Being Grateful for the Small Things

It is sometimes hard in these cool, grey, breezy Dutch summer days to maintain a chirpy outlook. The upside of ex-pat life continues to outweigh the downside but the downside does exist, and occasionally threatens to become a right party pooper. The weather continues to cast dark clouds over  this little corner of the Netherlands and on days when I feel I really should be wearing at the very least cropped trousers and a T-shirt, I am still putting on socks and winter boots and instead of buying suncream, I find myself purchasing yet another new umbrella.

The doom and gloom has been compounded this week by the fact that both daughters have now been and gone on their summer visits; fledglings fleetingly returning to the nest before flapping their wings back across the North Sea.

I know that I have to be grateful for the small things in life - as my health visitor once pointed out when I complained that baby number two only ever slept for bursts of twenty minutes at a time, be glad of those twenty minutes.

I am glad that I have raised two seemingly independent young women, yet at the same time I feel quite redundant. Shouldn’t they still need me? Then I remember that of course they do still need me. Mum’s are invaluable at this age when it comes to proof-reading essays, advising on job applications and CV’s, and passing on invaluable life skills – like knitting.

Daughter number two – who does now sleep for way more than twenty minutes at a time, wanted me to teach her to knit. Apparently the internet is full of crafty ideas and patterns. Knitting is ‘in’.  I was only too happy to help. What could be more fun than sitting down together for a moment of mother-daughter bonding over a bit of knitter-natter.

We started off with 30 stitches, which rapidly increased to 72. Something had gone horribly wrong – but nothing, I insisted that couldn’t be rectified.  It was going to be a bookmark, but why not aim for a scarf, or actually, a hat for the cat. Ed looks very fetching in pink.

I now realise why ant-eaters spend the entire first year of their lives clinging to their mother’s back.  At the weekend we paid a visit to Amsterdam zoo, which proved to be a surprisingly enjoyable day out. I’m not a great fan of looking at captive animals, but if an animal has been born and raised it that environment it would be somewhat cruel to let it loose into the wild to fend for itself.  We donated to the campaign to create a larger enclosure for the olifants by buying a reel of sellotape (can’t quite see the connection) and enjoyed the opportunity to walk through the monkey house and get close up with lemurs and lizards.

However the highlight for me was the anteater. The idea of carrying your young on your back sounds like a great idea when your baby is only inches long, but the baby anteater hitching a ride at Amsterdam zoo was nearly as big as its mother. In fact it was hard to see where baby ended and mother began (a bit liked our four armed knitting experience).

Mother ant-eater seemed quite content with the very large baby on her back and I can totally understand.   She is probably dreading the day it wants to take its first few steps.  In fact, every time it tries to get off she probably pushes it back on.

If Daughter number two  wants to progress  from cat hats to tea-cosies, she is going to need a lot more lessons with mother.

As Good As It Gets

Daugther No 1 tells me my blog is not funny anymore; she complains it’s not exciting enough. I don’t quite know what she expects. I thought last week’s post was actually quite eventful -  a daring boat fire rescue and the tale of the kidnapped cat – but for someone who rubs shoulders with Chinese Celebs and parties regularly in Beijing, my life in Haarlem may seem somewhat dull in comparison.

How can I 'glam up' my blog? I could mention the movie shoot spotted this morning by Haarlem’s windmill. That’s pretty glam, although anyone who has ever seen a film crew at work will know that it is a laboriously slow process. Lights, camera and not a lot of action. I could have witnessed the Dutch equivalent of Johnny Depp taking a quick fag break between scenes, but how would I know?

Even if something exciting did happen in Haarlem, we’d be the last to hear about it. We don’t watch Dutch TV news and although I do occasionally listen to the radio for a bit of day-time company, I certainly don’t understand what's going on.

In an attempt to uncover something scandalous to write about, I’ve researched Dutch news stories on the internet.  This week’s top story – woman trampled to death by cow on farm. Tragic for all concerned but hardly cutting edge, and definitely not appropriate  material for a lighthearted witty blog post.

Apparently there was a report in the local paper of two beggars spotted in Haarlem’s hallowed streets. Only two - that's news?? In the US I wouldn’t have made it more than two hundred meters from our apartment without running out of fingers to count vagrants on - a sad state of affairs that never warranted a mention on the nightly LA news. At least Haarlem’s up-market beggars are showing typical Dutch resourcefulness by apparently claiming they are short of cash for hotel bills incurred whilst visiting sick relatives. It beats sitting in the street holding a cardboard sign professing to be an Army Vet.

People don’t choose to live in the Netherlands because they want excitement. Everything over here is very low key. And they certainly don't come for the weather. There is only one word to describe the Dutch climate and that is depressing. I'm holding it entirely responsible for my current lack of creativity. 

This Friday offered a tantalising glimpse of what life could be like. Last week I thought I’d peaked at a T-shirt on the beach, now, believe it or not, I've made it into a bikini. Who’d have thought?  After a leisurely lunchtime cruise with our visitors around Haarlem and a picnic on a boat moored amongst the lily pads, we spent the afternoon relaxing around the local lake on soft, golden sand, basking in the heat….And then we wake up, and it’s Saturday. The skies are grey, the wind has picked up, and I’m lending daughter and boyfriend an umbrella and a coat before they set off on the train to explore Amsterdam.

If I am not funny anymore, it’s because there is nothing to be funny about. Sometimes you just have to tell it like it is. The dog on the boat really is about as good as it gets.

Taking to the Water

The sun has finally come out and everyone has been basking in the warmth. It’s a different world in Haarlem when the sun shines. Café tables appear as if by magic in the Grote Markt, families take to the canals on their boats, pensioners pull up chairs outside their front door while the more mobile head off on their bikes to Bloemendaal where a whole town of ‘pop-up’ bars and restaurants has appeared on the beach.

Even if we never get another hot day, at least I’ve finally been on a Dutch beach in short sleeves (although I couldn’t help but thinking the people who still had their fleeces on probably had the right idea….).  

(Mr T complete with fleece )

There is nothing better than a cycle ride in the sunshine, until you turn a corner into the wind, and suddenly what was a pleasant freewheel becomes a strenuous work-out. No wonder these people are so fit!

Sometimes I find it hard to put the sights and sounds of this small corner of Europe into words. In many ways it is so similar to the UK, yet in many ways, so very different.

Want to catch a few evening rays and don't have a balcony? No problem, just open your first-floor window super-wide and sit on the sill.

200 people completing an en masse roller blade around the town at 9.30 pm on weekday evening? That definitely wouldn't happen back home.

Stuck for a hen night/bachelorette party idea? Hire tandems for the bride-to-be and all her friends and  go for a cycle ride to the beach. Yes, really.

The Dutch have always battled against the elements and, believe it or not, there is a downside to all this sunshine. Our estate agent blamed the hot weather for our malfunctioning toilet cistern suggesting the plastic rod expanded in the heat, and a rogue cat took shelter under our settee all night after wandering into the living room through our open patio doors. 

And then on Sunday, as Mr T and I strolled over the bridge by our house on our return from a trip to Amsterdam we witnessed what we thought at first glance was an over-enthuiastic attempt at an on-board barbeque but in fact turned out to be a boat engine fire. Mr T dashed on ahead to help with the rescue attempt as the passengers jumped ship. By the time I reached the scene Mr T seemed in dire danger of  being pulled into the canal by the rather large Dutch lady he was struggling to help out, but with the assistance of some other passers-by fortunately everyone made it safely to the shore unscathed. Within minutes the whole boat went up in flames sending plumes of black smoke into the Haarlem skyline.  

This whole incident has put a dampener on the plans to take the water ourselves when daughter No 1 and boyfriend arrive next weekend, although Mr T assures me the hire boats run on electricity (water + electricity, how safe is that?). Still if the fine weather persists, we will give it a whirl. I have now memorised the Dutch for Fire Brigade - it's Brandweer, and the emergency service number is 112. Let's just hope this is something I never need to use.