A Dutch dairy carnival

Being an ex-pat in the Netherlands, I've heard a lot of stereotypes about the Dutch.  Like all stereotypes, some are completely baseless and others, at least in my experience, are not.  Take dairy.  The Dutch like their dairy more than most.  It may be that not every Dutchman or woman is crazy for the stuff, but it certainly seems more prevalent than I remember it being in China or in Canada.  Conference breaks see glasses laid out with your standard juices, alcohol and buttermilk.  Before my husband was diagnosed as a celiac, clearly wasting away, fragile and in chronic pain, one memorable visit to the doctor had her suggesting that the solution might simply be that he wasn't eating enough dairy.  "Go home and make sure that you drink lots of buttermilk and eat more yogurt." was her advice.

This belief of mine, that the Dutch are enamored with dairy in a way that foreigners can never fully grasp, was even more ingrained a few days ago.  As it was one of the days that my daughter was at the creche, I was busy at the kitchen table my desk, working.  The day was lovely and I had the kitchen door open, the afternoon air was still and heavy - the perfect conditions for being totally immersed in my thoughts.  Slowly, though, music started to penetrate my thoughts.  At first quite quiet, I heard ragtime music, coming from the neighbour.  I found it strange, as our neighbours tend to be strictly top 40, but still, it was pleasant.  Then, the music grew louder and the acoustics shifted.  I realized that it wasn't coming from next door at all.  It was coming from the front of the house.  As it's not unusual for marching bands to go by occasionally for reasons completely unknown to me, I rushed to the front, hoping to watch.  The ringing of the doorbell beat me to it.  Opening the door, I found myself facing a robust and exuberant woman in a large florescent green hat.  She handed me a carton of milk, cheerfully explained that it was in support of local dairy farmers and then she was off.  Across and down the street were several other similarly dressed people, all ringing doorbells. Once the surprise wore off, I found that I couldn't stop laughing, and I was in a great mood for the rest of the day.  I truly believe that this is one experience that could only happen in the Netherlands.

Home but not home

They don't grow wild in the cold, dry landscape of Northern Alberta, where I'm from, so I associated poppies with November. From a very early age, all school children learn "In Flanders Fields". We repeat it, in chorus, while watching slideshows of the horrors of war; we study it in conjunction with the history of our nation at war. Those of us of a certain age associated it strongly with the terrible things that our beloved grandparents suffered through. And in turn, we associate these things with the small plastic red poppy that we wear on our breast in remembrance. I'm not sure, growing up, if it every occurred to me that poppies are a real flower, and if it did occur to me, it was certainly a fleeting thought.

On moving to the Netherlands, I was surprised to find that they grow wild, like a weed. Orange poppies push their way up through the cracks in the sidewalks and along side houses. I find them beautiful and they bring me a sense of peace each time I see one, but it is the red ones that grow wild alongside the train tracks that I can't stop looking at. Each train ride, at the right time of year, finds me staring out into the wild grasses spattered with bright spots of brilliant red, feeling nostalgic for home and proud of my heritage.

Dutch composting

Dutch neighbourhood waste removal is a wonderful thing. Each house is issued a pass, which opens a large metal container that buries deep into the ground and holds all of the garbage for the houses in the area. Each day, to the delight of my small child, a truck comes, attaches to the top of the container, lifts it up and dumps the refuse into it's belly before returning it to the ground.

 It wasn't always this way. Before there was the hole, each house had a standard issue black bin that needed to be wheeled out to the street once week and then retrieved the next day. When the hole was built, the city collected the bins, but somehow, we missed the memo, leaving us with a big black bin in our small backyard. Instead of fessing up and turning the bin in like we should have, J drilled a few holes in it and - just like that - we had a compost bin.

At first, in my enthusiasm, I composted everything. All the time. I saw myself as an urban environmental warrior. Then, as winter set in, I became less enthusiastic until, citing snow and ice, I called a temporary cease. As spring warmed the air, I started feeling more inclined to wander outside without a jacket for the sake of a banana peel and a few egg shells. That is until, in the full heat of summer, the stench, the fruit flies and the spiders claimed the mulch and slowly rotting fruits and vegetables as theirs. And so, this is how I've come to mark the seasons. In the spring and fall, the compost is mine; in the winter and summer it lies fallow.

This summer, though, has been different. Perhaps it's apathy, perhaps it's the unseasonably cold weather, but I haven't been able to find the motivation for it this year. I've been feeling a bit guilty about it though, and as luck would have it, I think I've hit on the solution.

