Prettige Kerstdagen

Haarlem is generally a subdued kind of place, however, as we get ready to head back to the UK this weekend, our adopted home town is bracing itself for ‘Serious Request’. Serious Request is a major fund-raising event by one of the Dutch national radio stations – three DJ’s incarcerated in a ‘glass house’ in the Grote Markt playing six days of non-stop music. Apparently up to 200,000 visitors are expected – so it’s probably a good time to be leaving.

It’ll be Haarlem’s second weekend entertaining the hoards – last week was the Christmas Market, plenty of opportunity to buy all the handcrafted fir-cone knick-knacks you’ve ever wanted and sample the local gluhwein. It would have been rude not to have joined in.  The added attraction was the ‘Anton Pieck Parade’  – a spooky assortment of Charles Dickens’ like characters who spontaneously burst into song, played instruments and herded sheep through the market place. 

Christmas is pretty low-key here compared to the UK . There doesn’t appear to be the manic rush to stock up. Presents are exchanged on St Nicholas Day at the beginning of the month  and although there are a few ‘kerstdagen feest’ treats on the supermarket shelves, the shops are not full of the usual selection of tacky Christmas gifts. It’s a refreshing change.

However, our knowledge of cheesy Christmas songs proved a major hit in the quiz this week. Our bemused German team-mates who have adopted the mantra 'the music round is our favourite round' in an attempt to overcome their lack of strength in this department, were pretty impressed as we rose to the giddy heights of third place.  We feel we’ve well and truly earned our place in the team, unlike the rogue Irish man who joined us at the last minute and insisted he knew more about the length of the German border than the Germans. Not quite so sure he’ll be welcomed back….

Anyhow, Ed is getting very excited. He has been frantically clawing at the chimney for the last few days – it could be mice I suppose, but I like to think its anticipation of Santa’s arrival. Cats are known for their extra-sensory perception, perhaps he can already hear the distant patter of reindeer hooves. 

Unfortunately for Ed, his presents are being delivered 700 miles away back in the UK – he’s coming with us, and it’ll be good to get him back onto beige carpet.  Whoever decided  black carpet was a good idea obviously had never  vacuumed one. It’s a nightmare to keep clean, showing up every hair and speck of dust. In this Dutch gloom Ed has become a major tripping hazard.  Like most cats, he does like to sit with his (white) paws tucked in, and his favourite place to sit is at the top of our (very steep) stairs. After a three month delay, our medical insurance cards may only just have arrived in the nick of time..... And I've finally discovered the reason for the erratic delivery of our post. We regularly receive post for our neighbours, people in the next street, and people in the next town. According to one of my new ex-pat friends who lives further up the same road,  the postman is high on weed. This explains a lot.  It's a bit like the flashing Christmas lights in Amsterdam, warning you not to buy cocaine from street dealers - three tourists have recently died from contaminated cocaine. It's all right living in a liberal society,but it does have it's downsides. I think the Netherlands is a great place, but I'm very much looking forward to a couple of weeks back in the UK.

Culture Shock

Mr T had a long weekend so we’ve been soaking up on some Dutch culture. On the first of two trips to Den Haag  we visited The Mauritshuis museum, where we hurried up the stairs to the top floor. Philistines that we are, we really only wanted to see one painting, the picture everyone wants to see, mainly I suspect because of Colin Firth (or Scarlett Johansen for the boys). Once The Girl with the Pearl Earring had been admired, we hurried back down the stairs and along to M&S to stock up on some mince pies. There is a big M&S in the Hague, and after nearly ten weeks abroad I felt we were entitled to a few home comforts.

I like Den Haag – it’s quieter, and dare I say it, more ‘refined’ than Amsterdam, which on a Monday morning is distinctly lacking in culture as hoards of washed out teenagers and twenty-somethings, hiding their mega-hangovers behind dark glasses head back to the airport after an over-indulgent weekend.   We battled our way through the piles of rubbish and trailing suitcases to the Van Gogh museum. I like Van Gogh. In stark contrast to many Dutch painters, his work is full of light and colour, although now that I’ve been here for a bit I can quite understand why these Dutch Old Masters are so gloomy - open the curtains at 8.30 am in the morning and it’s still pitch black outside. Van Gogh spent a lot of time in the South of France, and who can blame him.

However, the highlight of our cultural weekend has to be dinner on the Hoftramm. This was Mr T’s company Christmas do, an all expenses paid four course gourmet meal, with wine, on a two hour tram ride around the Hague. Despite a major wardrobe dilemma beforehand – what to wear on a cold, draughty tram (it was actually like sitting in a toaster), heels or no heels (we had a fifteen minute walk to station, plus five the other end, and cobbles and heels just don’t go) we made it to the tram-stop on time.  As avid fans of Masterchef we had a great time, although I’m not entirely convinced gravy and chocolate should ever appear on the same plate, and as for the experimental pre-dessert pine-cone cocktail – that definitely needed to go back to the drawing board. The evening was rounded off with a cold coffee and a liquer - cold coffee because health and safety legislation apparently prevents the serving of hot drinks on a moving tram – somewhat bizarre in a country where it is considered perfectly OK to pop your baby in your bike’s shopping basket and take it for a spin….

