It's walk-down-memory-lane time at this blog. As we prepare for another trans-atlantic move, this blogger is reminiscing about the first days and months here in her host country. As a reader, you are along for the ride. The posts which follow are the original entries on this site, which in turn were yanked from emails and notes home when we first arrived. Things have changed a bit since that first year, it would be fairest to say, we've changed a bit.
All for all, it's been a great ride to be an expat. I am glad we were here.
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 the play 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.
So as to be fair to the Dutch, I move now on this list to the things about the Dutch way that I am entertained by, or that I deeply appreciate.
In truth there are many, but I will mention just a few.
The typical Dutch way to greet a friend, to say goodbye or to offer heartfelt thanks is to enact the three-kiss tradition. A right cheek-left cheek-right cheek kiss is typical, along with warm words of expression. (Probably for my benefit as a foreigner, I am also reminded after the kiss-kiss-kiss that this is the ‘Dutch way’).
We have sampled and dabbled in a lot of traditional Dutch cuisine since our arrival here and the hands down favorite for everyone in this house is the Dutch pancake. Pannenkoeken are thinner than the typical American pancake, though not as thin as the French crepe. Made with flour, sugar, salt, eggs and milk, they have the most delightful texture! We eat them quite often, even for dinner occasionally. (much to the dismay of our Dutch friends-as pancakes for dinner is NOT the 'Dutch way') Traditional approach to the Pannenkoeken is to serve them with butter and Poeder Suiker (powdered sugar) and to eat them with knife and fork. My personal favorite is to smear them with chocolate spread, roll them up and gobble them down. It may not be the Dutch way, but it certainly works for me.
I can never say enough how much fun it is to indulge in the bike culture of this country. The fun of darting through traffic, figuring out how to balance the groceries, carrying a child on the back, and exploring the countryside by self-powered wheels is exquisite.
That's enough to keep me captivated for years yet.
Occasionally, as I have hopped from blog to blog, I find a post here and there exposing how readers find various blogs. (Search engine trackers such as google analytics keep track of such things) Always on the fascinating side, sometimes leaning toward the risque, I have found myself intrigued by the notion and wondering just what it is that leads people here to this page. (I mean of course, aside from my charm, wit, beauty and ultimate humility...)
So, I went to look.
As you might expect with a blog title such as mine and the subjects I cover here in my writing, most of the referral searches were phrased in some variation of "Life in The Netherlands". I suppose it's obvious why such a search might lead someone here, and while that in and of itself isn't a total thrill a minute revelation, what admittedly was just a little on the cool side is the fact that given that particular word search my blog hits at the top of the page. (Thanks google!)
Randomly though, a search for "Serbian Rappers" also brought my personal blog to the front page of listings. I haven't had much to say about Serbian Rappers other than this post, but let's be honest, is there really a whole lot to say about Serbian Rappers? Perhaps, that's why my post ranks near the top of the list when a random someone makes a random search about such a random subject. However, if ever Serbian Rappers take off and hit the big time I will feel proud that I knew them when...
Educationally, someone set a search with the words "What is Karnemelk?". I am not sure what information they gained about Karnemelk by linking here to my blog, but I am happy indeed to answer this question for the inquiring mind: Karnemelk is yucky. There now, we all feel better with that tidbit of information filed properly, don't we?
Curiously, someone wants to know about "Life in Netherlands not so good, great". I hardly know what to say in response. "Life in Netherlands not so good" may indeed be a phrase that has leaked from my lips on occasion. But so has "Life in Netherlands, great". The latter being more often uttered than the former. My guess is, no matter where you are living you could utter the same set of phrases interchangeably too. But that's life, ain't it?
Laughably, a search for "Nederland in Globe" also led someone here. I am still kind of scratching my head over this one. Just what is it the reader wanted to know? Is the Netherlands on the globe? Why yes, yes it is. It's a small country sure, but most mapmakers and globe builders have indeed heard of the place. It could be a question regarding Nederlanders as stars of the GLOBEtrotters, maybe. The Dutch are certainly tall enough, and Haarlem was after all a city here first, but alas, this country doesn't play basketball. Is it Nederland at the GLOBE theatre? Ah, yes, Shakespeare in Dutch! Could a rose not smell as sweet? How far can I push this? Nederland in the Boston Globe? Nederland in Globe Communication? Nederland in Global Warming? Okay, I'll stop.
