Several years ago on a quickly planned trip to Europe with
my wife, we caught a taxi in Amsterdam to take us back to our hotel because the
temperature was starting to drop and icy cold rain was beginning to fall. Being proudly from the southeastern United
States, where the fact that driving an American made two and a half-ton SUV is
a birthright, the use of a taxi is something generally reserved for infrequent
rides to and from airports for vacations and trips for business, or as the
responsible choice to take us home after celebratory events at the local watering
hole. And on those rare times when we
cannot find a willing victim to pick us up when our freedom ride is in the shop
for repairs, begrudgingly we enlist the services of a car for hire to take us
to our home or office. On these rare
occasions when we opt for this mode of transportation, we are most often
treated to a ride in an older car or mini van that looks like something used as
a battering ram in a demolition derby on a Saturday night. The interiors of these horseless carriages
are fabric-upholstered repositories for the contents of coffee cups, traces of
assorted petroleum derived products, and God forbid, the remains of biological
matter that has uncontrollably found the quickest way out, of its human
exporter.
On this September night in the capital city of The Netherlands,
after the national soccer team had just successfully advanced in a European
championship qualifier, the streets were filled with beer soaked celebrants,
dressed in numerous sweaty layers of team colored attire. Though the colors were not the purple, green
and gold, which adorn the drunken masses during carnival season in the French Quarter,
any resident of the Crescent City area would liken this to the revelry of a
weekend night during Mardi Gras. We had
walked to the central market area of the city from a high-rise hotel, where our
room on the eighth floor overlooked Olympic Stadium through its wall-high
casement window, with a bird’s-eye view of the field. Feeling that most familiar sense of emptiness
in my stomach that is no stranger to my personal composition, we happened upon
a traditional Dutch bakery that was about to close for the night. In something that could be compared to an
impromptu live auction at a charity ball, where small items not receiving a
minimum offer are sacrificed to the lowest bidder at the end of the gala;
marvelous pastries, succulent breads, and premium sandwiches, with what to
Americans would be the finest of imported meats and cheeses, were ceremoniously
offered to those fortunate passersby, willing to offer but mere ducats on the
guilder to partake of an international feast.
After having a quick bite there on the street and departing
with an eco-friendly, rope handled sack, teeming with day-old baked goods for
an impending train ride the following morning; we continued to walk about the
famous and infamous streets that lined this beautiful city of large tulip
gardens and intricate canals. With the laid-back
attitude and the beaming pride of the populous, which embraces their unique
culture with the exuberance of full participation, one could not help but think
of Amsterdam as a much tidier, more cosmopolitan version of New Orleans. As I was walking, mouth agape, admiring certain
storefront wares through picture windows of nighttime businesses that were
signified by the use of a red light above the door, my more attractive and
annoyed better half, was repeatedly pushing my chin upward so as to close the
hole between my lips and below my nose, and pulling me towards other merchants,
whose transactions tended to provide goods whose use was not often followed by
a round of antibiotics and a possible lifetime of physical and mental scarring.
In an effort to stem what could have been a slight but very
intense tongue lashing from the lovely Vicki, I hastened to direct our
eye-opening stroll toward the district of urban residences whose architecture
is the most simplistic form of old-world charm.
Just as one sees from the windows of a luxurious compartment in a
Pullman car travelling through the suburban areas of Germany and Switzerland on
Eurail, every house is well-ordered, complete with flowering window boxes and
some artifact or trait that allows the observer to know that the residence is
closer to the age of the birth of our nation than houses that fill the tract
plots, speckling the landscape of our relatively young cities. The edifices of government buildings,
museums, and some of the older businesses that share the same geography as
these homes, have taken their design cues and similarities from this type of
architecture and help to complete a scene that is quite pleasing to see, yet
even more rewarding to experience by passing through their doors and regaling
the natural elements that encompass the walls, the floors and the intricate
detail of their finishes. Seeing the
many unique details and viewing the finest work of supreme artisans in such a
volume and in a relatively short span of time, can give one’s already acute
hypersensitivity a case of sensory overload and create an urgent need to
retreat the surroundings in order to digest and appreciate what they have just
experienced.
It was at this point we stepped out into the rapidly
changing elements and opted for a cab ride back to our hotel, with its inviting
goose down comforter on a heavenly cloud of fine European bedding and American
style bath suite. I hailed the taxi and
caught the attention of its modest, yet dapper middle-aged driver. As he pulled to the curb I could see that the
sedan he was piloting was a 300 series Mercedes Benz. He immediately scurried to the right rear of
the car, smiling ever so graciously and opened the door for my wife. Upon closing the door and in the same fashion
as before, he hurriedly retook his place at the wheel and asked where he might
be able to take us. I sputtered the name
of our hotel, still drunk from the spirit that was the grandeur of what I had just
seen. With certain purpose, yet the precision
of a master, the cab driver pressed down on the accelerator and the car smoothly
glided on its way to our chosen location.
When asked why a Mercedes was used as a common livery vehicle, without
hesitation and almost as if on cue, he said that he owned this car and like
many other cabbies who own their cars in Europe, the Mercedes was chosen
because of its quality, its longevity and due to the ready availability of
professional service and parts. He then
quickly interjected, as if he knew what I was going to say next, and relayed
that he knew that in the US, never would such a car be used as a livery
vehicle, other than for limousine service.
He further added that he knew the Benz was considered a luxury car in
the States, but due to the way the cars were equipped without the luxury
features and with manual transmissions on the European stripped down, livery
version, they were much more affordable in Amsterdam, than was the 300 series Mercedes,
available in America.
Quite knowledgeable about the history and politics of his own
country, the whole of the European continent, and much of the USA, he smiled
when added that the punitive and the regressive import tariffs that we have on
foreign automobiles also adds much to the cost in our country, but it also adds
to the allure of owning a piece of German craftsmanship.
We were getting close to our destination and we almost hated
to leave the company of such an interesting, witty and learned man. I could not help but tell him how beautiful
and lovely was his country and how hospitable the people were. I further added how much we appreciated the
friendliness of his people and though we have traveled to other beautiful
places in Europe such as Lucerne, Naples and Paris, no group of people were as
friendly to us as a whole, than were the citizens of The Netherlands. Thanking me in earnest, regarding my comments
to him, but with the same unimposing smile and that same dry wit he had
enlisted when making his passive, humorous comment about import tariffs; he
turned to us in the back seat as he put the car in park, looked at us directly,
and shared one more bit of his Dutch wisdom.
“There are many beautiful cities in Europe and those you named truly are
some of the most beautiful. But if you
remember only one thing I have said on our short ride back to your hotel
tonight, let this be it: God made Paris
the most beautiful city in the world; but so as not to make the rest of the cities
in the world feel jealous, or short changed, he put the French people there to
even it out, so people everywhere in the world could always feel good about
where they live, no matter where that may be.”
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