The Dutch Way: twee

*original writing date: 9 March 2006*

Second on my ‘Dutch way’ list is the traditional line or ‘queue’ as the British would say.

The Dutch don’t seem to have a word for it ‘cause they just don’t do it.

Occasionally, you may see a proper line form in front of the cash register at the neighborhood shops or behind an ATM machine, but that’s as far as it goes. In general, while waiting for a turn at the Butcher’s counter, at the cheese shop, or at any of the stalls in the Market, you must be courageous and bold to get yourself positioned at the counter. You must be willing to push past the masses who in turn are trying to push past you and answer the question “Wie is aan de buurt? (Who is next?) with a very loud “Ik!!” (Me!!)

As for boarding a bus or a train? Well, forget everything your mother taught you about courtesy or waiting for your turn. You must join the pressing throng all trying to occupy the same space at once and position yourself so that as soon as the door slides open you can move forward and fight your way in. I think there are points awarded for the number of people you can step in front of or elbow out of the way as you vie for position. And, by all means please begin the press before allowing passengers on the vehicle to disembark. Oh, my, allowing others to “uitstappen” (exit) before you clamor to get on could very well cost you a seat.

As Emma and I await our second bus in the mornings, I grab the back of her coat as the bus approaches, push her forward a step and whisper “be Dutch” in her ear.

This has proven to be an effective method in getting ourselves properly placed in the crowd and we can beat others to the seats on a busy morning bus.

Yup, we're pretty much Dutch.

The Dutch Way: een

*original writing date: 9 March 2006*

We have passed our six month mark here in the Netherlands and it would be fair to say we have learned a great deal in the past six months. Collectively and individually we have discovered many things about ourselves and about the world at large. Chief among these discoveries is the realization that there is a ‘way’ to do things in life and then there is the “Dutch way”.

Take for instance: toilets. Not everyone’s favorite subject I know. But it must here be discussed that Dutch toilets are a wonder to behold. In a country where there is no water shortage and indeed no threat of drought, these are the most extreme water saving apparatus on the planet. Indeed, these are low flow toilets taken to the lowest extreme. Most toilets here consist of a tank and seat as you would expect, but the bowl itself is built with a "shelf" above the water, where all leavings must first fall.

I know, ooo-ick, but bear with me please.

I borrow here heavily from “The Undutchables” by Colin White and Laurie Boucke (a must-read for any ex-pat or long term visitor to Holland) to explain the Dutch way of bathrooms and other unmentionable acts within.

“Nowhere is the sense of claustrophobia more pronounced than in the water-closet. The Dutch have taken the term literally, and made that most private of rooms the size of a cupboard.… By far the most distressing feature of the Dutch WC is the toilet itself. The bowl is uniquely shaped to include a plateau well above the normal water level. Its purpose becomes obvious the first time you see (or use) one.

Why the worldly, cultured Dutch have this sadistic desire to study the

recent content of their stomach remains a mystery…”

I know what you’re thinking… you are saying, "that’s just exaggeration for purposes of satire", but I am telling you this is true! And add to this the strange ways of flushing said contents into the nether regions. With the conservative water supply (again-in Holland? Why?) there is rarely enough pressure generated to sweep the bowl clean if you get my meaning. Inevitably, among the other decorations in a WC the one of utmost importance is the toilet brush. Which oddly enough, is an item "ever present, never discussed, yet always wet."

In the Land of Bikes

*original writing date: 12 March 2006*

There is no doubt about it, we live in the land of bikes. Sometimes, in transit to Emma's school when we've missed a bus and have some time on our hands, we have a count-the-cars-and-bikes contest, just to see if our observation can be backed up by statistics. From our very scientific study--sitting on a bus stop bench and counting out loud-- Emma and I have determined that bikes rule.

Our first counting poll indicated that in a 10 minute period, 101 bikes passed our bus stop, but only 47 cars. The second time we tried our counting, it was a 15 minute period and we were passed by 86 cars and 151 bikes! (Lately, we’ve been arriving at the bus stop in a timely manner and so haven’t been twiddling our thumbs. I mean to say, we haven’t had opportunity to continue our study.) Our findings show that all can rest assured that the bicycle is boss here in Holland.

There are three levels of biking here. First, you have your standard, peddle it yourself bike: the “fiets”. This is powered only by your own strength and stamina. I have commented before on the strength and stamina of the average Dutch person who can strap on myriad number of items and/or children to the bicycle and ride for hours on end. Even after six months here and taking this as the norm, it is still a marvel.

Next, there is what I've heard called the “broomfiets” (pronounced: Broam-feets) which is a regular peddle it yourself bike outfitted with a small motor, so when your strength and stamina just aren’t enough, you can rely on the motor to power you onward.

The third level of all things fiets is the Brommer (pronounced brrroam-errrr) which is your full-on Vespa or Moped kind of thing. These machines though fully motor powered enjoy all the benefits and shortcuts of the ‘level one’ bikes. Brommers are not my favorite. Or rather I should say there are some brommer drivers who do not make the list of my favorite things. It is not uncommon to be mowed over by an inconsiderate brommer driver while pedaling along in the bike lane.

But that should be a whine for another day.

The best thing about bikes as travel is that life is lived at the speed of transport. My life is paced by the cadence my legs power my bike. As a result I am never rushed, I am merely moving as fast as I can.

And that speed is just right for me.

O Christmas Tree

*original writing date: 20 December 2005*


Attention one and all! Please add the following to the “Things the Dutch Can Carry While Riding a Bike” list.

Christmas trees. Yes, that's right, friends. Christmas trees.

More than once or even ten times in the last few weeks we have witnessed our city mates balancing atop their bicycles with fresh Kerstboem just purchased from the corner lot, on their way to home or flat to make the place festive for the season.

My own experience in finding a tree for our home goes like this. Just a short distance from our place is a set of shops, which I have described before. Just in time for the season an area has been cleared along the walkway and a tree lot has been established. This tree lot comes complete with a caricature of a little Dutchman selling trees to the neighborhood residents day after day. He wears a full set of snow trousers and parka as he spends his day outdoors trimming and wrapping trees for customers to purchase and carry off.

I approached him armed with my standard phrase in Dutch “Mag ik in Engels spreken?” (May I speak English) which generally goes a long way with the shop keepers and store attendants, and then I am able to ask my questions in the language I understand best. However, to my query, this man said “Nee” (No) and then continued in a jabber of Dutch.

