The most embarrassing day of my life

"What happened?!?"

My hand is bleeding out right in the center of my palm.  Looking up at Reed, all I manage to say is, "Uh."

"Uh??  Are you okay?"

Sitting on the soggy cement, I begin to pull myself together.  Snail slime seems to have completely enveloped my front and left sides, and I have to pick the gravel out of the gashes in my hand before I can try to wipe any of the slime away.  My brain needs to catch up, and I obviously need to explain myself.

"There was a deer.  A deer!  It jumped out and ran right in front of me!"

Immediately after the words escape my mouth, I realize how stupid they sound.  You'd think that after living here for a few years I would be able to remember that the largest wild animal you're ever going to see in the Netherlands is a squirrel.

With a completely justifiable amount of incredulity, Reed attempts to confirm what he's heard: "A deer?"

It's too late.  I can't turn back.  If I eat my words now, there's no way he'll ever believe anything else.  "Yep.  A deer.  Just popped out of the trees right in front of me."

Still eyeing me suspiciously, he says, "A deer?  I didn't see a deer."

"Well, how would you have?  You were way up there on your bike and the deer was way back here!"

"All right.  How's your hand?  Your pants and jacket are all torn up."

Standing up slowly, I examine my clothes.  My jacket is indeed torn under my left arm, and there are many small holes speckled along my left leg.

"My hand is fine.  Let's just go home."

As I lift my bike from the ground, I see that the front wheel is very seriously bent, and both brake cords have been completely ripped from their sockets.  I'll need at least a hammer before this is going anywhere again.  Turning back to Reed, I give my best guess as to how far it is to town. 

"Well, what do you think?  Four miles to Hengelo?"

"Maybe more.  I don't think we're even half way back yet.  What does it matter now?"

"What does it matter?  Obviously it matters!  It's getting cold, and I need a ride."

"A ride?  Where?  In my limo?"

He's making this difficult on purpose.  "No, on your bike!"

"Last time I checked, this is definitely not a tandem bike, bro."

"What, you expect me to walk five or so miles back to Hengelo?  C'mon!  You have that rack on the back for groceries!"

"But what about your bike?  Are you just going to leave it here?"

"No, I'll ghost ride it.  You pedal, and I'll hold it off to the side with one hand.  Duh!"

Sighing in frustration, Reed very audibly grumbles, "This is stupid."

With one hand resting very masculinely on Reed's shoulder, we make our way back to Hengelo.  After the third person to wave and whistle at us is out of view, I try to lean a bit further away from Reed in order to salvage some pride.

"Stop leaning back like that!  You're making it impossible to pedal this thing!"

"Oh, sorry," I say while leaning back forward.  "I guess I'll just start doing my princess wave for all the people who are honking at us.  Can we stop for a second so I can switch my bike around to my left hand?  My right arm is getting super tired."

"Are you kidding me?  I'm not stopping this thing!  We need to get off the side of the highway before the entire city decides never to talk to us again!"

"All right, well you had better pedal harder then!"

Reed's silence makes my bad joke evident.

After having run my jacket and pants through the wash for the third time, there's still a palpable film of slime covering them both. 

"I don't think this snail-and-worm-gut residue is ever going to come out!  Just my luck that we had to be biking home right after a rain storm."

"It rains like every day, dude."

"Yeah, but not usually that much."

"If you say so.  So, a deer, right?"

Jerking my head around to look at him, I see him smiling wryly in the corner.  "That's right."

Lying in bed, I think back on the events of the day.  The bike ride between Enschede and Hengelo had become unbearably dull until today, when legions of snails and worms had made their way onto the bike path after a few days of rain.  Trying to weave through and around as many as possible, I begin to guide my bike with only my left hand.  Success! How does it go with only my right hand?  Success again!  What about no hands?  Ahh, yeeeah, I'm awesome!  Maybe I can't swerve quite as well without any hands on the handlebar, but still not too shabby.

Hey, how well can I steer my bike with only my right hand on my left handlebar?

And that, in the words of this author, is a wild Dutch deer.

"What happened?!?"

My hand is bleeding out right in the center of my palm.  Looking up at Reed, all I manage to say is, "Uh."

"Uh??  Are you okay?"

About as okay as a person can be after deciding that an oh-such-a-ridiculously-terrible idea is in fact a good idea without any further thought.

