Some Bizarre

It has been a weekend of surrealism – not another art gallery, you might immediately think. No, surreal as in really??

As I’ve said before, at the start of our previous overseas assignment in LA, everything seemed surreal – dogs in push-chairs, Mexican leaf-blowers patrolling the streets, crass commercials for laxatives every five minutes on prime time TV. I thought we’d be relatively safe in Europe. The Dutch are like us – or so I thought.

This Friday night saw the arrival in town of the Luilakmarkt. This is a traditional flower/plant market held in the streets of Haarlem overnight on the Friday and Saturday before Pentecost (Whitsun). Yes, overnight. It doesn’t start until about 9.00 pm. Why an earth would you have an all night flower market? Who gets to midnight and thinks, Thank God the market is still there, I’ve run out of Lilac trees?

When we strolled through at 10.00 pm it was like the last day of the Chelsea Flower Show. People clutching their plastic bags of hanging baskets and tomato plants like they were going out of fashion.

So that was first surreal moment. The second occurred the next morning while shopping at the more traditional Saturday market in the Grote Markt (voted the best market in the Netherlands apparently for the umpteenth year running). Strolling amongst the stalls was a singing cowboy, strumming his guitar complete with Bernie Clifton style horse puppet/costume. The Dutch do love their music. It has to accompany everything – taking a spin on the canal in your boat, stick your stereo on, very loud; having a party – open your windows and turn your mega watt CD player facing out onto the street. Why not have a bit of good ole’ country and western to accompany your Saturday morning shopping trip.  

Next surreal moment – we set off to the second hand bike shop to purchase a new (or rather old) spare bike for Mr T. As we walked through the local park we came across a dozen or so Dutch men in kilts who had cordoned off a small area to have their very own Highland Games. After the singing cowboy, tossing the caber in the local park seems pretty tame.

Next – second hand bike shop. Just as we arrived a ghost like waif of a sales boy who looked like he’d spent far too much time in the local coffee shop, was unchaining a bike for another couple of customers to look at. We asked if we could look at the next bike in the row at the same time. He muttered something which sounded like No, we would have to wait a minute, before promptly locking the bike back up and disappearing back into the shop – never to re-emerge. The Dutch aren’t highly customer focussed. In many ways it is a refreshing relief not to be pounced upon the minute you enter a shop (even in the local Apple Store you actually have to approach the assistants first) but if you have a job in bike sales…surely you are meant to sell, not to ignore? Who knows?

The weekend was rounded off with an evening stroll around town where we bumped into our German quizzing friends. They were just off back to the pub with another rather bemused looking couple of Germans they had just met in a local restaurant. You see that’s the thing about being an ex-pat. You do make friends very quickly. Our new best friend is an English waitress we met on Friday night before we visited the flower market. She asked how we were enjoying living in Haarlem.

Very much so, we replied. But what about the wind? she asked, have you got used to the Haarlem Wind? No, and I really don’t think we ever will.

Stag Night City

Ever since we met our German friends at the pub quiz we’ve been meaning to visit Cologne. They sold their home town to us, despite the fact that they got the question of how far is Cologne from Amsterdam wrong (they’ve now decided they must drive the long way round when they go back for a visit).

We decided to take advantage of a couple of extra Dutch bank holidays (3 days off work in as many weeks this month – then nothing until Christmas) to set off on our road trip. If we’d gone direct it would be less than a three hour drive. Like our friends we deviated – stopping first at Arnheim in eastern Holland, and again at the small German town of Wesel, simply because I liked the name of it and we needed somewhere to stretch our legs and have a sandwich.

The first thing we noticed as we headed south east was the welcome sight of undulating countryside, and trees. The second thing we noticed as we followed the route of the Rhine was how industrial everything was compared to our cosy little corner of the Netherlands.  Mr T could hardly contain his excitement as we drove alongside massive chemical plants billowing noxious substances into the air from their towers and chimneys, pipelines straddling both sides of the road. Years ago I used for a company that was part of a European pharmaceutical giant called Solvay – we passed an ancient chimney stack, proudly displaying their name. It wasn’t so much a chemical plant as an entire town.

When we reached Cologne more excitement was to come. The sun was shining, it was warm. There was NO WIND. I wasn’t prepared for such balmy weather (which felt even balmier after climbing the 500 or so steps to the top of Cologne cathedral). I had checked and double checked the weekend’s weather forecast and had packed jumpers, raincoat and umbrella. Now it looked as if I was going to end up having to purchase an 'I love Köln' T-shirt for our river cruise the following day.  