So picture me, standing stock still, eyes as big as saucers and mouth agape, tiny patch of drool forming at the corner, as my brain clicks into gear and I try to sort through the jumble of words pouring from his mouth to translate the ones I recognize into English and make some sense of what he is saying. Ding! The light goes on and he is telling me that he prefers to speak Dutch and I should practice mine. So, actually no, I can’t speak Engels but I am welcome to speak Nederlands to him. (This all takes a bit, as the sorting processors in my brain are quite slow.)

“Nee??” I said

And he nodded at me.

So, digging as deep as I could into my 10 once-a-week language lessons, I did my utmost to conduct a tree buying conversation in Dutch. At some level communication must have taken place, because a few minutes later I had a beautiful little tree, which had been taken from its display stand and properly netted, tucked under my arm and I was on my way home with my first Dutch Christmas tree!

*It here must be noted that having exhausted my vocabulary in getting the tree, I neglected to ask for a “stand” and Don had to go back a little later in the day to seal the deal, so to speak.*

But I was off with my small Christmas bush under one arm and a special delivery package I had just picked up from the post office under the other. I must say, I felt rather festive schlepping them both through the streets to home.

Bicycle Balance

*original writing date: 26 August 2005*

Do you remember this passage from the CAT IN THE HAT by Dr. Seuss?

“Look at me! Look at me! Look at me now!

It is fun to have fun but you have to know how!

I can hold up the cupAnd the milk and the cake!

I can hold up these books! And the fish on a rake!

I can hold the toy ship and a little toy man! And look!

With my tailI can hold a red fan!

I can fan with the fan as I hop on the ball!

But that is not all.Oh, no.That is not all…”

Well, I hereby give witness that the Cat in the Hat, as wily as he may be has absolutely NOTHING on the Dutch and their ability to balance ALL while riding a bicycle. It is an amazing thing to watch, actually, as the locals pedal home with their shopping bags full. That’s impressive alone, but I wish I had a photo of some of the things I have seen them carry whilst cycling down the bike lane.

For instance, one man last week was obviously on his way to pick up a child from school and he pedaled his own bike while holding another bike alongside and steering both through the traffic so that when he arrived his child would have a vehicle to return home.

A common practice which we have also adopted is to haul a passenger on the back end or rack end of the bike. It is not at all rare to see a passenger sitting side saddle on a bike, but the racks are most often home to packages of all sorts; groceries, books, briefcases, flowers, etc.

Often, there will also be a bag attached-or in Dutch: fietstas which is like a trunk for a bicycle. That’s where a full load of groceries can be carried, or a picnic lunch, or school books. In our case, it’s a handy place for diapers, wipes and extra jackets.

Of course there are the seats for the babies and toddlers and though I can cart Andrew around on my bike, my mouth hangs agape as I watch the parents toodle by with a child not only on the back of the bike but also one strapped in a seat at the front! I was deeply chagrined recently when, as I walked my bike through a sharp curve and up a sloping canal bridge, because I didn’t have the leg power to negotiate the curve or the hill, I was passed by a somewhat rotund Dutch woman carting a toddler on the front and a Kindergartner on the back of her bike and not even breaking a sweat! Ah, me.

Also, Netherlanders, not to be outdone by commuters in the States are very handy with a cell phone while negotiating traffic on the bicycle. I haven’t yet seen anyone trying to do their make-up while riding, but I am certain that too could be done. Eight-year old Emma’s observation tonight is actually quite a tell all of this culture. She said “I guess you know you’re in Holland when you see someone riding a bike AND smoking a cigarette!” In her estimation, the two activities are usually mutually exclusive, but not here in Holland. No, the cardiovascular benefits of riding are cancelled out by the inhalation of nicotine.

It also should be mentioned that it is entirely possible for the locals to carry and consume a steaming cup of coffee while pedalling along.

Yes, these are the bits of the culture for which we will always stand at the outside.

Now, finally, I mention the piece de résistance in balancing all things a top a bicycle. Don and I, with Andrew in tow were on a bike outing last week when along the bike path came a man, one hand on the handlebars and one hand holding a rather large object alongside as he pedaled down the road. It was about 3 feet tall x 2 feet wide x 2 feet deep. He had a rope strapped around it and he held onto that with one hand as he maneuvered down the path. Friends, it was a small filing cabinet! I literally stopped my bike and stared as he passed.

That kind of balance is, in my estimation, the sum total of being Dutch.

Accidental Exposure

*writing date: 25 October 2005*

It's October now and the outside temperature is steadily cooling down every day. But before the shift in the thermometer and the onset of the rains, we woke not-so-long-ago on a Saturday morning to a blue-sky-high-wispy-clouds-very-warm-late-summer-day and thought “Ah, good day for the beach!” So we prepared our beach bags, donned beach attire and climbed on the bicycles ready for the ride out to Katwijk.

(It is an unbelievable pleasure to be only a few kilometers from the ocean.)

As we approached the beachfront town and followed the streets down to the shore, we became slightly suspicious that we were not alone. No, indeed, it seemed as if ALL of Holland had the same “Ah, good day for the beach” thought that we had. As far as the eye could see in every conceivable direction, there were people! I don’t think I am exaggerating when I say that there must have been a million people on the beach that day. Okay, maybe I am exaggerating a little bit, but it was at least thousands. There were beachcombers, sunbathers, swimmers, surfers, seashell hunters, footballers, picnickers, sandcastle builders and beach babies occupying a spot in the sand and sun.

Undaunted, we locked our bikes, gathered our towels, our toys and our courage and set off to stake out a tiny bit of sand to call our own. As we walked through the sand toward the shore line, literally making our way through a sea of people here, we (meaning Don and I) became quite aware that there appears to be no dress code for beach wear in Holland. I think it reads something like this:

Rule1: If you just don’t want to wear a suit to the beach, well, you just don’t have to.

Yes, that’s right I am talking about *gasp* nudity. Mostly just topside nakedness, except for some of the toddlers who were completely buck naked—but as for shock value that doesn’t count at all, does it? But indeed nakedness all the same. I realize that this makes me sound like a bit of a prude, which I don't think I am--in fact most certainly am not, but I was feeling especially protective of my kids, who to this point in their lives hadn't experienced such a thing before.

So we exchanged a look, grimaced just a bit and wondered in whispers together what to tell our pre-adolescent, American born and raised son, and postured that perhaps not saying anything at all might mean he wouldn't notice. (yeah… it could happen!)

You’ve got this pictured in your head right? And you are getting a good giggle from the story, yes?

Well, we opted for the ever courageous, “don’t say anything” stance and pressed forward to find a spot to plant ourselves. Once found we sent the kids off into the water and waited it out. After some frolicking in waves and water, Ian came back up the beach from the water and ever so casually said “So...I guess no one has to wear a shirt here” to which we mumbled something of an ascent while surreptitiously checking his facial expressions to make certain we hadn’t overdone the exposure (pun intended) to European culture. All that said, he took it in stride and went back out to enjoy this stolen day in the sun. We, of course being the sophisticated parents we are, giggled. Until our shoulders shook.

