Package Police

It's not like it hasn't happened before.
Early on in our living in Leiden experience my sister sent me a box of jeans. Three pair of Gloria Vanderbilt stretch jeans to be exact. They are my favorite jeans in the whole world, soft, easy, and moldable. They are comfortable enough to wear all day and can be considered a perfect complement to the ever exotic, super fancy t-shirts I wear as part of my mommy uniform. These are jeans which can withstand the constant bending, stretching, diapering, chasing, hand-wiping, abuse I dish out every day. It quickly became clear after arriving here that it would be hard to clothe my rather short, moderately squatty, somewhat broad across the beam frame with the jeans that are manufactured and marketed for the extremely tall, exceptionally thin, slightly gangly Dutch. So, I asked my sister if she would send me some new jeans. She agreed. She purchased the jeans (on sale) for $20 per pair, put them in a box, added an address label to the front and took the box over to the UPS store. On the shipping tag she marked the contents as a "gift" and filled in the value as $60. The box was then marked for international shipping and was expedited to me. No problem. Then, my sister sent an email to tell me that the jeans were on the way. Not long after I got, not a box of jeans on my doorstep, but a delivery note from the customs office stating that I could have my box for a fee of Euro 50,00. Ack! We had been snagged by the package police. Not all packages and shipments that come in to the country are subjected to customs fees, but some are. Apparently there are a few "red flags" that will tip off the customs office that a package should be looked at closely. I asked around and this is what I learned:

1. Never ship EXPEDITED. This is a big flag to say "Hey! Look at this box, it's REALLY important and REALLY valuable. You could make a lot of money taxing this box!"

2. A total value over $25 could make an inspector look more than once. The risk here is that if the package contents cost the sender more than that, there will be no reciprocation if the box is lost. This is the chance you take.

3. Marking a shipment as a "gift" can set up a red flag on the box. Not always, but sometimes. I guess the idea behind that is "if you want a gift, well, you've got to pay for it!"

So, let's review and spot the mistakes in that first shipment from my sister. Count 'em with me: 1-2-3! Yes, we covered them all. Ugh. There didn't appear to be much option so I just bit the bullet, paid the fees, and got my box of new jeans. I quickly took to calling them my hundred-dollar jeans because after you factor in the shipping and customs charges, my wallet friendly purchase suddenly got very pricey.
But what is that they say? You live and you learn. I did. And I passed on what I learned and we have happily been receiving boxes and packages without a hitch ever since.

That is until now.

Flash forward to this week. My mom sent two boxes to me a few weeks ago. In one was a gift for me (thanks Mom and Dad!) and in the other was a Grandma-spotted-it-and-simply-had-to-buy-it gift for Andrew. The first box arrived quickly and without a problem. The second box took it's own sweet time coming across the ocean; we even wondered for a time if it had actually gotten lost. But lo and behold, late last week I received a delivery notice for the box, along with a memo from the customs office announcing that it was going to cost me EURO 50,00. to pick it up. Ack! Again? What had happened? What went wrong this time? On Monday afternoon, I paid the postal carrier the fees, signed off on the delivery and brought the box inside for closer inspection. I can't claim that I solved the mystery on my own, but give full credit to my super-sleuth husband who spotted the problem within seconds of examining the customs declaration tag.
Can you see it?


When my mother presented the box at the post office counter she had filled in the customs tag marking it appropriately (diminishing chances of red flag waving) with a value of $25. And somehow by the time the postal worker filled in the TOTAL VALUE slot, the contents of the box had magically increased in value ten times. He wrote in a $250.00 value! Oh, the brains on this one. But again, what is it they say? You live and you learn. And so we have something new to add to the shipping rules: Check the tag. Check the tag. CHECK THE TAG!

There isn't a whole lot of remedy on our end. Don spoke with the customs people today who were quite keen to dismiss his claim even after acknowledging that the error occurred. We can write a letter of complaint, which will take months to review before they deny us and refuse reimbursement. It's good to know we could pursue this exercise in futility. We may just get right on that just as soon as we do all the other equally useless things we have scheduled.

Now then, as to the contents of the box of misery with it's radical customs charge? I have only this to say: it was worth every last euro cent.

Inside, Outside, Upside Down

Rain Delay

From a phone call this morning:

"Hallo, Jennifer? You speak with ONINGS, the garden center."

