I just recently received the e-mail below, and I thought I'd post a quick call for help on behalf of my friends working to organize Serve the City:

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Just a few weeks ago project sign ups began for Serve the City. Currently we have about 200 volunteers who have signed up to take part in the projects. This is great news but we still need 150 more volunteers to make Serve the City reach it's full potential! If you haven't already signed up for a project, we invite you to come join us in serving.

This year Serve the City consists of 32 projects such as: preparing dinner for the homeless, pampering women from a woman's shelter, canal cruise with the elderly, raising funds for a refugee help organization, children's party in the Bijlmer and Bos en Lommer, collecting food for the Food Bank, gardening at an elderly care center, helping disabled people in practical ways, and much more.

Come have fun serving and make a difference in the life of someone in need. You can go to our website to see all the different projects and sign up for one, two, three, or even four projects. Even if you're not able to do a project we ask you to forward this email to your friends, colleagues, neighbors, family members, etc, who you think might be interested in the project.

On Monday, May 12th, we're having a festival with live bands and free food for everyone involved in the project. We hope to see you there!

Click here to see the projects
Website: www.stcamsterdam.nl

We come from six different countries. Our "day jobs" cover the spectrum from literature professor to student to waitress to pastor. Our creative interests vary from memoirs to film scripts to short stories. But we all have one thing in common: We like to write.

For the last six months or so, I've been getting to know a small circle of aspiring artists who -- like myself -- have long enjoyed writing as a hobby, but who are now looking to improve their skills and put their stuff "out there" a bit more. We found each other through a collective of international writers in the city of Amsterdam called wordsinhere (and through word-of-mouth, as things developed), and there are now ten of us who meet together as a "fiction critique group" every other Monday evening, in a small cafe in the Jordaan.

Last night, we met in the home of one of the members of our group, where we were treated to an Indian Tea and some wonderful homemade Indian snacks. A number of the members from our group couldn't make it yesterday (so unfortunately, they didn't make it in the pictures), but we really had a fun time together.

I'm going to miss being involved in the group this summer, while I'm gone in the United States...

We initiated Cor to what's become a bit of an annual tradition with our family -- riding out to Holland's Flower Region, to take a look at the colorful fields stretching out miles and miles in every direction.  For some reason, Dutch people do not seem to get too excited about all the tulips, daffodils, and hyacinths.  It's considered a silly tourist activity.  Very few make a point to visit the fields at this time of the year.  Surprisingly few have ever witnessed the flower fields of their homeland first-hand.  It's almost to the point that even an extended glance out of the train window is considered shameful gawking.

But our family is not Dutch. :-)

So each year, for the last four years, we've gone out with all the other tourists to take pictures in the flower fields.  It's one of the most unique and beautiful experiences in the Netherlands, if you ask me.

Prior to this year, however, we had always gone out in the late morning / early afternoon time frame, enjoying a picnic lunch somewhere and all that good stuff.  But this year, we decided to travel out in the evening hours -- partly to take advantage of the softer, more golden sunlight that falls across the landscapes at this time of day, and partly to adapt to Cor's nap schedule and the general logisitical challenges of now being a family of five.

Unfortunately, we got stuck in a massive traffic jam, as dozens and dozens (if not hundreds) of tour buses and other vehicles poured out of the Keukenhof -- apparently at its closing time.  Keukenhof is like the Disneyworld of flowers -- highly hyped, highly visited (by people from all corners of the globe), and highly priced.  We've been there before, and enjoyed it... until we discovered that simply driving through the open fields is actually nicer (and a heck of a lot cheaper).  But I had forgotten how much hassle the traffic there can be -- especially if you go during the "rush hour" (which we haven't in the last three years, but unintentionally did this evening).  It was ridiculous.  The situation actually made me start to understand the Dutch perspective on the flower/tourist industry in that part of the country at that time of the year.