On the thirty minute train trip back to Haarlem I browsed a copy of the Dutch Metro.  It’s a good way to learn a bit of the local language.  A double page feature on Southampton Football Club was an unexpected bonus. A quick search on Google the following morning revealed that the opening line of ‘Southampton is niet echt een hoopgeveende plaats’ literally translates into Southampton is not a hopeful place, although now of course it is, thanks to the ‘f*@!ing legend’ of Ronald Koeman – no translation needed for that. Geoff in the Chapel Arm’s quote  was spelt out in full, and that's another aspect of Dutch culture that takes a bit of getting used to. The F word is used quite liberally over here, even when you think you’re safely listening to the equivalent of Terry Wogan on a Sunday morning, there it is, splattered in between a bit of Abba and Cher. 

And, in case anyone is wondering what this headline actually means, Graziano Pelle is apparently too handsome for the Saints (a quote from Kathy in the Pizzeria). A city without hope, and without any good-looking guys, I'm obviously better off staying put in effing Haarlem.

Out & About Again

It’s another Monday morning feeling – the airport run and sad goodbyes.  The downside to all this globe-trotting is always being apart from family and friends. Yes being an ex-pat can sound rather glamorous, and  yes it is mind-broadening and eye-opening to have the opportunity to explore exotic places and experience a difference culture, but it can also be rather isolated and lonely…so after kissing the student off at the airport again, there was only one antidote, to get back on the bike.

The weather has turned pretty cold here in Holland but that doesn’t deter the Dutch. They just wrap on another layer and continue their battle with the elements.  Armed with hat, scarf and gloves I cycled up to the pool for a swim, where I was actually approached for the first time for some small talk.

I immediately apologised, in English, for my lack of Dutch. The dear old Dutch lady then apologised to me in English, for speaking Dutch in the first place! No, I insisted, still in English, I was the one who was sorry. So ashamed I hurried home and Googled  the translation for Sorry, I don’t speak Dutch , which is (according to Google) Sorry, Ik sprek geen Nederlands. How difficult is that?  Very, apparently because later that afternoon when faced with a shop assistant who appeared to be telling me more than the norm of how much I owed, I found myself saying in English yet again, sorry, I don’t speak Dutch….

Anyway, the student had a very happy few days hobbling around Haarlem on a suspected ‘OMG I’ve broken my’ ankle which fortunately turned out just to be a serious sprain, although she was rather appalled at our acceptance of certain dubious aspects of  Dutch culture.  So accustomed have we now become to Zwarte Piet that I failed to even notice the man on the fish stall in the market in total costume complete with curly wig and blackened face. Black Pete is everywhere in Haarlem, in shop window displays, on posters, and even available as an edible sweet.  I suspect our little political activist would have quite liked us to boycott the fish stall with placards.

Visitors are always a good excuse to get out and about, and consume far too much apple pie. The week before we’d played host to the in-laws. We’d spent a happy day wondering around the Hague which is home to several grand old buildings (and where incidentally Black Pete is noticeably absent) as well as heading out to the beach on the tram to view some pretty wacky modern art. 

Amsterdam just seems to get busier, and colder, every time we go, but we also ventured up to Edam, which is a surprisingly small place, for something so big in cheese, and as for Volendam, that’s always good for tourists in need of retail therapy. If you are looking for slipper clogs and tulip shaped umbrellas this is the place to go.  All I need now is couple of rolls of Zwarte Piet wrapping paper and I've got the Christmas shopping sorted.

International Relations

I’m ashamed to admit that our attempts to learn Dutch are failing miserably.  It’s very easy to have good intentions, very hard to put them into practice when everyone you meet responds to you in perfect English. So far the only problem we have encountered is being unable to read our post – but at the moment we get very little of that and Mr T has very helpful work colleagues who have been able to translate the payment schedule for our waste collection and parking permit.

Now that I’ve met up with a  few ex-pats the incentive to learn has diminished even further. The general opinion of the Dutch language (even from the Dutch themselves) is that it is complicated, impossible for anyone who wasn’t born with a guttural frog in their throat to pronounce, and spoken by no other nation in the world.  I know it’s lazy, and not exactly helpful for integration, but when you’ve met other travellers who have lived in the Netherlands for a dozen years and still don’t speak any Dutch, you do start to wonder what’s the point? If I had children at school, yes. If I planned to spend the rest of my life here, yes, but just passing through? Although I would genuinely like to learn to say more than hello, goodbye, count to ten and understand the days of the week, with ready access to the BBC, English language films at the cinema, and English books and newspapers, it's very easy not to.