Sweetly, someone inquired "Love Words in Dutch" to which I reply a hearty "ME TOO!" I love words in Dutch! Especially words like Koffiepadapparat and achtentachtig. As to the actual "love words" in Dutch, I remember several Spanish speaking women in my beginners Dutch class going on a rant over the awkwardness of saying I love you in Dutch. I've never gotten over their giggles over the sound of Ik hou van jou and the absolute triumph they felt with the far superior Te quiero of their native tongue.
Lastly, is it wrong that I find it a point of pride that the search "Mama Had a Baby and His Head Popped Off" led more than one reader straight to this page?
These are the things that make me laugh.
So, this is what leads the random readers here. I suppose with the revelation of how they got here it begs the question: what will bring them back again?
It's possible this is the final evidence that I am not in Kansas anymore*. Obviously, once I mastered the bicycle as transportation idea, and learned to love coffee, it was clear that the assimilation to life in The Netherlands was nearly complete. But this? This I find a little disturbing and must admit to being more than slightly uncomfortable about.
The confession:
I have the skin color of a northern European.
Yikes.
I stepped into the shower innocently this morning, and took care of all the necessary grooming steps, not particularly aware of anything out of place or odd or strange in any way. It wasn't until I was toweling off and inspecting the shave job on my legs (I am still not very good at that, even after 30 years of practice) when I noticed there was very little difference in color, or lack of color as the case may be, between my winter-white towel and my shockingly pasty-white skin.
This is not to say that I have ever, ever sported a very deep tan. I am after all, a white--very white--girl born and white bread bred in Utah. I admit, when I was young I was enamored of getting a tan and did my fair share of laying out under the sky attempting to darken my skin, which only ever worked to a point. Now, knowing what I know about my skin, and more to the point, knowing what I know about sun damage I am a cautious sun worshiper and spend time under the cover of hats, glasses and sunblock. Though I have never been dark, I can say freely that I nurtured a healthy glow of sun kissed skin. Or at least I did under the Arizona sun.
And then I moved to Holland.
I don't know why it's bothering me so much this morning, but seriously if you could catch the glare off my epidermis, it would likely bother you too.
It is a matter of simple observation here that many, many, many of the Dutch attempt to stave off the white skin glare by lotioning up with the over the counter chemicals which promise to give you a summer skin. In reality, what those do (with over application?) is make the skin glow with an orangey-tone not unlike the color of newborn baby poo. Not to put too fine a point on it.
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.
In the earliest years of our marriage, Don and I lived in Las Vegas. Yes, you read that right. Smack in the middle of the dusty desert of Nevada, we established ourselves in a tiny one bedroom apartment on Rochelle Lane, in the heart of town, only a stone's throw from the Strip.
He was a full time student, I was a full time bread winner. It wasn't much bread, mind you, as I worked for barely above minimum wage at a family owned jewelry store not far from our home. Our apartment was furnished minimally with our begged, borrowed and snatched from the thrift store cast-away furniture. The couch was a fold out bed, the bed was a 20 year old hand-me-over from his parents. The television (all 13 inches of it) was a gift of sorts from my uncle. The coffee table a gift from our landlords. We spent $25.00 on groceries each week. We were still making payments on my $200 engagement ring.
Poor? Maybe just a little.
This afternoon here in our spacious (by Dutch standards) home, Don and I were snuggled on our living room couch (purchased full price from Ikea) catching up briefly with the world news via CNN. At mention of Superbowl Sunday and an upcoming story to be presented on the creative betting going on in Vegas this weekend, he and I burst into simultaneous giggles.
I shall tell you why.
One day, while working on dinner in our Rochelle Lane apartment the phone rang. It was my aunt. We exchanged catch-me-up-on-your-life pleasantries and then she told me the reason for her call. She had a colleague who had recently taken a trip to Vegas and had found himself bit by the gambling bug. He'd had some real luck at the tables, and on the sports boards and once he found out she had a niece in Vegas, was curious if I would work for him as a courier and place a bet for him on the upcoming Super Bowl. He was willing to pay me fifty bucks for the service ($50 friends! Just think of the luxury!) I told her I thought it would be fine, but to be certain, I just wanted to run the idea past Don and make sure I wasn't not thinking of something which I should be thinking of before I agreed. (Let's be honest, $50!! was all I was thinking.) We discussed the particulars and I told her I would let her know.
The discussion with Don was no biggie, other than he mentioned that he wasn't sure if the IRS tracked bets etc, and whether or not I would have to show ID and sign something when placing a large bet at a casino. I thought it a fair point, and not wanting to be liable and taxable for money which clearly we didn't have, I told him I would make a call to the casino to check out the particulars.
