We were supposed to wake up Tuesday morning, rent a car, and drive to Belgium to the cemetary where my only living grandmother’s brother was buried. Happy’s brother, who died in his early twenties, was fighting in WWII when he was killed in action, on a boobytrapped bridge. He left her at home when he was a late teenager and she never saw him again. Now, with the power of the internet and the databasing by the U.S. government, our family was able to find where in Europe he was ultimately buried: in Belgium.
I’ve got to admit that my sister and I really dodged a bullet. After rowing the boat for 8 hours yesterday we both woke up super cranky and still super tired. It was almost a blessing that in Europe they rent automatic cars for twice the price as manual cars. The price was a super deterrent. I could just imagine the two of us in our worst moods having to work together to navigate the highways and byways of the European highway system to get to a small-town cemetary in Belgium. It would have been disaster.
The signs were all against us. For one, the day before I had ran out of my cigarettes from home, Pall Mall Nonfilters. It was a sign of foreboding. I had to pick up a pack of the Filters, with European tobacco. Europeans don’t know tobacco like North Americans know tobacco, and it can be kind of embarassing. I know this, because at the party my sister threw on Saturday night I had a conversation about American produce that really drew a strong reaction. I was talking to a man named Rudy who looks exactly like Sylvester Stallone.
Yes I had just smoked part of a joint and had jovially drank beers all night, but I did commit a major faux pas. In the heat of conversation I mentioned to him that corn was the stimuli for the American agricultural revolution. Corn itself does not self-propogate: an animal or a human must strip the corn of its husks so that the seeds can disperse. Europe and Afrika had no corn, knew no corn, were barren of corn before the Americas were discovered, and because of our history, Corn is Amerika. I merely mentioned this in passing conversation and drew the considerable irration of Rudy, the Italian Stallion (he’s really Italian).
He said to me, “How is that joint and beer combination making you feel?” What I wanted to say, but didn’t, because I really enjoyed liked this young Rocky Balboa, was… “How does it make you feel that no North America, no corn for you?” He said it, and I did not, and I took it, and did not dish it out… Even though I love corn and tobacco. But I think I digress. So Monday I smoked my last Pall Mall Unfiltered cigarette.
The same day I learned that my bank had put the Netherlands on its “Blocked” list because of fraud. They told me, straight up, on the phone, that I could not withdraw any of my money because of their policy. I have been a Wainwright customer for five years, and I told them so, yet they offered no alternative action, even though I declared it an emergency. So I would have been driving the car with my sister navigating, both of us overtired and cranky, me with no money, none of my cigarettes… it is almost like the script for an updated version of “Godzilla Versus All Monsters.”
Thankfully, because of the insane price in Europe to rent an automatic car, we chose not to. I napped for four hours, we hit the town and got ice cream. My sister bought me Gene Wilder’s autobiography for reading on… the train. That’s right. Tomorrow we take the train to Belgium, and when we get to the correct station, the United States Military will pick us up and take us to the cemetary to see our family’s deceased. Don’t tell me we don’t pay taxes for nothing. Serendipity has been re-affirmed as a way of living.
Tuesday night I went into the Hall of the Lion for a night cap. Three scotches later, I had made good friends with the current bartender and a former bartender at the establishment. (By the way, if you think that’s a lot, I am writing this right after, and I tell you they pour about a third a shot over ice per drink and charge you accordingly. Three scotches in the U.S. would be ridiculous.) I get home and find that my bank has responded to my email and has opened up my ATM and PIN options for the Netherlands, and offers deep apologies.
Tomorrow I get on the train and read Gene Wilder’s autobiography, “Kiss Me Like I’m A Stranger,” which my sister bought for me today at the American Book Center. I pay my respects to my grandmother Happy’s brother Joseph, because she cannot be there, and take pictures. Courtesy of the American Military. Then tomorrow night I take Kate, my sister, out on the town with my own damn money to make up for the damage to her checking account. That is not just serendipity… welcome to the hall of the lion.
(Note on photography: Pictured are myself, my sister Kate, friends Erica and Jason, and a new friend I met tonight, Madoka. Also pictured is a big black cat, perhaps named Betty (if it is indeed the cat in the missing posters), perhaps not. Sometimes “Betty” is photographed behind glass, creating the impression of a “ghost-cat.” Don’t worry, it’s really only Betty.)
Connecticut’s state motto is “Qui Transtulit Sustinet” meaning “He Who Transplanted Still Sustains.” I apply this to your departpure from Europe. Miss you C-Kat, but the visit sustains me yet!