The Circle of Life

There are some days when I have to remind myself how lucky I am to be an expat and have the opportunity to experience life in a different country.

I’ve been here before. I know what I have to do to pull myself out of the doldrums. During  our first winter in the USA I resorted to filling my long lonely days with extreme jigsaw puzzling. I’ve always vowed I will never let things get that bad again. I’m in a different place now – quite literally.

In the US I pulled myself through that first year  by vowing to get outside every day for a walk. Our house nestled in the foothills of the magnificent San Gabriel mountains. I could step out of my door and stride uphill through the wide leafy streets of our affluent housing estate, admiring well-manicured lawns and exotic flower beds. Despite being in the middle of winter, I didn’t need a coat. The sun still shined. It was easy to be optimistic. I found a voluntary job doing something I loved – gardening.  When I finally managed to convince Mr T that I was never going to fit in to this quiet little corner of suburban America and we needed to move into town NOW, we found ready made ex-pat friends in our apartment block; I had a school run, a gym, a pool and then of course, I discovered the joy of blogging, and from blogging, came writing, stories, novels….

Here in the Netherlands it is a lot harder to keep that smile on my face. Mr T goes off to work at 7.30 and doesn’t get home much before 6. I know I should be grateful.  I’ve met other ex-pats whose husband travel continually. They are by themselves for days on end. You have to keep busy.

So when I find myself completing Facebook quizzes on the American constitution - yes apparently I do qualify as an American citizen, and discovering that I am Rosie and I am smart (who knew?), alarm bells start to ring.  Did I really just download an adult colouring app for my new tablet? What next?   On-line jigsaws? What am I doing?

Get outside. Get cold, get wet…get frozen, get soaked. There are days when I don’t even want to get out of bed, let alone out of the front door. The writing has come to a standstill. It is hard to remain motivated without a close network of like-minded encouraging writer friends.  I have a completed novel, which is doing the rounds of agents; I have a sequel, so far no more than a few plot-lines jotted in a notebook; I have another, unrelated story already in a reasonable state of beginning and end yet can’t get to grips with the middle, I have even started my How to Ex-Pat guide, several times. The ideas are there – the impetus to get them finished, evaporated (or as this is Holland, not so much evaporated as washed away….)

If I can’t get out, I should get cooking. Isn't that just as therapeutic? I’ve tried cakes – they don’t work unless I use self-raising flour imported from the UK, and there is only so much flour you can import from the UK, especially when you already have a car packed to bursting with cat biscuits, shredded wheat and orange squash.  The student suggested I should make my own bread. After all, she (correctly) pointed out that I am always saying I will do this when I return to the UK. Why wait? Why not do it here? Well the answer soon became apparent as four supermarkets later we finally managed to track down some gist (yeast). As for bread-making flour, that appeared to be non-existent.  Undeterred we soldiered on with what we hoped was a suitable alternative. It wasn't. The term wheat-brick springs to mind when looking at (and tasting) the finished product.

And that is why it is easy to become disheartened.

Another is the passing ships in the night phenomenon. This weekend friends we made when we first came to Haarlem but who subsequently returned to the UK came back for a visit.  It was great to catch up, but it only made me realise that in another six or seven months time I’ll inevitably be saying goodbye to the new friends I had to go out and find after the original ones left! It’s a vicious ex-pat circle.

That's What Friends Are For

Sometimes these posts are written in the heat (or the damp chill) of the moment, when I am feeling most passionate, or vehement about my current situation. I have to strike while the iron is hot, or before the inspiration evaporates into a sea of lethargy…Oh, who cares, it wasn’t that funny anyway….

Today was not funny; today was ridiculous, today seemed to sum up all that is so good (and so bad) with the whole ex-pat wife situation. Being an ex-pat takes you out of your comfort zone and you find yourself doing stuff that you would never do at home. Why would anyone set out for a 7 km walk in the pouring rain in the suburbs of Amsterdam with a half a dozen people they have only known for the last couple of months?

