the homeless romantic
Member
I AM AN AMERICAN…
I recently went to jail in Holland for shoplifting. During my short time dealing with the legal system and the people of the country, I quickly realized many distinct differences between our countries. I arrived in Utrecht, Netherlands with high hopes of meeting friendly people, and I was not disappointed. Coming from Germany where I had been living for the past four months, I was longing for the warmth of the English language, and I don’t think I have been smiled at by so many strangers in all of my life. We took scenic bike tours, boat tours, couch surfed, and got hour-long, full-body Chinese massages, none of which topped the experience I was about to have.
My girlfriend and I woke up early and hit the streets looking for some excitement. While walking around, causing general mayhem, I had the idea that I needed a new pair of pants, but not just pants, “Good ones!” I proclaimed. After several attempts, we found a store to service my needs. A middle aged, flamboyant fat man in glasses greeted me with a slight snarl and a look in his eyes to question my purpose in his store. “Can I help you?” he muttered as if I had just walked in on him on the toilet, pinching off an embarrassing loaf. I casually made my selections and was off to the dressing room. After working my magic behind the velvet curtain—violently cramming the pants and a shirt deep inside my backpack with the hangars still on them, making an irregular and quite noticeable bulge in the bag—we went through the front doors and out into the street. About fifty feet into the intersection the shopkeeper came running out of the door screaming, “I’M MISSING A SHIRT!!! I’M MISSING A SHIRT!!”. Confronted and with nothing to say in my defense, he demanded I open the bag. After a series of cat and mouse games, I opened the bag and the clothes just shot out. Before I could react, he had me tight by the sleeve of my jacket. I shoved the backpack to my girlfriend and whispered “Run.” At this time, in my peripheral vision, a mass of on-lookers and heroes had congregated all around and as I was dragged back into the store the man shouted “Call the police!!”. Thinking critically and using my general knowledge about police, I decided quickly I was NOT interested into talking to them. I unzipped my coat and ran for the door. A bit too eager and excited, I lost control of my legs as I exited to the street and fell face first and skidded across the crosswalk. I got up and ran about a car’s length, then noticed my hat had fallen off during my escape. I actually turned around and ran straight at the shop owner, the store, and the concerned mob of good Dutch citizens. In basketball they call this maneuver “breaking someone’s ankles”. I ducked around this giant, angry, yet lovable fat man, scooped my hat off the ground and jumped over a convoy of bicycles, contributing their own brand of non-violent vigilante justice.
And I ran, and brother, did I run. There was only one guy who actually gave chase. When I looked back, and heard him shouting, what must have been “THIEF!” in Dutch, over and over. I had forgotten how fast I was since grade school, still got it, yeah. I ran twenty blocks until my stomach was hard as stone and I couldn’t breathe. So I hid, briefly contemplated jumping over a brick wall into a front yard, but before I could make a move around the corner, the guy chasing me was now waddling, confused, down the street staring into his neon green smart phone. I saw him before he saw me but when he did, he says “YOU!!”. I told him to forget about it, he shook his head no, I said “Well….come on then, let’s do it!”. We were off again, running through crowded restaurant patios, me throwing garbage in his path, and waiting for a car to come and then running across the street. Eventually, being completely lost, we ran into one of the many beautiful and scenic canals that the Netherlands have to offer. Trapped between this good samaritan and sewage filled canal, I knew he wouldn’t jump in, on account of that neon green smart phone, so I did what any crazed American that has seen too many movies would do, I jumped in! The water was freezing and smelled like a combination of wet dog and corpse. I paddled, wheezing out-loud and feeling the blood pulsate up my spine into my head. I made it to the other side. Exhausted, I pulled my body ashore and ran another three blocks and jumped in a front yard. I was soaking wet, praying for the sun, examining my new wounds, and feeling the adrenaline corse through me. Steam would rise above my drying clothes when the sun passed over my hiding spot. I thought maybe I would actually get away, but then the overcast came and I knew that if I sat here I might die of hypothermia. So I walked and reintegrated myself back into society as if nothing had happened. Just a regular guy, covered in mysterious wounds, soaking wet, and looking for his hostel. I didn’t get too far… maybe ten blocks when a police officer on a bicycle came up behind me, looked me from top to bottom and said, “I think we’re looking for you!”. At this point, I surrendered, the chase was over, I was badly wounded and I was ready for whatever was next. Two younger cops came, while me and the other bike cop waited on the street corner. They asked me before I got in their car, “Do we need to handcuff you?”