Nic Ouzo's Wild European Adventure: My First Night in The Hague

I've already discussed the details of my initial travels, but have yet to give much of an account of what's happened since I've been on the Continent itself. Today, that changes as I tell you the story of my first night in the Netherlands.

I came to Holland without any place to stay lined up, based on the advice of an intern that had done this same gig in the previous year. They had the misfortune of agreeing to an apartment sight unseen that was, shall we say, "below standard." Having an open shower in the middle of the kitchen is understandably disappointing for a lot of people. So the logic was to get on the ground in The Hague, get a hotel for a couple of nights, and then look for more permanent lodging while you're there, so you can get a better view of what's available and what's convenient. Sound strategy if you ask me.



Of course, I come in without even making a hotel reservation. I literally show up to work with all my suitcases, coming straight from the airport/train station/taxi stand. Fuck it, there's gotta be something like a Holiday Inn where I can crash. This shouldn't be an issue--I'll just go online, make a phone call, and boom, I'll be done.

Except that it was a holiday weekend coming up in the Netherlands. And that means the Dutch were heading to the beach en masse, and whaddyaknow, The Hague has a beach. So finding a room was a bit more of a problem than I thought. I finally locate a reasonably priced place and set a reservation in some random part of the city. So my co-workers get me all set up on the bus to this area, and I set out to stay the night.

So I head out into what appears to be a nice little neighborhood, very pleasant, very green, very friendly. As I'm walking, I'm thinking, this isn't the kind of place where you would find a hotel. And you know, this thinking was right. Because this is the kind of place where you once found a hotel, and now instead have condominiums. That's right, the address that I had for the hotel was for its old location. And considering most American cell phones don't work in Europe, and I had no internet access, well, I was proper fucked as they say.

So, recap: I am in the middle of a foreign country where I don't speak the language. I have three suitcases and a backpack I have to carry everywhere. I have no place to stay for the night. I am proper fucked.



Alright, time to regroup. You know only one address in the city, and that's your work. Head back there, figure things out from there. Maybe somebody is still at the office...nope. No good. Well, there's gotta be a hotel somewhere nearby...how about here?...no, nothing here...Can I use the phone? No?...

Finally I randomly find a taxi, and direct him to just drive me to any hotel. Any hotel. This of course is still difficult, since most hotels are booked, but the driver is generous enough to park at each place and inquire within whether rooms are available. After 4 tries, we finally get to a craptastic place by the beach, whose view is blocked...by another hotel. All for the low price of something like 80 dollars for the night! At least I didn't stay in Badhotel, which was literally across the street. Clearly the only reason why my hotel wasn't named that was because it was beaten to the punch.



Inauspicious beginnings and all that.

Tales From Old Salem Towne: Scrap Metal

Salem: Now Here Is Nowhere


This story may be apocryphal (i.e., complete utter horseshit), but the fact that I can even believe its authenticity for a minute is testament to the brilliance of life here in Oregon's real-life Capital City.

So I was listening to the radio, and a caller phoned in to the show to tell the story of his encounter with Salemites the night before. He was driving home from work, which was some time past midnight since he worked the late shift, going through some of the residential thoroughfare combo roads that are prevalent in Salem, especially on the north side. As he was going down Cherry St., he had to slow down because there was a small group of people in the middle of the road (and he wanted to avoid manslaughter charges, I presume). Eventually they disperse and move to the side, allowing him to pass.


He goes up the street a little bit, then pulls over to the side to take a look back to see "what the deal was with these guys". As he looks back, he sees that one of the group pulls out a crowbar...and goes to town on a manhole cover in the middle of the street. That's right, what our caller witnessed was probably a fortnightly occurrence in Salem Towne, the swarm of Meth-heads looking for pieces of scrap metal to sell for their next fix. Because while Meth-heads don't possess the ingenuity to break into your car and steal your stereo like your garden-variety crackhead, they have the Meth-strength to bust the shit out of some metal objects. Hence, your scene with the crowbar.

To be sure, I'm going to be avoiding Cherry St. in all my travels around town.