One of D's favorite pastimes is feeding the animals at the local petting zoo. Currently, there is a large mama pig with ten piglets, loads of sheep and goats, and several aggressive peacocks. This being the Netherlands, bread is plentiful and cheap (except for us what with gluten-free bread being almost pricier than gold), meaning that many families show up with an entire bag full of fresh bread. The animals expect this and, with the exception of the lamas and sheep, all go all of which go crazy at the site of a slice of bread. Although the animals are kept behind a fence, the fence isn't locked and people are free to run around inside in order to try and pet the goats and sheep, but normally, the children stand at designated feeding stations. At the site of bread, the mama pig will push her babies out of the way, and it's quite common for the goats to lock horns over a piece of crust.

Up until my brilliant 'aha' moment, we'd been feeding the animals the leftover crusts that D, with her two year old reasoning, finds icky. I'm not sure why it took me so long to figure out, perhaps because I've never seen anyone else offer anything but bread, but one day it occurred to me that if they would eat bread, they surely they would eat other foods too. And so, yesterday, having collected a few scraps, off we headed to our new 'compost' system. Success! The mama piggy fought with her babies of the apple cores and a few slices of lettuce. Not those goats, though. They turned up their noses at the lettuce and the apples. They're good Dutch goats, through and through.

Love it/Hate it

I love the fact that I live in a country where every grocery store has, right along side the full-size grown-up carts, little carts for little people. Do other countries have these? I don't know, but I have trouble picturing my little busy body wandering around in one of the massive box grocery stores that I remember from home. It kills me to watch her put the coin into her little cart and then push it around the store, sometimes getting distracted and wandering off, but most of the time, dutifully and enthusiastically, helping find the bananas, or the tomatoes. She loves the feeling of independence it gives her and it makes life a lot easier than having her squirm in the cart for the entire trip.

What I hate is that the stores have figured out that little shoppers, along with helping put things into the cart, actually like to have a say in what ultimately goes into the cart. Certainly, I've known that what you're expected to buy is at eye level, but it had never occurred to me that this would apply to adults as well as toddlers. Since my eyes have rarely wandered down to those bottom rows unless I'm really searching for something special, I've finding that up until now, I've been oblivious to a whole range of products. I'm looking at you, Bob the Builder Luncheon Meat! And don't think I haven't got a bone to pick with you, too, Disney Princesses Cupcake Mix. Since I don't actually cave to the many, many, many items that somehow find their way into our cart each week, I suppose I should be grateful for the many, many, many 'teaching opportunities' that are presented to me, but mostly, I'm just annoyed.

A different perspective

Life abroad is a strange confluence of states of being. It is at once exotic, confusing, challenging, and mundane. The longer one is away, the more the balance tilts towards the mundane. This is at once good and bad. Trepidation is replaced by confidence, you've navigated most of the red tape and come out the other side stronger for it, the customs and culture are more familiar and so you're less likely to offend, or be offended, you know where to buy your favorite toothpaste, you've made a few friends. Life becomes easier. It's unfortunate, though, that the trade off is that daily life looses a bit of sparkle. Slowly, slowly, bit by bit, so subtly that you barely notice it, the newness of it all wears off and just becomes...life. The houses on your street are no longer quaint, they're just the place where you live (and why can't the city do something about that missing cobblestone, already?), a trip to the grocery store is no longer an adventure, instead it's simply a quick errand to pick up some milk. You try very hard to remember to appreciate what you have, but sometimes, when you're running late, you're trying to herd a cranky toddler, and you realize that you have cereal in your hair and the girl at the check-out is seemingly deliberately misunderstanding you, it's tough to do.

You never fully forget, though. Every once in a while, when you least expect it, the fates hand you a gift and say 'Here! Take a look at this!' and you remember that yes, you have a gift in this incredible foreign life. Such was it yesterday.

The Dutch have a word for their obsession for skating - schaatskoorts, or skating fever. Every year, as the temperature drops, the word is on everyone's lips as they collectively wait anxiously for the ice to thicken. This year was no exception, and was perhaps even more so as it had been unseasonably warm all year and hope was almost lost. When the thermometer finally fell, fast and hard, the conditions were perfect for ice formation.

Saturday afternoon, we were able to get out and enjoy it. Although the entire city seemed to have sold out of skates, we were still able to get down onto the canals and walk around the city, admiring the beautiful bridges, the old buildings and the houseboats. Along with the rest of the city, we slowly made our way around the star-shaped canals that ring Zwolle's centre, enjoying the festive atmosphere as we stopped to chat with neighbours and for a warm Chocomel from one of the impromptu cafes that had popped up on the ice. It was magical. As we walked, I had a feeling that I haven't experienced in quite a while, a feeling that seems to have swelled from my heart, a feeling that said 'Wow!!!! I can't believe how lucky I am to live here!'

