I’d sprain my ankle if it meant getting an up close look at some tea party protesters.

President Obama came to Holland, Michigan this week. That’s right, B.O. himself caught wind of the Dutch frenzy that permeates the hamburgers in this town of non-risque nightgowns and large family portraits. Though he was a few days late for the massive whole-town world cup cheering, orange-wearing, and street boozing that didn’t happen at all but should have when the real Holland played in the finals last Sunday, he did arrive in time for my Thursday work day. Our leader with the unfortunate initials flew Air Force One into Gerald R. Ford International Airport (sorry Mr. President, this one is taken) and then took Marine One to Tulip City (what else) airport.

I’m glad the guy has gusto. We are on the map now for a new electric car battery plant that is about to break ground, and he had no problem calling out our local representative that blocked his efforts along the way but showed up for the ribbon cutting and sampling of what I’m sure were fine Michigander appetizers.

I didn’t get invited to (but was probably on the B-list for) the selective-audience event, but I was in a meeting in a room with a window when someone noticed the president’s helicopter fly overhead. With my neck pre-craned, I scrambled to the glass with my colleagues to get a look at a hunk of metal in the sky.

Everything else happened in slow motion. I lurched forward, head aimed at the clouds, shoulder and chin leading me on a trajectory to success. I can’t be sure of what happened next. A miscalculation or an interception? A stumble or a trip? Accidental or deliberate, it doesn’t matter how many times I replay it in my head. My body was suddenly careened into the chest of a co-worker, absorbed, and released. Newton and his laws took control and I bounced off said co-worker and missed my chance of seeing the underside of the vehicle that probably contained my President.

This is the end of my story about my visit with Barack Obama. A few weeks ago, I did an extra lap around a block on my way home from work because I thought I saw a tea party gathering. Why else would a crowd of people gather together? I think I’m worried that I’ve become numb to Holland. Do I forget what Thai food tastes like? Have my ears fallen into harmony with the flat ‘A’? We have none of the trendy au naturale frozen yogurt bars that are probably now out of style everywhere else, and vegetarians are eaten as appetizers. Does this bother me anymore? I’m starting to get twitchy and complacent. I need something to make this place real again.

Maybe I’ll stub my toe on the way to Wal-Mart.

On display in downtown Holland. I wonder if each sub-family picked their own color?

“That shirt makes your armpits look great.”

In seventh grade I subscribed to the ‘tight tank top under loose tank top’ style made possible by The Gap and several trend-setting pre-teens.  In fifth grade I embraced the gloriousness of hypercolor fabric with a classy tank that changed from blue to pink during the hotness of kickball at recess.  I got out of the habit of wearing any sort of tank throughout high school and college because my swimming-enhanced shoulders advised against it, but I generally think tank tops on women work just fine.  To all men everywhere: I never need to see your armpits.

Armpit shirts are going off this summer in Holland. Going off! Every teenage boy and a large hunk of men are wearing t-shirts with the sleeves cut off and the armpit holes enhanced so that they start at the shoulder and end at the bottom of the ribcage.  “Dude, your pits look sweet in those holes.” “Dude.”

The armpit shirts in Holland don't even come with muscles.

Armpits aside, I’ve now lived in Holland, Michigan for a year.  Yesterday, on July 3rd, I attended my first repeat event in the Midwest: July 4th.  When Sunday belongs to the Church in your town, you make the necessary adjustments. July 3rd has a nice ring to it too.  “Yay, we’re almost independent!”

It’s probably time to admit that this isn’t my first time in the Midwest.  During the summer of 2003 I lived in Minneapolis, MN for 40 days and 40 nights. I was doing a geology project making giant plaster models of river channels and measuring how they eroded as water flowed through them.

It was oppressively hot that summer in Minnehaha (the locals will know it), and I needed to take desparate measures.  I spent my time in clothing coated in plaster, but underneath my clothes, I was covered in powder, by choice.  With each step I took, a poof of white dust emanated from every angle of my body.

I didn’t care that I was a walking chalkboard eraser. I needed to douse myself in powder every day in order to ward off the heat and humidity of the Midwest.  Powder? If you have to ask, you’ll never know. Sidenote: I’ve been waiting to use that phrase ever since it was the theme of my high school yearbook freshman year.  Each morning I would arrive at work with my right hand covered in hot coffee and my body drenched in Minnesota heat.  I had a shared office, and by getting into it first each morning, I was able to dump powder down my clothes and then stand in front of our fan for 10 minutes while coaxing my core temperature down ten degrees.  Inevitably, the fan blew the powder all around the room, and my office-mate always commented on the persistent white fog, but I had the cover story of my plaster experiments.

It’s been seven years since my biblical stay in our neighbor to the Northwest, and here I am again in a Midwestern summer. I’m really hot.  I don’t know if anyone noticed the white dust under my chair at work last week.

Do armpit shirts count as business casual?

Announcer: “The word is: Welcome.”
Child from Holland, MI: “W-E-L-K-O-M, Welkom.”
Ding.