We weren't able to get nearly as many photos as we have in previous years -- mostly due to the traffic thing, but also due to the family-of-five logistics thing.  But still, out of the pictures that we did get to take, there were a few keepers (as you can see from this post).  And all in all, we had a good time together.

Next time, we'll just have to remember to pack our tourist repellent. 

Amsterdam is not a city of superlatives. Oh, I'm sure the folks at the VVV or the "I amsterdam" campaign could work up some statistics that would show how Amsterdam is the biggest or best at something. But the fact of the matter is that Amsterdam is not an inherrently "grand" city. Beautiful? Yes. Interesting? Absolutely. But let's face it: Amsterdam is not a city built to impress.

The city's "illustrious antiquity" is not self-evident -- as it so clearly is
in Rome, or Athens, or Beijing. Rather, the oldest buildings in the city date
back to the end of the Middle Ages (though there aren't many that even go back this far). There is very little in the way of massive monuments -- like you'd find in Paris, or Washington, or Moscow -- celebrating the city's or the society's greatness. The tallest structures in Amsterdam are stubby office buildings and hotels, very practical and proper, and if you were to look down from the top of one of these "tall" buildings, you would see a very sporadically sprawled, mismatched, happenstance arrangement of architecture spanning the last five centuries. The labyrinthine avenues worming through the city -- cutting thin channels through buildings stacked four, five, or six stories tall, just about everywhere -- are certainly fascinating and intriguing... But they are not impressive.

Consider this:  Commission any ten people to buy you "the quintessential" postcard representing the city of Amsterdam, and I'd be surprised if you got more than two or three that were depicting the same scene.

As any true Amsterdammer knows, the strength of the city lies in its incomparable ordinariness in the midst of its incredible diversity. By looking at a collection of scattered samples of items that more-or-less fall within the same category, one gets a better idea of the city. Taking fifty portraits, if you will, to get a single impression of Amsterdam.  But even then, the impressions of the city are never complete. They are constantly evolving. Stereotypes and clichés and slogans must be brushed back like the dust and cobwebs of a forgotten attic -- and then, only then, by way of glimpses stolen through the chinks and cracks and hidden crannies of honest everyday acquaintance can one begin to know Amsterdam. Not completely -- never with truly divine omniscience -- but more intimately, and increasingly more meaningfully.

In order to see Amsterdam through the eyes and ears of Amsterdammers, one needs to examine the images and stories of the city, uncluttered, stripped of any presumed glamour and grandiosity. But because Amsterdam is a mystical and spiritual city, we cannot help but be awed and impressed. The everyday gives way to the ethereal. And the small slivers of humanity, grasped and glimpsed through the tiniest of ever-moving spaces, illuminate the true greatness of Amsterdam and the presence of God in the city.

As of 1:11 PM (13:11), my e-mail inbox has been completely emptied!  It's not likely to last for long (it's been several months since the last time)... but it's a nice feeling while I've got it.

I'm all about the little triumphs in life. :-) 

Courage and strength.  Courage and strength... I remember this anthem from the beginnings of the Book of Joshua -- but I never really realized that these refrains were being instilled all the way back at the beginning of Deuteronomy as well.  God must have known that these would need to be important armaments for the people of Israel (and particularly the leader of the people of Israel), as they set out on their great campaign to claim the Promised Land.

Courage and strength.  Courage and strength.  In Deuteronomy chapter 1, Moses is told to build up Joshua's courage, in light of the fact that it would be he who would claim Israel's inheritance (Deuteronomy 1:37-40).  In chapter 3, soon after reminding Moses that a glimpse from the top of Mount Pisgah would be the closest that he'd ever get to the Promised Land, God commands Moses to command Joshua:  "Give him courage.  Give him strength.  Single-handed he will lead this people across the river.  Single-handed he'll cause them to inherit the land at which you can only look" (Deuteronomy 3:28).