This is how that whole conversation went down.
"Hi, yeah, I am just inquiring about the process for making a bet at the sports bar."
"Yah, sure, okay."
"Um. Well, what I am wondering is, if I am making a bet, say, on the Super Bowl if I have to like, sign something or show ID or something. I mean, do you guys keep track of that kind of stuff and report it to the IRS?"
"Well, yah, we do. We have to if it's a large bet... you know, a significant amount of money."
"Oh, well, this is a SIGNIFICANT amount of money. I'll be placing a THOUSAND DOLLAR bet."
Dead silence on the other end.
Then stifled guffaws.
Then, "No, no, miss, I mean a large bet. Like over $10,000.00"
"Oh, right. Okay, then. Well, thanks...."
(echoing giggles as I hung up the receiver)
Easiest money I ever made for sure. Unfortunately he bet on the wrong team and my work as courier-of-significant-money-bets dried up fast.
But still, if you're looking for someone, you could take a chance on me.
Tradition and protocol for New Year's Eve in The Netherlands calls for complete mayhem. Chaos with a capital C you might say.
Me, I just call it crazy.
In a country which regulates just nearly everything which can be regulated it seems obvious come to Old Year's Night, that absolutely no rules apply. In the weeks preceding, fireworks are sold at the grocery stores, the plant nurseries and various other locations. Selections include the benign hand held sparklers and bottle rockets, but also include the kinds of things I do not know the names for and would hardly dare to guess the firepower behind. The fun (?) begins in the days prior to the 31st and it is not uncommon to have a firecracker thrown under your bike wheels as you cycle blithely down the lane. Nor is it odd to hear the rapid fire rhythm of hundreds of crackers set off together to reverberate off row house walls and narrow alleys.
Come the last day of the year proper, the fire play is random but constant throughout the day. It seems rather obvious to this onlooker that the stockpiles of explosives must be vast as players light the lines hours before the clock strikes midnight.
Midnight itself is a wonder, albeit a slightly-frightening-unbelievably-loud-wonder, to behold. After the initial shout: Gelukkig Nieuwjaar! and the standard three-kiss affectionate display for all in the room or at the party, the front doors of homes are thrown open wide and all pour into the streets where the name of the game seems to be DO IT FAST AND DO IT WILD. The fireworks are launched from the street, from the tops of trash cans, from the garden walls and they are launched with an energy which, unless witnessed, cannot be believed.
The result is a cacophonous nightmare which is simultaneously terrifying and totally stimulating.
All the while fire is exploding overhead and underfoot, neighbors call out Happy New Year and greet each other with the friendly three kisses--right cheek, left cheek, right cheek--for one and all. Everyone laughs and smiles. Everyone groans about the noise and the craziness. Everyone thrills over this very Dutch way to bring it in.
Lest you begin to think that it's all over in a moment I feel compelled to point out that noise and chaos is the lullaby still echoing in the streets well past 3:00 a.m.
Personally, I believe that makes it reasonable that the first resolution of the New Year is: 1. Stay in bed all day on the first.
I am happy to report that's a resolution fulfilled.
Happy New Year to all. Here's hoping 2008 is full of wonder.
(please pardon the *lack of* video skills here. I am a complete novice. you'll note the first part of the video is angled incorrectly. I fix it later, I am not a complete dork, just a slight one.)
I was under the weather last week, and as is standard for me anytime I catch a head cold, the virus descended from my sinuses to my voice box and I spent three days in the last seven, croaking like a frog. Handy only in the fact that such a voiceless condition elicits great sympathy from all whose ears were subject to my (lack of) melodious tones, to be sans melody is disquieting.
By Friday I was squeaking out low level decibels in my speech. Nearly audible, I was able to once again take my share of the incoming phone calls at work. A day at work was about all that my voice could take and by the afternoon I was once again sapped of sound. When a co-worker stepped in to the office to receive well wishes and a bottle of wine for her birthday, I gave it my all to join in singing "Lang zal ze leven" but couldn't make sound form through the chords.
The true test of laryngitis came Friday evening when, just as I was sitting down on my couch to watch some television with Ian and Elise, I spied several young boys inside the gate of my front garden. I hesitate only briefly before I label this gaggle as a bunch of punks. It was obvious they were up to no good. Emboldened by the numbers in their group they were measuring up the bikes standing in the front yard to quickly determine which would be easiest to make off with. What they were not counting on was the fact that all of our bikes are locked, but further and more to the point as you are about to see, they were not counting on being spotted.
But they were.
By me.