I suppose this, the attire and the attitude, is all in keeping with the “nothing to hide” tradition of the Dutch. In general, the Dutch seem to have a much greater ability to embrace the uniqueness of their own bodies and don't seem to feel the need to “cover up” that we seem to feel excessively in the States. Indeed, it seems a much healthier sense of self image. That day at the beach, those who were clad in beach attire, didn’t seem to mind that their bodies didn’t fit the model thin image some feel necessary to possess before donning skimpy swimsuits. As a result, we saw a parade of people in clothing not exactly at the cutting edge of fashion and taste, but they were having a damn good time hanging out on the beach for one of the final summer days of the year. Enviable and perhaps something to aspire to, if ever I can shed the shadows of the culture I come from.

All that being said however, I really have to draw the line at middle aged pot-bellied men in Speedos.

Sorry, gents. I am so American.

Window Peeping

I am flashing back today and cheating maybe just a little to do it. This post that follows is one which sits in the archives of my blog. Initially this little bit of writing was shared via email with friends and family back in those long ago days which preceded the obsession opening of this blog. Originally dated 10 October 2005, these are the musings and observations of a newbie to the land of Holland. So much of it still holds true, though I do have to say I wish there was still that feeling of "newness" in everything. I like that feeling.
For more walks down memory lane, click on the button above to visit Cablegirl's blog and check out the links.

If the eyes are indeed a window to the soul, then it follows that the windows of a home are a direct line to the psyche and the personality of its residents.

To stroll down a street here in Leiden is to take part in my newly discovered preferable pastime, that is by name, window gazing.

Most homes here are built simply and for efficiency in design rather than style. In fact, from the structure of the outside it’s difficult to tell one home from another without the house number in front delineating that it belongs to you. So to make up for lack of design and form in the building structure, it seems that the Dutch take window design very seriously, using it as a means to give a home personality and distinction. From the window treatments to the decorated panes and ledges, each one seems to me a telling of the inhabitants within. I like to make up my own stories about the people inside based upon the window displays.

I suppose you could call it people-watching one-step-removed.

Topping the list of my favorite things is the lace curtains which grace many windows here. I remember when I was very small and I learned to draw a house, I would always add windows, and to the windows I would draw an exaggerated swoop of a curtain hanging down from the top and then cinched tightly in the center and pulled to the side where the bottom part of the drape would billow out toward the floor. (Pretty fancy digs for a simple line drawing, huh?) At any rate, these windows with white lace curtains are something out of my childhood fantasy. They are picture perfect. I absolutely adore them.

As a general rule, the Dutch keep their curtains open. My ex-pat books tell me that as a culture perhaps the Dutch feel they have nothing to hide, and therefore do not feel the need to close the drapes and/or blinds in their homes. Whatever the reason behind the tradition, you can generally count on window treatments, whether traditional lace curtains or modern mini blinds, to be cinched back or set in open position.

Window ledges are a terrific place to display collections, plants, decorative items, etc. and this is where the personality telling begins. Take for instance, the home just down the street from mine, where the kitchen window is lined with silver teapots of all shapes and sizes. At my cursory count there are 15 pots standing at attention on the windowsill. Or, there is the home crammed with plants of all varieties lined up on the ledge, pressing their leaves against the glass, vying for sunlight. Every day on the way to Emma’s school, I ride my bike past a home where the front window boasts a single row of sticky package bows in a rainbow of colors.

There are windows with candle arrangements, windows with flower arrangements, windows with candle and flower arrangements, and windows with candles, flowers and live cat arrangements. (It seems that a window ledge is an optimum spot for cat napping.) There are displays of Virgin Mary gracing windows and I have spied Buddha in multiple forms on others. There is the laughing Buddha, the praying Buddha, and Buddha in repose. Your choice.

My favorite Buddha themed window consists of an elegant statuette of a Buddha in prayer pose on one side and on the other a hand-built ship model constructed from Heineken beer cans. I shall let you jump to your own conclusions about the residents of that house.

Also on the route to Emma’s school is the rooster house, with a collection of ceramic roosters lined up on the ledge and then soon following, there is the swan house which boasts several elegant blown glass swans, their long necks reaching up nearly the full height of the window. Not to be outdone by anyone however is the gnome house, where a minimum of 50 clay gnomes decorate the front window and the front yard of a home I spotted only once while out on a bike ride. I have had more than one good giggle over that one! There must be a personality class for “gnome collectors” right? Something akin to “cat person” or “Trekkie” I would think.

In our own home, on the ground floor it is our kitchen which faces the street. The far wall of the kitchen holds five large windows. Running the length of the windows is a six inch ledge. At this moment, on that ledge sits a single desert plant, a watering can, a row of matchbox cars, and a partly eaten stroopwafel.

Now what, I wonder does that tell you about us?

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And now, for some shameless self-promotion:

My haiku about Andrew made the finalist list in the second edition Haiku Buckaroo contest at My Mommy's Place. You can go vote for my poem (or one you like better) by clicking on the button above. Or you can click here if it's easier for you. The voting is easy and guess what? You don't have to be a blogger to cast your vote. What this means, of course, is that even my beloved lurkers (you know who you are) can click here and go vote. It's a snap to do and it would build my esteem immensely if you'd take a minute to do it.

So, go. Do it. Okay?

Because Sometimes on a Blog about Holland, There Should be a Picture of a Windmill

Wordless Wednesday

Journey

An anniversary.

Two years.

That's 24 months.

104 weeks.

730 days.

Give or take.

We have been in The Netherlands for two years.

Which isn't bad considering this adventure was scheduled as a one year experience. I guess you could say we have extended our stay.

Where did it all begin? I don't know if there is a cut and dried answer to that question but I will pick the point in our past where it all began to come together and tell the story from there.

Summer 2003. We had just recently become a family of five, had moved to a new house, but had not yet purchased a minivan--the seemingly compulsory vehicle of a family passing the two-child mark. The summer was a whirl of activity. In spite of the fact I was on maternity leave from my full-time teaching job, I spent that summer in the same way I spent the summers previously--as Performing Arts Director of a summer camp for children ages 4-13. With three-week-old Andrew in tow (or in sling as the case may be) and my big kids enrolled in the Arts Academy, the eight weeks of summer were filled with dance classes, art classes, tumbling practice and performances.

Somewhere in the midst of that frenzy, my husband Don jetted over to Europe (The Hague, specifically) to attend a conference in International Criminal Law. If ever there was a beginning place which ended with landing us here in The Netherlands, it would have to be that moment in time. When he returned from that conference it was with a head full of thoughts and plans for how to change it up and take on a new challenge both personal and professional in nature.

Though, it was never as simple as a single conversation I like to tell people that he just might have snookered me into this experience thusly:

"Hey Jenn, I'd like to do something really different with my life and career and was thinking we could strike out with the kids to parts unknown."

"uh-huh Like what babe?"

"Well, you know there is a criminal tribunal in Africa."

"Africa?"

"Yeah, Africa."

"With the kids? In Africa? Where in Africa? How safe is Africa?"

"I don't really know. We would have to do some research. Of course there are all the courts in The Hague. We could move there and I could work in International Law."

"In Holland? You're on. We can move to Holland."

What began that summer as a dream took roughly two years to bring to fruition. If I tried, I don't think I could really trace the myriad discussions, brainstorming sessions and back to the drawing board moments of our life in the following months. Ultimately, by spring of 2005 we held in our hot little hands an acceptance letter from Leiden University for entrance into the LL.M. program in International Criminal Law, and a Fulbright Scholarship which would help make a dent in financing the year abroad for a family of five.

From that moment, it was just a matter of divesting ourselves of well, everything we possibly could, and packing the rest of it into our suitcases. We had managed to find the perfect rental home for the student year. We would be living in the home of a Leiden University professor who would be on a year's sabbatical with his family.

The goodbyes were tough. Arizona had been our home for twelve years, we were established and grounded there. In fact, the children had known no other home in their young lives. As we made the rounds to say farewell, there were those among our friends and family who were suspicious about that "year" we kept talking about. Many voiced their opinion that we wouldn't be back anytime soon. But we demurred and assured that the graduate degree would be achieved by the following summer.

However, life has a way of keeping things exciting doesn't it?

Just as the program was wrapping up coursework and Don was working in earnest on his thesis* an opportunity to work for the very International organization which had captured his interest years earlier arose. He jumped. That temporary contract extended immediately into a second short term contract, which was followed up by a third short-term-temporary-but-long-enough-we-could-announce-we-were-staying-in-Holland-for-another-year contract with the courts. We moved to The Hague.

The last piece of this linear telling is this. Spring 2005 Don was offered a permanent position in the organization.

He accepted.

We celebrated.

The truth is if I had told the story backwards from the end result to the beginning you would see just how perfectly it all came together for him and for us, which is just how you want a story to be. Even if it all sounds too good to be true.

*you will note that I discuss this going back to school thing in "we" terms, right up until the time there are courses to attend or a thesis to write, then I hand all credit to my husband whose job it really was to do all those things. I make no claim to be the actual brains in this marriage. He was a stellar student and deserves all due kudos for a job well done.

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A Note for my fellow bloggers:

If you haven't entered Scribbit's Write Away contest yet, consider it. I am judging the entries this month. My blog hopping will be scarce until the judging is done next week so I can be open, fair and un-biased. I am not ignoring you, I am being impartial. If you didn't enter and are not planning to enter (and I ask you why not?) leave me a note saying so and I will haunt your blog and plague you with my comments.

It's good to be back.

Say Cheese!

Think Holland, and several iconic notions should come to mind. Windmills, of course, wooden shoes, tulips. Second round thoughts brings out chocolate and cheese. Now, if your thoughts don't register cheese when you think of The Netherlands, you obviously require some gentle education. Cheese is Holland's claim to cuisine fame, and rightly so. This is a dairy country rich in history and tradition of cheese making. And cheese is what I want to talk about today.

Oh, Cheese,
Wonderful cheese,
Marvellous cheese,
Glorious cheese.*

I love cheese.

Twice each week, Leiden hosts a market in the city center. I have yet to find it's equal in size and charm nearby my home in The Hague. Open stalls filled with foods, flowers, clothing, fabric, sundries, snacks and just nearly anything you can imagine. It's a grand affair filling both sides of the canal streets behind city hall.While we were living in Leiden, I quickly made it a habit to shop at market on Saturdays, using the day to gather fresh produce, flowers, nuts and yes, cheese. In addition, often on a Wednesday you could find me strolling the streets and combing the scaled down market stalls for a rotisserie cooked chicken, or some fresh fish for dinner. I love shopping at market. I love the sights, the sounds, the smells, and certainly, the savings.

It was at the Leiden market we found our favorite Dutch cheese. Sold from a red-awning stall, it is called Assumburger and as far as I can tell is farmed locally, marketed and sold only at open markets such as Leiden's. I have searched the cheese shops, the grocery stores and other village markets and have not tripped across it again.

So I still travel to Leiden's market on a regular basis, just to fetch this cheese. I don't mind the extra bit of travel to get my hands on it, because, well, for one thing, this is who sells it to me:

Answer honestly, wouldn't you travel to Leiden to be waited on by such a one as this?

No matter. I would.

And I do.

However, whether he or one of the other guys assists me, I place my order "A kilo of Assumburger please" and he expertly rolls the wheel from the shelf and places it upon the cutting table.

First he carves a small piece from the block and extends it on his knife offering me a taste. I never refuse.

Then without a moment's hesitation slides the cutting wire into place estimating the measure and slices through the paraffin shell downward through the soft, fragrant cheese.

Quick as you please he tosses the wedge onto the scale and invariably he is right on the mark with its weight. He looks to me for a nod of approval. My face always registers awe over this particular skill.

Lastly, he whisks a special cheese paper from the stack and expertly folds it around my selection, offering it to me with a gentle 'alstublieft'.

I reply with a 'Haartstikke bedankt' for the cheese and the show. He grins.
It gets me every time, and he knows I'll be back. For his smile, sure, but mostly for my cheese.

Oh, Cheese!
Magical cheese,
Wonderful cheese,
Marvellous cheese,
Fabulous cheese,
Beautiful cheese,
Glorious cheese!*

*My apologies to Lionel Bart, the lyricist for Oliver!, for the liberties taken here with his song, but I can't help the thought that if the orphaned boys had Dutch cheese on the menu, they mightn't have been so hungry.