. I was shocked, where I am from I’m sure this isn’t an option. “No…” I replied and from there we were on our way to Dutch jail. I should have started by stating: I have never been to jail before, in any country, but I have spoken to plenty of police in America and Mexico in my life. Every law enforcement official I encountered during my stay in Utrecht was so surprisingly humane and friendly. I felt obligated to express to them how glad I was that I was not in America. They all replied the same, agreeably saying “You’d be screwed and if you were black they would shoot you, you know about Ferguson?”. I nodded, “We have more people in prison than any other country”. We exchanged statistics and information as I was given a change of dry clothes, a warm cup of tea, and escorted to a holding cell. Usually for this crime, I was told, that I could spend two weeks in jail and then be deported OR pay a fine and be out by the morning. When I heard this, I promptly paid the €450 fine. I was then informed by my court appointed legal defense that there is still a possibility of them escorting me to my resident country of Germany and they would most likely deport me. Either way, I was to be leaving Holland as soon I was released. So the time came and, I’m assuming because of my cooperation, they had decided to discharge me and drive me to the train station. After a little convincing, the 20 year-old cops driving me to the station let me stop by the hostel and grab my stuff, dropped me off and told me to stay out of trouble and don’t forget to leave the Netherlands. So, why was this such a pleasant shock for me, with my American education of what jail is supposed to be? Is it possible that American’s live in a state of fear because of the excessive force and psychological torture of the police? The military industrial complex is encouraging the sale of any weapons to anyone for any reason, not just combat zones, but huge surpluses of military equipment come back from Iraq and Afghanistan and with nothing to do with them, they naturally are given to police departments all over the country. This puts a clear thought in the heads of civilians and police, that we need these over-sized guns because things aren’t okay, creating tension, when in reality it’s just the excess runoff and breakage from a disgusting industry. There are many problems with American culture and I fear we will see more police brutality and racism before we see less, and my experience in Utrecht was the first true testament to myself that, we as Americans, are doing it very, very wrong.
I recently went to jail in Holland for shoplifting. During my short time dealing with the legal system and the people of the country, I quickly realized many distinct differences between our countries. I arrived in Utrecht, Netherlands with high hopes of meeting friendly people, and I was not disappointed. Coming from Germany where I had been living for the past four months, I was longing for the warmth of the English language, and I don’t think I have been smiled at by so many strangers in all of my life. We took scenic bike tours, boat tours, couch surfed, and got hour-long, full-body Chinese massages, none of which topped the experience I was about to have.
My girlfriend and I woke up early and hit the streets looking for some excitement. While walking around, causing general mayhem, I had the idea that I needed a new pair of pants, but not just pants, “Good ones!” I proclaimed. After several attempts, we found a store to service my needs. A middle aged, flamboyant fat man in glasses greeted me with a slight snarl and a look in his eyes to question my purpose in his store. “Can I help you?” he muttered as if I had just walked in on him on the toilet, pinching off an embarrassing loaf. I casually made my selections and was off to the dressing room. After working my magic behind the velvet curtain—violently cramming the pants and a shirt deep inside my backpack with the hangars still on them, making an irregular and quite noticeable bulge in the bag—we went through the front doors and out into the street. About fifty feet into the intersection the shopkeeper came running out of the door screaming, “I’M MISSING A SHIRT!!! I’M MISSING A SHIRT!!”. Confronted and with nothing to say in my defense, he demanded I open the bag. After a series of cat and mouse games, I opened the bag and the clothes just shot out. Before I could react, he had me tight by the sleeve of my jacket. I shoved the backpack to my girlfriend and whispered “Run.” At this time, in my peripheral vision, a mass of on-lookers and heroes had congregated all around and as I was dragged back into the store the man shouted “Call the police!!”. Thinking critically and using my general knowledge about police, I decided quickly I was NOT interested into talking to them. I unzipped my coat and ran for the door. A bit too eager and excited, I lost control of my legs as I exited to the street and fell face first and skidded across the crosswalk. I got up and ran about a car’s length, then noticed my hat had fallen off during my escape. I actually turned around and ran straight at the shop owner, the store, and the concerned mob of good Dutch citizens. In basketball they call this maneuver “breaking someone’s ankles”. I ducked around this giant, angry, yet lovable fat man, scooped my hat off the ground and jumped over a convoy of bicycles, contributing their own brand of non-violent vigilante justice.
