The workers don’t speak English. The low ceilings are crumbling. It’s filthy. It’s chaotic. There aren’t enough taxis. And — unlike in many parts of the Third World — there’s isn’t even a hint of charm to make up for the shortcomings.

The contrast with Heathrow, which I had left eight hours earlier, was stark and depressing.

This time, my JFK ordeal began with the baggage claim. Electronic signs all over the area announced that our bags would be on Carousel 3. But as we were waiting around, a shoddily dressed worker yelled in broken English that our “bags on carouse’ one.” No one bothered to change the signs.

After I’d collected my luggage, I called “Dial 7″ car service to arrange to get home. “I’m in Delta International Arrivals,” I told the woman who answered the phone.

“Meet the car on Level 3 East, Door 1,” she told me in broken English. (There is no Level 3.)

I was parched from my flight, so first I went to a vending machine to spend $2.50 for a small bottle of water. The machine took $3 from me, displayed “credit: $3,” and refused to give me any water. So I waited in line and spent another $2.99 at Dunkin’ Donuts for water.

Now I had to find “Level 3.” I tried asking some people — security guards, porters, etc. — but I couldn’t find anyone who spoke English. Finally I asked a limo driver who was picking up another passenger.

“Only one place to meet cars,” he told me. And he told me how to get there. It was on the ground floor of a neighboring building, access to which is provided by a long, winding, narrow ramp adjacent to speeding cars. Unfortunately, while the ramp serves as a two-way connection between the buildings, it is only wide enough for one person.

Waiting for a taxi at JFK

Once I’d navigated the ramp, I saw a huge line of people waiting for taxis, and no taxis. Those poor folks, I thought. But there were also a dozen Lincoln Town Cars waiting for passengers. This must be the right place.

Now I called Dial 7 to tell them where I was. “You have to go to Level 3,” a receptionist insisted.

“I’m on the ground floor. There is no Level 3,” I tried to explain.

“Everyone else can find it!” she chastised me.

So I trudged back to where I had been, taking the ramp upward, searching for Level 3. “You canno’ go up there mahn,” a security guard yelled at me as I was half-way there. I turned around, walked down to the guard, and — in my own home town, mind you — explained that I was lost and I needed help.

It wasn’t until some 30 minutes later that the driver and I found each other — on the ground floor of domestic arrivals.

I don’t understand it. New York is so wonderful. Why is JFK so awful?

Thursday was my first day with no teaching or international travel. I took advantage of my time off to visit Hampton Court Palace, built in the early 1500s by (soon-to-be Cardinal) Thomas Wolsey, then taken over soon after by King Henry VIII.

Hampton Court is where King Henry VIII wrote the Pope (in 1530) threatening a break with the Papacy, and it’s where (in 1604) King James I commissioned the King James Bible (“KJV”). Much later, in 1944, General (and soon-to-be President) Eisenhower planned the Normandy landings in neighboring Bushy Park.

Lying on the banks of the River Thames, it’s a magnificent estate, with a castle, palace, and beautiful grounds. I normally prefer raw nature to orderly plantings, but I have to admit, these formal gardens were outstanding (though the huge unnaturally-shaped trees were also a little freaky).

The palace sports what Ernest Law called “the most famous Maze in the history of the world.” It is the oldest surviving usable hedge maze, and it was the first maze to feature wrong paths and dead-ends.

I returned to London by boat. Most of the 3-hour journey along the Thames was relaxing, if a little dull, but approaching the Houses of Parliament (including Big Ben) by boat was lovely.

On Friday the rain forced me inside, so I went to the British Museum.

And on Saturday, after presenting in Finchley, I spent a bit of time in the London suburb of Muswell Hill, which overlooks downtown London.

Muswell Hill



On Sunday I had to leave. But before departing for the airport, I managed to fit in a quick visit to a school in Wimbledon, where I guest taught 6th graders. The school was bubbling with joy, laughter, and learning, and it left me with a sweet taste as I headed off to the airport to return to New York.

London, seen from Muswell Hill

After several days in London (albeit with a break in Amsterdam), I felt like I was starting to get a feel for the city, at least parts of it. Because I was staying in the south and generally teaching in the north, I had already traversed the city a half dozen times, using, variously, trains, buses, subways (“The Underground”) and taxis.