"Yes?"

"We do your garden work and have today an appointment to come and work at your garden."

"yes, I know."

"Well, today it is going to rain ALL day and well, we cannot.... we should have to..... I mean to say we need to come through the house to the back garden and it's going to rain ALL day."

"uhmmm..."

"Yes, and it wouldn't be so nice to come through the house with all the things.... all the equipment... because it is going to rain ALL day. So that wouldn't be so nice."

"Ah."

"So I will call you another time to make an appointment to do your garden. I will call you for a time when it is not raining ALL day."

"Sure. That sounds fine"

"Okay, well then, speak to you another time."

"Okay. Goodbye."

And just how much rain has fallen today between that 8:00 a.m. phone call and the 2:00 p.m. writing of this post?

Precisely, NONE.

Sun Burst

This is what it looked like in my neighborhood on Friday morning. It was a delicious blue sky day; the kind of day that crawls into your skin with it's sunshine and cheer and begins firing endorphins willy-nilly through your synapses, causing you to grin broadly and sing show tunes at the top of your lungs. A welcome sunshine morning that infuses you with a deep sense of well being and security. All is good with the world when a day starts out with a sky like this. It probably goes without saying that this kind of baby blue beauty is a rarity around here. Especially during the winter months where instead the standard is a sky more readily described as low, heavy, gray and dismal. I tried and I can't make that sound any more mystical or romantic. I can't put poetry on grave and dreary firmament. It's nothing but morbidly depressing. But on Friday, with the the heavens alight and the contentment chemicals surging to full steam, I took Andrew on a walk in the sunshine to our neighborhood plant nursery. That's where we overloaded the buggy with potting soil, seed, annuals, new pots and a variety of houseplants. My afternoon task would be a simple and highly desirable one. Namely, I would spend it outside in the sunshine playing in the dirt. This? This is an afternoon in heaven for me.
After re-potting the three plants we inherited from the house owners when we became renters here, I began with my new pots and plants. Now my house is filled with lovely green things. On the front windowsill facing the street it now looks like this:

And the hearth at my fireplace looks like this:

I love these plants. I don't know what they are called, but I had one in college and I named it appropriately "resurrection plant" of the genus riseupfromdadead . Poor plant. I continually neglected it and starved it of moisture for weeks on end; yet just as it reached it's shriveled and brown state of decay, I could dowse it with water and I'll be darned but it perked up every time. The thing was totally amazing. Which is more than I can say for my goldfish "Moses" who was a contemporary of the resurrection plant that first year I was away at college in Southern Utah. The goldfish Moses kicked it within hours of arriving at my trailer/apartment/home along with his bowl mate "Rose". Moses was floating belly side up in the little tank first thing the morning after I received him. I suppose you can't expect much more from a twelve-cent feeder goldfish whisked from the tank of ten thousand at the pet shop. But it all got a little sadder and stranger when Moses' replacement "Moses II" also kicked it within hours of being in the bowl with Rose. Another fish belly up and one more Moses replacement. I named it appropriately Moses III. It died too. Within hours. I am not making this up. So with Moses I, Moses II and Moses III having been sent on the long swim to the sea I gave up and decided that Rose would remain the only fish in the ocean for me. It was a brilliant life we shared together for approximately three months; Rose flitting happily 'round her bowl and me feeding, watching and nurturing my beloved fish friend.

Then one fateful day, my roommate and best human friend began to taunt my fish, telling it "Hi little fish, your name is MOSES!"

"NO!" I shouted. "Leave my fish alone! Moses is the name of fish that DIE!!"

That last was added for sheer dramatic effect. I stepped over to the bowl and cried:

"Your name is Rose. Your name is Rose!"

Throughout that day my friend stopped by the bowl periodically to say "Hello Moses" to Rose. Occasionally she would call out from the other side of the room "How ya doin' Moses?" and chanted happily "Moses, Moses, Moses the fish's name is Moses" in spite of my protests in opposition.

For my part, I told the fish "Please don't die. Your name is Rose. You are NOT Moses. Your name is Rose. Listen to me. Your name is ROOOOOOOOOOSE!!"

Perhaps my pleading was not earnest enough, or perhaps my roommate knew more about the fish psyche than I did. Whatever the reason, the fact remains, Rose Moses died later that night.