Postcards to Home

11 July 2006

Beste Familie,

I am writing this from a secluded spot in the wooded village of Wassenaar. We are here to celebrate the end of the school year and the beginning of new adventures. Staying for the week we are living in a bungalow home fully fitted and supplied for seven people, so the five of us fit comfortably. If there ever was a postcard moment in this experience of living in Europe, I am having it now. The weather today is ideal. It is a mild seventy-five Fahrenheit degrees outside with faint wispy clouds high in the sky. The sky is that perfect crayola color. You remember the one, a perfect sky blue. As a child it was the color I chose to complete my house drawings, scribbling an inch of azure across the upper edge of the page; an interpretation of the big bright blue sky I saw outside. The front garden here is filled with cone flower, lilac, small fichus trees and crawling ivy. The bungalow itself is surrounded by tall trees; chestnut, oak, pine, willow, ash and others that I do not readily recognize. The sun is shining at that perfect angle causing beams of light to shoot through the branches, reaching fingers of brightness toward the earth. The leaves themselves, nearly transparent as the sunlight radiates through, gently shiver in the breeze. The quiet wind has set yesterday’s wet towels in motion, pushing them to and fro as they hang on the line. Just down the road from where I am sitting there is a small pond populated with ducks, geese and swan. Each seem completely tame and none startle at our approach, but merely continue on about their business. When you are a goose here, it appears it is your business to strut through the camping areas looking for handouts. And quite frankly, I find having a goose approach with its strong beak and fierce determination sways me to be very generous with the sandwich scraps. The whole family is enjoying the meanderings of the water fowl, especially when a duck or two wander into the front yard of our bungalow searching for nibbles. For the kids the ultimate part of this experience is the amusement park and water slide attached to this camping commons. The roller coaster craziness is a five minute walk from our little hideaway home and they have been able to thoroughly investigate the park and the fun it has to offer. Meanwhile, I am sitting in the garden, sipping my cola light and feeling the summer breeze tickle my sun-kissed face.

It is in a word: perfect.

Wish you were here.




* Submitted to Scribbit's May 2007 Write-Away contest.

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Comment on dit 'Locksmith' en français?

HONORABLE MENTION at Scribbit's May Write-Away contest!

I am just going to cut right to it. I have the ultimate travel advice here. Truly, this is counsel of paramount importance, the preeminent trekking tip. And I am willing to share it, free of charge. Are you ready now? Then here it is. The best tip for road travel is this: DO NOT LOCK THE KEYS IN THE RENTAL CAR! It's just that simple. Do not under any circumstances make this mistake. Seriously. Avoid it.

This I recommend especially if you are traveling in a rural area of Northern France on say, Easter Sunday. You must understand that it is extremely unlikely you will find a garage open or any assistance available on Easter Sunday. In fact, help may not be manageable until the following Tuesday morning, as Monday will be Second Easter Day and the shops and businesses will be closed. Now if you do choose this particular adventure, you can potentially make it easier on yourself and your fellow travelers—aka your children—if one or any of you speak the language of your host country. Speaking the local language will make asking for help and explaining your predicament oh-so-much easier. However, if you do not possess this skill, charades and over-exaggerated facial expressions—the lingua franca of all stranded foreigners—may help to get your point across.

Our journey began on a Thursday. We left our row house in The Netherlands and hit the road in our hired car, headed for adventures in Northern France. It was now Sunday afternoon and we were bound for the province of Normandy to see the D-day beaches. As is common for a family traveling with children—Ian, 12, Emma 10, and a precocious two and a half year old Andrew—we made a stop to eat. The stop was of course at a McDonald's. As is also expected for an expat American family with children who seem to be hungry most all of the time, this is the easiest, fastest, cheapest and most desirable way to eat on a road trip. Also, it provides great space for the toddler of said family to run around and make some noise. It is a family friendly place in a way that other restaurants in Europe are not.

So, the conspicuous arches called to us and we followed the signs, turning from the highway and winding through an isolated and quiet industrial area to find this tucked away McDonald’s, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. All of us were looking forward to the leg stretch. This was the day we had coined our ‘Normandy Beach day’ and it was day four of our travels; four days of road trip wherein we had already covered miles and miles of France, visiting Rouen, Amiens, and Giverney. The sights, sounds and tastes of France had tickled our every sense throughout the week.

Now, our children generally are fabulous travelers, even on very long road trips, but saturation points were met and each was hitting the end of his or her rope. To remedy the bickering in the back seat, Don and I decided to move Andrew’s car seat to the center of the bench, requiring Ian and Emma to sit on either side of him. We hoped this might eliminate the “you’re touching me!” conversations which had become habitual the last 100 kilometers or so. As soon as we had ordered our culinary delights at the counter, Don went to the car, adjusted the car seat and returned to the restaurant. He had a very odd look on his face as he approached. I queried if everything was set. He raised his hand in front of his face, shook it slightly in a kind of wave and then folded his fingers into a tight fist.

He whispered “I’ve just locked the keys in the car”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh!”

Have you ever had one of those moments where the blood rushes to your face and what feels like a boulder descends into your stomach? I had a moment like that just then. I looked at my husband and knew that he was having his own moment like that too.

Dozens of thoughts and questions began swirling in my head, beginning with the obvious ‘What are we going to do? How are we going to get out of here? It’s EASTER SUNDAY! We will never find any help!’

Underlying the frustration of the situation was the dawning realization of just exactly how spoiled we are as expats in The Netherlands, where although we speak a little Dutch, we rely upon the fact that English is used everywhere in the low lands. And the realization that we spoke no French and were thus woefully unprepared to explain our predicament to anyone—let alone solicit technical help—was overwhelming.

I was frightened. I was nervous. I was nauseous. I grabbed Don’s hand and squeezed hard.

“It’s okay” I said. “It’s going to be okay” I repeated, hoping to convince myself.

What do you do in the middle of rural France on a holiday weekend when you have locked the single set of keys into your rental car? You rely on the kindness of strangers. Our first step was to solicit help. While the kids cavorted around the play land, Don and I circled the restaurant using one of the two French phrases we had memorized. “Pardon et moi, parlez-vous anglais?” A gentleman standing in line to order was able to help us make our situation known to a manager. She in turn determined what we needed was a phone book so we could call for help. But, of course, the phone book was in French and the word for locksmith is not one of the many borrowed from the French and adopted into the English tongue.

Our desperate expressions prompted her to conscript one of her young (French) fry cooks to our aid. This young man was tireless in his efforts over the next few hours to help us reach a solution. Between our lack of ability to speak any French at all, and his limited English, we spent a lot of time making guesses and grunting affirmations of understanding. At one point in the manager’s office there was a multi-language conference call as Don spoke Dutch with the representative at the car rental agency who then spoke French to our young assistant, while I stood at the periphery pestering with questions in English. But somehow, at some point we hit the communication jackpot. A garage was found. A willing mechanic was located. He would reach our location within the hour. As I retell the story I am unsure just how in the convoluted path of phone calls and charades and sign language it was even possible to make it all happen. Perhaps that certain French je ne sais quoi made the magic.