Initially I thought a lack of Dutch would prove a major hindrance to my social skills. I worried about making small talk. What if someone I sat next to on the bus or met at the swimming pool wished to stop for a chat? I need not have feared.  The Dutch are remarkably subdued - polite yes, friendly and helpful yes, but this is not America and no-one is going to recount their whole life story to me in the check-out queue.

However,  at least here in the Netherlands people have heard of our home town of Southampton. Back in California whenever we were asked where we were from I got fed up of trying to explain I was from a large shipping port on the south coast of England.  Even mentioning the Titanic still drew a blank. It became easier just to say I was from south (of) London, which wasn’t exactly a lie, just an exaggeration  of about seventy miles. However, here in the Netherlands, it’s a completely different story.

‘Southampton? Ah  Ronald Koeman……’

Yes, dear Saint Ronald. His arrival in our home city couldn’t have been more fortuitous, and not just for the football club.  Everyone from waiters to windmill curators has heard of Southampton.  We have an immediate rapport - in English, of course!

A series of fortunate, and unfortunate events....

This is the post I was going to make before I became totally sidetracked by Sinterklaas and Zwarte Piet.

Last week was a bit of a week. First, came the high of finishing an unprecedented fifth in the pub quiz.  I think we’ve probably peaked. There are a handful of teams who regularly  finish in the top three and I’m pretty sure the reason why these guys have welcomed us so readily is because they recognise we are not a threat. But still, it’s the taking part that counts, and it remains the highlight of our social week.

However, that may change because I have now made some new friends. My ‘lonely hearts’, or rather ‘middle-aged empty nester seeks others in similar position’ ad attracted a handful of replies on the English Speaking website.  I spent a very happy afternoon taking tea with three other ex-pats, all of whom seemed eager to meet up on a regular basis.  Ex-pats tend to forge friendships pretty quickly, and as much as I love my cat, and my computer, I do need to start getting out more.

The lowlight of the week was the serious incident with the boiler. We’ve had problems on and off with our heating system since our arrival.  The instruction manual kindly left by our home owners is as incomprehensible in English as it is in Dutch. Our super smug brain thermostat relays messages from the boiler in the attic, and this week’s message was ‘pressure low, refill’. This is the second time this message has occurred, first time we followed instructions as best we could and all seemed well. This time not so good. As soon as Mr T had left to board the train for an overnight meeting in Antwerp, there was an almighty bang followed by the ominous sound of gallons of gushing water.

Fortunately my next door neighbour was in, and who better to rise to the challenge of halting a flood than a Dutchman.  To my great relief he bounded up the stairs and managed to stem the flow of water, not by sticking his finger in a hole but by switching off a tap that Mr T must have inadvertently left loose in his haste to head off to Antwerp. Fortunately there appears to be no permanently damage to the house, or the boiler, which was repaired the next day by a handsome heating engineer who reassured me there was an underlying fault in the system, and the problem was not entirely caused by Mr T’s (lack of) plumbing skills.

The main damage appears to be to my nerves. I now find myself stealing closet glances at the ‘brain’, waiting for the next incriminating message to pop up.  I’m as jumpy as the cat. The slightest noise, a rumble of an aircraft overhead, a slamming door, and we both start twitching. Ed currently spends about ninety percent of the day hiding in the closet, and it’s actually quite tempting to join him.

Cats hate change, and we have moved him from a cul-de-sac where he was pretty much the only moggy on the block, to a terraced house which backs onto an alley way frequented by several other felines. We’ve so far encountered a slinky-malinky sort of Burmese thing and a giant Tabby which although looking as harmless as fluffy pyjama case, probably isn’t.

We both have to learn to relax, and breathe…..

Sinterklaas is coming to town....

This week’s blog was going to be all about the series of fortunate, and unfortunate events that have occurred over the last seven days – finding some new friends, followed by the episode of the exploding boiler and the fact that we rose to the dizzy heights of fifth place in the quiz (Mr T and I realise our sheltered upbringings are proving something of a handicap in the quiz following our failure to recognise the anal ring (??) in last week’s picture round, although we correctly identified the contraceptive coil the week before.....)

However, all of these events have now paled into insignificance by this afternoon's arrival of Sinterklaas in Haarlem.  It is Dutch tradition that Sinterklaas – St Nicholas – arrives each year from Spain in a boat, together with his helper Zwarte Piet, in preparation for two weeks of festivities that lead up to St Nicolas Day on 5 December.  After Sinter  disembarks from his galleon he rides through the streets on a white horse, accompanied by several Piets who hand out sweets and the traditional spiced biscuits pepernoten to the eagerly waiting crowd.