Gimme some suga'

Vanilla is non-existent in the Netherlands. Ask any ex-pat what they get friends and family to bring them from home, and the answer is inevitably 'vanilla'. I've mentioned this to Dutch friends, and they're always confused. "Well, it's right there in the supermarket", they say. "Perhaps you're not looking hard enough." To be fair, I've found small bottles of that nasty 'essence of vanilla' stuff, but the real thing has yet to appear to me. Thus, I've been toying with the idea of making my own vanilla. Of course, I've still got loads left from the family express. For fun, though, I've been looking into the exact 'how' of it, and low and behold, I came across something called 'vanilla sugar'. Turns out, it's vanilla infused sugar - you substitute a bit for regular sugar in place of liquid to liquid vanilla to same effect. And, sure enough, it's right there in the baking aisle of the grocery store. Huh.

Still, I've got an itch to make my own now. Today I went out and bought a mason jar, a vanilla pod, threw it all together and placed it in a dark cupboard I'm trying very hard not to peak.

Choices, Choices

After months of weighing our options, we've settled on a destination. Really, when it comes down to it, there's not all that much of a choice. With Jason working 2 1/2 hours away from Amsterdam, commuting was out of the question. We toyed, off and on, with the idea of moving to Dwingeloo, a village of under 3000, half an hour away from the nearest train station but within biking distance of Jason's work. If there's one thing I'm certain of though is that I'm not a country-livin' girl, so however picturesque Dwingeloo might be, it had to be veto-d.

This left two towns of any stature left within reasonable traveling distance, Groningen to the North, and Zwolle to the South. Of the two, Groningen is certainly more appealing. With a major university, the city is the only major center in the North of the country, making it one of the more youthful, active cities in the country. Zwolle, by contrast, is an unremarkable, smaller city an hour and a half North of Amsterdam.

Our first instinct was immediately Groningen. However, thinking a bit more critically, it became less clear that this was the obvious choice. While certainly a happening city, it's by no means got all that the South has to offer. Two and a half hours away from the international airport can make a huge difference when you've already spent 15+ hours on a plane, and this goes for both us as well as any visitors we hope to tempt into visiting us. The issue of visitors applies too to simply visiting the Netherlands. While I'd like to think that family and friends making the trip over here are here simply for us, the majority of the major tourist destinations are in the South, which would require them to stay in a hotel away from us, commute five hours a day, or simply forgo the pleasures that Delft, Gouda, Amsterdam et al have to offer.

Furthermore, even family relations within the Netherlands would likely suffer. Jason has a large and close-knit extended family here and like most Amsterdammers, anything half an hour or more away is simply unimaginably far. Which is fair, in the case anyway, as I certainly wouldn't be too pleased to be making a five hour round-trip for a three hour dinner.

And then, there's the question of work. While I have a contract in Amsterdam that will go until the 1st of January, I'm crossing my fingers that it'll be renewed. Even if it isn't though, I've started to create a small but growing network of contacts down here that would be less effective in the North. All in all, while Groningen sounds like a great place to live, it doesn't seem to fit our particular needs.

And so, by process of elimination, we've arrived at Zwolle.

Flat as a pancake

One of the most amazing things about the Netherlands is how incredibly flat it is. A natural biker, I'm not. I get lost easily in the labyrinth streets, I'm skittish about the traffic (and this is in a country with dedicated bike paths), I'm even more skittish about the pedestrians (re: tourists) who inadvertently wander in front of me, seemingly out of nowhere, and I'm embarrassed to say that I still occasionally have to spend a few minutes locating my bike out of the myriad indistinguishable rusty old bikes parked in the same vicinity as mine. What I've found I do like about biking, at least in Amsterdam, is that it's easy.

Settled on land reclaimed from the sea, the builders of Amsterdam had the foresight to make it flat. As in very very very flat. As in, the very slight slope on a street a few blocks over is worthy of remark. It always catches my eye.

Just how level Amsterdam is was brought home to me when Jason and I made a day trip out to Zuid-Kennemerland National Park yesterday. We, and our bikes, took a quick train out to Haarlem and then headed west on our bikes. The park is notable for it's large sand dunes and I'll admit that before we got there, I wasn't entirely sure how we were going to bike this with our aging one speed bikes. For some reason, perhaps it was the word dune, in my imagination I had pictured hill after hill of sand leading us down to the sea; camel optional. To my surprise, we didn't end up in the Sahara.

Rather, Dutch sand dunes are covered in some of the most beautiful and unique trees and brush that I've ever seen. Very hilly, the landscape is covered in low flora in a range of muted greens, silvers and greys with a few low flowery patches, although I expect that more flowers will appear as the sun becomes stronger. It's the roots of these plants that help protect the sand lying just under the surface, clearly visible on horse trails that appear from time to time. To protect the delicate ecosystem, some areas of which are protected areas set away from the public, the Dutch have built biking and walking paths through the dunes. Even here, wandering through the hills, are the bike paths impressively flat, or so I thought. As a novice biker, it appears that I have landed in the right town. After a day spent biking inclines almost negligible to the human eyes, the ache in my legs was a testament to Amsterdam's impressive uniform flatness.