The mechanic arrived in his truck, a stocky French fellow in the classic garb of his profession, wearing dirty jeans fastened below his rotund belly and a t-shirt stained with grease. I remember thinking it funny that the caricature repairman is universal in design. He hitched up his jeans and rubbed his deeply oil-stained hands together as our translator explained the situation and pointed out the errant automobile. The mechanic immediately got to work. He spent a short time assessing the situation and, in minutes, was able to release the lock. En Voila! Our keys! I wanted to reach out and kiss him at that moment. A fitting reaction when you consider just how long I had been sitting inside a McDonald’s play land. And in the spirit of that legendary French romance, of course. Appearances notwithstanding. Instead, we dipped deeply into our pockets to pay the fee and were quickly on the road again.

Before we left home for that journey, I received an email from a friend,

“Hope you have a fabulous time in bonjour land!! Happy Easter to you too. Wow, someday you'll get to say "remember that Easter that we spent in France?”.

As we drove away—three hours late for our rendezvous with Omaha Beach—I sat in the passenger seat of the rented sedan and recalled that simple, yet profound, message. I started to giggle. Soon all of us were giggling, and a few short kilometers beyond the crisis, we recognized that we had made a memory. We had a new, unforgettable family story to tell.
We carried on down the long stretch of highway, determined to take the next moment—whatever it might be— in stride.

And remarkably, no one was fighting.

*This post was pulled from my archives, re-worked, re-titled, edited, spell-checked and sent to Seal Press Submissions for consideration in this project.. Happily, it also fits the theme for the May Write-Away contest over at Scribbit's place. So I am submitting it there as well.

Wish me luck for both ?

Koninginnedag

Do not be intimidated by the title of this post. It's Queen's Day!

The Dutch language loves its compound words. I always say, why put a space between words if you can get by without any? Like the word koffiepadapparat which if you break down and translate is Coffee Maker which uses the pre-packaged, pre-measured coffee pads. See? It's just much more convenient to say it in Dutch. The word you are looking at up top is one of my favorite Dutch words. The way it rolls off the tongue, after some practice, is just delightful. You see before you the word for 'Queen'-- Koningin; and the word for 'Day'-- Dag. Squish them together and you have Koninginnedag!

Don't be shy now. Say it with me.

KONE-ing IN nuh dakh-- Give that last consonant a great guttural push. Like clearing your throat of an abundance of phlegm. Yes, just like that. Now say it again.

Kone-ing in nuh dakh.

Koninginnedag!

You did it. Now you are pretty much Dutch.

For the scoop on what it's all about you can refer to this Wikepedia page or to this blog post from new reader Marloes. But for the fun of what it looks like, tune in below.

Queen's Day Sights

from The Hague, 2007 shot with my Canon EOS 400D

and

from Leiden, 2006 shot with the old Fuji Finepix A340

Nederlanders turn out in the National color:

Indeed, Orange is the color of the day:

Streets are filled with entertainers:

Flags fly proudly and abundantly:

There is food and fun for everyone:

Bargain hunters are sure to discover something amazing:

Brilliant young entrepreneurs are certain to make the big bucks:

His sign reads: "For 10 cents I will wiggle my ears"

Now, that's a Queen's Day party!

The Picture; Then the Thousand Words

17 June 2006

We set off today for an adventure in the nearby town of Alphen aan den Rijn. There is a bird park there, full of exotic flighted creatures and a few that do not fly. It's a destination which comes highly recommended, and with a fellow bird lover in the house I thought it would be the ultimate way for my sister-in-law Wendy, Ian, Emma, Andrew and I to spend the day.

Sandwiches packed, diapers stacked, and buggy loaded, we took off together for the train station. The neighborhood station is about a 10 minute walk from our house. Andrew was insistent upon walking for this first stretch of the trip, because as we all know, he is now three years old and as such should be considered a big boy. I have mentioned before how Andrew can really keep us all giggling on a daily basis, and today was no exception.

He strutted.
He flounced.
He galloped.
He cavorted.
At one point he was walking backwards up the hill with a little rhythm of step-step-step--JUMP; step-step-step--JUMP! And we started to joke that this short jaunt to the train station was going to take us the better part of the morning.

Ian stepped in to help Andrew hurry along, and had scooped him into his arms and was carrying him as he ran to catch up with the rest of us.

That's when it happened.

The sidewalk is built of stone blocks and Ian's foot hit a spot where the block was raised.

He tripped.

As he began to fall forward his hands released Andrew. Ian fell to the right, Andrew fell to the left. Both boys skidded across the cement blocks. Ian took the impact with his hands. Andrew took the impact with his face.

I apologize to the squeamish readers for the gory details, but I watched the whole accident from trip to skid, and it was an incredibly uncomfortable four seconds, I am compelled to share.

As soon as he lit, I scooped Andrew up. He threw back his head to cry and immediately I knew that something was up, or out, as the case may be. As I looked for a place to sit down to inspect for damage, I called over my shoulder "CHECK THE GROUND FOR HIS TOOTH!"

It was only a few seconds later when the kids arrived by my side where I was comforting Andrew and offered me a sight of TWO perfectly shaped baby teeth, full root showing, cradled in the palm of a hand. I don't remember whose hand it was nor which of their voices I heard saying "Mom, it's two teeth".

Ugh.

Pause for a minute for brain to process the information.

Baby has fallen.
Baby is bleeding.
Baby's teeth are missing.
Baby's teeth are found.

Snap to it. We got up and headed back to the house at double time speed. I shouted out directions as we approached the house.
"Emma! Get me a bowl of warm soapy water. Ian! Make an ice pack. Wendy! Hand me a baby wipe so I can wipe some of this blood off his face before his dad sees him"
I was working completely on automatic at this point. Not feeling. Not looking at the damage to my darling boy's little face. Not thinking about anything past the moment. I just knew that I MUST find a dentist, and I must find a dentist NOW.

Don was at home working in the upstairs office on his thesis, and he heard us coming. It was hard to miss our approach. Through the open window, he heard Andrew bellowing and English being spoken. He opened the window fully and called out to us. I shouted the news to him and he got on the phone immediately to find a dentist who was OPEN ON A SATURDAY.

Then we were in the house where I could asses the situation.

Soak teeth in milk.
Wash Andrew's face, hands and arms.
Get ice on the wound.
Measure and administer Advil.
Contact a dentist.
Find the insurance card.

Inspect the injuries.
1. Road rash on right cheek under his eye.
2. Large goose egg above the right eye.
3. Contusion and bruising across his forehead.
4. The LARGEST fat lip ever seen in the history of mankind. Ever.
5. Two front teeth missing.