And I ran, and brother, did I run. There was only one guy who actually gave chase. When I looked back, and heard him shouting, what must have been “THIEF!” in Dutch, over and over. I had forgotten how fast I was since grade school, still got it, yeah. I ran twenty blocks until my stomach was hard as stone and I couldn’t breathe. So I hid, briefly contemplated jumping over a brick wall into a front yard, but before I could make a move around the corner, the guy chasing me was now waddling, confused, down the street staring into his neon green smart phone. I saw him before he saw me but when he did, he says “YOU!!”. I told him to forget about it, he shook his head no, I said “Well….come on then, let’s do it!”. We were off again, running through crowded restaurant patios, me throwing garbage in his path, and waiting for a car to come and then running across the street. Eventually, being completely lost, we ran into one of the many beautiful and scenic canals that the Netherlands have to offer. Trapped between this good samaritan and sewage filled canal, I knew he wouldn’t jump in, on account of that neon green smart phone, so I did what any crazed American that has seen too many movies would do, I jumped in! The water was freezing and smelled like a combination of wet dog and corpse. I paddled, wheezing out-loud and feeling the blood pulsate up my spine into my head. I made it to the other side. Exhausted, I pulled my body ashore and ran another three blocks and jumped in a front yard. I was soaking wet, praying for the sun, examining my new wounds, and feeling the adrenaline corse through me. Steam would rise above my drying clothes when the sun passed over my hiding spot. I thought maybe I would actually get away, but then the overcast came and I knew that if I sat here I might die of hypothermia. So I walked and reintegrated myself back into society as if nothing had happened. Just a regular guy, covered in mysterious wounds, soaking wet, and looking for his hostel. I didn’t get too far… maybe ten blocks when a police officer on a bicycle came up behind me, looked me from top to bottom and said, “I think we’re looking for you!”. At this point, I surrendered, the chase was over, I was badly wounded and I was ready for whatever was next. Two younger cops came, while me and the other bike cop waited on the street corner. They asked me before I got in their car, “Do we need to handcuff you?”. I was shocked, where I am from I’m sure this isn’t an option. “No…” I replied and from there we were on our way to Dutch jail. I should have started by stating: I have never been to jail before, in any country, but I have spoken to plenty of police in America and Mexico in my life. Every law enforcement official I encountered during my stay in Utrecht was so surprisingly humane and friendly. I felt obligated to express to them how glad I was that I was not in America. They all replied the same, agreeably saying “You’d be screwed and if you were black they would shoot you, you know about Ferguson?”. I nodded, “We have more people in prison than any other country”. We exchanged statistics and information as I was given a change of dry clothes, a warm cup of tea, and escorted to a holding cell. Usually for this crime, I was told, that I could spend two weeks in jail and then be deported OR pay a fine and be out by the morning. When I heard this, I promptly paid the €450 fine. I was then informed by my court appointed legal defense that there is still a possibility of them escorting me to my resident country of Germany and they would most likely deport me. Either way, I was to be leaving Holland as soon I was released. So the time came and, I’m assuming because of my cooperation, they had decided to discharge me and drive me to the train station. After a little convincing, the 20 year-old cops driving me to the station let me stop by the hostel and grab my stuff, dropped me off and told me to stay out of trouble and don’t forget to leave the Netherlands. So, why was this such a pleasant shock for me, with my American education of what jail is supposed to be? Is it possible that American’s live in a state of fear because of the excessive force and psychological torture of the police? The military industrial complex is encouraging the sale of any weapons to anyone for any reason, not just combat zones, but huge surpluses of military equipment come back from Iraq and Afghanistan and with nothing to do with them, they naturally are given to police departments all over the country. This puts a clear thought in the heads of civilians and police, that we need these over-sized guns because things aren’t okay, creating tension, when in reality it’s just the excess runoff and breakage from a disgusting industry. There are many problems with American culture and I fear we will see more police brutality and racism before we see less, and my experience in Utrecht was the first true testament to myself that, we as Americans, are doing it very, very wrong.
Last edited by a moderator:
