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.

Never Mind the Tulips

Never mind the tulips - it's all about the magnolias in my front garden. Over the last few days we have finally glimpsed some spring sunshine - and with it these beautiful magnolias which have subsequently attracted a lot of (unwanted) attention from passers-by (remember I have no net curtains or frosted glass in my very large front window). I’m seriously thinking of charging people who stop to admire the glorious white blooms. Some pretend they can't see past the flowers - others do respond to our waves. I suppose I shouldn't grumble. I am just as guilty as any of admiring plants in other people's gardens - I just try and do it a little more discreetly.

We've had house guests again this weekend and I've faced the usual questions about how we feel we are settling in and what we like/dislike about living in the Netherlands.

 To be honest apart from the weather (and even that's looking up - stripped off to a T-shirt for a couple of hours on Friday afternoon), there isn’t an awful lot to dislike about living here. As a Brit it’s very easy to fit in.  I almost feel like a native, apart from the fact that I am too short, not fit enough, and too polite of course.

Would I ever have 'said s**t' in front of a customer when I worked in a shop? No. Do I move out of the way for people on a narrow pavement? Yes.  Would I move over to an empty seat on a bus or a train to make it easier for another person to sit down? Yes.

I've noticed the Dutch don’t exactly co-operate - and I don't just mean with me, I mean with each other. When our neighbour changed his mind and refused access to the builder our landlords had engaged to replace the chimney pots on his roof, our estate agent assured us his attitude was nothing personal. He explained our neighbour was just ‘being Dutch’ – as I suppose he has every right to be. Personally I just call it being awkward.

Last weekend as we sat outside a café we witnessed a lady whisk away a chair from an occupied table, only stopping to ask the lone man sat there if it was free as an afterthought. Presumably if his wife had just nipped to the loo the man would have said something sooner, but surely it’s polite to ask first?

On the other hand, when we enquired if a table was available for four in our local very ‘bijou’ pizza restaurant earlier this week, the waitress assured us she could fit us in if we didn’t mind waiting for a few minutes.  I assumed she meant someone was about to leave, but no, she promptly asked a couple sat at a table for four to move onto a tiny corner table for two – mid-mouthful. I suppose at least she asked them – rather than just whipping their plates across to the other side of the restaurant while they weren’t looking.

On arriving at another restaurant the following evening with a larger group of friends we were again asked to wait as two customers sat at the table needed to make up the eight places we’d reserved, were still finishing their coffees. Fine, we said, no problem.  Twenty minutes later the two women still lingered over their coffee and the waiter seemed in no rush to hurry them up. He needed lessons from pizza lady. If ever there was an occasion for someone to be presented with a bill before they’d had a chance to order a second coffee a la USA this was it. When he finally took the hint (because they certainly weren't going to) and asked if they minded finishing their drinks at the bar, it was actually another hour before they left.

And in case this sounds like we spend an awful lot of time eating out - we do. Haarlem is foodie heaven, so why not? And just to add to the food-fest here are some pictures from our recent visit to Alkmaar Cheese Market. 

Top Tips

The expat  website this blog appears on has issued a call out for top tips on settling into the Netherlands. Actually I’ve found re-locating to the Netherlands comparatively easy compared to our last re-location to the US but in an effort to be helpful, here goes:

Learn the language.

Fortunately for us Brits, most Dutch people speak extremely good English, and unfortunately for the Dutch, I’m never going to pronounce 'goedemorgen' like a native, no matter how hard I try. In fact most Dutch people only have to look at me to know that Dutch is not my mother-tongue (I’m 5ft 2 so it’s a dead giveaway). The language barrier was probably more of an issue when we moved to the US – refer to an elevator as a lift and most Americans look at you as if you’ve just beamed down from Mars. Here in Holland it’s not a problem – there are no lifts, prepare for stairs.