Clown Shop: Through the Cellardoor

I wish I didn't know who was here before me, but that's all I can really think about now that I'm here. The paint on the wall to my right is bulging out, as if the inner workings of the house were suffering from an aneurysm. It just needs time. Less time.

"Well, that's your bed there."

Naturally, I had figured that out before he mentioned anything, but I nod my head glumly while I continue gazing at it anyway. I've never seen a bed frame like this one before; it's like a sandbox, but in the place of sand is a sagging mattress.

"Thanks. Not much room under there for my suitcase, is there?"

Taking a seat across from me on his own sagging bedbox, he replies, "Probably not, but there are a few drawers in the closet that slide under there without much problem. But only near the foot and head of the bed."

"Okay."

Some time passes as I consider what I'm going to do to clean this place up. The floor could use sweeping. Moving the beds to be parallel instead of perpendicular would create more floor space. 

Continuing my thoughts out loud, I turn to Joe, "Have you ever thought about moving the table toward the window?"

"No, but we can if you want to. I don't really care either way."

"And we have a broom?"

"Yeah, at the top of the staircase." 

"And it's in reasonable condition? Is there a dust pan?"

"Uh, yeah. I think so."

"Good."

As I turn back toward the window, Joe anxiously interjects before I can continue, "So, do you want to see the rest of the place?"

"Now, be careful whenever you go up or down the stairs in your socks. I've fallen a few more times than I want to admit."

All of the swirling stairs have been painted in a thick blue lacquer which must make them as slick as ice at the right angle.

"I can see why. It's amazing what kind of vertical tunnels can pass for staircases around here."
"Seriously, man. This is ridiculous."

As he steps into the narrow hallway below, Joe proudly announces, "Welcome to the infamous clown shop! Home sweet home!"
Crouching on the bottom step to avoid hitting my head, I try to look up and down the hall approvingly.
"By the way, if you lift the step that you're standing on, you'll find the entrance to the cellar."

"A cellar? Is there anything down there?" I ask while spotting the hinges hidden in a crease right behind my heels.

"I don't know. I've never gone down there."

"Really? Well let's check it out!"

Down on our knees right at the precipice of the stairway's entrance, we slowly pry open the cellar door.

Looking over hesitantly at me, Joe mentions how dark it is down there.

"Yeah, I can't see down there at all either. Hey, Joe, did you know that a famous linguist once said that 'cellardoor' is the most beautiful word in the English language?"

"Really? Who said that?"

"Just some linguist. I forget exactly who."

"But is cellardoor even one word? I thought it was two." 

"Eh, I don't really know. So are you going down there first or am I?"

"You still want to go down there?"

"Sure. I bet there's a light switch nearby."

Swinging my right foot over the threshold and into the darkness, I have to wonder about cellars in this country. I thought it was as good as impossible to have a cellar around here.

"You see a switch yet?"

"I don't see anything, and these walls are damp."

"Damp? Are the walls stone?"

"No. More like old brick from the feel of it, but I'm not really certain."

"Dallin, what about the cell phone? Just use that as a flashlight."

The screen of the cell phone illuminates the walls of the cellar before me. 

Joe's voice echoes down from the top of the stairs, "What do you see?"

"Nothing much. Just a few shelves with what looks like canned fruit."

"Canned fruit? Who does that anymore?"

"No one around here, I would have thought. There's a lot of dust on the jars."

Stepping onto the landing, my foot suddenly becomes soaked. Recoiling, I nearly fall over before grabbing the nearest shelf.

"Yuck! And there are a few inches of water down here too! Forget this, there's nothing down here anyway."

"Whatever you say, man. I'm not coming down there."

Climbing back out into the hallway, Joe asks me what I want to see next: the prop room, the costumes, the dressing room, or our kitchen and bathroom near the back.

"Let's go ahead and start with the props."

"A wise choice, my friend."