Courage and strength.  Courage and strength.  It's so necessary for leadership.  It's so necessary for life.  The reiteration of these themes -- summed up in Joshua's "inaugural address" and its repeated charge to "Be strong and courageous" -- has been a powerful encouragement to me throughout the years.  I remember reading the first chapter of Joshua just after I had initially made the decision to go into full-time ministry.  I was facing the intimidating process of raising funds to cover the costs of my ministry in Bowling Green -- and those words from Joshua were life and hope and power to my weak and trembling body.  Courage!  Strength!  I felt empowered by those reminders, and incredibly, God showed up in those days of fund-raising -- enabling a gangly, green, college-graduate to complete the process in about five months.

The encouragements toward courage and strength again came into play some four years later, as I was preparing to move to Amsterdam.  The Atlantic Ocean felt like such a wide and impossible barrier (probably because it was, on the practical level!) -- but then, again "coincidentally" reading through the stories of Joshua's conquest of the Promised Land, I was freshly reminded of God's miraculous interventions to help His people cross the Jordan River (which was, to the Israelites, just as impossible a barrier as my Atlantic Ocean).  Courage and strength!  Courage and strength!  I felt my blood pump faster and more fully through my veins, as I read those words.  Eating up those words from the first chapter of Joshua was like Pacman munching on a power pellet, or Popeye popping a can of spinach, or the Gummi Bears gulping a vial of Gummi Berry Juice.  Somehow, reading the command to be strong and courageous actually made me stronger.  I actually became more courageous.  And then God showed up again, and the Mission Impossible suddenly became the Mission Accomplished.  We raised another boat-load of support.  We sold our house.  We crossed the Atlantic, quite literally, and settled down in the city of Amsterdam.  Again, God supplied all the courage and strength that I needed -- along with all the other more practical stuff to boot.

And now I find myself reading through the Conquest accounts of the Old Testament again -- and as I read the reminders toward courage and strength (in places from the text where I never really noticed them before), I again feel my adrenaline pumping stronger, the timpanic drum beat growing louder, the courage and strength filling my system anew.  The feeling is not unlike my memory of rides on a big yellow school bus, on my way to a high school football game in Norwalk or Bellevue or Upper Sandusky, listening to "pump-up" music on my walkman headphones.  I feel like I'm on the cusp of a great, epic battle.  I'm getting prepared.  I'm ramping up.  I'm rip-raring to go, like a race-horse at the gates.

Could it be mere coincidence that these passages from the Bible are speaking so strongly to me again at just the time when I'm getting ready for another significant stretch of support-raising in the USA?!?  I did not plan my personal Bible study with the current situation in mind -- but it's crazy how such words of encouragement supernaturally fill me for just such a time as this!  Courage and strength!  Courage and strength!  And just when I need it...

I especially appreciate the fact that I'm noticing these anthems further back in the text than what I've previously observed.  Joshua was repeatedly steeped in words of strength and encouragement, apparently, going back years before the First Battle of Canaan ever took place.  That means that it wasn't just some blind rush of psychosomatic chemical responses to an impassioned speech at a particular moment of crisis.  It wasn't some special, one-time, "unique" experience of God's courage and strength.  It was, doubtless, a mix of God's supernatural voice, the encouragement of others, and self-talk reinforcing an acquired belief.  But if anything, this makes the message of courage and strength even more meaningful!  It's something sustained and and repeatedly spoken into cognizance.  It's something that can charge us now, and something that can stay with us into the future.

As long as we remember -- and remind each other -- to be strong and courageous.

It is obvious what kind of life develops out of trying to get your own way all the time: repetitive, loveless, cheap sex; a stinking accumulation of mental and emotional garbage; frenzied and joyless grabs for happiness; trinket gods; magic-show religion; paranoid loneliness; cutthroat competition; all-consuming-yet-never-satisfied wants; a brutal temper; an impotence to love or be loved; divided homes and divided lives; small-minded and lopsided pursuits; the vicious habit of depersonalizing everyone into a rival; uncontrolled and uncontrollable addictions; ugly parodies of community. I could go on...