In what is presumably an effort to placate the PR brigade, Sinter’s helper, ‘Black Pete’ is sometimes referred to as a chimney sweep, however there was nothing chimney sweep like about any of the Zwarte Piets who arrived in Haarlem.

‘Imagine a scene from the Black & White minstrel show’ one of my new English friends warned. Despite this, the last thing I expected to see on a cold, damp November day in Holland was a large brightly coloured steam boat, full of cheery singing, dancing, trombone playing men and women with blacked faces and wearing curly black wigs winding its way up the River Sparne. I think it’s one of the most bizarre things I’ve ever seen, and that says a lot, for someone who spent three years living in Los Angeles!

Sinterklaas, a papal sort of figure, waved to the crowd from beneath his brightly coloured umbrella as the procession then moved from the canal through the streets of Haarlem to the Grote Markt, an occasion that would have seemed more at home in the sunny streets of New Orleans than as a prelude to winter/Christmas festivities. 

Is it racist? I don't know.  It was certainly bizarre. However, each to their own. The Dutch probably think the British tradition of Guy Fawkes night is pretty nuts. What? You burn effigies of the man who tried to blow up the houses of Parliament four hundred years ago on a bonfire and then celebrate with fireworks? Yes, and why not? Any excuse for a party!.

Everyone we saw on the streets of Haarlem today seemed pretty happy to cheer along the Zwarte Piets, although, while researching a bit of the history for this post I did see an article that apparently 60 anti-Piet protestors have been arrested in the Dutch town of Gouda. Perhaps it's time to throw Piet, or at least his wig and make-up, on a bonfire too.

Perfect Guests

I’d say for 90% of the time, Mr T and I get on  very well, but after an entire month (bar one weekend) of no-one but each other for company, even I'm starting to see why lighthouses always have three keepers. Mr T has his work colleagues to talk to most days, I just have the cat. This week we played host to a flurry of visitors and these guests were very warmly welcomed.

The first to arrive was an old college friend, and the chance to indulge in some much missed girly time. We tried clothes shopping, although it is becoming more and more apparent that the friend who intimated I’d end up buying my Dutch clothes in the children’s departments may well be correct. And while I probably should say the highlight of our trip into Amsterdam was the thought-provoking tour of the Anne Frank house (unbelievably with no queues) I’d be lying if I didn’t say I found the glass of gluhwein and the apple cake that followed a lot more enjoyable.

As soon as one visitor left, another two arrived. This time the sister and brother-in-law who provided further excuses to sample some Dutch culinary delights. There are over 180 restaurants in Haarlem, and if ever I fancied a career as a food critic then this would probably be the place to begin. Mr T has already started posting regular comments on Trip Advisor.

Our first stop for an evening meal was the Jopenkerk Brewery, where instead of a wine recommendation, beer suggestions are made to accompany each dish. I don’t do beer, so for me it was an easy choice but the brewery has a humongous selection of flavours on offer – from original 16^th century recipes to fig beer, which my sister described as liquid Christmas pudding (cough medicine was the term that sprung to mind when I tried a quick sip).

While out and about the brave brother-in-law was perfectly happy to sample the traditional Dutch delights of croquette sandwiches (indistinguishable ingredients mashed up with potato, rolled into a sausage shape, deep fried in breadcrumbs and served between two chunks of bread) and bitterballs  (more unidentified ingredients mashed with potatoes, rolled into balls, deep fried in breadcrumbs and served with a pot of mustard). I like to know what I'm eating so  I happily stuck to yet more apple cake and slagroom (whipped cream).

Haarlem has restaurants to suit all tastes and budgets, and despite eating out every day for nearly week, we've only just dipped our toes into the culinary waters. 

But it’s not all about the food. We walked for miles, proudly showing off our new home town and exploring more unchartered territory in Amsterdam. We braved the cold and headed up north to Volendam, another former Dutch fishing village now reliant on the tourist industry where we resisted the urge to buy cheese, clogs and tacky model windmills (although we are quite tempted to return for a Christmas card photo-shoot in traditional Dutch costume….)

All in all it’s been a good week. We’ve a brief respite now until our next visitors arrive, but already the house seems all too quiet. Anyone looking for a Dutch city break, happy to stay in a 'Make your own Bed and  Breakfast' - just contact me. I know the perfect place!

A History Lesson

It’s obvious the Dutch have a bit of a love-hate relationship with the elements.

They’re a hardy bunch, undeterred by the wind and the rain as they cycle their kids to school or to collect the weekly grocery shop. This week I actually cycled past a woman (cycling past someone doesn’t happen very often but when it does it’s quite a memorable event) with one child shoved into her shopping basket in front, another on a child seat just behind the handlebars, and another in a child seat on the back. That’s a lot of weight to be heaving around. It’s a common sight to see bikes with a wheelbarrow like attachments to the front where you will often find a couple of toddlers, or a ton of bricks. These people are tough.

