SILENT DEATH
A euphemism for being killed by an oncoming bicycle; “silent death” is less Orwellian doublespeak – and more a curiosity-piquing and somewhat literal way to dub the awfulness of a death-by-Schwinn; I heard the term “silent death” for the first time while in Rotterdam, Holland; Rotterdam has bicycle paths running along every street, and to the ignorant American (ahem) they resemble walking paths; I had to retrain my brain; I was almost killed many times – and called “Fucking tourist!” even more; Rotterdam is a fascinating, hyper-modern city – both Europe’s busiest seaport and a center for architectural innovation (including the Netherlands Architecture Institute); Rotterdam’s modernity is due – in large part – to the Rotterdam Blitz on May 14th, 1940, in which virtually the entire city was flattened by bombs from the Nazi’s Luftwaffe; the result is a major European city with an architectural history that dates back only seventy years (though a few survivors are scattered around the city); for the most part, Rotterdam doesn’t possess buildings as old as those in, say, Cleveland, Ohio; this is odd; if you walk down a sidewalk (though not on a bike path!) in Rotterdam, stop, and close your eyes, you can almost imagine the roar of approaching Messerschmitts; I flew in and out of Amsterdam, and before I left Holland, I made a point to spend an afternoon at the Anne Frank House; I’d been to the Anne Frank House once before – as a teenager, with my parents (on that same trip, we got lost and found ourselves in the Red Light District (Walletjes); I remember a bikini-wearing prostitute poking her head out from a store window and yelling, “Hey, American boy – suck and fuck, fifty guilders!” (this was before the conversion to euros in 2002); my mother – who was walking ahead with my father – turned and asked if I needed to borrow money; funny lady, my mother); Anne Frank had been on my mind for some time, perhaps because I’d recently been re-listening to a seminal indie rock album recorded by a childhood friend’s husband in the late 90’s – which was, in large part, inspired by Anne Frank; it’s hard to appreciate how emotional it can be to visit the Anne Frank House; it’s the tiny details that get you; this time, it was the images of movie stars torn from film magazines and pasted on the walls above Anne’s bed that affected me; I did the same thing as a kid (I had both Absolut vodka advertisements and film stills of Ione Skye – from “Say Anything” – thumbtacked to my pale blue walls); as it happened, when I visited the Anne Frank House this time I found myself in the middle of a large tour group from Israel; the women were loud, but I didn’t understand a word they said – except for “Anne”; when I reached the top floor of the building, I sat in front of a television that played, on a permanent loop, an interview from the 1960’s with Anne’s father (Otto); in perfect English, and with complete matter-of-factness, Otto discussed returning to his Amsterdam home after the war, discovering Anne’s diary, and being dismayed by her candor and depth of thought; Otto Frank said: “…my conclusion is, as I had been on very, very good terms with Anne, that most parents don’t know really their children”; I watched that film clip over a dozen times, mesmerized by Mr. Frank’s confession; I stayed until closing at the Anne Frank House, went to a bar next door, ordered both a coffee and a beer, then walked – through the gray and drizzle – twenty-five minutes back to my hotel; I never rode a bicycle while in the Netherlands, though I learned to avoid the bicycle paths.
makes me want to drink alchoholic beverages