Californication

It's almost Californian, said Mr T this morning when he drew back the curtains. To be fair, the sky was undeniable blue and we probably had just had the hottest May weekend ever in the Netherlands, but I’m not convinced Haarlem could ever be compared to the west coast of America.

There are many subtle differences – the first the fact that sunshine is a rare commodity – and when it does happen, like this weekend, the Dutch go crazy. They strip off, take-off to the beach or the local park and catch those rays (and if they can add some beer and loud music into the mix then all the better). Good job it was a weekend or there could have been an awful lot of sickies…. 

On Friday, we took a picnic to the beach where I felt overdressed in my shorts. Less than ten days previously we had strolled along the same seafront wrapped up for the Artic.

We had friends to stay, I’m glad they got to see the Netherlands at its very best, but I had to keep defending my negative attitude to the local climate.

It’s not always like this, I complained, which fair enough, they understood. The last time they visited us we’d battled through Amsterdam in zero degrees and the pouring rain. This time we did the nice stuff. We visited the tulip fields, we had dinner on the beach, we hired a boat  for a lazy tour of Haarlem’s canals. I could almost get to like it here – if the forecast for the coming weekend wasn’t predicting a temperature drop of ten degrees… Another reason I know that despite the warmth and those blue skies I'm not in California. It just won't last.

To be honest at the moment the only place I really want to be is back in the UK, and this is because I need to be 'out there' promoting my (as yet) unpublished book.  At the moment I am simply dipping my toes in from afar (and talking of dipping toes in, yes we did try and I can confirm that the North Sea is VERY COLD). According to several publishers' websites, I need an ‘on-line presence’ before they will even look at my manuscript.  Well I do have an on-line presence but it has very little to do with writing novels, and as someone with zero confidence about their own ability, I’d find it very difficult to set myself up with my own ‘author website’ when I’ve done very little but have a couple of short stories published on line and come runner up in a national flash fiction competition. However, I sense it will have to be done, especially as I currently lack a ‘physical presence’ in the all important world of writer networking. Watch this space.

Meanwhile, look at the tulip fields. Beautiful.

Vindicated!

I’d almost given up on this blog, complaining to Mr T that nothing in the Netherlands inspires me to put pen to paper.  Nothing funny ever happens here, I moaned. All the ex-pats friends we met when we first arrived, bar one, have already left or are all boxed up and ready to go; we have totally failed to integrate, our efforts to learn the language are abysmal and we haven’t made any Dutch friends. Blah, blah, blah. Poor Mr T. I hold him responsible for everything; the monotonous landscape, the dull, damp, windy weather, our erratic central heating system, even Albert Heijn’s failure to stock Ribena. It is all his fault.

Funny how a few days of sunshine can change things. Spring has sprung, the tulips are out, and finally….after 18 months of regular attendance we have finally won the pub quiz! 

Suddenly it doesn’t seem such a bad place to live. We have had a string of visitors from the UK. We have strolled around Keukenhof gardens admiring the blooms in our T-shirts, we have sampled our first Dutch ice-creams of the year. We’ve got back on our bikes. I can almost feel that layer of blubber I acquired over the winter dropping off – I might even buy a new battery for the bathroom scales to test my theory out (or maybe not - ignorance is always bliss).

New friends I made to replace the old ones who left are proving a lot of fun.  I never thought I’d be a natural at flower arranging, but after a couple of glasses of wine, who knew? I am not a natural shopper, but suddenly, one pair of new pumps or two? Doesn’t seem such a bad idea.

I’ve got a diary that is full. I have to block out days to continue with novel number two whilst I dither over my dilemma of whether to accept a deal to hybrid publish, or just self-publish, or continue to wait in vain for that mega-million advance for novel number one.

Even the cat has taken on a whole new persona. He is out on the tiles all night and sleeping in the closet all day. I hardly see him.

But the high-light of the last few weeks has to be that pub quiz win. Despite the fact that the two Dutch team-mates who joined us for the night failed to answer the question which Dutch city was destroyed by a great fire in 1504 (duh, it was Haarlem…) we won by just one point.

After all those evenings of just making the numbers up, I felt vindicated.

And when I've bought too many pairs of new shoes, this is what I will do with them!