Because that’s what ex-pat wives do.

Ex-pat wives have to find ways to occupy the lonely hours while their partners are hard at work. Some fill their time with coffee mornings, card playing, and classes at the gym. I know I have to force myself to be sociable, so I have joined a walking group.

There is nothing I like more than a good walk. I’m hardy. I have a raincoat, boots, an umbrella. The group have a sort of unwritten rule that if the weather is atrocious, they don’t go, but rain doesn’t count, because in the Netherlands, if you only walked on dry days, you’d end up never end up walking at all.

We were supposed to be walking around a lake, but by the time we’d all gathered at the designated spot and stood around for fifteen minutes waiting for somebody who took the wrong bus and then VERY SENSIBLY gave up and went home, the morning’s drizzle had turned into persistent rain.

The whole walking around the lake idea was starting to look very unappealing. Instead, we set off in search of somewhere dry and warm – and discovered we were in the only part of Amsterdam devoid of a coffee shop (of any description).

The poodle parlour, launderette, and the sunbed studio were all starting to look like very tempting alternatives before we finally stumbled into a Turkish café, which shone like an oasis in the middle of a faceless 1970’s shopping precinct.  For once, no-one had the slightest qualm about ordering the chocolademelk met slagroom. Days like this you don't count calories.

After we had held a competition for who had the coldest hands and the wettest feet, we decided there was no point waiting for the weather to get better. It was time for damage limitation - who knew the quickest route home. A tram, a bus and a train ride later and I was back in Haarlem, wacking the heating up on full and devouring the remainder of a box of Christmas chocolates I’d vowed would last until Easter.

No matter how diverse a crowd, ex pat wives will always have one thing in common; when you are forced into an adverse situation, you make the most of it. The friendships might not last, but amidst the vagaries of international re-locations, we will be there for each other, whatever the weather.

Happy New Year

It’s been nothing but doom and gloom since we returned to the Netherlands from our Christmas/New Year break in the UK. Our hearty Dutch immune system must have temporarily slipped while we were out partying (all that hugging and kissing - so unhygienic) and we have been laid low with coughs, colds and general apathy, only venturing out to stock up on emergency supplies.  Finding any motivation to do anything has been a struggle.  The student returned to Haarlem with us, but she is studying vigorously for exams, and doesn’t want the distraction of having to get dressed to leave the house. With Mr T in bed for three days it has been like living in the Twilight Zone – curtains not opened until gone ten o’clock in the morning, and closed again by four, while outside that grey Dutch sky envelopes everything like a chilly damp blanket.

I knew Mr T was feeling better when he started to moan about day-time TV. I tell him I don’t usually watch any – apart from Escape to the Country which is one of my guilty pleasures.  This week the programme featured a single woman looking for a character cottage somewhere remote but still part of the community (a regular Escape to the Country oxymoron), a view (naturally) and a dining room that would comfortably accommodate 14 people.  In a cottage?   It could be a long search.

We returned to Haarlem with a car full of British goods – orange squash for Mr T, tea-bags for me and cat biscuits for Ed.  Why am I importing cat biscuits? I know it is totally irrational. The fact is, I have tried weaning him onto a different brand and the results were very unpleasant. Cat vomit and diarrhoea certainly take the shine of my vintage wooden floor. I may have miscalculated exactly how many sacks of cat-biscuits I need. Forgetting that we were only back in the UK in October, I still had two bags left in the cellar. It’s the overstock situation we had in the US all over again. No UK visitors were allowed unless they came bearing gifts of Sainsburys red-label tea-bags. When we left after three years I was giving the stuff away. I had also stock piled spray deodorant - not quite such an easy one to pass onto friends.  It’s the little home comforts that make the difference. (And in case anyone is wondering why I hoarded spray deodorant it was NOT because I had an issue with over-perspiration; in the US I could only buy roll-ons.)