But what happens when we live God's way? He brings gifts into our lives, much the same way that fruit appears in an orchard—things like affection for others, exuberance about life, serenity. We develop a willingness to stick with things, a sense of compassion in the heart, and a conviction that a basic holiness permeates things and people. We find ourselves involved in loyal commitments, not needing to force our way in life, able to marshal and direct our energies wisely...

Since this is the kind of life we have chosen, the life of the Spirit, let us make sure that we do not just hold it as an idea in our heads or a sentiment in our hearts, but work out its implications in every detail of our lives. That means we will not compare ourselves with each other as if one of us were better and another worse. We have far more interesting things to do with our lives. Each of us is an original.

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I'm not usually one for posting quotes -- much less quotes of text from the Bible -- but these words really struck me today in a fresh way.  Can you guess from which part of the Bible they come?

What a magnificent spring evening to go to the park!  I'm still missing my nice camera (the lens is still in the shop), but with a pristine blue sky like that and the golden light of a setting sun -- just about any camera takes beautiful pictures.  Especially with such beautiful subject material to shoot!

Can you guess who just got a new pretend sword?  Elliot invested €3.50 of his allowance money, and I'd say he's already gotten a good return on his investment, for all the fun he's had pretending to be Peter, High King of Narnia (we just recently loaned the film from a friend, so he's even singing the movie's theme music as he acts out his glorious battle charges and coronation scenes).

It's such an exquisite joy to learn an embarrassing secret about the past life of one of your closest friends, isn't it? Why do we delight in seeing a picture of someone we deeply love and respect -- back when he or she was 12 years old, wearing braces, and holding up a beloved poster featuring the New Kids on the Block? Why do we smile so broadly (and share so willingly) about an absurd childhood obsession or experience -- even if it's something like collecting "Garbage Pail Kids" trading cards, or roller-skating backwards, or holding some obscure title in the Guiness Book of World Records? Why is this? This, to me is one of the great mysteries of life...

All of this just goes to say that I've been infinitely fascinated to learn the colorful history of my dear friend and co-pastor, Todd Watkins (a.k.a. T.T. Watkins, a.k.a. TW, a.k.a. T-dubs)... Or should I say, "Twinkle-Toes Watkins?"

Just a few weeks ago, Todd and I were casually chatting at the H88 -- then, whether from boredom or simple joie-de-vivre, Todd busted out this rather remarkable tap-dance maneuver. I laughed and clapped at his spontaneous burst of kinetic expression and said something to the effect of, "Wow, that looked surprisingly professional!" Todd laughed too and then kind of wiggled his eyebrows mysteriously and said something like, "If only you knew..." His remark was meant to be something of a joke, but there was something in his tone that made me wonder if there might be more of a story behind it. So I kept asking questions, pulling the story out of Todd piece by piece. And in the end, I was simply amazed by what I learned about my friend.

One of the things that I really like about Todd is his humility. He's really a very remarkable person, but he doesn't flaunt it. He doesn't feel some insecure need to regale you with stories about his illustrious talents and life experiences. But if you get down to it, asking specific questions about a specific area of Todd's life, he will slowly bring you in on his life story (smiling in such a way that you know that he is secretly, though appropriately, proud of his past acheivements), and you can learn that he is truly one of a kind. As it turns out, Todd was actually a childhood tap-dancing prodigy! He was classically trained in a number of different kinds of dance, but apparently he showed a special aptitude for tap. And as he developed his skills as a six-year-old, seven-year-old, eight-year-old, he became something of a national sensation for a time in the early 1980s.