This weekend brought more unseasonable sunshine, so once again Mr T and I headed outdoors. This time we drove the forty miles or so just north of Amsterdam to the small former fishing village of Marken, for a lesson in Dutch history.

Marken is now attached to the mainland via a dyke, but it used to be an island, with access to the North Sea via the Zuider Zee.  Like a lot of Holland, the island regularly flooded, houses were washed away and many lives were lost. When the fishing industry was in a boom there was not enough high ground on Marken to build homes for all the fisher folk, but with typical Dutch stoicism the Markers built their houses at a lower level on ‘stilts’, hoping that the flood water would simply wash under the house and leave them alone. It didn’t, it continued to wash them away.

However, the creation of the Ijsselmmer lake in 1932 cut off the access to the North Sea and although finally putting paid to the flooding, made fishing an unsustainable livelihood. Marken is now nothing but a hotspot for tourists who come to see how the Dutch used to live.  There’s a rather spooky museum which tells the story of the island, with a collection of grim faced (and who can blame them with everything they had to put up with ) waxwork ‘Markers ‘ in the traditional costume.

Outside  in the Autumn sunshine, in a cafe over looking Marken's deceptively picturesque harbour  I was highly envious of the tall, lithe Dutch family who arrived on their bicycles, no doubt having cycled the 20 miles from Amsterdam to get there, and sat next to us, tucking into their generous portions of apple pie and lashing of whipped cream. This I realised, is how they can do it, how they can waffle back doughnuts and potato croquettes as if there’s no tomorrow, drink pints of beer as if it is going out of fashion, and still stay slim. 

Earlier in the week we had to call an engineer to sort out our house’s heating problems and discovered for some inexplicable reason our home owners had set the internal thermostat at an incredibly low 14 degrees – basically the thing would never come on of its own accord until an ice-age hit. Why put the heating on when you can wear thermals and a jumper? Why hop in a car when you can pedal a bike? Why move somewhere safe and dry when you can live on an island that constantly floods? These people revel in adversity. The battle doesn't just make them tough, it burns calories.

Zandvoort

It's been a gloomy week, not helped by the fact that our landlords must have removed a number of fancy light-fittings from the house just before their departure. Waking up on Saturday morning to bright sunshine we decided to forego the planned trip to  begin our exploration of the many museums of Amsterdam  – the rainy day plan – and instead spent the morning browsing Haarlem's interior design shops in search of some lamps. The Dutch do seem particularly partial to rather quirky décor and judging from the price tags in most of the shops, the discerning inhabitants of Haarlem haven't  been hit by the recession either.  We eventually ended up spending the afternoon in Ikea.

However, on Sunday, despite the threatening drizzle (in the short time I've been here I've learned that drizzle does not constitute rain) we set off once again on our bikes. This time we headed for Zandvoort-aan-Zee.

Zandvoort is one of the Netherland’s top beach resorts. This time of year it’s reknown for its kitesurfers bouncing up and and down in the waves, and we too had a bouncy up and down journey to get there.  Back in the UK, Mr T was regularly out on his bike at weekends cycling 20 km before breakfast. I was not, and although I had a bike, every road from our village lead uphill, so my bike stayed quite firmly in the garage. However, now I’m here,  I’m determined to get fit and acquire those long lean Dutch legs, even if it kills me, and I think, after this weekend, it probably will.

Half way along the 9 km 'off-piste' cycle path to Zandvoort I discovered that there is a mountain range in Holland and lies between Haarlem and the sea. The Dutch refer to it as zandduinen (sand dunes to you and me).  At one stage I even had to get off and push - the shame of it! With legs like jelly  and pounding heart, we finally pedalled into town, and I would be lying if I said I thought it was worth it.

I’m sure Zandvoort is a delightful place in summer when you can stroll along the seafront without  being sand-blasted but the architecture itself is pretty grim – think concrete.  The highlights are a bizarre phallic shaped water tower at one end of the strand and the 1970’s high rise Centre Parcs Hotel at the other (don’t book this expecting something to rival Longleat Forest).  We revived ourselves with a portion of frites and a gigantic dollop of mayo, hardly conducive to the fitness campaign, and then headed back along the longer, flatter road-route to home.