Seriously though – it’s only polite to make the effort. You will receive post; you will want to read notices and endeavour to understand the parking permit and household waste bills that arrive with alarming regularity from the local Gemeente (another unpronounceable ‘hhh’ word). You might also want to be able to understand a menu  unless of course you don’t mind eating offal or wild hare. I know there is Google translate (do the Dutch pronounce that Hoogle?) – but that is not infallible. There are words in Dutch that just don’t exist anywhere else and NEVER jump to conclusions. For example, despite what you might think the first time you see it, oude kunst actually means OLD ART (masterpieces in fact).

Wrap Up Warm – it’s cold

We have yet to experience a Dutch summer and I can’t wait. The wind that blows down off the North Sea is icy. I can’t speak for anyone who lives in a modern apartment, but our 1930’s Dutch house is cold. High ceilings, lots of windows, and at least an inch of daylight around the front door. Invest in some warm clothing – I’ve yet to see my next door neighbour without his scarf (and that’s just for indoors).

Buy A Bike

If you want to blend in you’ll need a bike. There are no couch potatoes here – the Dutch are undeniably fit and they cycle everywhere. They start cycling the moment they are born (in fact I suspect Mama cycles to the labour ward and Papa straps her and baby on his bike for the cycle home). By the age of 3 they will have their own wheels and they’ll still be cycling at 80.

Keep an Open Mind

This is true wherever you go – not just the Netherlands. Every country has its own customs and habits and you just have to respect them. I didn’t like Zwarte Piet, but that’s just what the Dutch do, just like they sell cannabis in coffee shops and can’t make a decent cup of tea.

Retain Your Sense of Humour

Remember to keep hold of yours and learn to tolerate theirs. The Dutch have a particularly wacky sense of humour; even the most straight laced looking of middle-aged shop assistants can prove to be a right tease. You just have to go with the flow.

Be Realistic...and patient

Moving anywhere new is always going to be a struggle; it's an upheaval, it's stressful and it will take time and effort to settle in. See it as an opportunity to overcome adversity and find an inner strength you never knew you had.

And finally, when all else fails, sit back, relax and enjoy the apple cake!

Great Train Journeys

One of the things I do like about the Netherlands is its public transport system. The car is definitely not king here – at least not around town. The bike wins hands down, and if you can’t bike it, then you bus or train it long distance. It makes perfect sense.

This weekend we set off for Delft. Arriving at the station slightly earlier than anticipated  we decided not to wait for the fifty minute direct train (OK I got the times  wrong) but hopped onto the next train to Den Haag knowing we could change there and probably get to Delft sooner than planned anyway. A quick check on the public transport app 9292 confirmed that if we could complete a two minute change at Leiden we’d arrive in record time, and we did, literally jumping off one train as it pulled into the station and the other as it pulled out.

Delft is of course famous for its traditional blue and white pottery, but I’m not a ceramics fan and we were basically going there so we could tick it off our list. Yes, more canals, more cobbles, more beautiful old buildings, churches and the ubiquitous market. Tick, tick, tick. We browsed the ceramics shops, confirmed we didn’t actually like Delft pottery and if we bought a piece just  for the sake of it, it would end up at the back of a cupboard anyway, ate a piece of apple-cake and headed for home.

I was feeling pretty smug.  It had only taken forty minutes to reach Delft, so naturally it would only take us forty minutes to reach home. We’d be back in time for lunch.

We happily hopped onto the first available train to Den Haag Centraal where we then spent twenty minutes sat on a stationary Amsterdam bound train watching various passengers disembark after a series of station announcements.  We were eventually informed by a kind hearted Dutch lady that the line was blocked, Amsterdam, and all stations along the way including Haarlem, could now only be accessed via Utrecht, some 62 km away.  We boarded the next train for Utrecht, but alas, this train, despite the signage on the platform, and on the train itself, was not going to Utrecht, it was inexplicably terminating at Gouda, where another change was required. Like most Dutch railway stations, Gouda has a lengthy platform and the train either departs from the (a) section or the (b) section.  Fortunately we were already waiting at the (a) section, simply because it was less crowded, but at no point in time did the station assistants think to mention to the waiting passengers, most of whom were not in Gouda for the cheese or to admire the station architecture but to get back to Schipol airport, that the forthcoming train did not stop at the (b) part of the platform and they should move up a bit.  Eventually we reached Utrecht, where we just about made it onto the next train to Amsterdam, before another twenty minute wait for the Sprinter back down the line to Haarlem. Five trains and two and half hours later we had completed our circular tour of Eastern Holland.