Big stars like Sammy Davis Jr. and Ben Vereen performed live with my friend, the child prodigy, on Broadway stages and on the Silver Screen in films which have, apparently, become cult classics for those in the tap-dancing subcultures of the world. I guess Todd made the circuit of the television networks' morning shows at one point, and even appeared on the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson! Do you maybe remember Savion Glover -- a kid who often appeared and exhibited his own tap-dancing skills on Sesame Street during the 1980s and 1990s? Apparently, he's a personal acquaintance (and once something of a rival) of our own Todd Watkins! Isn't that crazy!?!? You think you know a guy... and then you go and learn something totally unexpected about him!

Hoax or not? I don't really know. Even now, when talking about it with Todd, there's something about his mannerisms and his tone that makes me alternate between completely believing his story and completely questioning it. But as I've searched the internet a little bit and checked out some of the background facts, it seems that enough checks out to at least make the story credible. And you know, it's just one of those things that sounds almost too crazy to be made up! In any event, all I know is that I've attained a whole new level of respect for my friend and co-pastor: the great Twinkle-Toes Watkins.

For the first time in a long time, I had ham-and-cheese sandwiches with mustard for my lunches this weekend.

The above sentence may very well qualify as one of the most boring, mundane, ridiculous opening lines for a blog post ever.  And let's be honest:  for the average blog browser, it may very well serve as a ridiculously boring opening sentence for a ridiculously boring post... But then again maybe not.

I think my ham-and-cheese sandwiches with mustard are actually kind of significant, in a way.  For me personally, I think they may serve as a sign of acceptance, perspective, and coming-to-terms with the past five years of my life.  You see, when I first moved to Amsterdam, in January 2003, I probably ate ham-and-cheese sandwiches with mustard for my lunch four or five times a week.  Partly because they were very tasty -- made with fresh, crusty, European bread, topped with salty ham and finely aged Dutch cheese, and accented with sharp, zingy, French mustard -- and partly because they were one of the very few things that I knew to prepare as I learned a new system for grocery stores, kitchen utensils, and daily routines.  For the first month that I lived in Amsterdam -- in an apartment on the Leidsekade just below the old Zolder -- ham-and-cheese sandwiches with mustard were a staple of my diet.

But then, as I moved out from the Leidsekade apartment and into the city, and as I grew tired of the same old food every day for lunch -- to the point that I was willing to overcome my inhibitions for trying new things and acclimating to the culture around me -- I moved away from the ham-and-cheese sandwiches with mustard.  I fell back to the old American classic, peanut-butter-and-jelly.  Or I had roast beef.  Or I made pasta.  Or I ate at one of the cafes in the city.  And for whatever reason, I never came back to the ham-and-cheese sandwich with mustard again.

Oh, sure, I probably had a ham-and-cheese sandwich with mustard every now and then -- most likely if someone else had prepared the lunch for me... But I found myself very deliberately avoiding ham-and-cheese with mustard.  I would sooner eat just ham.  Or just cheese.  Or maybe ham-and-cheese with no mustard.  But however it happened, I developed a subtle aversion to a ham-and-cheese with mustard because it reminded me, quite viscerally, of a very awkward and painful period of my life.  It left, in a very literal way, a bad taste in my mouth.  Those early days in Amsterdam have a certain nostalgia and "glory days" feel to them, on one level -- but really, when I think back on those days, even now I get a bit of a sick feeling in my stomach.  Of course that was a necessary period of my life, to get me to where I am today (living and functioning in daily life in Amsterdam), but those early days were a very uncomfortable period of my life -- feeling ignorant and useless and powerless and lonely most of the time.  And although I'm glad that I went through the whole process, and I feel confident that God directed through that season of life, I would never relish the idea of going back to that time.  And for whatever reason, without really giving it much thought, a ham-and-cheese sandwich with mustard came to symbolize this to me.

So I actually think it's kind of significant that I made a specific and deliberate choice to enjoy a few ham-and-cheese sandwiches with mustard this weekend (even though there were other options at my disposal).  Laugh at me, if you want (it is kind of silly).  Congratulate me, if you want.  But I'm glad to be eating ham-and-cheese sandwiches with mustard again.  Though I wouldn't want to do it every day.