The most efficient route involved Victoria Station as a connection between British Rail overground train service to/from the south and subways to/from the north. It’s still not entirely clear to me how a 14-mile journey can involve an hour of travel time on the subway and still require a train trip afterward, but that’s London.

Departures at Victoria Station

Locating the right train at Victoria Station requires practice. If all you know is where you want to go, you don’t have much chance of getting there, because the “departures” display organizes platform information by time, not destination. You have to know when your train leaves and where it terminates in order to find the track.

So people mill around, staring at the departures display, waiting until a track number appears — information that frequently isn’t disclosed until only minutes before the train departs. Then they head for the train.

In my case, I had to scan a lot more information, because I didn’t always know the train schedule or which route would take me to Streatham Hill. I also had to remember that neither Streatham Commons nor Streatham was good enough. The sheer number of train stops combined with the fact that I had never heard of most of them made the task fairly tricky. And I didn’t want to miss a train, because they only run four times an hour.

After a while I learned that London Transport offers both on-line and voice-activated-cellphone services for planning a route. And it turns out that there are usually a half dozen possible ways to get from one point to another that all take about the same amount of time. Where I live in Westchester, that’s true of roads, and a driver has to weigh personal choice, road quality, traffic, etc., when choosing between otherwise equivalent options. Londoners, it seems, do the same for public transport.

I also learned that, unlike the New York City subway map, the Tube map is not geographically accurate. Places that are very close to each other may not be so close on the map, and, equally, the map may make some locales appear closer than they really are. (“Caution: Places on the map are closer than they appear.”) And, in fact, many Londoners only know the layout of the city though that map. I just read a newspaper report that native Londoners sometimes unknowingly spend 10 minutes or more in the Underground to cover what could have been a three minute walk.

St. Pancras Train Station

I decided to buy dinner in St. Pancras and have a little picnic in the station, eating a leisurely dinner while taking advantage of the WiFi that can be found if you sit in the right spot.

St. Pancras sports a wide variety of restaurants and markets, so I had no trouble finding something tasty for dinner.

Unfortunately, after dinner I discovered that one thing missing from this modern, attractive, and large station is anywhere to throw away garbage. I suspect that the lack of bins (as the locals say) is a response to the modern scourge of terrorism, the idea being that this way there’s one fewer place to hide a bomb. Whatever the reason, I walked the entire length of the station before deciding to pack my garbage and dispose of it later.

Then a quick Tube ride took me to Finchley, where I arrived in plenty of time to teach a workshop on “The Bible Doesn’t Say That: How the King James Version Led Us All Astray.”

My journey from London to Amsterdam via Brussels had been easy and relaxing, so I wrongly expected the same for the return.

Tuesday morning I made my way to Amsterdam Central Station in plenty of time for my InterCity train to Brussels. And it’s a good thing, because my caution was the only reason that 40 minutes before my train was scheduled to leave I was already standing at the track. A rail worker came up to me and asked if I was going to Brussels. I confirmed that I was. She told me that my train had been canceled, and I had to take a different train — leaving in five minutes from a different track — to Rotterdam, and from there transfer to Brussels.

No problem, I thought. I carried my heavy luggage (both professional and casual clothes for two weeks in one huge case, a variety of electronics and carry-on necessities in a smaller one) down one set of stairs, rolled them to the stairs leading to the platform for the new train, and carried my luggage back up.

Windmill as seen from the
InterCity train

I boarded the train and set out for Rotterdam. A short while later I was in the Rotterdam station, where I met some fellow travelers: a woman from Argentina, also headed to London, a small group of Argentinian students who didn’t speak English, and a man from North Africa who only spoke French and Arabic. We worked out a system whereby I listened for announcements in English. Then I relayed them slowly and clearly to the woman from Argentina, who translated for the students, while I translated for the French speaker.

What we were translating and conveying was the growing delay of the train from Rotterdam to Brussels. At first it was on time. Then 10 minutes late. Then 20. Then 30.

The Eurostar demands check-in 30 minutes in advance, and I only had 1:15 scheduled to connect in Brussels. By the time we left, that had been cut to — at best — 45 minutes. Enough, but barely.

The train ran slowly, though. Because of our increasing time pressure in Brussels, the woman from Argentina asked a rail worker exactly where we go in Brussels. (Down the stairs, left, then left again, it turns out.)