We spent the evening at the cinema. It's is a mere five minute walk from the house and this was our second visit in as many weeks.  The cinema is a great way to learn Dutch as films are shown in their original language with Dutch subtitles. Last time we watched The Hundred Foot Journey, which no disrespect to its star, Helen Mirren, was pretty twee. This week we watched Pride, a film about Welsh miners supported by a gay protest group during the 1980's strikes. There were plenty of words in this gritty black comedy that probably shouldn’t be dropped into casual conversations with the neighbours. However, as I’ve reached the age where the ability to retain anything in my head diminishes daily, there’s not much risk of me remembering any of them, and of course the real thing I like about going to the cinema here? Seats designed for six footers – plenty of space to stretch out those weary legs!

That Monday Morning Feeling....

It’s five years now since I’ve held down a proper job so I’ve not had to suffer  ‘that Monday morning feeling’ for some time. However, this week I realised there is something worse than that Monday morning feeling, it’s that dropping someone back at the airport on a Monday morning feeling.

The university fledgling paid her first visit this weekend. We did our best to give her the ‘taste of Holland’ experience – we took her down a canal and up a windmill. The only thing we didn’t quite manage to do was get her on a bike, but there’ll be plenty more opportunities for that. 

First thing yesterday morning she was off, and back on my own in the house I had my first ‘wobbly moment’ since arriving in Haarlem.

I know from past experiences that there is no point dwelling in despair – the why did we have to move here, I miss everybody, how am I ever going to make any friends,  blah blah blah; it gets you nowhere and the truth is I was more than happy to come to Holland because the last thing I wanted was to face that ‘empty nest’ back in the UK.  It takes time to establish a social life, and after all, we have only been here just over two weeks.

So, determined to beat those Monday morning blues – I focussed, and set out to discover the swimming pool, not because I wanted to swim, but because I was adamant those cycling Dutch Google map guys were not going to defeat me.  And there it was.  I had been looking for a vast sports centre, when in fact it was a modest brick building down a suburban side street - very easy to miss. I was welcomed by middle-aged receptionist who happily translated the timetable for me. Even more morale boosting rather than suggesting I might want to join the ouderen zwemmen – elderly swimming sessions – she thought I might wish to come along with my kinderen – children.  I could have hugged her.

Totally buoyed up, I cycled home and tackled a trip to the grocery store. I had prepped a list in advance and managed to successfully return home with three days’ worth of meals planned. That’s a first.

Could the day get any better? Yes it could. A colleague of Mr T’s had mentioned her husband was a regular at an Irish bar in Haarlem where they have a Monday evening quiz. Last week we’d gone along and although we’d finished second to last we’d had a pretty good evening. This week we returned for more, and finished 7^th out 11 teams, not too bad considering most of the other teams have at least four members and there's only the two of us. Even better, we won the ‘free drink question’ - how much of the Netherlands are actually below sea-water -  a question which Mr T had posed for our own quiz team back in the UK just weeks earlier (it’s 26% in case you are wondering). The day was rounded off when another couple stopped us at the bar as we made our triumphant exit and suggested  if we were all there next week maybe we should join forces and become a regular team…..

Waking up this morning to another day of leaden skies, heavy rain, gale force winds, and no-one but the cat to talk to until tea time, doesn’t seem half so bad as it did yesterday.

Saddle Sore

Forget that last post - I’m not as Dutch as I thought.  The sun was out again today, so I decided, like a typical  huisvrouw that I would do the grocery shopping on my bike.  I’m lucky – I’ve two medium sized grocery stores within a five minute walk of the house, and up until now, I’ve walked to them.  The limitations of grocery shopping by foot, or on a bike, are of course that you can only buy what you can carry home. The typical huisvrouw will have a set of fancy paniers on the  back her bike as well as a basket up front. I’ve only a small, by Dutch standards, basket. Never mind, I thought, I’ve not quite got my head around food shopping/meal prep yet and with stores so close by its easier just to pick up a few bits every day.

As soon as I sat down on my bike I realised my dainty English buttocks had not quite recovered from the weekend’s trip to the beach. It’s me or the saddle, one of us is going to have to gain a bit more padding. 

However, I made it safely to the store and back, although my trip was slightly marred by discovering a rogue bike had been unceremoniously dumped on top of mine when I returned, laden with groceries to the bike park. I’d been blocked in!

Spurred on by the semi-success of the shopping trip, as the sun continued to shine, I decided to set out on a recce to the local  swimming pool. I like swimming, it’s non weight bearing, calorie burning, and relaxing all at the same time.  Haarlem has its own sports centre and according to Google maps, it’s a mere 3 km or so from our house – or a twelve minute cycle ride.

Fantastic. I set off in what I thought was the right direction. Twenty minutes later I decided I’d either taken completely the wrong route, or the Dutch Google map guys cycle a lot faster than me.

