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 Blustery Day

In order to escape the air of despair that transcended over the house on Sunday afternoon following the student’s departure back to Bristol, Mr T and I headed for the beach. We knew it would be grim; Zandvoort is always grim and I find it very hard to picture this resort awash with warmth, sun umbrellas, bikinis and Bermuda shorts. The grimness would suit our mood, I thought, it will be quiet, just me and Mr T on the beach, drowning in the solitude of self-pity.

Of course it was not quiet. Had I forgotten what country we are in? There may well have been leaden skies and a force ten gale blowing, but that doesn’t deter the Dutch. What better way to defy the weather than to zip up your anorak, pull on your hat and head out into the elements.  The North Sea waves crashed onto the beach creating more foam spray than a night club in Ibiza, the gusting wind howled, making conversation more or less impossible and walking against it very difficult, yet still people were out there, strolling along the sand.

It was yet another occasion when I marvelled at the hardiness of the Dutch. Why wouldn’t you take your kids to the beach on a day they have every chance of getting  swept away? There’s no molly-coddling here. The day before we  had spent the evening at a friend’s birthday party, chatting to a friendly Dutch family. We had discussed our respective houses. How do you teach your youngsters to go safely up and down those steep stairs, I asked, their early years must be fraught with accidents. Yes, Dutch mum agreed, they are. A couple of falls is usually all it takes, however, for toddlers to become proficient and you always put something soft like an old mattress at the foot of the stairs to cushion those early falls. I must remember that when my elderly mother comes to stay.

So the student has gone after a happy week dodging trams in Amsterdam and soaking up a bit of culture. I took her to the Hague where we marvelled at the Panorama Mesdag, a full 360 degree painting, 14 metres high of the beach of Scheveningen created in the1860's. It was amazing, if slightly disorientating and something of a hidden gem. The good thing about having visitors is that it makes you seek things out. That bad thing is of course that visitors always leave….

 Scheveningen looking a lot calmer in 1860 than Zandvoort in 2015.

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.

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.

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.