At this point Andrew is calm. He has his special blanket balled up around his fist and the whole contraption shoved in his mouth. In this way he has created the perfect pressure bandage for the wound. He's calm, but I can tell he's in shock. He shivers. He whines. He wants to sleep. Oh, boy.

We made arrangements with our visiting friends for the big kids to hang with them, and Don and I set off for the dentist. Toddler in arms, teeth in hand.

We generated a lot of sympathetic looks and conversation as we boarded the bus. And as we entered the dentist's waiting room. And, again at the reception in the hospital emergency room.

Andrew was a stellar patient throughout the day and cooperated beautifully with the doctors. The moment that really got me was when the doctor asked him to open his mouth, and as he happily complied I saw the full extent of the damage.

Words just won't suffice to explain the gaping space in his mouth where his teeth used to be. There were two dark knots of clotted blood in his gums. His upper lip swollen to ten times its normal size and the skin was torn and mottled. The remainder of the teeth on the upper deck appeared to be undamaged. It was an overwhelming sight.

After several hours with doctors, dentists and neurologists the consensus comes down: He's just fine. He's toothless, yes, but he's fine. They won't re-insert the teeth because of potential damage to the permanent ones behind, so he will have "the gap" in his mouth for years to come. But the wound in his mouth looks like it will heal well. He is sure to be a bit black and blue, and slightly sore for many days to come. I figure he can use that to milk the situation to get anything he wants.

Ice cream for breakfast? No problem.

All things considered, we are fortunate the accident wasn't worse. And as Ian told Andrew this afternoon,

"With two perfect teeth like that to put under your pillow--

just think what the Tooth Fairy will bring for you!"

Speaking English

From the email files, before I was blogging. June 2006

Recently, I received an email from a friend asking me about our language acquisition and whether or not the kids were picking up a Dutch accent.

It’s a funny thing here, actually.

Though they are readily picking up the Dutch language, the accent which has a stronger influence on everyone's speech is the British we are surrounded by.
I am fascinated by the whole development of our language and wonder about the evolution of the American accent, since it is so far removed from the English which is spoken in the UK. (I have some working theories, but nothing soundly researched or tested.) That being said however, we have found many moments where the phrase “Divided by a common language” is a dead-on explanation.

It seems that the English that everyone speaks and teaches here on the continent, is the British English, so we have had to make some adjustments in order to best be understood.
This includes both in vocabulary and in spellings.

Imagine 12-year old Ian's surprise the first day of school when a classmate asked him "Have you got a rubber?" And of course the innocuous request for an "eraser" was a total shock to my son, for whom "rubber" means something else entirely!

So now we refer to our "trousers" rather than our "pants" which in Britain means underwear.

And we are careful to watch while in the "car park" for automobiles which are zipping by. We do not wish to be run over by a "tyre" so we hop onto the "kerb" for safety.

To go to the beach we need a “swimming costume” and when the weather cools down we will wear our "jumpers". (This whole idea of jumpers tickles my husband something fierce and he gets a good giggle every time he hears it.)

I have a running conversation with my proper British friends to double check meanings when we discover yet another alternate meaning to words we thought we understood. For instance recently we discovered that a 'fanny' is not at all what we supposed it was. So we no longer refer to our bottom with that moniker and save ourselves embarrassment or offense to those who understand that word in the British way. This includes losing the term "fanny pack" and we have picked up the alternate "bum bag" from our cousins across the pond instead.

It can get rather confusing at times and the misunderstanding can run both ways; as in I get a little jumpy when I hear a Brit inquire "can I bum a fag?" The request for a cigarette just doesn't sound right.

We added toddler confusion to the vocabulary equation when I asked Andrew to pick up his toys one evening and place them in the bin. For me, the meaning of bin was quite clearly the plastic box-like container where we store his toys. For him, the meaning of bin was quite clearly the trash can and he looked at me with wide inquiring eyes when I requested that he pick up his Buzz Lightyear and 'put him in the bin'. I didn't understand his confusion until later in the night when I saw that he had obediently taken Buzz to the trash can in the kitchen. Ah, me. I remember now to call the plastic container the toy box and we all now take our "rubbish" to the "bin".

All for all, I suppose the upshot is that we have picked up a lovely new vocabulary here and when we do 'freak out' or find it 'tricky' at least we give our British friends something to write home about.

We'll just continue to keep it cool man. We're keeping it cool.

Full Stop

June 2006

In addition to my wonder and awe for the Dutch and all they are capable of carrying and/or undertaking while riding a bicycle- eg: full cup of coffee in one hand, mobile telephone in the other- is the ability to stop the bike with full grace and dignity. This is yet another facet of the bike envy I feel here. Most of the Dutch vrouwen (women) and many of the men have an absolutely stellar technique for disembarking. This is accomplished by the subtle lift of the behind from the saddle of the bike and ever so expertly lifting one foot off the pedal, crossing it over and through the bike frame, and finally sliding it effortlessly to the ground taking a smooth step-step-step forward, as they coast the bike to a tender halt. In similar manner, when mounting the bike they do so with the lead foot crossed over the other and balanced on the pedal. With one foot in contact with the road, the fietsenvrouw will give a kick-hop and swing her foot through the frame, reaching for the opposite pedal while simultaneously placing her derriere upon the saddle. And thus she is expertly on her way. I have yet to master this enviable feat. Rather, my stops consist more of a white knuckle pull on the handbrakes, leaving several inches of tire skid lines on the path. Additionally, when my rear end leaves the seat, there is no grace applied. But, with a grunt I fly off the saddle and do some sort of awkward jump-jump-jump forward, generally clipping my tailbone on the front end of the seat. Therefore, my start up tends toward a tearful re-entry as my tender coccyx alights and I attempt to find the least intrusive position for the pain. And then of course, I pray with all my might for no more stoplights.
Oh, to be Dutch.

Dust In the Wind

May 2006

I have been contemplating how best to describe the task of bicycling in the wind, and I think I have finally hit on it. Drop everything you are doing now and head to the gym. Or to the corner of your bedroom if that’s where you keep your stationary bike.
Instructions:
1. Climb onto the exercise bike.
2. Set the tension at highest resistance.
3. Set the program level at most difficult.
4. Choose “Hills”.
5. Strap on 20 lb ankle weights.
6. Balance a 50 lb weight on each leg.
7. Grab hold of the handlebars and,
8. Attempt to pedal!
Are you having trouble? Is it a bit tricky? Ha! NOW you are ready for biking in the winds of Holland!
For those who are not familiar with exercise bikes and how they work, and therefore were completely lost in the previous explanation, let me sum up. Biking against the wind is hard. Really hard. And being at or below sea level in the whole of the country, you are subject here to a lot of wind. Strong wind. Mild wind. Breezy wind. You can have your pick, because in one form or another, the wind is always blowing here. Wind that will bend trees perpendicular to the ground and gusts so strong they will literally sweep you off your feet. And while I am complaining about the wind, I want to point out that the wind suspiciously and mischievously changes directions. It doesn't seem to matter which direction I ride, I find that I am pedaling directly against it. The journey and the return both seem to take me straight into the zephyrs. How exactly does that work? Perhaps I need to invest in a stationary bike for my bedroom and give up on this mode of transport. After all, a bike in the bedroom makes for a really good clothes hanger.