So much for going native. Next time, we'll take the car.

Anyway, on Sunday, the sun shone. Photo opportunities galore in Haarlem, and some random llamas - just to prove I do like living here despite the public transport glitches!

The Stedelijk

There’s nothing like a trip to a museum of modern art to get the old creative juices flowing again. We were entertaining friends from the UK this weekend and headed into Amsterdam on Saturday for a spot of sightseeing.  Friends wanted to see the Van Gogh museum – we’ve done Van Gogh so we left them happily browsing amongst the sunflowers and irises while we popped next door to The  Stedelijk Museum, home to Amsterdam’s largest collection of modern and contemporary art.

As the rain outside turned to sleet, I was filled with a warm, rosy, glow. What a joy! I’d forgotten how much of a smile the contemplation of modern ‘art’ can put on your face.  Bemusement, bewilderment.....

Sometimes I think I must be missing something.  I know art is subjective, but a pair of copper plated Y-fronts, a table covered in brown paper and tied with jute, and and the obligatory pile of rocks on the floor. Really??

Take the packing crate for example. When is a plywood packing crate not a plywood packing crate? When it has a light bulb inside. Then, apparently, it becomes a work of art and warrants it's own room in a museum. 

In another room the security guard gave a little dance as we entered – wacky Dutch sense of humour or maybe he was another exhibit? Who knows? Perhaps  he'd just returned from a quick stroll around the less salubrious streets of Amsterdam, where the air seemed to be particularly more pungent than usual this weekend.  I'm pretty sure the artist behind this piece of work must have been visiting a coffee shop or two.

In all seriousness the museum is full of fantastic and interesting exhibits, from examples of early 20th century innovative furniture and homewares, to very thought provoking 'underground' photographs taken during the German occupation in the Second World War. It has fair share of Picassos, Pollocks and Lictensteins, and there is even some work by old friend Jeff Koons, first encountered at the Los Angeles County Museum of Modern Art way back in April 2011 in another jaw-dropping 'how do they get away with it?' moment. Although in Jeff's defence I'd have to say the work on show in the Stedelijk was a vast improvement on the giant balloon poodle in LA.

(http://lifeinthelabubble.blogspot.nl/2011/04/art-for-arts-sake.html).

I suppose the fact that it has compelled me to write a post, provoked a reaction and made me question and 'think', proves that there is a point to it all. The Stedelijk is definitely my favourite museum in Amsterdam so far.

Een Thee

I more or less gave up drinking tea when out and about in the US.  I soon learned that the Liptons tea-bags offered up in cafes and restaurants were insipid imposters and best left well alone.  I’m a pretty traditional girl at heart and a cuppa just isn’t a cuppa when it’s served with a slice of lemon and a squirt of honey. I hoarded a secret supply of Sainsburys Red Label in my cupboards and the daily cuppa became a guilty pleasure enjoyed in the comfort of my own home.

A good old fashioned cup of milky tea is the perfect  pick-me-up; it’s refreshing, comforting and calming. It makes you stop, sit down and relax.  It doesn’t get your heart pumping at ninety miles an hour like a  shot of caffeine loaded coffee, and it doesn’t rot your teeth or pile on the calories like a sweet sickly cup of hot chocolate.

It was hot and sunny in California. It didn’t matter if I stuck to cold  drinks while out socialising with friends, but when it’s grey and wet, like it is in the Netherlands 90% of the time, I want tea.

So, what do they serve up in the café’s here? You ask for een thee and you will be provided with a glass of hot water.  If you’re lucky it may be accompanied by a selection of tea-bags, or sometimes the tea-leaves will already sit infusing in the water. Either way I have discovered the only way to elicit any great taste from either the bags, or the leaves, is to leave them in the water for a very long time.  It would help of course, if the water was boiling, but when it’s served in a glass, this is simply not practical.

