This is George. George is dangerous.

Our friendship began my second day at the hostel in Den Haag, Holland (The Hague). Paranoid to the max about my laptop, my baby, getting stolen, even a quick dash inside for a refill on coffee made me think twice. So I see this short, bald, ROUND man sitting next to me, smoking a cig, drinking his joe black, looking extremely Middle Eastern.

I didn't know if he knew English, but I knew he would understand the universal sign for "I'm watching you, buddy." Two fingers, pointed at my eyes, looking straight at him.

"I'll remember what you look like," I said as I walked by, assuming he would not understand the sarcasm, thereby making the situation humorous for me.

When I came back 15 seconds later, the computer was still there, next to big, grinning George.

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"Seven thousand years ago!" he said, arms raised above his head to form what I found out 30 seconds later was a pyramid. All I had asked was where the man was from, and he was all about letting me know how old school his Egyptian society was.

"I am NOT Arab!" he warned. "There are some Egyptians with Arab blood, but we are not Arabs." To distinguish himself even more, George made sure to let me know that he was a Coptic Christian, as well.

"The Islam, he say 'Oh, yes, Allah, Islam, pray,' you know? But then he go with the women! He say (thrusting motions). The Chreestian is good, the Islam is no good!"

This was ten minutes before a group of semi-attractive, buns of steel French girls walked by.

"Wow," he said to himself, but definitely a little louder than is normal for saying something "to yourself."

His attention caught completely by the tall one in the white pants, George's eyes zoned out, staring without seeing.

"This is George." Now facing me, he spoke with pride.

"George is dangerous," he said with a sly-like-a-fox grin, boasting about his libido in the way that construction workers patented. "I have 57 years, but I am dangerous."

A few laughs, the periodical wiping of the forehead to collect beads of perspiration, and George began laying out the scene of his dangerzone.

"Nice whiskey" was the first step in the process. "Nice wine, nice bed..." George was still looking at me, his daily-shaven pate burning holes in my retinas, a pleasant smile on his face. He paused before the fourth and fifth steps.

"Clean woman...and then, after," his eyebrows raised to finish the thought. "This is George."