Returning now to the homes and garden tour. Over at the TV stand, I put this:

This plant grows gorgeous red waxy flowers. I believe it's called Flamingo Flower which is a seriously cool moniker. The scientific name is Anthurium hybrid in case you are interested. I have spied this plant often sitting in others' houses and have been pining for one of my own for months. If you look closely you can just see a bright crimson bud beginning to burst forth.

And for the grand finish to my houseplant tour; decorating the sideboard is this set of tulips brought over by a friend this week.

Also, while at the nursery I bought these super-awesome-gel-bead-things which I believe are not only decorative but also functional for flower arranging. I intend to test that theory later today when I stop at the flower stand on the corner for some additional fresh flowers.

All for all, I am very pleased with my effort and even more pleased with my timing because the remainder of the weekend the skies looked like this:

Simultaneous Seasons

Welcome Abroad

As I have been working on getting this blog ready for publication ie; pulling up old emails and sorting through journal entries from the past year and a half, I have been struck by just how very typical my adjustment as a foreign national has been. The expat help books all talk about the inevitable surge and wave of emotion a person will experience regarding his/her host country. At the beginning of the experience, the books promise, the expat will feel great admiration and love for the new place. Everything will be a grand adventure. All will be wonder, mystery and awe as the new resident discovers things about the new culture and country. Inevitably to follow such a honeymoon experience is the fall from grace for the adopted locality. Mind you, nothing about the country changes directly, but in phase II the expat will feel quite differently about the host country. Thoughts such as "how does this place even FUNCTION?" or "this country can do NOTHING right" creep in. Sometimes these are voiced aloud. More to the point the expat may rant: "These people are strange. This food is terrible. This weather sucks. I WANT TO GO HOME!" or some such diatribe rife with emotion. Big swirling, deep emotions. Ultimately a balance is struck, probably tenuous at best, wherein the expatriate settles into life in the new culture, no longer idealizing it nor demonizing it. Just letting it be.
So, very typical am I. Reading things like this, this, and this points the way clear to my absolute LOVE of ALL THINGS DUTCH. Months later, admitting things like this show the beginning of the decline. As for the decline itself? I didn't write about it then, and haven't yet written about the chasm of grumpiness I was in for a few months while I adjusted to the idea of becoming a more permanent resident of this country, rather than a one-year adventurer. I tend to be a "glass half-full" person and have been oft-accused of having a positive outlook. Not writing about the negative things let me hang onto that image. I will say that I am out of the abyss now and have struck my bargain balance with living in The Netherlands. Perhaps I will write about the void someday; but for now, understand that this blog for me will be the outlet I am seeking to write about, well, everything. The setting to express my emotion about living with the Dutch which can be simultaneously stimulating and deeply disturbing. The venue to point out what works so well here, and what simply does not. The spot to tell the things on my mind. This will be the place for me to say my something about all of it.
If you care to comment, I welcome your words.

Welcome to my life.

Wet Weather Gear

Gezellig

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.

Travel Advice for Road Trips

April 2006

I am just going to cut right to it. This is the best piece of road travel advice ever to be given. Ready now? Okay, here it is: The best tip for road travel in France (or anywhere in the world for that matter): DO NOT LOCK THE KEYS IN THE RENTAL CAR! It's just that simple. Do not under any circumstances make this mistake. Really. Just DON'T DO IT. Especially do not do this if you are in a rural area on EASTER SUNDAY where there are not likely to be garages open or assistance available until the following Tuesday morning, as Monday will be “second Easter day” and the shops and businesses will not be open. If you are going to have this particular adventure, it may make it easier if you speak the language of your host country, as that makes asking for help and explaining your predicament much easier. However, if you don’t have this skill, then charades and over-exaggerated facial expressions can help to get your point across.

Are you ready for the story?
(Admittedly, the lead in is funnier than the actual story, but nonetheless I will now share the details.)

It was 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 we made a stop to eat. The stop was of course at a McDonald's, because as is also expected for a family with children (who seem to be hungry ALL THE TIME) this is the easiest, fastest, cheapest way to eat on a road trip. And it also gives great space for the toddler of said family to run around and make some noise. This so-called ‘Normandy Beach day’ was day four of our trip and we had covered miles and miles of France. The kids generally are fabulous travelers, even on very long road trips, but they were hitting the end of their rope with each other. To remedy the bickering situation in the back seat, Don decided to move Andrew’s car seat to the center of the bench allowing Ian and Emma to sit on either side. Thus eliminating the “you’re touching me” conversations which had become habitual the last 100 kilometers or so. 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 in that “talk to the hand” kind of wave and said
“I’ve just locked the keys in the car”

“Oh”

“Yeah”

“Uhhhhh….”