I am certain it was without grace, but confident that the speed with which I flew from the living room, through the hallway and out the front door surprised not just me, but all those brats boys gathered in my yard.
They quickly hoofed it down the road.
I suppose someone else may have left it at that, but this had awakened something in me and I shouted at them with all the strength in my lungs:
Hoi Jongens! Wat doen jullie daar? (Hey boys! What are you doing?)
As you are correct to imagine there was very little response and absolutely no complicity from the group who had stationed themselves down the street under a lamp post. I suppose they felt secure in their numbers and proud of their antics.
Of course, my shouts aroused the curiosity of my husband who was upstairs in our bedroom and he called out to me from the balcony. I quickly filled him in on the events of the past 2 minutes and fast as lightning he joined me in the front yard.
I continued to yell that they needed to answer for themselves and that I would call the police. This decree got the only en masse response which was a collective giggle.
That's when I got pissed.
And my husband started to run.
What could I do but give chase as well?
In my stocking feet I joined pace for pace with Don as we chased the hooligans from the street; the boys split immediately as each turned tail and took off, dashing around corners, across canals and running down parallel streets.
The pace of the chase and the heat of the moment served to completely unglue me. As we turned the corner to chase the last of them off, Don called out something decidedly derisive and I echoed in turn.
I have to admit, it was not attractive.
And there was no stopping me.
Obscenities flying, (ENGLISH ONLY--no language can match what we've got!) I tossed off as many insults as I could muster in rapid fire succession, and only ceased when my calm and caring husband put his hand on my shoulder and said "Jenn. We live on this street."
I clammed up, but I didn't calm down.
Don and I walked back to our home and sat down in the front garden to talk.
To be fair, he talked while I fumed. And then he listened while I decompressed.
I don't lose my temper very often. In fact, you could almost say never. But I did on this night and it has taken me days to settle down about it all.
Curiously, the entire scream fest did not call a single neighbor out of their houses to assist or watch. This fact, along with the belligerence of these wayward-going-nowhere boys was high on the topic list as I ranted about the event, and by association life in Holland.
But it's more than that isn't it? Though it seems commonplace, I know this culture has no exclusive hold on delinquent youth nor apathetic adults. I am lucky I think, that in my two years here that there haven't been more unfortunate events befall us. To be fair, Holland is a safe country by comparison and there is little violent crime here. But crime does happen. Specifically and commonly that crime is bike theft, general theft and vandalism. Most unfortunately for the populace it is standard and I dare say, accepted as just the way it is. This disregard for people, for property, for privacy, is rampant and universal.
It came to my door Friday night, and it sent me over the edge.
I am mad. I want to keep shouting. I want to do something about it.
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Misery loves company I suppose. Please read what Fourier Analyst has to say on this subject. She's got a point.
1. In truth, random describes me perfectly. There is hardly a thing about my personality or my life that is planned or systematic in any way. Other than:
2. My headaches, which come like clockwork with the release of certain substances and/or materials in my body. Too cryptic for you? I shall spell it out. I am a slave to my ovaries and my hormones. It's not pretty and it has been getting increasingly uglier and fiercer as I age. However, whether it is because of, or coincidentally to, the acupuncture treatments I am receiving, I am celebrating:
3. The random victory of being headache free this week, in spite of what the calendar shows. This week should have, would have, begun with a screaming-mimi of a migraine. And it didn't.
4. I believe in acupuncture.
5. I practice Reiki.
6. I love yoga.
7. I am not afraid of spiders but I abhor moths. I understand it's an irrational fear, but it is deeply rooted all the same. When I was a camp counselor, oh, about 1000 years ago, my campers found out about my distaste for the critters and filled my cabin with creative paper cutouts of the horrible hideous beasts as a prank. I was pleased to see that in each rendition, my 12-year-old charges had also penciled in vampire-like fangs at the mouth, as that is exactly how I envision and describe them. I have never been close enough to one to really inspect whether my theory is true and don't tell me I should, I won't. I am comfortable with my story that the fuzzy monstrosities also have fangs. I'm stickin' with it.
8. On a whim, I got a job this week. Yes, you read that correctly. I. am. going. back. to. work. FULL TIME. I will perhaps post in detail how an innocent email exchange with the Headmaster at the International School suddenly became a job interview. But that certainly sums up the randomness of my life. Four days ago I didn't have a job, and today I do.
Now, I'll be needing a nanny. Inquiries about the post can be made here.