All in a Fight's Vindication

Another day has come and not yet gone, and I'm wondering what to have for lunch. Some things never change. I latch my bike to the fence and walk toward the center of the main square. The sun is beating down on us today about as strongly as it ever has. A few people walk by without a word, and I couldn't be more pleased. I need some alone time before I leave.
Settling down on a bench, I watch a Moroccan man showing his son how to tear off bread and give it to the birds. He patiently guides his son's hand with his own to ensure that he doesn't throw the bread with too much force. In a language that I cannot understand, he tells the young boy what to do.
Hold the bread with your palm up. Toss it underhand so as not to frighten them. No, not AT the birds, toss it toward their feet.
Lounging out, I stretch my back across the back of the bench and remove my jacket. Reed is sitting against a tree nearby reading a book. He looks more content than usual today. The young boy is giggling hysterically as the birds jump over each other in order to get their beaks on a piece of bread. Hmm, bread. I want some bread, and some good bread at that. I grab my jacket and begin traversing the square. Visible at the southeast corner there's a grocery store. I'm enormously pleased thinking about lunch today; I'm going to dish out some cash and treat myself. Once inside, I snatch a fruit smoothie off the shelf, pull a full loaf of French bread out of a basket, and head to the meat section. I buy the nicest German sausage that I can find and head back out the door.
Good, my bench is still empty. The birds congregate around my feet as I toss them my crumbs. The bread is soft and the wurst is perfect. Lounging back and commanding my bird army with my any bread-tossing whim, I am king of the plaza. That's right, birdies, I deserve this.
An accented voice interrupts, "Good afternoon. Do you have any money for me?"
My tranquility shattered, I look to my right. Sitting next to me on the bench is a toothless refugee grinning all gums at me; someone is trespassing on my land. I'm in no mood for being hassled, so I offer him his small fee to scram.
"Sure, here's a euro."
Snatching it greedily, he tucks it in his pocket while saying thanks. Eying my wurst and bread, he goes further, "May I have some of your food?"
This is too much. He could buy a loaf of bread with the money I just gave him. "No. You may not."
"Please?"
"No, now please leave me alone."
"This is a public bench. I think I'll stay until you give me some of that sausage."
What a bastard. I lose my temper. I yell. He yells. Hell, we all yell.
Things having escalated within a minute or two, he lunges unexpectedly for my fancy German wurst, and manages to get his grubby hands on one end! I push him away and take it back. He pushes me hard, and I retaliate with a bird king's righteous fist of fury. The small man crashes to the ground and screams bloody murder. Cry, baby, cry, just don't mess with me.
"Webb, what are you doing??" It's Reed.
"He tried to steal my food, so I showed him what's up."
"Dude, you just beat up a bum!! This looks really bad."
I take a moment to stop clutching my hard-fought food and glance around. Sure enough, there's a fairly sized crowd gathering all around us. The look on Reed's face is one of absolute terror; heck, I may as well have kicked a puppy and slapped a hoe to elicit a response of this magnitude. But right now I just don't care. I did what I had to and any judgmental douche can suck it.
As the police arrive in their goofy helmets I begin tossing the bum-tainted bits of sausage to the birds. I suppose I can finish the bread while the cops lecture me.

Of Misery and Men

The wooden floor is matted with a thin layer of hair. His voice is strangely high pitched, and I can't help but picture a small child whining to his mother as I glance up at his round face. His eyes dart back and forth between me and Nate. If I purse my lips tightly enough and direct my breath downward I can create a hair-free space on the floor between my feet. His girlfriend stirs the pot of chili. The twisting sinews in her arm strain visibly against the underside of her paper-thin skin. Her hands are quivering. They usually do when she thinks no one is looking. I wish there were an equivalent of the nicotine patch for heroine addicts. Looking back at Mr. Tenhoeve, even his hands are shaking under the table today. He's asking us for money again. I wouldn't give him any if I had any to give; I know where it would really be spent. His two sons squeal with delight in the corner as they play in ignorant bliss with their miniature trucks. They're filthy.
"Are you listening?"
Looking up from the floor, I confidently say, "Yes."
"Well, what do you think?"
"I think you know that we can't help you in that regard. I've told you that before."
With hardly any pause, he continues reprimanding us for our callousness and insolence. His dialect of Dutch is so harsh on the ears; every time he rolls an R, I cringe.
"You guys are my last resort. If you won't help me, then I don't know what the point is anymore..."
Nate cuts in with advice. I know what he's implying. The first time he pulled the suicide card, I was genuinely worried for this man and his fledgling family, but this must be at least the fifteenth time he's made the threat. No longer does his trump card hold any water for me. Placing my attention elsewhere, I observe that all but two pieces of furniture in this room were placed here only an hour ago by Nate and myself. While contemplating our quickest exit strategy, I think back to how we ended up here in this all-too-familiar situation.
Before leaving, we had agreed that we wouldn't allow Mr. Tenhoeve to begin his normal spiel. Arriving, I notice that toys are littered across the front yard today. Grasping the gate, I hold it at a distance from myself as I pass through. Nate follows me into the yard. Leaning beside the door is the bike that I had put to use for a few weeks months before, plastic sack draped across the seat just as I had left it. Turning toward the door, I don't have to wait long before it creaks open and two young boys rush toward us howling with joy. As the first one to make it outside clutches my right knee, I reach down and pat his blonde curls. Nate picks up his brown-haired brother and greets him profusely. Mr. Tenhoeve, standing in the doorway, bids us welcome without looking me in the eye. I muster my courage for the emotional barrage that we will certainly have to try to avoid. His girlfriend emerges from a back room and offers me her hand. She at least attempts to look me in the eye, but her gaze is too glazed over to make any real eye contact.
Having laid our coats over the radiator, Nate and I head into the backyard to fetch some chairs.