I needn’t have worried. Despite setting out in the sunshine we’d gone no further than a couple of kilometres down river before the clouds drew in. I felt vindicated as I pulled my Mac tighter around me and turned my collar up against the chilling breeze. This was more like it!

We eventually retreated below deck. Like all cruises there isn’t an awful lot to do on board a Rhine River boat apart from eat and drink, and admire the view, which wasn’t quite what we had expected until we reached the city of Bonn. I had imagined rising mountains and hidden fairy-tale castles, instead this stretch of the Rhine was bordered by yet more chemical plants – which even Mr T seemed to lose interest in after a while.

Eventually we disembarked at the small village of Konigswinter, which does have a mountain, and a castle.  After less than two hours it was time to head back on board, where we completed the trip back to Cologne for an evening out on the town.

The Brits go to Dublin, Prague and Amsterdam for their stag nights,. The Germans, it appears, go to Cologne.  We had our Schnitzels. Mr T sampled the local beer.  We watched hordes of drunken youngsters staggering around the town. 

Sunday morning was not surprisingly quiet. The sun had come back out, but it didn’t matter about the T-shirt anymore. We were heading back to the Netherlands. I knew I wouldn’t need one there.

Pest Control

A downside to living in rented accommodation is you can’t actually ‘do’ things to your house. Some people would see this as a blessing.  After all, part of the attraction of ex-pat life is the opportunity to explore, the last thing you want to be doing every weekend is a spot of DIY.

On the other hand, people like me who like to potter come unstuck.  My problem is I like gardening.  As with the interior cleaning schedule, our landlords left us specific instructions as to what we could and couldn’t do in their garden, and what ‘products’ we should use.

Now that we’ve visited a few Dutch historical houses and of course, the Keukenhof, I can see our garden pretty much follows the traditional formal design. It’s a ‘bijou’ space and I would imagine professionally designed.  There’s some very neat box hedging, and the small trees are shaped into espaliers. There isn’t a lot of option to change anything, even if I wanted to.

It’s many years since I had my third of an acre woodland to ‘potter in’ and to be honest, after a while such a large space did become a bit of chore – all that grass to cut, leaves to collect, a continual battle against the brambles. In the US, our first home had a concrete back yard and a pool, the second only had a balcony. I got my horticultural fix by volunteering in the Los Angeles Arboretum’s rose garden every week.  When we returned to the UK we chose a house with enough space for a lawn, a seating area and some borders. I re-designed it from scratch and lovingly filled it with my favourite plants.

Gardening is therapeutic. Need to release some aggression? Take out it on some weeds. Something bugging you?  Cut off a few dead heads. Feeling artistic? Prune. You can lose yourself in a garden; you can tame a jungle, design a tapestry, grow your own harvest.

Here in Holland I just sit. On those rare days when the sun comes out and the wind lulls to a gentle breeze, yes it is very soothing to relax in my oasis of green, but I’m just itching to do something. I’m willing those neat little box hedges to sprout so that I can snip off the straying shoots.

There’s no space to sow any seeds; no bare patches that need filling in. To be honest, there’s hardly any weeds. I wander around the local garden centre, browsing the shelves, envious of those customers loading up their trolleys.  It is probably a good thing I have to cycle there and back as it severely restricts what I can buy. I have yet to acquire the balancing skills of the Dutch. I cannot cycle one handed whilst the other clings on to my over-ambitious purchases. The most I’ve managed so far as a tray of twelve pansy plants – six of which fitted into my basket, the others had to be unceremoniously cast into a carrier bag and slung over the handlebars.

The nearest garden centre is less than half a mile away, which is walkable, but as my mother-in-law can probably confirm, that’s a lot further than it seems when you are carrying a big bag of compost (I didn’t force her to carry it – she INSISTED).  Plants here are cheap and the Dutch are very much into growing their own.  I am determined to squeeze in pots of tomatoes and salad leaves but even my pot standing space is limited.

I know I should learn to admire and appreciate what I have. To this end I have followed my landlord’s instructions regarding pest control to the letter.  I just hope the slugs find the local craft beer a lot tastier than the hostas.

Having A Bad Day

I’ve not had that many of these since arriving in Haarlem but every now and then the black cloud that represents the downside of expat living looms overhead.

Being on an overseas assignment gives you wonderful opportunities, but there are days when you just can’t appreciate them. I’ve seen the tulip fields, I’ve been up a windmill and I have taken a boat trip down a canal. So what next?

The worse thing about this ex-pat assignment (and funnily enough it was the best thing about our last one - payback time I suppose) is the weather. Dutch weather can be a tad depressing. Even on a bright sunny day there is still a wind chill factor of -10. So even when you think summer has arrived, an icy blast reminds you that it hasn't (and I am beginning to doubt it ever will).