Let it be said that I trust God's character, as revealed through the Bible. But I have to admit: I have a bit of a hard time with the way Moses was treated at Meribah.

Why did God react so strongly to Moses striking instead of speaking to the rock? Why was that particular incident such a big deal? Couldn't Moses have simply misunderstood the assignment? After all, wasn't it God who put the staff in Moses' hands to begin with that fateful day? What if Moses was just having a bad day? And even if it was willful disobedience, why would that one little act cancel out all the great faith-filled things that characterized the rest of Moses' life? And if Moses was going about things the wrong way at Meribah (regardless of the reasons), why didn't God just withhold the water so Moses could go back to his original instructions and get it right? Why did this become the rope that was used to hang Israel's great leader and deliverer? I really don't get it.

As I read through the story of Moses at Meribah, my primary emotional response is one of anger. Am I going to get busted on some sort of technicality like this, too? And if so, what's the point of even trying to be a good leader? I already know that I have bad days -- even bad weeks, and bad months -- in the course of walking the path of faith, following God as closely as possible. So I have to wonder: Should I even step out across the mine-field, if I know that my chances of being dismembered are so great?

Why would God give us the story of Moses at Meribah? What am I supposed to do with that?!?! 

I'm lost.  Like a ship without a wheel, a touch without a feel -- I can't believe it's real.

I've been missing my camera (my Canon 350D) this week.  The camera is still here with me, actually, but the lens is at the shop -- and thus, the camera is useless... We've still got our old Olympus point-and-shoot, so I really shouldn't complain, but I just feel like such a tourist now, taking pictures around town with the little camera.

I've really been enjoying the process of developing my skills in photography over the last six months or so.  Perhaps you haven't noticed this for yourself, but my pictures are often used as blog post when I don't have enough time to write something more complete.  And since I haven't been shooting as much over the last couple of weeks, I haven't been blogging as much over the last couple of weeks.  I'm lost...

Like Elliot, in the picture on the left, trying to figure out if he's standing on the Bredeweg or the Linnaeuskade in Amsterdam's Watergraafsmeer region.

I just ran across this picture, which was taken almost two months ago, and it made me smile... and I haven't posted anything for a couple of days... so I figured I'd share it with you.

We got a new-old CD in the mail this weekend: Ken Medema: "Just Us Kids." It was a gift from my sister for my and Elliot's birthdays -- and man, has it been a good one!

When I was growing up, our family had the album on vinyl (yes, boys and girls -- I am old enough to personally remember records, eight-tracks, cassette-tapes, CDs, and MP3s as the dominant listening formats!). And listening to the songs and stories of Ken Medema (now digitally remastered) again this weekend was returning to a very happy place in my life: remembering our family's plaid couch, the orange-velvety upholstered chair, our dog Muffy, my blue Darth Vader T-shirt... Ah those were the days...

And although the nostalgic effect of the Ken Medema album was immensely enjoyable, in and of itself, I have to say that even if I hadn't grown up listening to that record, it's just a great album! You couldn't exactly say that it's timeless (the mid-70s brass section coming in at parts, like Chicago's "Saturday in the Park," definitely anchors it in a certain era) -- but it's absolutely classic. The music is really cool -- not just some crap for the kids (a presumably undiscerning audience). It's kind of Billy Joel meets Chicago -- but not merely pop-rock; kind of jazzy and bluesy, too. And then beyond the music, Ken Medema's storytelling is absolutely brilliant. He uses the piano as a beautiful complement to the stories (kind of background music, kind of sound effects), and the stories themselves are both entertaining and insightful. I'm not a professional album critic, so I find my descriptions here falling
miserably short -- but all I know is that it's very enjoyable
listening.

My kids, too, have really enjoyed listening to the new album. Already, after just a few listenings, Elliot and Olivia are singing along with the music and listening in gape-mouthed silence to the stories. I love it.