Red Eye in the Sky

The orange iron door is as heavy as ever today. I push it open, glad that I don't have to fling it open in order to escape with a bike in hand too. It's still overcast today. It's been overcast for weeks already. Pulling on my floppy leather gloves, I look over at Greg. He's checking the mailbox in silence. He's not mad at me; he just hates going over to Tristaen's place. With a passion.
"Dude, it's not that bad. At least it gets us out of the cold for awhile."
Continuing in his struggle with unlocking the mailbox, he doesn't look over as he says, "I know."
I hate to see him this miserable. "Plus, we get free food. It's not that bad."
"That awful rabbit food? Are you kidding me? I hate eating that crap. Plus, he is freaking creepy!"
The absence of any mail doesn't help my case, so I begin walking down the street. Used to spending half an hour on my bike in order to get anywhere, I've never taken the time to take a good look at our neighbors' houses. They're all fabricated of a drab gray brick. The roofs are covered in shingles of a slightly darker shade of gray. This whole development sucks. Some of our neighbors have attempted to break the monotony of the many surrounding blocks by hanging variously colored drapes in their front windows or by adding increasingly gaudy signs by their front doors announcing surnames.
Take a left at the playground. Follow the small alley. Walk out of the dead end, cross the street, and go around the backside of a perfectly identical apartment building. Most of the doorbells on these dilapidated buildings don't seem to work, but Tristaen lives on the bottom floor. Lucky for us. Standing just outside his backyard, I pull the padlock off the gate. He always leaves it there to ward off burglars, but it's never actually locked. That yappy dog begins yapping incessantly. As usual. Tristaen comes out the back door and offers me his hand. I shake it and let go. Greg stands back making me do all the talking, but this is nothing out of the ordinary. I follow Tristaen through his doorway of beads and weave my way into his tiny living room. Some British documentary is playing on the TV, and something that sounds like a blend between the Beetles and Jack Johnson is on the record player.
Our first course sits atop metal platters already awaiting us. Greg looks ready to vomit. He slides between the bench and the table first, as always, to the side of the puny table facing the television. I sit down next, back to a disproportionate bookshelf, on the side soon to be facing Tristaen. Lettuce with tomato and boiled egg whites. Lunch meat straight out of the package on the side. Mustard and olive oil for dressing. Water in aluminum cups and flavored corn syrup ready to mix into it. Somehow, I have convinced myself to enjoy this meal. My younger self would have mocked the present me without mercy. Tristaen comes back into the room flustered. This unnecessarily unemployed man always acts as if he has just returned from somewhere important, which could never be less true. His greatest urgency each week is remembering to do his laundry before running out of clean underwear. The man told us just last week how he lives off the government due to a "missing tailbone."
We chat, Tristaen and I. Always pleasant banter. Our day was fine, how was yours? Good good. New drapes? Oh, from where? What an excellent deal. Shoot me now. Woops, did I think that last one out loud?
At last we're all done. Even Greg has choked everything down politely. Tristaen takes our plates and leaves the room.
"Dude," Greg whispers to me with unmistakable excitement.
"What?"
"Don't look behind yourself." His voice is nearly shaking with concealed laughter now.
"What?"
"Seriously. Don't."
I'm confused, but I remain calm and don't look back. "Why not?"
"There's a camera hidden in the bookshelf behind you. And it's on."
"Are you serious?"
"Shhhh!!! Keep it down! I don't want him to know that we've noticed."
"Why not? Who cares? I'm not afraid of this clown."
Incredulously, I turn my head back and start scanning the shelves. Finally, a few shelves up, I see it. There it is, hidden between two dead porcelain dolls, red light blinking ominously, pointed right down at the two of us. I stare into the lens, and then instinctively raise my right hand until I find myself waving politely as if acknowledging a long-time neighbor out watering his lawn. I turn back around just as Tristaen returns carrying quark and mandarin oranges for dessert.
"Mmmm, I love quark, Tristaen."
He glances up, smiling, "Yes, I know you do."