Spring Has Brought Me Such a Nice Surprise

May 2006

I don’t know if I have ever, in the words of Thornton Wilder, “realized life” as deeply as I have attempted to do here. That phrase from Our Town has resonated in my mind more than once as I have felt the surge of life in the returning spring. Perhaps it is because this was the first winter I have spent in many years where the word actually meant something. The dark days, the unbelievably cold temperatures, the fierce wind and freezing rain all combined to give us an experience heretofore unknown in my desert-raised kids’ lives. It was winter of a type that I personally hadn’t experienced since leaving Salt Lake City and its cold and gray winter months, back in 1984. So to say that the return of the spring was a welcome thing is to make an understatement of epic proportions. And now I am here to tell all that Spring Happens. The first evidence that the seasons were going to change was the crocus that began popping through the frozen ground in late February. Little color spots pushing their way through the soil to reach out to the sun. It was an absolute delight to watch those flowers beat the odds of growing in freezing temperatures and hardened earth. Indeed, for me they were little pockets of inspiration along the streets. Following the crocus was the daffodil, or narcis, as they are called in Dutch. Gorgeous bands of yellow and white stretching along the canals and highways, nodding their perfect cup and saucer heads at passersby. After the daffodil the tulips arrived. And let me tell you this; all the postcards, all the photo books, all the legend tales you have heard about the fields of color—it’s all accurate and true. Amazing. Unbelievable. Overwhelming. There is no superlative strong enough to convey the absolute beauty of the tulip fields and gardens. We toured Keukenhof gardens and the open fields of Lisse by bike one afternoon in May. It was absolutely unbelievable. The fields literally look as if someone took a giant paintbrush and swept vibrant washes of color across the land. Even the best photos can hardly capture the intense beauty of that land in springtime.
Not to be outdone by the reputation of the tulip, the final stage of spring flowers brought the lily and iris. These lined the canals and towered over the returning green of the grasses and groundcovers announcing that the majesty of spring had indeed arrived. This phase of the flowering is the spring finale. The arrival of the lily coincides with the temperatures hitting steady warmth and the shedding of the heavy winter coats. At this point in the parade of flowers it seemed something within all of us awakened and opened up for the sun. In the same way that the flowers unfolded and blossomed, the people returned to life. It’s a remarkable thing to witness the reawakening of a city. Streets that stood empty and lonely during the cold winter, all of a sudden were alive with people. The café tables moved to the streets for leisure dining in the fresh air. The canal again busy with boats also hosted the occasional adventurous swimmer. Garden benches and front walks became perfect spots for neighbors to engage in pleasant conversation. Just as you imagine those conversations revolved around the weather and generally began with the phrase “Lekker weer, he?” Which means “fantastic weather, don’t you think?”
I used to consider myself a lover of the autumn, but now having lived a springtime in Holland, I have discovered a new identity. The moment that topped it all for me was watching the Horsechestnut trees blossom with perfect cones of pink flowers balanced on the branches. And then when just passing their prime moment of glory the petals fell ever so gracefully to the ground, littering the streets with delicate baby-pink confetti. It’s a Mother Nature party favor.
Yup, I am a spring girl after all.

In the Land of Bikes

12 March 2006

There is no doubt about it. We live in the land of bikes. Sometimes, when Emma and I have missed a bus, we have a count-the-cars-and-bikes contest, just to see if our observation can be backed up by statistics. From our very scientific study-sitting on a bus stop bench and counting out loud- Emma and I have determined that bikes rule. Our first counting poll indicated that in a 10 minute period, 101 bikes passed our bus stop, but only 47 cars. The second time we tried our counting, it was a 15 minute period and we were passed by 86 cars and 151 bikes! Lately, we’ve been arriving at the bus stop in a timely manner and so haven’t been twiddling our thumbs. I mean to say, we haven’t had opportunity to continue our study. But rest assured that the bicycle is boss here in Holland.
There are three levels of biking here. First, you have your standard, peddle it yourself bike: the “fiets”. This is powered only by your own strength and stamina. I have commented before on the strength and stamina of the average Dutch person who can strap on myriad number of items and/or children to the bicycle and ride for hours on end. Even after six months here and taking this as the norm, it is still a marvel.
Next, there is the “broomfiets” (pronounced: Broam-feets) which is a regular peddle it yourself bike outfitted with a small motor, so when your strength and stamina just aren’t enough, you can rely on the motor to power you onward.
The third level of all things fiets is the Brommer (pronounced brrroam-errrr) which is your full-on Vespa or Moped kind of thing. These machines though fully motor powered enjoy all the benefits and shortcuts of the ‘level one’ bikes. It is not uncommon to be mowed over by a Brommer in the bike lane while you are traveling at personal strength speed and someone is tooling along on a mini-motorbike. Brommers are not my favorite. I feel like I need eyes in the back of my head sometimes to avoid collisions, because Brommer drivers tend toward the not caring about others on the path and seem to always be in a hurry. I don't think they give my personal strength and stamina speed much credit as they come ripping past me. My one consolation is that the fact that brommer drivers are going so much faster in the bike lane, and therefore, they are creating more wind in the face, and thus getting red, chapped cheeks faster than me.
The best thing about bikes as travel is that life is lived at the speed of transport. My life is paced by the speed my legs power my bike. As a result I am never rushed, I am merely moving as fast as I can. And that speed is just right for me.

Street Strolling

15 March 2006

My favorite time of day here on our street is the dinner hour. That is not only because the dinner hour signals the approaching bedtime of a certain toddler. But it is because dinner hour means everyone is in the kitchens. Often, I am making a return trip from the grocery shop just as my neighbors are beginning preparations for the evening meal. So, I slow my walk and enjoy the view. It’s my own little multi-channel cooking show; I get little snippets from each home as I stroll past. This one is doing a soup tonight, that one is preparing fish. This one is making fresh rolls, and mmm… this one will have apple tart for dessert. For a people watcher like me, the dinner hour stroll is a feast for the eyes. If only it came complete with smells.