I never thought I’d end up writing an entire blog about a cup of tea, but today I encountered the most pretentious tea-bag ever, and I just have to show and tell.

It was the usual thing, ask for een thee, be presented with the glass of hot, or in this case, not particularly hot, water, followed by the presentation of an impressive tea-chest full of tea bags. The selection is usually the same wherever you go, Earl Grey, Chamomile, Green Tea, White Tea, Fruit Tea. Today, I choose aardbei – strawberry, and it wasn’t a case of picking a tea-bag from the box, but a heavy duty envelope, bearing an artist’s colourful impression of a juicy strawberry. Wow, I thought, this is way better than the usual sachets - it was like opening up an Oscar nomination, and there inside, not just a tea-bag, but a letter. Yes, a letter, for me, Beste theedrinker (dear tea drinker…) from the tea-leaf picker himself. Strawberry, he wrote, is his favourite fruit (I suspect he says that about every flavour) and the fruit is chosen to ‘soften’ the taste of the tea, which as it had very little taste, I took to mean total dilution. I also learned from my letter that my theeplukster picks 18 kilos of tea leaves a day which produces 4 kilos of pure black tea. Incidentally, the Dutch for tea leaves is theebladeren, which sounds particularly unpleasant.

So who knew one tea-bag could produce such a fascinating insight into the world of an entire tea plantation. Ten out of ten to the packaging guys. Just a shame they didn't put quite the same amount of effort into the actual taste of the tea.

Leiden

This Saturday we visited Leiden for another Dutch cultural experience.  Very shortly we’re going to get fed up of this –  No, please don’t make me go….not another old town full of attractive gabled houses and tiny cobbled streets, not more canals and quaint little bridges, not another  street market full of fresh produce and the wafting aroma of sticky sweet stroop waffles…..

Leiden's university is the oldest in the Netherlands and the town is twinned with Oxford in the UK. It was also home to the original Pilgrim Fathers who fled there from the UK before setting sail in the Mayflower for a new life in the US.  As we’ve visited Plymouth in Massachusettes and admired the preserved rock where these intrepid Pilgrims made their first footsteps on US soil, and as we’re from Southampton, where the Mayflower stopped en route, it seemed quite fitting that we should eventually end up one day in Leiden –  admiring yet another Pilgrim memorial.

Another interesting fact we learned about Leiden as we followed the Leidse Loope signposts around the town – a sort of treasure hunt of its most significant spots – was that like Haarlem, Leiden was also besieged by the Spanish back in the 1500’s.  Having seen the fate that had befallen the starving inhabitants of Haarlem, apparently the Mayor of Leiden offered to be sacrificed so that the population of Leiden could eat his body!! Fortunately (for him) they declined his offer and decided to flood the town instead so that they could be saved by the Dutch fleet. Who knew??

History lesson over and life ticks over quite happily, tulips are popping up in the garden and in the public parks the daffodils are already out. We've had our first significant snow fall, and yes the Dutch do still cycle in the snow.  All that ice just adds to the challenge.  I've had my hair cut, and highlighted by a lovely young Dutch hairdresser who tells me she will make me more 'playful' (??) a message that has obviously been adopted by Ed the cat who has now taken to hiding in a black sports bag in the closet just in case  the 'find the black cat on the black carpet' game wasn't fun enough. Honestly it took me ages to find him, I seriously thought he'd been cat-napped.....

A Weekend At the Museum

With weather cold enough to freeze the canals this weekend we knew we’d have to find something to do that involved being warm (which immediately ruled out staying indoors) so we set off in the slush and snow for the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam.  There are over 50 museums in Amsterdam and just like Haarlem’s 180 eateries, we feel obliged to try them all. The Rijksmuseum is by far the biggest, and probably the most well-known.