Speaking of inquiries. It has come to my attention via some random email questions that perhaps there are parts of my story about our life here, that I haven't told yet. So, my question to you, dear friends and readers, is what do you want to know? Other than the back story of what brought our family from the USA to The Netherlands (this is the question which has come in a few times over the email), what are the burning questions in your mind about me? About us? About life in Holland?
Ask away, and I will post in coming days, until you know the rest of the story.
From an email home dated 2 January 2006 A newbie to The Netherlands attempts to discuss the chaos of a New Year celebration! 31 December was a bit quiet around our house. Don was on a trip to the U.S. to visit his family. Ian was spending the day and night at a friend’s house in the neighboring town of Zouterwoude. So it was just Emma, Andrew and I left to our own to celebrate the coming of 2006. Andrew was in bed by his typical 7:00 p.m. and that left Em and I to hang out together.
The two of us had a lovely, quiet evening. We ate dinner, and watched a movie or two together. We both fell asleep on the couch at some point during the second film. When I woke around 11:00 p.m. I sort of puttered around awhile and actually toyed with the idea of just taking Emma upstairs to her bed, and climbing into mine and calling the whole celebration complete…
But I delayed, because Don had mentioned that there would be fireworks at midnight and I thought Emma would like to try and see them. At this point I wondered if we would be able to get a good view of a fireworks show. The night was somewhat cloudy and our house is not right in the city center, so I wasn’t sure we would have a great view. But we would make an effort to watch the fireworks and after that we could climb in our beds and be snoozing by 12:30.
No problem. 11:55 p.m. I stir Emma from her slumber and we switch on the TV to watch a countdown being broadcast. She very sleepily says, “Do you think we’ll be able to see the fireworks?” and I say “I hope so”. Then we join the television party goers and count down “Tien-negen-acht-zeven-ses-vijf-vier-drie-twee…” At our count of “een”, we hear the whine of a bottle rocket zipping skyward to explode above the house. Oh, cool! Fireworks!
So we scurry to the front window to see if there will be more. In the 10 ½ seconds it took us to move from the living room to the kitchen to look out our front windows, it sounded as if war had broken out on our street.
There were rockets being lit from every direction. Firecrackers popping like machine gun fire. Sparklers, smoke bombs, whistlers, fountains… you name it, it was being lit, thrown, launched and fired!
I have never seen a show like this in my whole life. It was SO loud and SO chaotic out on our street. It was hard to determine if the view was better from the back yard or the front porch. So we alternated and watched the firework show from inside the house for several minutes. Then we decided we really had to get outside to experience what was happening, so we opened the front door.
Holy cow! What noise! We thought it extremely loud and somewhat disconcerting while the doors were shut. To be outside in the din was UNBELIEVABLE! What a rush. We joined neighbors on the sidewalk and watched the antics of those who were providing the fire show. If I could I wouldn’t even know how to assign a number to the fireworks being launched. A gazillion? It was amazing.
And it wasn’t happening on our street alone, but this frenzy was repeated street after street, block after block throughout the entire city. The sky was alive with color.
Besides the boom, boom, boom of fireworks popping, the music of the night included friends and neighbors greeting each other with kisses and calling out “Gefeliciteerd!” (Congratulations!) I kissed more neighbors that night, than I even knew I had.
Mostly I just stood and watched the fireworks, shook my head and repeated over and over “I have never seen anything like this before”
Ultimately, the noise woke Andrew (like anyone could sleep through that?) and we brought him downstairs to join us. I thought he might be frightened, but instead he just kept calling out “lights” as the fireworks exploded overhead.
We watched the show for an hour, then at 1:00 a.m. I told my kids we had better call it a night. I tucked them both in and wondered if anyone would actually be able to get to sleep. The festivities were still in full swing and didn’t appear to be closing up any time soon. I kissed the kids and wished them luck for slumber. It actually didn’t take them too long to give in and fall asleep. At around 2:00 a.m it began to quiet. There was still quite a bit of action in the sky, but not near as much as before. I am not sure what time the last firecracker exploded, because by that time, I too had given in to sleep.
The story begins like this: A couple of years ago my husband got a crazy notion in his head that returning to school after years in the professional world might be a good idea. So he and I along with our three children left our suburban life in the U.S. and traded it for a new adventure in The Netherlands.
The saga continues like this:
A year of post graduate study was so much fun, we figured we'd stay a while longer. Working in a new field, attending new schools and living in a new city, I dare say we have settled into a rhythm in our expat lives.
This blog is the record I keep of our experiences here; good, bad and hilarious. Intended as an outlet for my expression, this is the place for me to say my something.