A Bridge to Wife Battery

I glance down into the train yard off to my right where several trains stretch along their tracks like enormous yellow caterpillars. "You're sure that we can get there from here?"

"Yeah. There are a few bridges over the train yard that we can take."

"I know, but I don't know if it will be worth the time. We're already running a bit late after leaving Job's place."

"There should be a bridge just off the student quarter. We'll get there with time to spare if we go this way."

"All right, lead the way," Greg tells me me with an audible hint of doubt. 

I begin pedaling down the street. My tires slice through the puddles like rubber knives leaving wakes for Greg. My mind drifts back to the cafe last night when we watched Obama's inaugural speech on the mounted TV. In order to hang around long enough to watch the entire speech we were required to buy several servings of fries and krokets... Greg's voice breaks my daydream as he yells, "Oi! The bridge is here, dude!"

I look back, and surely enough Greg is perched on the corner where the bike path veers off to the right. I cruised right past it in my reminiscent stupor. An old woman flies by me as I set my foot on the sidewalk and look over my left shoulder. More bikers are on their way. I look further down the street and see no opportunities to cross to the other side anytime soon, so I grudgingly step off my bike, pull it up onto the sidewalk, and commit a serious faux pas: biking on the sidewalk. Only one Moroccan man is walking tonight as I pass him, but he stumbles onward without acknowledging me or my crime.

Greg has already begun crossing the bridge when I get there. I follow after him and soon enough we're standing in front of Solomon's building. Just over ten minutes to go. We both chain our bikes to the fence across the street. The two blocks lying before Solomon's apartment building have been completely demolished, but have yet to be cleared away. Rubble lies everywhere behind the fences. Whenever I see this stretch of wasteland I can't help but think about how similar this sight must be to that seen shortly after the Americans bombed this city during WWII. 

"This always looks to me like a bomb got dropped here."

"You said the exact same thing last week, you know." 

"Ha, I don't doubt that. It's ironic, isn't it?"

"What?"

"That we bombed this city on accident. The German border is another 10 miles away. Woops."

"We're pretty smooth, I guess."

"What should we do, man?"

"You mean until Solomon comes? I don't know. You tracted this street, right?"

"Yeah, this whole area. With Allred."

"Wait. Wasn't it just down the street where that guy attacked his wife?"

"Yeah, just over there."

I can see the spot down the street where Allred and I had parked our bikes that day. At the fifth door from the far corner a sallow looking woman had opened the door. As we had introduced ourselves a man appeared at the end of the hallway. His wife turned and asked him if he wanted to allow us in, at which time he mumbled something which sounded like a "Yes." I knew immediately that the last thing I wanted to do was go in that house. I glanced over at Allred, he shrugged, and we followed her inside. The living room stank. The coffee table was covered in beer bottles and a layer of ash. The floor was littered with cigarette butts and matted hair. She offered us the couch when her husband reentered the room. 

He commenced at once to yelling,"Who are these people?"

"I don't know exactly. You told me to let them in," she coolly responded. 

Repeatedly he screamed shrilly, "Who are these people? Why are they here?"

She tried to comfort him, but he wouldn't listen. I told her we would gladly leave if it would make him happy. She told us to stay anyway because they had invited us in. A noble attempt to be polite in spite of her drunken husband.

He suddenly interjected by threatening her. "I'll hit you for this. I'll hit you!!"

"Do it and I'll hit you right back!" she replied in utter frustration and embarrassment.

Without warning he punched her square in the face, knocking her to the ground. I was shocked. How could he possibly do this?!? She got up, dodged a second misguided punch, and hit him as hard as she could on his right ear. He collapsed easily due to his alcohol-induced lack of balance. Furiously he kicked back at his wife, causing her to buckle and fall to the floor beside him. He continued to kick her as she angrily drove her high heels up into his face. 

As my initial shock fell away I finally realized that it was time for me to intercede. Allred grabbed the wife and I the husband. We pulled them apart as hard as we could. Perhaps he could feel that I wasn't very frail, because he declined to hit me and instead continued kicking at his wife. I set him against the wall, but he was too dizzy to get up. Instead he sobbed miserably like a child. Allred set her on her feet. We offered to call the police, but nothing could have frightened her more than that. She thanked us for our help, promised to call us, and then ushered us out the door. 

