried.
"That's right," the young man suddenly said in Hebrew with a wide, artificial smile that gave me positive reinforcement.
But then he continued, in English, since 'true' was the only word he knew in the Holy Language: Where did you meet David? What is your hotel? How did you get here? Who is Iris? Who is she really? After we gave him answers that satisfied him, he opened two doors with locks and allowed us to enter.
I have written about this many times in Tory, but I am forced to do it again. To hell with overseas and the abundance that comes with it. To hell with the silence, the light, and the white faces of the Dutch.
Jews everywhere in Europe have to enter their synagogues with a troublesome young man and go through two locks? Prefer Modiin Illit and Guterman.
Even when I was there for the European Rabbinical Conference, security personnel took us out of the synagogue in small groups. "A large gathering of Jews is dangerous, we don't take any chances," they explained.
The prayer was beautiful, and I loved the top hats that the reciters and the Portuguese cantor wear. I understood less of the many blessings in pure Portuguese that were said during the prayer, and I loved that the rabbi raised me to the Torah and proclaimed in this language: The Most High Eliezer, son of Aaron David, will stand.
Exactly.
I didn't like that he called everyone that, including a young, single guy with a knitted kippah we met at the hotel, and it was obvious he was having trouble paying for breakfast.
I really liked that the worshippers performed a 'Mei Shebrach' and sang for one of the members of the congregation who was about to travel, but I was left a little confused when the collector explained that the song was about 'we are glad he is traveling.'.
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