Better than Christmas?

I'd been told that every April 30th on Koninginnedag, or Queen's Day, the Netherlands holds the party to end all parties, a spectacle like no other, the day when the country turns orange and floods the streets with celebrations.

It's a bit of a cliche to say that the Dutch are a reserved people, but cliches do come from somewhere, right? When I woke up yesterday, I was expecting a good day, but didn't quite believe the hype. Wow, was I wrong! I'm a total convert.

A bit of background; Koninginnedag is generally celebrated by the wearing of the colour orange, a nod to the Royal family and the House of Orange. It is the one day of the year where a license is not needed for sales, and consequently the entire country becomes one massive yard sale. As the day progresses, the sales give way to a more adult version of 'anything goes' as the streets become packed with drunken celebrations.

Jason and I started our day early. We were out of the house by 10am and I was shocked to see that the major streets near our house were already lined with what can only be described as old crap and bargain-hunters desperate to find those few items that weren't; essentially a typical yard sale, except that this one could be measured in kilometers. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised; chalk outlines had appeared two days earlier, marking out reserved spaces for those on their game. We had a good wander through, looking at the old dvd's, books, clothes, batteries and dodgy looking appliances before heading east of the Linnaeusstraat into an area more populated with young families.

By the end of the morning, I was convinced that if I had grown up as a Dutch child, I would have looked forward to Koninginnedag more than Christmas. Within a few small blocks was contained more family fun than I may have experienced in my entire life. Faces were being painted with flags, orange crowns and less traditional but perhaps more child-friendly subjects like dragons and princesses. Under orange construction paper hats was hair spray-painted to match. Lining the sides of the streets were all types of children's rides. There were small steam engine trains, carousels, and miniature carnival swing rides. In keeping with the free market, also, were all types of services. Everywhere were booths selling all manner of services. There were orange cupcakes and orange juice, natch. There was a booth set up for children to hammer away at indescribable creations. Children banged away at drums, violins and guitars every half block or so. There were water balloon booths, and one child was selling glances into a mysterious box. The streets were congested with families. Parents pushed baby carriages and small children rode on their father's shoulders or clung to their parents' hands and through all of this occasionally would wander groups of adults that define labels. The one that stands out most were a group of 7 men dressed in black, carrying very large inner tubes on their heads. By the time we headed home for lunch, I was convinced that Koninginnedag is the greatest day ever.

After a quick break, we headed back out but this time towards the center of the city. One of the most fascinating aspects of the day is the slow transition from full-on market place, to family friendly festival to adult debauchery. By 1pm, the streets of the Utrechtsestraat were already cluttered with empty beer cans, broken wine bottles, dancers, the occasional passed-out inebriated merrymaker and more shades and manner of orange outfit than I could have ever imagined. Jason didn't look even a little bit out of place in his orange Pippi Longstocking wig, and my orange feather boa was embarrassingly tame. As we wandered around the city, the streets became more and more crowded and more and more noisy. Almost at the corner of every street was an impromptu party complete with dj and speaker system peaking just as we neared the free outdoor concert at the Museumplein, when it took almost twenty minutes to work our way down one block. The congestion extended to the waterways as well, where the canals were so packed with party boats that we were able to watch for awhile as revelers jumped from boat to boat and then walk ahead, leaving them behind to try and work their way along the canals.

By the time I dragged my poor, long-suffering feet home, the sun was setting but the festivities were going strong, the garbage was continuing to pile high, and I was a complete convert.

Like a rolling stone

After a long, long, long hiatus, I've decided to start updating my blog again.

To catch up all of my 2 remaining readers....

-I left China in mid-December. We tried to make it work. We really did. We left on amicable terms, but ultimately, it wasn't meant to be.

-I spent a whirlwind month at home over the Christmas holidays catching up on all kinds of paperwork and not managing to see anyone that I was supposed to. If you are one of those people, I apologize.

-I arrived in Amsterdam in mid-January to join my partner, Jason. Unlike China, I think the Netherlands and I have a chance. My first hint was that there is cheese here. Lots of cheese. Everywhere.

-I have spent the last month acclimatizing, and have now settled into looking for jobs (Canadian jobs of the work from home, contract variety) and trying to teach myself Dutch).


Naturally, this means I'm at home, in front of the computer quite a bit. Keep an eye on this space, there'll be more of this heading the way of the interweb on a semi-regular basis.