Escape to the Country

Over the last month we have been  exploring some unchartered territory in the Netherlands. Our first foray into the unknown was to the countryside south of Rotterdam, which we thought might be the perfect place to re-locate. 

Things did not bode well from the start. The only redeeming feature we could find in the first town we visited was the fact that it had a metro line out of it. Not exactly an attraction, more an escape route.  When we arrived in Brielle, further west, we thought we might have struck it lucky. It was like Haarlem in miniature. The trouble was its cuteness was its downfall. We had walked around it in 30 minutes. What we do if we had to live there for a whole year? 

Disheartened, we plundered on. Our next stop Hellevoetsluis, which although sounding like some highly contagious medieval disease is a modern purpose built town very close to Mr T's oil refinery. Hellevoetsluis must be the only place in the Netherlands with a shortage of coffee shops - of any description. In an attempt to find somewhere to buy lunch we ended up in a 1970's style indoor shopping precinct, desperately seeking a sandwich. Any Dutch high street is a nostalgic trip back in time - a chance to re-visit C&A, Etam, Dolcis, happy haunts of my childhood. Hellevoetsluis even had a Dixons. It was not the place for us.

Our trip to the Freisland in the north reinforced my belief that in Haarlem we have well and truly found Mecca. With the sun shining on Easter Saturday we headed to Grongingen, and a long awaited trip to the David Bowie exhibition at the Groninger museum. This was orignally intended as Mr T’s Christmas present, but due to adverse weather conditions earlier this year, and other commitments, we hadn’t been able to make the trip. The exhibition was originally due to close at the beginning of March, but fortunately for us, (although obviously unfortunately for him) poor David’s sad demise meant it had been extended for an extra few weeks.

We travelled to Groningen via the 32 km long Afsluitdijk, a major feat of Dutch engineering which took 5 years to complete. As we took a blustery stroll across the footbridge to admire the watery views, the choppy North Sea on one side, and even rougher Ijsselmeer on the other, a friendly Italian visitor insisted on handing us his toilet-pass from the cafe. We were grimacing because of the wind, not because we needed the loo....

We continued onto Groningen via Leeuwarden, home to a leaning church tower which can only still be standing due to another feat of Dutch engineering (photos don't do the slant justice).

Grongingen is a university town which contains all the usual Netherland essentials of gabled houses, canals, cobbled streets and a grote markt, a vismarkt, and just for a change, an Albert Heijn supermarket housed in the very palatial surroundings of a former corn exchange. It has a lively, vibrant feel but it's long way from anywhere else.

We enjoyed the exhibition, and we saw Grongingen looking its best in the sun. Quite naturally, the next morning it was raining and as we drove the two hundred miles back to Haarlem through flat fields full of sheep, geese, ditches and dykes, I had a definite case of deja vu. The trouble with the Netherlands it that whether you travel north, or south, it's all the same. If you’ve seen one old town, you’ve seen them all. 

We stopped briefly in Urk, once an island, now a harbour on the edge of a reclaimed polder. The houses were similar to those in every other defunct Zuider Zee fishing village we've visited, tiny cottages where you can paint your front door and fascia boards any colour as long it is dark green.

Things I have learned since living in the Netherlands

I really should be beginning this post with the word Dutch – but unfortunately the language isn’t one of the skills or snippets of useful (or even useless) pieces of knowledge I have acquired since arriving in Haarlem. I am now on my second attempt at an on-line Dutch course and am already a week behind.  Quite simply I lack the incentive, the impetus and the enthusiasm. Instead, I have spent the last week attacking my novel with renewed vigour after receiving a very positive critique.  Fiction has taken over – hence no witty episode on our recent trip to Budapest. Budapest was lovely – a great city, go if you can, faded grandeur, lots of history, interesting food…(picture of Masterchef style pudding coming up) but instead of extolling the virtues of travel, I have been creating additional tension between my hero and heroine. I’ve even had to put my follow-up – which I am also itching to complete – on hold. I suspect Mr T is very frustrated that when he returns home at 6 pm I am still beavering away at my keyboard instead of the kitchen. I have to remind him how lucky he is that I have a hobby that keeps the boredom at bay.