The Dutch keep their Christmas decorations up until way in the new year so we have followed suit and kept our tree in the front room, despite my usual desire to have all things festive removed as soon as possible (I have even taken trees down on Boxing Day before). I have to admit it does bring a welcome cheery twinkling glow into the dreary January evenings. I bought Mr T a Crooks radiometer (a light mill) for Christmas. I don’t think he was overly impressed but I liked it. I saw it in a vintage shop in Amsterdam whilst out shopping with a new English friend and a Dutch woman I’d never met before. The Dutch woman instantly dismissed it as a useless waste of money (I suspect Mr T might feel the same) while I thought it quite fascinating.

For the uninitiated a Crookes radiometer (and this is totally lifted from Wikipedia) consists of an airtight glass bulb, containing a partial vacuum. Inside are a set of vanes mounted on a spindle. The vanes rotate when exposed to light, with faster rotation for more intense light, providing a quantitative measurement of electromagnetic radiation intensity.  

See - fascinating. Needless the say the damn thing doesn’t spin at all in the gloom of our living room. It has now been relegated to the kitchen where with the spotlights on, and the light from the extractor fan, it just about turns.  I knew all that December sunshine was just too good to be true!

Happy Christmas

Three little words I’d never thought I’d end up writing in the same sentence: December, Netherlands, warm.

Yes I’ve just returned from a last minute Christmas shop and I’m positively boiling, despite the fact that I replaced big winter coat with middleweight jacket. I even wore canvas shoes instead of boots. Yesterday,it was warm enough to sit outside when I met up with a couple of friends for lunch, and we didn’t even need the patio heater and blankets provided by most Dutch cafes for those hardy souls who will brave the outdoors whatever the weather  (aka smokers). 

There’s part of me that thinks this is great, and another part which wonders if I am being lulled into false sense of security. Short term, of course, there is the worry that the price of all this pre-Christmas warmth will be a big New Year freeze – and of course long term, the worry about global warming. And in any case, if I am going to have unusually high temperatures I’d like them in the summer please – not the winter. It’s all right basking in the sunshine now, but where was it June and July? It certainly wasn’t shining in the Netherlands (incidentally a lot of Dutch people  think the summer of 2015 will go down as a good one, which is very worrying).

But despite the warmth, Haarlem is finally feeling very festive. Albert Heijn have introduced their range of feestdagen goodies – chicken roulades, pork joints and some very suspect looking stuffed eggs and ornate pats of butter-cream in a display that takes up only one end of a cold-cabinet.  After watching BBC2’s Back In Time for Christmas (Back in Time for Dinner has to be one of my fav programmes of the year) I realise I have become commercially brainwashed by Christmas in the UK and the ‘need’ to go overboard to stock up on Christmas gifts and goodies.  Here in the Netherlands they do it the old fashioned way. Christmas doesn’t begin until the week before the 25th December; there is no need for mammoth shopping expeditions and crazy check-out queues. There I was bemoaning the whole I can’t buy any decent wrapping paper thing, and now I realise, so what? It’s wrapping paper. You rip it off and put it in the bin. It’s what’s inside that counts – and even that doesn’t really matter. The Dutch give each other very little in the way of presents. What is important  about this time of year is counting your blessings, not your gifts, and spending time with the people you love and care about.

This Christmas will be extra special for my family because we will actually all be together in the UK at the same time. It doesn't happen every year. 

So children, if you don’t like the way I've wrapped your present, and in fact your present isn't what you wanted at all, remember the real treat is being with me. 

Happy Christmas!

Feeling Festive

There is nothing like Christmas to get the creative juices flowing again. I’ll be the first to admit that I haven’t been particularly inspired to post any blogs just recently – life in the Netherlands ticks over very simply and quietly  (dull is another description which immediately springs to mind). Nor do I do an awful lot to write about.