This Tuesday was Liberation Day in the Netherlands, a national holiday celebrated every 5 years. Bevrijdingspops, huge free festivals are held at eight venues across Holland including Haarlem. So, just as the Kings Day funfair finally folded away in the Grote Markt,  hoards of young people arrived for the concert in the local park. Predictably, despite Tuesday morning dawning bright and sunny, at 12 noon the wind turned to hurricane force and the heavens opened. The Bevrijdingspop had to be gesloten – closed for another couple of hours.  When we strolled along at 5.00 pm the streets of Haarlem were littered with the debris of Dutch youth, having had two hours to kill and nowhere to go.

We went along for curiosities sake. As one female singer delivered a distinctly ‘Eurovision’ style song – lots of arm waving and a very repetitive chorus of Why, Why, Why (at least it was very easy to pick up the words and join in) I could see Mr T asking himself the same question. Why stand lost in a crowd of very tall drunken Dutch teenagers swigging beer and smoking joints when he could be sat in the comfort of his own home watching Pointless? (It must be an age thing.)

After narrowly avoiding being hit by a giant mud covered flying ball and a plastic cup of beer that some passing youth tossed over his shoulder with total disregard for whoever was behind him, I agreed that being back at home probably was the safest place to be. After all, we could still hear the music – did it matter that we couldn’t see who was singing it?

The tossed beer cup was just the start of a few days of Dutch bad manners, which although not normally bothering me (after all you get rude people everywhere) just seemed to culminate this week in darkening that ex-pat black cloud. Why did the man in the supermarket queue jump across to the newly opened checkout without letting those who had been waiting in the queue longest go first? (The poor woman in front of me was only buying a banana, she had even counted out the exact cash.) Why couldn’t the shop assistant sweeping the floor ask me to move out of the way rather than just shoving his broom into my feet? Is it that difficult to say pardon or excuse me?

Maybe I’ve just been pushed off the pavement one time too many.

Maybe I've got fed up of wearing my winter boots.

Fortunately, I know the feeling will pass. Meanwhile I think Ed has the right idea.

Everything is Orange

It’s been a busy week in Haarlem.

Last Saturday evening saw the arrival of the Bloemencorso, a parade of flower festooned floats along a 40 km route through the main bulb growing areas of the Netherlands.

We had a similar event when we lived in the US. Our hometown, Pasadena, hosted an annual parade on New Year’s Day, a totally OTT flag wavin’, batton twirlin’  extravaganza which took two hours to march its way past the end of our street. People camped out all night to get a view of the Rose Parade floats, most of which were sponsored by huge American corporations and decorated with thousands of flowers which must have been flown in from all around the world. They certainly weren’t home-grown in Los Angeles.

The Netherlands is a small country and they do things differently here.  Yes, the Bloemencorso was modest in comparison to the Rose Parade, but everyone involved in making the floats, in taking part, lives, eats and breaths bulbs. I know flower growing is a commercial business, but what impressed me most, was even in the darkness, when you couldn’t actually see the flowers, you could smell them; a fantastic floral fragrance wafting into the night air.

 And talking of the people on the floats, I know I keep on about the wacky Dutch sense of humour, but if anyone remembers those old international European Jeux Sans Frontiers/It’s a Knock Out TV programmes of the 1970’s, when teams from Nantwich took on teams from remote villages in Holland and Belgium, that’s just what the Bloemencorso reminded me of.  Lots of happy, dancing, waving Dutch people doing stupid things in the most craziest of costumes.

Monday was Kings Day and the opportunity for more partying. Orange attire is compulsory as the Dutch celebrate their royal family and off-load their old junk (is there a connection?).  Local parks and streets are transformed into massive car boot style free for alls.  You literally could sell anything and I’m pretty sure there were even people trying to offload their kids (especially if they could play a musical instrument). 

 Other entrepreneurs just opened up their front door and charged passersby 50c to use their loo.

We had the in-laws to staying for the weekend, and although they are relatively young at heart, we didn’t subject them to the Kings Day mega-party that spilled out on the streets during the afternoon and evening. That’s another thing the Dutch do really well. They know how to have a good time, especially if it involves music and beer.

What they don’t know how to do, however, is signpost things. Today rain was predicted so we headed into Amsterdam to cross three more museums off our list.  We started out at FOAM, the photography museum which was not so much a museum, as an eclectic collection of photographs in a rabbit warren of a building with no directional signage and some highly dangerous unlit stairs. Still, the carrot cake on sale in the museum café was an absolute delight, and worthy of a photograph of its own.