We rolled into Brussels 29 minutes before the Eurostar was to leave. We would surely miss the 30 minute check-in window, but not by much, if we ran.

As we prepared to leave the train, I had a feeling that we were in the wrong place, because of a vague jet-lagged recollection that the Eurostar doesn’t use the main Brussels station but rather the south one. Unfortunately, I had no way to confirm that, because my ticket only listed “Holland” and “London,” not the all-important stop in the middle. But we had been given very detailed instructions, so I followed the woman from Argentina.

I followed her off the the train and into the wrong station.

It took us only four minutes to confirm that we were in the wrong place, and another five to learn how to get to the right station. Following instructions, we ran to platform 4 and waited for a train. We watched in agony as the train plodded into the station, groaning. But three minutes later we were in Brussels South.

We had less than 15 before the Eurostar left, which is where Stage One of the Eurostar Biathlon begins. I lifted my heavy suitcases and ran down the stairs with them, and then ran with them rolling behind me, carefully weighing the benefits of sprinting against the dual dangers of missing an important sign and getting a heart attack.

I bolted though the Eurostar gate 12 minutes before the train was going to leave.

Then I had to go through security. Coins out of my pockets. Off with the belt. (“I have to take my belt off?” I asked. “Everything goes through,” the officer said, and then added in a rare bit of humor, “belts, coins, grenades, everything.”)

Seven minutes. I might make it, though at this point my belt had been stuffed hastily into my carry-on because I didn’t have time to put it back on.

One final hurdle. British border control. I ran up, handed over my passport and made a show of looking at my watch. “Trains were running late from Amsterdam,” I explained, panting.

“Where’s your landing card?” the border-control agent asked.

“What?”

“You need a landing card.”

Six minutes. “I don’t have one.”

“You can fill one out over there,” she said, pointing.

This is Stage Two of the Eurostar Biathlon. After sprinting up and down stairs and through corridors with two heavy suitcases, you have to find the fine motor control to write clearly in block letters on a government form.

I wasn’t going to make it. The form needed all sorts of details. My name (which I knew by heart, but, at this point, barely), but also obscure details like the train number and my address in London. There was no way.

“Come back here,” the border-control agent told me. “I’ll help you.”

And she did. She told me what to fill in, where to sign, and then she filled in the rest.

I sped up a platform and boarded the train three minutes before it left.

And that’s how I made it to London in time to teach Tuesday night.

In the end, I don’t know. Is getting help from a British border-control agent during the Eurostar Biathlon cheating?

Like its British counterpart, Limmoed NL was wonderful, marked by deep learning, passionate attendees, and a joyous ambiance. (I had the good fortune to meet the exceptional volunteer organizers, and it’s clear that the model for joy and exuberance was set by them.)

Limmoed NL: Diemen, Holland

The conference began Sunday afternoon, and that’s when I offered my first session, on “Four Exiles and Four Spiritual Revolutions.” Then on Monday I gave lectures on the history of Hebrew and on Bible translation. The conference languages were Dutch and English. Almost everyone in Holland understands English, and that’s the language I used for my presentations.

Even so, talking specifically about translation to an audience of non-native English speakers was a unique challenge. Normally (as in And God Said), I use English examples to illustrate my theoretical points, because I’ve found that people are best able to appreciate the nature of translation in their native language. But this time, most people’s native language was Dutch, with French coming in next, followed in last place by English. Even though the Dutch generally have excellent English, I didn’t know how readily they’d be able to appreciate fine nuances in English (like the potential danger of a “drive-through window” or the double entendre of a “strip mall”).

So I had spent the previous days pestering Dutch speakers, gathering examples to augment my English ones. I learned that peanut butter in Dutch is called “peanut cheese” (pindakaas); in Holland they don’t have drive-though windows but they do have “drive-in” houses; door means “through” and lopen means “walk,” but doorlopen means to “walk faster” or “get going”; the sneltrain (“fast train”) is slower than the “InterCity train”; and so forth.

I only made one mistake. I made notes about all of the words I needed, but I wrote them down in Dutch. Not knowing how to read Dutch aloud, though, I butchered all of the pronunciations during my presentation.

Still, the audience seemed receptive, and I received excellent questions.

All in all, it was a wonderful experience, and I hope I have the opportunity to return.