I had a moment of panic, despite telling myself over the last week that the best way to explore my new home town is to get lost,  (OK when you’re on foot and no more than a mile or so away from the house) I was  now on very unfamiliar streets. What if my chain came off? What if I fell or got knocked off my bike? (If this was Hollywood of course, new girl in town, lost, accident waiting to happen, the Dutch equivalent of Hugh Grant would have dashed to my rescue.) Even if I found the sports centre, would I really fancy swimming 40 lengths after a half hour cycle ride to get there? Plus there was still the ride back. I wanted gentle exercise, not Triathalon training.

I decided to call it quits. I’ll seek out the sports centre another day, and tomorrow, I’m doing the grocery shopping on foot.

The Great Outdoors

We’ve now been living in Haarlem a week, and I think we’ve settled in remarkably well.  In fact – apart from not being able to speak a word of the language - I think I was born to be Dutch.  I’ve taken to my bicycle like a natural.  Nine kilometres to the beach? No sweat. After a week of  rather grey damp weather on Sunday the sun came out and it was time to finally unleash the bike.

Our nearest beach is Bloemendaal-aan-Zee and it’s totally accessible by bicycle path – no traffic to contend with apart from maniacs on mopeds and roller skates. Even the humiliation of being over-taken on an uphill (OK a slight incline) stretch by a couple of 70’ year olds on their racing bikes couldn’t spoil the pleasure of the afternoon.

Who needs  a car? The Dutch are fit. They may well drink a lot of beer and eat hearty,  heavy food, but it seems to get burnt off – either that or it goes upwards rather than outwards, which might explain the height issue.

We’ve met our neighbours – fortunately both sides are fluent in English and it is embarrassing that so far I can do little more than mutter a hesitant ‘goede morgen’ in Dutch.

However, the Google-translate is proving invaluable in sussing out the inner-workings of our new house.  The word for today is verzekering - insurance. Not that exciting, but unfortunately a necessity and something we take for granted back home.  We have accrued a fair pile of correspondence already and although we don’t need to know what each letter says word for word, just being able to get the gist of what we are paying for helps. In Holland personal liability insurance is compulsory. It's all back to those bikes again - doesn't matter if one hits you or you hit one, it's always your fault.

Modern technology too is proving difficult to comprehend. Our state of the art central heating system appears to have a mind of its own (it seems to come on when the house is already warm, as opposed to when it’s cold). Despite being  left an instruction manual in English, the messages that appear on the programmer (which rather smugly refers to itself as ‘the brain’) are all in Dutch. 

But still, its early days and after a re-shuffle of the furniture, the purchase of some lamps, and the arrival of some plants, the house itself feels like ‘home’. Ed has been allowed out in the garden, and quite naturally the first time he was left unsupervised he disappeared straight over the back fence.  After an anxiety ridden hour he was sensible enough to return, so can now – like us - be trusted to explore the great outdoors. This is good, because to be honest he was beginning to get under my feet.  The entire upstairs of our house has black carpet. It’s a good job Ed has white paws.

So far so good

It’s my third day in Haarlem. So what about those facts I had gleaned beforehand from my research, have they proved helpful?

The Dutch are very house proud

We’re renting a 1930’s house that has been very lovingly restored by a couple of guys who have now headed off to Africa. I have inherited an instruction manual on how everything should be cleaned and cared for. I will naturally do my best to respect their wishes – after all I know that handing over your most precious possession to complete strangers is a daunting prospect.  I am beginning to wish I’d left my tenant a similarly precise to-do list rather than the hastily written  note detailing very little but what day of the week the bins are collected (and I only left him this when I realised our over-zealous packers had removed the council’s waste collection schedule from where I’d stuck it in the kitchen cupboard and shoved it in a box to be shipped it over to Holland.)

The Dutch are very tall

Yes this one is true too. When we moved to Los Angeles five years ago we acquired a family mantra to help us through the initial period of adjustment: it’s not bad, it’s just different. For Holland I have decided I need a different kind of coping strategy – I need to grow a foot taller.

A cheap plastic step has become a permanent fixture in our luxurious high-end kitchen. The wall cupboards were obviously designed for someone with an average height of 6' 7". The counter top is chest height. Even the cat struggles to jump on to it - not that he is encouraged to do this, of course.  

I’ve no idea how we're ever going to change a light bulb. We did bring a step-ladder with us but that has to be kept in the closet so that I can reach my clothes....

The Dutch word for today is Droogautomaat - tumble dryer. This has been placed on top of the washing-machine which incidentally is situated in the attic – as is common in all Dutch houses (as are the very steep, uneven, twisting stairs that take you up there).  I discovered today after downloading an English version of the instructions for the dreaded droogautomaat that there is a water-reservoir that must be emptied after every use.  The reservoir is the size of a petrol can and can only be reached when I balance tip-toe on top of a chair. When we viewed the house the agent told us the owners disapproved of tumble dryers as they were bad for the environment. I can only assume they purchased this particular model on our behalf to ensure I was similarly deterred from using one.