So everything is on hold. However, the student has arrived for a few days and as we set out on our bike ride yesterday it became apparent that there are a few words and phrases that are synonymous with living in the Netherlands, and I am apparently repeating them like a parrot.

1.        I should have worn a hat.

Hat hair is the norm in Holland. There’s no point striving for their catwalk look. Go hatless at your peril. The alternative is of course…

2.         I’ll never buy another coat without a hood.

In addition to ensuring you have a hood – one you can tighten with toggles is best, the longer your outer-wear the better. I once saw a woman in an ankle-length shiny mushroom coloured padded coat. She looked like a giant pupa but she was certainly warm and dry. I’ve been trying to find a something similar ever since.

3.        Don’t bother with the umbrella.

It’s totally pointless. Yes the Dutch have invented a so-called wind-resistant umbrella with a shorter/stronger canopy, but you still regularly see these mangled remains protruding from litter bins on a blustery day. The Dutch also like to think of themselves as Mary Poppins on wheels.  In my mind carrying anything whilst cycling is just an accident waiting to happen – and that includes umbrellas.  The only sensible option is to resort back to number 1 and 2.

4.        The Dutch don’t do health and safety.

Back home if your ten year old wanted to hitch a ride on your bike (and that includes sitting, or even worse, standing on the rack over the rear-wheel clutching hold of your shoulders) you’d be grabbing your car keys.  But here…no Papa needs to get the whole family somewhere quick and it's everyone on board, whichever way they can.  Helmets? What helmets?

               

5.      If the wind was against us on the way here – why is it still against us on the way back?

A common cycling term. It doesn’t matter what direction you are cycling in, you will always be heading into the wind. If you want resistance training this is the place to come.

It’s no wonder the Dutch are so fit. They eat loads of carbs, cover everything in slagroom (whipped cream), drink gallons of beer yet are still as skinny as rakes.  It has to be down to peddle power. They really can have their apple cake and eat it.

              

And this is my Hungarian dessert.....

Fifty Shades of Grey Sky

It was down to earth with a bump after our amazing holiday. Incidentally thank you for all the very complimentary comments about my posts. It’s amazing what a spot of sunshine can do for creativity. There are some writers who thrive on doom and gloom and I’m obviously not one of them. Give me some warm rays and I immediately become a better person.

Surely I can bring some of that Caribbean joie de vivre into my posts about everyday life here in Haarlem?

Take for example, my close encounters this week with Dutch workmen. That’s a jolly subject.

Encounter number one – at a friend’s house. Friend was having some building work. Two young Dutchmen erecting scaffolding on her balcony whilst we, a group of 6 ex-pats having a catch-up and a glass of wine inside playing cards. (Contrary to what some people might think, I would like to point out that this is the first time in several years of being a professional ex-pat wife that I have EVER spent an entire afternoon playing cards.) Loud thud from balcony as we see young Dutchman falling to his knees, clutching head. Large piece of metal, presumably some sort of scaffolding fixing, at his feet. Second rather shamefaced Dutchman hurriedly descending scaffolding to check on the wellbeing of his colleague below. Lots of blood.

I don’t do blood. I certainly don’t do gashes to the back of the head.  Where was his hard hat? My friend insisted her builder had to go to hospital. Young builder insisted he was okay. She stood her ground.  Two hours later he was back, cut glued together, and still no hard hat (although it was quite noticeable that this time he was the one who climbed up the scaffolding leaving his younger colleague on the ground….)

So what’s the moral of this story? Dutch (dis)regard for health and safety.  Remember these people don’t wear cycle helmets. One American friend recently reported that her daughter couldn’t even buy a child seat for her bicycle because in the US they are considered unsafe. Here Dutch Mama’s strap their new born babies to their chest while they cycle the two older kids to school, one in a basket at the front, and another on a child-seat at the back.  All completely helmet-less. This week while out and about Mr T and I spotted a woman transporting a full-size double mattress in her Bakfiets. Mr T said this was actually quite sensible, because when she over-balanced, which looked inevitable, she would at least have something soft to land on.