Thanks, Anna for a great birthday present!

The bicycle paths of Amsterdam can be a perilous place. I'm incredibly surprised by how few accidents and injuries that I've witnessed during my years in the city; they could probably be counted on one hand (unless you're also counting self-induced, or weather-induced accidents) -- but even so, at any moment, on any bicycle path, any individual is in danger of being scraped, bruised, or bowled over by a fellow fietser. Or even worse: by a pedestrian tourist.

I have, of course, learned some survival tricks along the way.  The bicycle bell, naturally, is the first line of defense.  At first I considered it rude and offensive to "ding" at innocent people wandering aimlessly in front of me -- but I quickly learned to overcome that inhibition, and now I freely ring away (even repeatedly, if the situation calls for it) even if it only appears as if wandering aimlessly into the bicycle path is only a remote unconscious possibility in the mind of the pedestrian.  I guess you could say I've enculturated, in this respect.  Sometimes, a tourist might get offended by my quick-with-the-bell attitude; but none of the Amsterdammers feel insulted by a well-placed "ding" helping to avoid a disaster.

Of course, it's quite often that the bell will need to be accompanied by further measures -- like a deep-throated "Hey!" to help the ignorant wanderer realize that there's actually a person connected with that metallic dinging sound they've been hearing.  Sometimes, there will be a bit of creative steering (swerving) that has to happen to avoid a collision.  And, of course, there's always stopping (though, let it be said, this is not a very Amsterdamse solution).

Recently, I've become fond of an alternative solution -- a third (or fourth) line of defense, if you will.  A careful slowing of the bicycle's pace, a delicate nudging of the bike's front tire slightly astride the clueless idiot pedestrian, and a gentle hand on the shoulder offering a subtle but determined shove toward the sidewalk.  Not in a mean way.  Actually, it's a very personal, very kind, very careful maneuever which requires the bicyclist to slow down and address the situation with human contact -- superceding the linguistic and cultural differences that are inevitable in the city (especially going through areas like the Dam, which is now a regular part of my commute) -- and it gets the message across clearly enough to allow me to be on my way.  I saw the hand-on-the-shoulder technique a few years ago during the Tour de France.  It was back during Lance Armstrong's period of dominance, and it happened during some medium-size climb through mountainous territory, when some lower echelon team like Credit Agricole or Rabbobank was pounding away in front of the American rider, as he was just starting to make his move toward the front of the pack.  The lower echelon team was either clueless that another racer was coming up through the pack, or they were obstinately (though clearly hopelessly) trying to hold their lead -- but in any event, I remember that it was obviously a breach of Tour etiquette.  Yet instead of lowering his shoulder and pushing through the pack by brute force, Armstrong simply reached out with his right hand, softly laid it on the shoulder of the nearest rider, and powered by on the left side.  That moment of the Tour is still very vivid in my mind (even though the specific year and the specific riders involved have escaped me), and it's inspired me to try a similar approach in the most congested terrains where pedestrians most frequently crowd the bicycle paths.

And it's actually worked pretty well.  I don't know how the recipients of the hand-on-the-shoulder technique receive it -- but I figure it's for their own good.  Maybe I need to refine my technique in the future (if you've got any advice for me, feel free to let me know).  But for now, I'm just glad to have another tool in the utility belt.

People in the Netherlands -- just like people in the United States -- enjoy a good practical joke on the first day of April. But whereas American jokesters would simply shout "April Fools!" after pulling off a good hoax, Dutch people add a simple two-lined song: "Één april! Kikker in je bil!" (basically to the tune of "Na-na-nana-boo-boo!").

The translation: "April first! Frog up your butt!"

I should perhaps clarify that it may just be the sixth-year-old boys from Elliot's school who have this "tradition" (and possibly not the Dutch culture at large). But I thought it was an amusing anecdote, at any rate.