So, 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. Over the course of the next few hours and with the untiring effort of a young McDonald’s (French) fry cook, we were able to find a local garage that could come and unlock the car. This was no small effort, believe me. Yet, when the truck arrived, it wasn't all that big an effort for them to jimmy the lock and open the door. En Voila! Our keys! We dipped deeply into our pockets to pay the fee and then we were back on the road again. And remarkably, NO ONE was fighting. Believe it or not, we were already laughing about it, determined not to let it ruin the day or the adventure.
Just before we left Leiden for that journey, I received an email from a friend saying:
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?"
And I say, Yeah. We will never forget our Easter in France.

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.

On New Year's Eve

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.

Maybe we’ll see fireworks?

Indeed.

The Dutch Way

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. 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. 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."

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. Join the pressing throng 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.

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. There are quite a few of those, but I will mention just these 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.

Neighborhood Sky

On Sinterklaas

10 December 2005

We have just experienced our first Sinterklaas holiday. This is the children’s celebration which commences with the arrival of Sinterklaas in November. Perhaps you have heard of this before, or know about the Sint from some other source, but please bear with as I share a little Dutch culture lesson.
Sinterklaas lives in the South of Spain which is not bad digs considering our North American Santa Claus spends his year in the North Pole? Please. If you had your choice between sunny beaches and blue skies, or frozen barren waste land; where would you be? The Sint travels to Holland by steamboat on or about 12 November each year. He brings along his many helpers, the Zwarte Pieten and also his regal white horse. He comes to Holland to celebrate his birthday with the children here, by bringing them gifts and goodies. The legend tells us that his birthday is on the 6th of December. His arrival is an immensely big deal, complete with live television coverage throughout the country. Once he arrives he keeps himself very busy appearing at the shops, at parties, at school celebrations and riding his horse in the parades in each city here in Holland. Truly the man is MAGIC to be able to get it all done in the short time he is here! In truth, I can’t even begin to explain the magic of the season. I will tell you that I am confident that I saw the real, actual, bonafide Sinterklaas in Leiden as he rode his noble steed down the street in the Sinterklaas parade. That is how magic the season can be.
In addition to his celebrity appearances he also rides the rooftops at night and he and his Piets look to see if the children have left their shoes near a fireplace or a window. If shoes are present, it is the job of Zwarte Piet to sneak in and leave a small gift or some chocolate inside a shoe. Usually the children have left a carrot or some straw for the Sint's horse in exchange for a surprise in their shoe. Or sometimes a note, or drawing for Sinterklaas.
If you are naughty it is said that Piet can leave a "switch" in your shoe for some good old fashioned bottom spanking. And if you are really naughty, Zwarte Piet may just scoop you up in his sack and take you away from your family to the South of Spain. (Frankly, this doesn't sound like such a bad deal!) Zwarte Piet is a colorful character dressed in velvet and a feathered cap. He is a fun loving helper, and you find Piets throughout the season walking through the streets and shops sharing gifts with children and throwing out treats.
There are also many songs specific to the season and these you also hear piped through the shops and being sung by children every day.
And then we arrive at Sinterklaas eve, or Pakjesavond on the 5th of December which is the night before the Sint’s birthday. Usually families have a party of sorts and at some point in the evening there will be loud knock upon the door. When it is answered one of the Pieten will have dropped off a sack of presents for the children.
For our celebration that evening, we invited some of Don’s colleagues over for dinner to celebrate with us, as none of them have kids to take part in the Dutch tradition. Around 7:00 there was a knock on the door, and when Emma opened it there was no one there but only a big brown sack filled with gifts for everyone in the house. Even our guests had a little something as a surprise inside. Which Emma thought was incredibly fortuitous. ("Sinterklaas is so smart, Mom, How did he know that everyone would be here?") It was delightful to celebrate this Dutch holiday tradition.... The kids being thrilled of course that they get to celebrate with TWO bearded men dressed in red this year.