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.