The wonders of buying a 50 euro annual museumkart is that with entry usually 10 or 15 euro’s a time, we don’t feel guilty if we don’t see every exhibit in one go - we can easily go back again for free. We soon realised this was just as well at the Rijksmuseum, as we’d only allocated a morning, rather than a week to wonder through its vast corridors.

The building itself is pretty impressive, let alone what it’s got inside. Most people come to the Rijks to see the Rembrandt’s and these masterpieces are huge, displayed in a magnificent domed hall.  We walked fleetingly through rooms containing metalwork, ceramics, religious artefacts, furniture, and model ships. We admired the library reminiscent of something out of Hogwarts, before  taking refuge in the café. It was all too much. Definitely one to come back to  another day.

January has been nominated museum-month. We’ve got a busy few weeks coming up  in February, then we’re hoping better weather will encourage us to get outside more to explore, so  with our appetite’s whetted, on Sunday we headed off to the Teyler’s museum here in Haarlem. The Teyler’s is apparently the oldest Museum in the Netherlands and it was like stepping into a time warp. It’s an amazing place, and again for me the building  was  the star of the show. The Teyler's contains an eclectic mix of scientific instruments, fossils, bones, precious stones, with a few old paintings thrown in for good measure. It’s a boy’s own dream – early batteries, telescopes, an 18^th century centrifuge….Mr T had to be dragged kicking and screaming back out into the cold.

Waste-Not-Want-Not

Welcome rays of sunshine have arrived in Haarlem. We’ve had the first dry days since our return from the UK at Christmas; the bikes have been retrieved from the shed and are back in their racks. It probably seems alien to those back in the UK that although we don’t have any car parking for our house, we do have our own personal bike rack.

I’m still in awe of this whole Dutch cycling phenomenon. Yesterday, I spotted a snaking line of young cyclists all in matching fluorescent jackets up ahead. It was a school trip – teachers and pupils all out on their bikes together. It would be unheard of anywhere else but here. I really don’t think my teenager (wants to) believes me when I tell her if she lived with us she’d be off on her bike to go clubbing every Saturday night.

The unexpected sunshine has heralded a few days of hectic activity. I’ve been feeling particularly creative. I made my own soup for lunch and even baked a cake – that’s a first for many months, and definitely the first since we arrived in the Netherlands. The urge to bake came on very rapidly and required a quick dash to the supermarket. When it comes to grocery shopping not knowing the language is not such a problem as I first envisaged. I managed to work out the Dutch for caster sugar is fijne kristalsuike – pretty simple - and as for self-raising flour, that was even easier to find - it’s self-raising flour. In typical Dutch fashion the cake came out of the oven a great deal more sturdier and solid than it does back home, but it’s a start. 

Perhaps Dutch frugality is starting to rub off on me.  I can shrug off consumerism and commercialism and head back to basics.  There are several what I would call old fashioned haberdashery shops in town, catering for those who like to make their own things. A couple of months ago there was an entire Sunday morning market dedicated to sewing and upholstery. It was positively inspiring – I wanted a sewing machine; I wanted to buy reams of fancy fabric, colourful buttons and paper patterns. Fortunately the urge soon passed, but I'm seriously contemplating knitting after I spotted a kit for making woollen cupcakes - seriously, the baking and the knitting sorted in one go. (Do you follow a recipe or a pattern???)

Here, people make do and mend. When  your  shoes wear out  - you take them straight to the cobblers. This is not a throw-away-society – in fact  it’s a hassle to throw anything away at all. The local council don't provide a bin collection service.   We have to take our general household rubbish to an underground bunker in the next street which can only be opened by a personal swipe card. Presumably this is to monitor how much each household wastes, and to encourage re-cycling, although our  re-cyling point – for glass, plastic and cardboard is a further five minute walk away.  It's a definite deterrent. I’m already thinking some sort of water-collection device for plastic bottles,  wine-bottle garden art, and perhaps a sort of giant cardboard/papier-mache Wendy house for the summer. Who knew after all these years I'd finally get my chance to become a budding Blue Peter presenter?

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.