However, daughter No 1 moved to Budapest this week, and had published her new travel blog within hours of stepping off the plane.  It made me realise I need to get back on track. What sort of writer am I if I can’t make my mundane everyday life in Haarlem sound interesting enough for people to want to read about?

So let me start with my evening in Amsterdam. I’ve met some new friends through an international women’s group, and this week’s activity was a walking tour of Amsterdam’s Christmas lights.  

I like meeting new people, I like being ‘included’ but I’ve come to realise, a bit like in the US, that not liking coffee is holding me back. Sitting in a café with a glass of boiling hot water (I really don’t get why you would ever put boiling water into a glass with no handle) and a selection of very weak tea-leaves is no fun.  If I want my tea to taste of anything other than hot water the tea leaves need to infuse for a good 30 minutes, by which time my very hot water is cold and everyone else has long finished their Lattes and is ready to move on.

So – no more cups of tea for me, I’ll stick to wine. With a half hour wait before the start of the walking tour one new friend suggested we share a bottle of wine (don't panic - there were five of us!). We called over the waiter. Ten minutes later no sign of bottle of wine, and I started to get slightly agitated.  Just as we decided we’d cancel the order, wine arrived. It was quite tempting to ask for paper take-away cups, but funnily enough, none of us actually had a problem downing a glass of wine in ten minutes (which says an awful lot for the life of an expat wife).  It’s just that when I’ve paid six euro’s for my glass, I’d have quite liked to savour it. Dutch service can sometimes leave a lot to be desired.

We had a good walk and a chat, admired the lights – which really are very pretty indeed – discussed the merits of various Amsterdam eateries, marvelled at the Bijenkorf’s window displays and lamented the demise of C&A in the UK.

Most of my new friends are just like me – husband at work, hours to kill. They play cards, attend book clubs,  meet for lunch, go for walks.  I find myself turning invitations down. Does that make me unsociable? I want people to like me, yet…if I am out all day walking, lunching, swigging wine or sipping hot water, then I don’t have the time to write…and how am I ever going to get a second novel finished, and never mind having the time to try and find a publisher and/or self-publish the first….and then also I don’t particularly like telling my new friends that I need time to ‘write’ because then they always want to know exactly what it is I write, and what I've had published (and that's where the conversation always ends!)

So should I be highly sociable and non-productive, or a productive-recluse? It’s a dilemma.

Meanwhile, back to the Christmas festivities. People travel all over Europe for the Christmas markets and we are lucky enough to have one right here on our doorstep. Haarlem’s Christmas market only comes for the weekend, but it’s probably long enough – after all how many fir cone angel tea-light holders do you really need?

Christmas over here is generally very low key – our local Albert Heijn has a meagre selection of three different rolls of Christmas wrapping paper, two which aren’t very festive at all (and could double up as birthday paper – which probably suits the Dutch sense of frugality) and another which depicts Zwarte Piet (definitely a no-no). Anyone who lives near me back in the UK will know that you can’t move in the local Tesco for shelves of gift-wrap. Still at least  lack of choice speeds up the decision making process.

Also this weekend, Mr T’s Christmas work-do and a rare opportunity to dress up and wear heels. The dress and the heels had to be specially purchased – no point having heels in Haarlem because of the cobblestones, and the dress was bought in the UK because I wanted something above the knee (I am too short for the Dutch fashion industry).

A good evening was had by all – although Mr T and I did realise after the event that we were actually the only guests staying in the hotel, but I think I might save that story for another post...

The Concept Shop

I was not familiar with the concept shop before I came to the Netherlands.  Is it a shop? Is it a coffee-bar? Is it someone’s front room?

There are a growing number of these stores popping up in Haarlem. Concept shops sell everything from  designer clothes to handicrafts, ornaments, odd bits and pieces of furniture, and kitchenware.  Some of them are quite compact with a rather sparse eclectic mix of high-end and  vintage stock. They specialise in those added little extras for yourself and your home; you don’t need it, and lots of cases you don’t actually want it, but because it is in a rather exclusive setting, you think, well, it must be highly desirable, mustn’t it? 