The weather?  We were prepared for the worse, and  it's as bad as we feared.  Mr T and I have not yet ventured out on our bicycles.  I’d rather walk with an umbrella than cycle in the rain.  I’m not quite ready to succumb to a full-length rubber cape, which I can see far from being an article of ridicule is a daily essential.

But so what? It rained in England too and I didn't have a view like this from my bedroom window. I can cope.

Tot gauw!

As my departure date draws closer I have been scouring the internet in an attempt to learn as much about my new homeland as possible. I have been looking for blogs - surely there must be another English middle-aged housewife who has made this move and posted her opinions and thoughts on line? Apparently not, although this does bode well for promoting my own blog in future (Exclusive! It's a First!)

I have come across articles by bright young things heading to Amsterdam for work - extolling the nightlife and the social scene and I've found blogs by ex-pat American stay at home moms who look at things from a totally different perspective.

So far I have gleaned that a Dutch huisvrouw will spend a great deal of day cleaning - apparently the Dutch are extremely house proud, and also that the average washing machine cycle takes at least three hours to complete.  I can understand an American's frustration at this - my mega top loader in California could complete a wash in 20 minutes flat (although it did manage to rip most of the clothes to shreds in the process).

Mr T - the font of all knowledge after only one month on relocation - reports that the Dutch are the tallest nation in the world. This is (apparently) due to the vast volumes of milk they consume. The Dutch also have a reputation for a rather 'wacky' sense of humour and for calling a spade a spade. Apart from the height issue (friends in the know tell me I will end up buying my clothes and shoes in the children's department) the Dutch sound like my kind of people.

My aim over my last couple of days in the UK was not only to grasp a few basics of Dutch language - ie general pleasantries and knowing how to ask for directions back to my new house, but to convince Ed the cat that sitting in his swanky new cat carrier for the seven hour car journey on Sunday will be fun. The carrier has been strategically placed in the bedroom for the last week in a 'familiarity' exercise and is currently home to several cat toys in an attempt to capture his interest. So far he has ignored it completely.

So we're all set. Just the final goodbyes - always the difficult bit - to get through, and it doesn't seem half so bad this time. We're an hour's flight away, minimal time difference and no jet lag. We could just as easily be heading for Newcastle or Edinburgh, so we're hoping for lots of visitors.

In fact it's not so much a case of goodbye as tot gauw (see you soon)!

Moving on....

With one daughter in China, and the other safely deposited at Bristol University, it seems as good a time as any to set off on a new adventure of our own - or not quite on our own....

Ed, our cat, is coming with us. He has been vaccinated and issued with his own passport. I have bought him a new cat gym and lots of new toys to help settle him into his new surroundings. 

I too have purchased those all-important settling in essentials for Holland - new boots, fur-lined raincoat and a heavy duty umbrella. I've been carrying out my research and I know what those Dutch winters are like. I was not fooled by our brief house-hunting trip back in August, when  the sun shone and the Dutch were out drinking beer in Haarlem's Medieval market square.

Haarlem will be our new home town and on our flying visit to view eight houses in one morning (eat your heart out Kirstie Allsop) I liked it. I liked the Dutch people we met, in fact, I liked our re-locator so much I hugged her as we said goodbye at the end of our exhausting day-trip. I have since learned from reading the 'Welcome to the Netherlands' pack she left us with that the Dutch regard their 'personal space' as very precious - apparently this is all to do with living in a very small, crowded country. I must remember  not to hug so readily in future.

Our welcome pack also reassured us that 99% of Dutch people speak English. We will be able to watch BBC1 and ITV, and English language films are not dubbed in the cinema but shown with Dutch subtitles.

In a token effort to integrate I have uploaded the Google translation app to my phone. However, it would appear this may not be necessary. After three years in Los Angeles I think living in Holland is going to be a doddle.  Inadvertently refer to an elevator as a lift and most Americans look at you as though you have just landed from Mars. The Dutch for cat is kat. I love it already.

I'm a seasoned traveller and have moved house more times than I care to remember.  Mentally I'm already in Haarlem, physically I'm stuck in the UK having spent the last three days surrounded by packing cases and reams of bubble wrap and paper.  A juggernaut full of our most treasured pieces of furniture has just departed from our quiet suburban street en route to Holland, driven by a burly Czech whose parting shot of 'what time you expect delivery in London?' has given me slight cause for concern. The sooner I get to Haarlem the better.

In the meantime I will put on my rubber gloves and clean the house from top to bottom ready for tenants to move in. We have de-camped to temporary accommodation nearby where Ed has retreated under the bed in a state of nervous anxiety, wondering where all those things familiar and dear to have him gone (me too Ed). 
 

So far we've only travelled a mile up the road - how is he going to cope when he realises there is still another 415 to go? 

Watch this space......