Last night, Anamika Veeramani won the Scripps-Howard National Spelling Bee. Ever since Spellbound moved into my top five favorite movies, the Bee and its participants have been one of the highlights of my yearly entertainment. This year the event was taken to the level of sport, with ESPN’s Erin Andrews calling the shots, including a frequent mis-pronounciation of the name of the winner. You’d think, for the Spelling Bee, you’d study up on correct pronunciation.

Nobody from Holland will ever win the National Spelling Bee. Children here have milk and koekjes when they read boeks. The K is everywhere. Need a K? Take a K. Have a K? Give a K. Want more? Make that an ‘aa.’ Want to add some oomph? Start your word with a ‘van’ or a ‘de.’

Want to study the dictionary for year and win 40K? Spell: stromuhr.

Thirteen hundred people dressed in traditional Dutch costume have got to be on to something.

In Mid-May, Holland, MI hosted its event of the year: Tulip Time. I’m still recovering.  For the uninitiated, Tulip Time is a week-long festival of everything Dutch.  Everyone dons traditional costumes, complete with wooden shoes, and lines the streets while bouncing around arm-in-arm in a format known as Klompen dancing.  Klompen dancing is a high school sport in Holland, and they even have team jackets.  Had I grown up here, the jackets alone would have merited my participation.  Now that I live here, the combined sea of tulips and Dutch people keeps me looking.

The wooden shoes are just that, and each dancer wears around 8 pairs of socks to give sufficient padding as they pound the closed streets of our downtown metropolis. Thirteen hundred pairs of feet.  Thirteen hundred pairs of feet in eight pairs of socks and non-venting shoes. Thirteen hundred pairs of hot, sweaty goodness. Is their inner sock layer some sort of wick-away fabric?  Is this an opportunity to design performance clothing for niche local festivals?

Tulip Time is more than Klopmen.  It’s a trifecta that’s completed with Tulipalloza (real name), and a constant stream of high school bands and the range of fantastic uniforms that they are forced to wear.

Some people I’ve met here are adamant that they stay away from Holland during Tulip Time.  They have pride in their non-attendance.  I don’t get it.  I love Tulip Time.  This small town makes perfect sense for just this one week per year. Exposed Dutch everything plus miles of tulips that have been protected and manicured since December plus carnival food that looks like fried dough but is called an elephant ear (why?) plus Republicans!  How could you stay away during the week it all comes together?

Mid-week I sat in the outdoor seating of a restaurant downtown with some local friends and watched another round of Klompen.  One of my friends pointed out that Erik Prince’s mother was sitting right next to us in a soft pink sweater.  Remember Erik from that fun Blackwater scandal? Yes, he grew up in Holland and delivered this year’s Tulip Time keynote.

Like I said, it all comes together. Welkom back, Erik.

Welcome to Canada! Enjoy your holding cell.

Someone needs to redesign detention.  I pulled up to the border yesterday around 11am.  I rolled down my window at the checkpoint, placed a polite hello and ended up in Canadian immigration detention for an hour and a half.

I’m convinced that the border employees had a pool going on who could get the most benign person thrown out of their country.  Everything about my presence in Canada is legal.  I’m not a threat to jobs or security and I had my passport, a smile, and a hood with pink lining but it wasn’t enough. It was almost as if I tried to enter Arizona.

My pink hood and I sat in detention next to a man who had tried to bring guns in to the country. We chatted. A Russian man with wispy hair came in looking disgruntled.  We waited together. Us. The three amigos. Three’s Company.  When the immigration officer came in and asked, “who’s next?’ the Russian pointed at me and said, “ze pink hood.” Aw, shucks.

I'm about ready to get a flag tattoo (image from immigraitionvoice.org).

While I was sitting around with my new pals I couldn’t help but think that we might come up with some crazy ideas in a brainstorm. What a fantastic opportunity to have a group of people together with extreme diversity of perspective and experience, and plenty of time to dive into a range of issues.

Friend time was cut short by my immigration officer, Mr. Happy.   Without going into details, I wasn’t doing well in the interview.  It was fascinating to watch myself fail.   Words were vomiting out of my mouth and each one was incorrect.  I had no idea how to save myself and Mr. Happy was twisting my language, seeing nuance, and wanting clarity where I was comfortable with ambiguity.  Eventually, he accused me of changing my story.  I needed a Twix.  I told him I was as confused as he was and asked for a phone call.

I’ve always wondered what happens to prisoners when they use their single phone call on someone that doesn’t answer. I’ve had the same question for contestants on ‘Who wants to be a millionaire?!”  If your ‘phone-a-friend’ doesn’t recognize the number, will he or she pick up?

My release included a large rubber stamp that Mr. Happy didn’t enjoy using as much as he should have.  I read the word ‘approved’ in outlined font upside down because Mr. Happy couldn’t bring himself to tell me that my lifeline had passed the test.

I hope it wasn’t the pink hood.