Meanwhile, encounters with Dutch workmen two and three. Dutch workmen are dour people. Our landlord had arranged to have our decking fixed. We live in a terrace – the only way into the backyard is through the house, which decking man and his mate had to do several times. It’s a mucky job replacing decking, they could have asked for a broom (I made them coffee, filter coffee, two cups each for Christ’s sake). Still, I knew there was no point cleaning up after them because on Friday close encounter with Dutch workman number four. The gardener. Again, lots of traipsing back and forwards through the house. Still no point cleaning the floor. The weather forecast for the weekend was wet (what’s new) Mr T and I would be traipsing our own dirt through the house. Cleaning is a thankless task. Have I ever mentioned my black carpet??

Anyway, at least my positive sunny attitude inspired me to attack my novel writing with re-newed vigour. They always tell you if something is working, be brave, kill your darlings. Take a different viewpoint. Turn the plot on its head.

I once read somewhere that dreams can provide useful inspiration for fiction writing. This week my dreams have included arriving on a cruise ship and discovering I hadn’t packed a party frock or any underwear (every woman’s nightmare), and having a teenage romance with Daniel Radcliffe.

I certainly know where the first dream stemmed from, but could my fantasy romance be a subliminal message to aim for a different market? YA (Young Adult) fiction is all the rage. Could I write from a teenage point of view? I don’t think so. Not a modern teenager at any rate. When I was a teenager I used public transport and a phone-box. I definitely couldn’t write anything for today’s market. (I would hasten to add that as fond as I am of Daniel my feelings for him are strictly maternal – or so I thought….)

So it’s back to the drawing board with the novel, and back to reality with the blog.  In an effort to extend our up-beat tourist mood Mr T and I took the train to Dordrecht this weekend. Dordrecht,  20 kms south east of Rotterdam, is on the periphery of places we could possibly live when we have to make our summer move. The purpose of the trip was to either add it to our list of potential suspects, or eliminate it from our enquiries.  It was an okay sort of place, the usual array of gabled houses, some interesting architecture and a waterfront which we told ourselves would be worth re-visiting in the sunshine (we seem to end up saying this about an awful lot of places in the Netherlands).  It wasn’t exactly firing us up with any enthusiasm.

The only thing to do when you return from one good holiday is to book another, which is what we have done. Roll on August. Those fifty shades of grey Dutch skies may not be providing inspiration for any great writing, but they do are doing wonders for the travel industry.

See what I mean?  Dordrecht. Not exactly the Caribbean!

On Vacation Episode Five - All Our New Best Friends are Canadian

I wasn’t totally convinced I was going to like Jamaica – the warning not to make eye contact with anyone trying to sell you something doesn’t exactly fill you with any confidence. The boat docked in Ocho Rios and the main attraction here is Dunns River Falls - a 55 m high waterfall which flows into the Caribbean down a series of terraces. We just had to climb it, Mr T said, just had to. And he was right. There were times when I felt like spider-man as I hopped from rock to rock up the waterfall with my newly purchased florescent pink wet-shoes. There were other times when I was very grateful that on being told to line up boy-girl-boy-girl I had Mr T in one hand Mr 6ft Canadian in the other. Despite nearly wrenching my arm out of its socket, Mr 6ft Canadian hauled me up to the top of Dunns River Falls. I wouldn't have made it without him.

It is very touristy, and very 'contrived'. It isn't compulsory to trek up the waterfalls with a guide, but it seems the simplest, and most sensible thing to do. Did I ever think I’d be standing waist deep in water waving my arms up in the air with twenty complete strangers singing Hot Hot Hot, Wet Wet Wet? Does that honestly sound like me? No. There were a very po-faced couple in our group who were determined not to join in. They were not going to strip down to their bathers, deposit their bags in a locker, or hold hands with anyone else and follow the guide, but sometimes you just have to go with the flow (or quite literarily against it in this case). I have to say we had great fun!

Sorry no pictures from Dunns River as we didn't risk the camera, although we did buy the video (strictly for private viewing). Here are some pictures from the nearby tropical gardens instead - very similar scenery!

Jamaica done. Not somewhere I would particularly rush back to, because sadly it was true. Muttering a polite no-thank-you to any trader was the worst possible thing you could do, and you cannot get out of Dunns River Falls without passing through a rustic local market.