I had Friday morning to get reacquainted with Amsterdam. I had been there 20 years earlier, and in some ways, nothing has changed. The friendly people (who all speak English) mingle amid the unique combination of canals, bicycles, shops, and European charm. Amsterdam is people enjoying life.

Except for the new transportation-payment system.

The new system involves electronic cards. I had already encountered difficulty when I arrived the day before. This time, I wanted to ride the metro back into the city center.

On the platform I saw a ticket vending machine, and I mistakenly thought I could use it to buy a ticket. The good news was that the machine had a button marked “English,” so I didn’t have to risk misunderstanding the Dutch. But after switching languages I encountered my first problem. The machine was sold out of single-use tickets.

I knew I’d be taking more than one ride, so I figured that a reasonable plan B was to buy an electronic pass.

But the machine didn’t take cash. Nor did it take American credit cards.

So I had to give up on the metro, and take a tram, instead, buying a ticket from the driver.

Ticket Machines that Won’t Give Me Tickets

I wandered around Amsterdam for a while, enjoyed lunch facing a popular square, and then (after a similar adventure with tickets, cash, trams, and metros) returned to rest before my first speaking event in Amsterdam.

I was speaking at a minyan, a prayer meeting held in the living room of my hosts. And it was fabulous! It was attended by some 60-70 young participants, mostly from Amsterdam but also a few from France who had arrived for the Sunday/Monday conference that I would be speaking at. The evening was full of song, prayer, joy, delicious food, and wonderful people. My memory of being there remains a highlight of my trip.

After two days in London, I set out by train for Amsterdam.

I again took an above-ground train and then an underground train, this time headed for St. Pancras station, from which the high-speed Eurostar train service to mainland Europe leaves.

After security and border control — into France, which sits at the other end of the Chunnel — I boarded the train and relaxed as the landscapes zipped by me out the window.

Before long I was in Brussels, where I transferred to a slower but still fast “InterCity train,” which, in this case, was also inter-country. And announcements were made in all of the local languages: English, German, French, and Dutch. The borders were unmarked and had no passport checks, but I could tell when we’d entered a new country because the order of the languages used for the announcements changed.

The last time I was in Amsterdam, I found the transportation network very easy to navigate. But now they have a new electronic fare system. After descending the elevator to the metro outside the central train terminal, I found that without an electronic card I couldn’t even get in, so I had to ride back up and walk to an office that would sell me a ticket, for 2.60 Euros, or about $3.70. Only then could I ride the few miles to my final destination.

Though most of the journey was relaxing, it wasn’t short, and I was glad to have the next day free to relax.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain. We’re going to try one more time to start the engine…”

Leaving JFK

Did he really say try to start the engine?

I was sure we weren’t going to leave, that I wasn’t going to get to London by the next morning, and that I wouldn’t make it to the Sternberg Centre there by Tuesday night to teach my class.

But the final try worked — there was also something about an oil filter or air filter being replaced; it was hard to hear exactly — and 90 minutes late we finally took off.

Combined with 20 minutes circling Heathrow, that meant that I didn’t land until almost 11:30am.

Underground

So I barely had enough time to make it to my hosts in Sreatham Hill (“Streatham” rhymes with “get’m”; the “a” and “h” are silent). Taking the underground Piccadilly line to Green Park then the Victoria line to Victoria, and finally the overground train to Streatham Hill is not quick. But at least the transportation network in London is extremely easy to navigate, and everything is well marked.

Streatham Hill

Then I reversed much of the process to get to North London, where I was scheduled to teach. We left at 5:30pm and arrived right at 7:00.

To the best of my jet-lagged recollection, the event itself was wonderful. My class was very well attended by an enthusiastic group, and we had a great discussion. I even got to catch up with some friends.

I hadn’t fully realized how big London is. Exhausted after a day that started with an airplane engine that wouldn’t start, included not enough sleep, and ended with teaching for an hour, I took a taxi back to Streatham. But even with no traffic, the ride took 45 minutes along roads that seem to meander at random.

Fortunately, I was able to relax the next day, getting ready to leave again the day after on a train journey to Amsterdam via Brussels.

My address at the Rotary was extremely well attended, and I was honored by the presence of several high-ranking religious leaders. I was equally delighted by the clergy and congregants I met from Southside and Temple Emanu-El.

Snow Squall

Rain Delay in ATL

Car at HPN airport

Still, it was worth it, and I hope I have the opportunity to return to Birmingham soon.