Go on, spoil yourself. How many button necklaces and alpaca purses does a woman need?

To be fair, Mr T and I are  are not immune to the lure of the concept store. We have bought decorative items for our home. Who isn't attracted by the thought of owning something a little bit  unique?

Sometimes we don't go to buy, we go to have a laugh. 'Industrial cast-offs' are very popular right now. There is one particular store in Haarlem that has been trying to off-load a 'vintage' dentist’s chair for the whole of the past year. Of course everybody wants one of those in their front room.

I know the Dutch are very keen on recycling, and they really do hate throwing things away, but there are some items that don’t belong in anyone’s front room, they belong in a skip.


It’s out with the new and in with the old. Nolstagia is what it's all about. Mr T and I stumbled into a shop in Amsterdam this weekend and discovered a shelf of old leather footballs. Wow, said Mr T, look at that, just what we need. For what? 

Personally, I rather fancied the rustic looking hand-knitted pouffe. Since the cold of last winter I have filled our large living room with lots of additional ‘stuff’ in an attempt to give it some extra warmth. We have acquired  another sofa, a few more lamps.  I could easily find room for an extra pouffe, and as Mr T continually complains about Ed ruining the furniture, something that already looked like a cat had scratched it to pieces would be perfect.  

Just because something is old, it doesn't mean it is any good. Likewise, hand-made isn't necessarily  best-made. 

Many items on sale in these stores are expensive. Exclusivity comes at a high price.  There’s only one tatty battered school desk left. Buy it, quick!

That’s the other thing I don’t get. The Dutch won’t spend their money frivolously. Everything has to have a use, but are there really people out there who say, hey I’m not going to waste my money on a brand spanking new storage unit and a soft, comfortable sofa, I’m going to buy an old drawing office filing cabinet and a couple of old cinema seats instead…Surely not? 

Forget all this trendy up-cycling. I've a sneaking suspicion the whole concept of the concept store is to appeal to people with more money than sense. 

When the Boat Comes In

It’s that time of year again. Even though we knew what to expect it still didn’t make the spectacle of Sinterklaas’s arrival in Haarlem any less bizarre.

In the UK Santa arrives in a sleigh. In the Netherlands he arrives by boat from Spain, and with him comes his helper, Zwarte Piet (Black Pete). When they disembark Sinter rides through town on a white horse, while Zwarte Piet dishes out sweets to the waiting children.

Over 100 people were arrested in riots protesting against Zwarte Piet throughout the Netherlands in 2014. I thought Black Pete had had his day. 

Retailers appeared to have got  the message that Black Pete dolls and memorabilia doesn’t actually make attractive, appealing window displays. I've seen Christmas wrapping paper in the shops with images of pale-faced Zwarte Piets. This year, I had heard, Sinterklaas' helper would have soot on his face, not black-paint. He would be a chimney sweep.

There were definitely  less blackened-up faces amongst the eager young audience as Sinter’s ship sailed up the Sparne, but unfortunately the organisers of Sinter's arrival in Haarlem didn't appear to have got the message at all. The merry musicians and all the other grown-up hanger-ons masquerading as Zwarte Piet were out in force in their curly wigs and blackened faces.

Sinterklaas' arrival is a huge event, but it is wrong on so many counts. Strangers in fancy costumes handing out sweets – don’t you warn your kids about that one?

Even more wrong – who told the kids at the swimming party to stand in the window, in their swimmers, to watch the procession go by, waving at all the happy snappers outside.  The elderly gent dressed up as Zwarte Piet in front of us loved that one. 

Maybe my own 1970’s childhood memories have become so tarnished that I see bad in something that is just an innocence piece of traditional fun. But grown ups, dressing up, knowing they will cause offence? That's really not a good lesson to be passing down to the next generation.