Europeans were angry with Americans. The invasion of Iraq had set the world on edge. It wasn’t the best time to travel abroad but business was business.
Marjorie didn’t particularly care about travelling to Germany or the Netherlands, especially now, but there was a Matisse retrospective in Dusseldorf she was eager to see. In fact, had it not been for the tempting exhibit, she would have declined the business trip, citing world events as rationale. Amsterdam and Antwerp were always exciting, and it had been a while since she’d visited. Seeing Matisse made the risk of traveling abroad worth it.
Transportation had gone smoothly and there were no hitches so far. Even though she didn’t speak the language, it all seemed to be going well. Marjorie toured with her husband. Dale fit in with the natives because of his Germanic genes, grey ponytail, and the long, black leather coat he always wore. She, however, could only be taken for American, despite her very passable French.
“How did you know I was American?”, she asked one of the vendors at the Christmas market when he switched to English before she even opened her mouth.
“You always know an American woman by her attitude,” he answered. The tone certainly wasn’t a compliment. Rude, she had found all the Germans to be resentful and rude. People complained about the French, but her experience had always been positive, except for the garcons!
The art scouting in Dusseldorf for her client was successfully completed. She had enjoyed the exhibit tremendously. The presentation of Matisse sculptures integrated with his paintings was exquisitely handled. Besides, she was leaving to secure another painting for the same client. Good riddance Dusseldorf.
Next was Antwerp by car, a scenic drive out of a fairy tale. Once they arrived, there was a lot of walking. She joked,” Antwerp should be called the city of feet rather than hands,” referring to the legend of a Roman soldier, Silvius Brabo, who allegedly severed his hand and threw it into the Scheldt River to save the people from a giant who tormented the population, demanding a toll for crossing the waterway. If someone didn’t pay, the giant would cut off one of their hands as payment. The legend became a symbol and represented free waterways in Antwerp. One could still by chocolate hands as souveniers.
A tour of Rembrandt’s house followed by some lucrative jewelry shopping proved the city was worth the trip. Plus that night she hosted a dinner for the art dealer in one of her favorite restaurants. Not only was the food exquisite, it had a piano suspended from the ceiling and a spiral staircase leading to the bathroom. The steps to the ladies’ room were treacherous but definitely something to remember. The piano player sang American standards, which made her a little homesick. Happily, the deal was a success and soon she would be heading home.
On to Amsterdam by train. Marjorie was relaxed, sitting with her purse on the seat next to her thinking about the profits from her journey. Her husband, tired from the trip, was snoring away. She always said nothing could awaken the man when he was deep in dreamland.
Suddenly, two men came into the compartment noisily bumping into luggage and making a bit of a fuss. One was well-dressed, but the other looked like a thug. Another couple left the compartment immediately, setting off alarm bells for her. The well-dressed man stood in the aisle and started talking to Marjorie in a German accent, asking questions about her travels in a friendly tone. She thought it a bit odd, because up until that point, everyone had been standoffish or rude. Then she realized the thug was standing behind her, reaching over to grab her purse.
Instinctively, she clutched her bag and kept whacking him with it, undoubtedly bruising his hand or worse because blood was everywhere. Cursing loudly, she yelled for the conductor.
As the well-dressed German skedaddled behind the thug, who escaped to another compartment, he waved his hands confoundedly, muttering to her startled but groggy husband, “American women! Such an attitude. Always so aggressive. How do you stand it?”
— Mugsy
Marjorie didn’t particularly care about travelling to Germany or the Netherlands, especially now, but there was a Matisse retrospective in Dusseldorf she was eager to see. In fact, had it not been for the tempting exhibit, she would have declined the business trip, citing world events as rationale. Amsterdam and Antwerp were always exciting, and it had been a while since she’d visited. Seeing Matisse made the risk of traveling abroad worth it.
Transportation had gone smoothly and there were no hitches so far. Even though she didn’t speak the language, it all seemed to be going well. Marjorie toured with her husband. Dale fit in with the natives because of his Germanic genes, grey ponytail, and the long, black leather coat he always wore. She, however, could only be taken for American, despite her very passable French.
“How did you know I was American?”, she asked one of the vendors at the Christmas market when he switched to English before she even opened her mouth.
“You always know an American woman by her attitude,” he answered. The tone certainly wasn’t a compliment. Rude, she had found all the Germans to be resentful and rude. People complained about the French, but her experience had always been positive, except for the garcons!
The art scouting in Dusseldorf for her client was successfully completed. She had enjoyed the exhibit tremendously. The presentation of Matisse sculptures integrated with his paintings was exquisitely handled. Besides, she was leaving to secure another painting for the same client. Good riddance Dusseldorf.
Next was Antwerp by car, a scenic drive out of a fairy tale. Once they arrived, there was a lot of walking. She joked,” Antwerp should be called the city of feet rather than hands,” referring to the legend of a Roman soldier, Silvius Brabo, who allegedly severed his hand and threw it into the Scheldt River to save the people from a giant who tormented the population, demanding a toll for crossing the waterway. If someone didn’t pay, the giant would cut off one of their hands as payment. The legend became a symbol and represented free waterways in Antwerp. One could still by chocolate hands as souveniers.
A tour of Rembrandt’s house followed by some lucrative jewelry shopping proved the city was worth the trip. Plus that night she hosted a dinner for the art dealer in one of her favorite restaurants. Not only was the food exquisite, it had a piano suspended from the ceiling and a spiral staircase leading to the bathroom. The steps to the ladies’ room were treacherous but definitely something to remember. The piano player sang American standards, which made her a little homesick. Happily, the deal was a success and soon she would be heading home.
On to Amsterdam by train. Marjorie was relaxed, sitting with her purse on the seat next to her thinking about the profits from her journey. Her husband, tired from the trip, was snoring away. She always said nothing could awaken the man when he was deep in dreamland.
Suddenly, two men came into the compartment noisily bumping into luggage and making a bit of a fuss. One was well-dressed, but the other looked like a thug. Another couple left the compartment immediately, setting off alarm bells for her. The well-dressed man stood in the aisle and started talking to Marjorie in a German accent, asking questions about her travels in a friendly tone. She thought it a bit odd, because up until that point, everyone had been standoffish or rude. Then she realized the thug was standing behind her, reaching over to grab her purse.
Instinctively, she clutched her bag and kept whacking him with it, undoubtedly bruising his hand or worse because blood was everywhere. Cursing loudly, she yelled for the conductor.
As the well-dressed German skedaddled behind the thug, who escaped to another compartment, he waved his hands confoundedly, muttering to her startled but groggy husband, “American women! Such an attitude. Always so aggressive. How do you stand it?”
— Mugsy
Ha!! Go girl! opelikakat
ReplyDeleteIs this actually fiction? Are you a world traveler? I'm impressed-- it all sounds so sophisticated, except for the good old-fashioned American purse-wacking! ---Macoff
ReplyDeleteBased on a true story, mostly.:)
Delete