Fortunately, our next stop, Nassau in the Bahamas proved to be the complete contrast – totally hassle free, and it was bonus stop because originally the ship had been destined for Cococay, the cruise company’s own island. Cococay was due to provide nothing more than a day on the beach, where you could invest in a floating beach-mat, a luxury cabana or swim with dolphins. I was slightly concerned at the lack of wild dolphins in the Caribbean and came to the conclusion that most must have been rounded up for swimming with cruise-passenger's experiences.

A bad weather forecast diverted us to the safety of Nassau harbour – so rather than spend the day in an artificial resort, we got to spend it in a real one! The only downside was that on Cococay we’d have been able to use our complimentary drinks package, where as in Nassau I had to buy my own Bahama Mama cocktail - oh and of course we had to drag ourselves around a historic British fort,  take in all that stuffy old colonial architecture, oh and even worse, visit the slave museum. Yuck. its no wonder people prefer the Disneyfied  version.  Who wants all that culture? Me, me, me (in case anyone doesn’t get the sarcasm).

The Queen's Steps in Nassau - carved out of rock by slaves

I loved the Bahamas. I loved the whole cruise. Definitely something I’d do again although I’m not totally convinced about Celebrity. There was just a little too much hard sell – too many little extra’s which to be fair, our on-board allowance mostly covered. Mr T and I are not natural shoppers, or big spenders. I found it quite sad that our port guides consisted of little more than brochures for Celebrity's organised excursions and directions to the local shopping districts, rather than providing any information on the geography or heritage of the islands themselves. 

Mr T and I are not materialistic. We don't need diamonds and watches (or at least not one from every port) - we have each other.  My $10 wet shoes were definitely the buy of the cruise.

On Vacation Episode Four - A Tale of Two Beaches

This was what we had come for. Our first stop in the Caribbean and a half day tour on the island of Cozumel off the coast of Mexico. All those years in California and we’d never been to Mexico, so we were very excited. Cruises call into Cozumel primarily because it is (apparently) very good for snorkelling and it's also within striking distance of the mainland Mayan ruins at Chichen Itza – six hours travelling for one and half hours at the site. We gave that a miss and instead opted for a tour to the ‘mini’ ruins of a Mayan fertility temple at San Gervasio, just thirty minutes drive from the ship. 

Iguana’s scuttled over the ruins, exotic birds fluttered in the trees, it was hot, dusty, everything Mexico should be.  Less impressive was the subsequent beach stop – it was not the quiet Caribbean idyll I’d been hoping for, but party-city with regimented rows of sun-loungers and a Total Wipeout style inflatable water park.

As our guide Mauricio was at pains to point out, amigos, Cozumel's only source of income is tourism. The cruise season only lasts from December until May, and a quiet week only brings 5-7 ships. I suppose the locals have to try and make as much out of it as they can.

Still, I had to keep the faith. Paradise was just an overnight sail away. 

Insider information is a wonderful thing. One of my new friends in Amsterdam had spent six years living in the Cayman Islands.  As we docked in George Town I clutched her e-mail in my hot sweaty palms. We by-passed the hawkers at the terminal gates urging us to take their taxi, or their guided tour. Instead, we did as instructed and flagged down the local bus and headed out to Cemetery Beach.

It may not sound like an exotic location and as the bus driver dropped us off at an isolated spot on the roadside and pointed to a rough track between a bungalow and a graveyard I must admit I had my doubts.

'It looks like we're walking through somebody's garden...' I remarked to Mr T  before we realised that we actually were, and that the path we should have followed was  on the other side of the fence. But it didn't matter. We ignored the 'keep out' signs and hopped over the rope that separated the private property from the sand, and there we were. Paradise.

Our ship had docked in Cayman ahead of schedule, and as our bodies had yet to adjust to the time difference we were up and off the ship before anyone else. It really is the early bird who catches the worm. Apart from a couple of random chickens, we  had the place to ourselves for the best part of an hour. White sand, blue sky, turquoise sea.  

As more people began to intrude into our sanctuary we headed back into town for a lunchtime beer and a strawberry Daquiri which was absolutely vital to wash down the taste of the local delicacy - Conch Fritters. Sampling the conch fritters was probably the one piece of insider advice we should have ignored.  Definitely an acquired taste and definitely NOT something I’ll be trying again.

Paradise ticked off the list. Next stop, Jamaica.