or, The Ham and Cheese Croissant Story
My first job in the Netherlands was at the Booking.com office on Vijzelstraat. The Noord-Zuidlijn had not yet opened and I hadn’t really found a best route home from work. On this particular day in February, I stepped out of the office and grabbed a ham and cheese croissant from the Albert Heijn supermarket across the street, and then ambled my way down the Prinsengracht canal towards the touristy Leidseplein district. There, I could take Tram 5 to Amstelveen before transferring to Metro 55 for the last leg of my journey.
I hadn’t made it a block when I heard tires squeeling on the cobblestone and an engine revving up directly behind me. I looked back to see a police van barrelling down this narrow street straight for me. Mostly, I’m worried about getting hit by this van if it loses control on a narrow street, so I step a bit closer to the buildings to be safe, but otherwise I keep eating my ham and cheese croissant and merrily continue on my walk.
As they near me, the Politie slow down. This fact only barely registers in the lizard brain recesses of my mind. As they pass me, they quickly angle the van across the sidewalk and box me in. I quickly snap out of it and look around me.
Two big, barrel chested, tall, angry Dutch policemen jump out of the van and start shouting at me. In Dutch. Surely, they’re not yelling at me, I think, so I look behind me to see who they’re actually yelling at.
There’s another policeman, and he’s also yelling at me. It’s me and three angry Dutch policemen, and I’m just standing there with a ham and cheese croissant hanging out of my mouth.
Now, of course, I’m an American, and I’ve got not one, not two, but three very angry policemen yelling at me in a language I do not understand, I have no idea how to comply with their demands, and my face is full of croissant. How am I supposed to tell them that I don’t speak Dutch without doing something that they might perceive as threatening. I didn’t want to make any furtive motions.
My eyes instictively take inventory of all of the officers’ hands: where are all the guns? There are three very angry policemen who have taken great pains to box me in so that I cannot run; I expected guns.
There were none. So in the next half second, a small flood of relief washes over along with a little embarrassment at how being an American has colored my perception of policing.
The croissant is still hanging out of my face.
Suddenly, a PostNL cyclist spins up to us, throws down his bike, makes an exasperated plea to the police on my behalf, there’s a little back and forth, and then the police jump back in their van and take off again.
The PostNL cyclist offers a meek “Sorry!” before taking off after them.
And I’m still standing there with a croissant hanging out of my face.
To this day, I have no idea what, exactly, happened.