The weather had been much warmer then. Today I can see the rainclouds creeping toward us in the twilight. Maybe it will snow this time. Still gazing down the street I see a tall African man striding in our direction. He's holding a few bags of groceries and is grinning at us from ear to ear. Greg and I grin back.

Intercom Interactions

Currently I'm a dashing 22-year-old who is lucky enough to have had much experience selling various goods door-to-door. Some of these goods have proven to be more, for lack of a better word, sellable, than others. Selling boxes of candy in elementary school went well. Really, who doesn't want to buy a box of candy from some cute 8-year-old kid? (That's right, ladies, I was just as cute 14 years ago and I'm available for a limited time only). If you don't, then you're purely unamerican. Opening the door to that, you know you have to buy.
However, as I aged and increased in man-beauty, I suppose my looks and lack of edible products caused my number of buyers to decrease dramatically. As a studly, confident adolescent with braces, pigeon-toed feet, and glasses (yeah, the whole sexy sha-bang), my success began to wane. The sale of my services as a flag-posting boy scout was met with more indifference and fewer cheek pinches, but still enough success to be content.
As a brawny 19-year-old, I embarked upon a two year trek in Holland and Belgium in order to sell religion. I was ready. I had studied my Dutch and Flemish, I had brought my best suits and ties, and my teeth were at their pearly-whitest. I was confronted with hostility, no doubt, but the degree of indifference that I encountered was greater than I could have fathomed possible for walking, talking, supposedly compassionate human beings. Did selling religion on the door go well? That's a matter of definition, but I sure got to meet some winners!
Let me describe one fabulous experience for you, dear reader:
It was a beautiful day in May of 2008, and I was residing at the time in a gorgeous city called Leeuwarden in the far north of the Netherlands (the exact original Dutch will appear in parentheses next to its English translation). My sales associate, Nathan Lye, and I were buzzing every doorbell on an apartment building early one afternoon in hopes of making a sale for the month. Nate pressed one doorbell, keeping his ear close to the intercom awaiting any response, when a young man answered, "Yes? (Ja?)"
Nate tossed in his usual pitch, to which the voice replied, "Are you horny? (Ben je geil?)"
The conversation then proceeded as such:
Nate: "No... (Nee...)"
Voice: "That's a shame, I am. (Jammer, ik wel)."
Nate: "I'm not gay. (Ik ben geen homo)."
Voice "Wanna try? (Proberen?)"
Nate: "No. (Nee)."
Voice: "You sure? (Zeker?)"
Nate: "I'm sorry, but no. (Het spijt me, maar nee)."
At long last the awkward debate had reached its end. I, always in support of my sales associate, was already weeping with laughter against the wall. "All right, dude, it's your turn now." "Yeah, I'll take care of it in a minute," I tell Nate through my tears. Once I'm back on my feet, we both realize that we've forgotten which doorbell is next. We take our best guess, I push it, and then extend my ear back toward the intercom.
Another conversation then commences as follows:
Voice: "Ja? (but the voice is eerily familiar...)"
Me: "Umm, did we just talk to you? (Ahh, hebben wij je net gesproken?)
Voice: "Are you alone? (Ben je alleen?)"
Me: "No, there are two of us. (Nee, wij zijn met z'n tweeen)."
Voice: "Threesome? (Drietje?)"
Me: "No. (Nee.)"
Voice: "That's a shame. (Jammer)."
Me: "Yeah, too bad... (Ja, helaas...)"
Yes, this did indeed happen. Yes, we really did ring his doorbell twice. And yes, going door-to-door in Western Europe has given me some of my most cherished memories. Believe it. Try it. You'll see.
My latest experience as a a door-to-door salesman was only this past summer. This time, Holland was replaced by Utah, my suit was replaced by a polo t-shirt, my sales associate was replaced by a clipboard, and my religion was replaced by insurance. Was I met with indifference and hostility again? Somewhat. Apathetic as many of the people were, Americans seem to lack a Dutch hostility. Strange, seeing as how the Dutch haven't done very well in any of the past few wars.
So, the underlying message of my time as a door-to-door salesman is, please contain your anger and hostility until a maniacal despot takes power. Then, and only then, must you release your fury upon him/her and his/her regime (did you notice how I kept the despot asexual? Yeah, I'm not a sexist). It has paid off for us here in America. Follow our lead, world, and make the earth a better place.