I move the seat up then adjust it to the proper height. I fasten my seatbelt and look into the rearview and side mirrors. “Daddy’s seat!” Baby Girl protests from the back seat. “I know Honey, but today it’s Mama’s seat.” I respond, careful to mask my nervousness and the fact that I completely agree with her. This is Daddy’s seat. I again, check my sideview mirror and wait for six bikes to pass me. With my hands on “10 and 2”, I cautiously wedge the car out of its paralleled parking spot. I feel 16 all over again, except I’m not driving a 1967 brown army tank of a Buick down a 3-lane boulevard in
I’m painstakingly maneuvering a black 4-door tiny Honda on a brick
street in The Netherlands, with two little children in seats behind me. I take a deep breath as I crawl down the
road behind the pack of bicycles that had just passed me. The road widens. They move to the right and I slowly pass
them. Every muscle in my body exerts
happiness as I press the accelerator gently.
I am moving down the road without exerting physical effort! This is so wonderful, so lazy! I continue my pep-talk as I pass the windmill
at the end of our block and approach the stop light. “Honestly, Celeste” I say to myself, “Which
is scarier? Driving through Leiden at
the speed of approximately 20 miles per hour (32 Kph) with the possibility of
hitting a cyclist, or flying down the Dallas North Tollway in a 2-door
convertible topping speeds at 80 miles per hour (130 Kph)?” I nestle myself in my plush seat. It’s so comfortable. It’s so…upright! I glance at my kids in the back seat as I’m
waiting for the light to turn green.
They are so safe, surrounded
by car seats and doors! I adjust the A/C
just because I can, take a sip of my
coffee, and turn up the new Mumford & Sons CD my husband recently purchased
and had put in the car stereo. Old
habits die hard. I always tuck a
jumbo-sized cup of coffee in my bike when I take my daughter to school across
town with the intentions of taking a sip while stopped at a light, or finishing
the cup once I’ve dropped her off. But
the logistics of commuting are different when biking vs. driving. A cup of coffee is hardly what you want to
drink after pedaling 2 ½ miles (4 kilometers).
But it is what you want as a reward after you’ve successfully dressed
yourself and two kids and dropped your daughter off at school. See: conflicted. I continue to drive through Plano,
and follow the same route via road that I would have followed had I biked with
the kids, as close as I can. I know
where the cyclists will be coming from.
I am one of them. There is
understanding and respect in what is familiar.
I brake to let pedestrians pass at the cross walks. I make room for the bikes as people do for
me. Cars creep through the city at a
painfully slow pace. Drivers are always
conscious of the possibilities of bikes coming from all directions, sometimes
with the right-of-way, sometimes not.
After six months of being the cyclist, I know the difference between the
rights of ways, and I am confident with my driving abilities on the familiar
roads. My daughter’s school is in the
middle of a park in the middle of a neighborhood. With everything here, there are pros and cons
logistically. On my bike, I pedal up to
the front of the school, leaving my son in the carrier of the bike as I kiss
her goodbye and hang up her jacket.
Today, I park the car. I load my
son in his stroller then push him and hold my daughter’s hand, while we make
the 100-yard trek to her school. I’m
happy that it’s not raining or snowing.
The thrill of driving may be tempered with other emotions in a few
months when this is the end of the line and the weather is harsher. I drop her off, exclaim my accomplishment to
her teacher, “I drove!” who luckily, like any good teacher does, applauds me in
my elementary efforts. My son and I
drive back home, no sweat (literally!) and I turn onto our street. My elated aura of triumph diminishes rapidly
and I exclaim outloud, “Oh NO! I’m going
to have to parallel park!” (which by
the way, I could do. . . seamlessly. . . when I drove a 2-door convertible) but
as anyone who has to parallel park regularly knows, it takes awhile to get the
rhythm down with each car. Luckily on
this Monday morning at , there
was a space in front of my house wide enough to park an 18-wheeler, so I simply
and happily just drove into the parking spot.
What prompted this overwhelming surge of confidence? Or wait, why is driving such a big deal? Why haven’t I driven a car in nine months? Okay, so, you can read my previous blog post, or I can offer the Cliffs Notes version here: The bikes. In The Netherlands, people bike everywhere. It’s a fantastic and efficient method of transportation. The
is small and compact (our home is only 6 yards wide!) and everything stems from
there. This is not a land for the
claustrophobic (believe me, because I am!) and with that, bikes fit the bill. There are a handful of parking lots, few
multi-lane roads, and bike lanes are available everywhere. You can traverse a city driving 20 MPH or
more efficiently weave your bike down cobblestone alleys. Biking is the primary mode of transportation
in Holland. This is what people do. Rain, shine, or otherwise, this is part of
the culture. Driving with the bikes all over the place is a nerve-wrecking
experience, even as a passenger riding shot-gun as my husband is behind the wheel. They have the right of way, so seemingly, at
any moment of time, one can dart across the road, you must yield, and for
months, I had visions of me driving while cyclists flew across my
So again, after six months of cycling, what prompted me to drive my children across town? Was I granted the seemingly-unattainable Dutch drivers’ license post-multiple hours of supervised study? No: luckily for me, we were issued licenses without a multitude of tests, unlike some unfortunate Expats. Did the Zigo have a flat tire? No. Although, I do admit, in June my bicycle tire was flat, and my daughter did not go to school that day. (Add that to my list of things I’d never say/do in
America.) It was something simpler than that. “Life in a foreign country is a dance of
submission and resistance.
Self-knowledge comes in small repeated shocks as you find yourself
giving in easily, with a struggle, or not at all. What can you do without? What do you cling to?” Rhiannon Paine writes
in Expat Women’s True Tales of Life Abroad.
Last week, after our grocery delivery was cancelled, I biked (with Little
Man) to a local grocery store. My
father-in-law was coming into town for the weekend, and I had multiple meals to
prepare (dining in public with two kids under 2 ½ is just not an option I
prefer to exercise, plus I love cooking, especially when there are extra hands
in the house to entertain the kids.)
After traversing through the tiny aisles, my son about to jump out of
the grocery cart as I pack my own
groceries (of course they don’t have grocery cart seat belts, they bike
their kids around atop handle bars without helmets. Seat belts, like using your
turn signals in New England, are for wimps.) I load my bike with a 7lb bag of dog food, 2
bottles of water, a kilo of salmon, a kilo of chicken, multiple bottles of
wine, multiple cans of food, and a cornucopia worth of fresh vegetables and
fruit. Little Man, is packaged in the
carrier amongst the groceries, another bag of groceries is slung over my
shoulder. Exasperated, I flag down a
teenager on her way into the store. I
don’t even bother with my cursory “Spreekt u Engels?” as I hand over my cart I
say to her, “Do you need this?” Luckily
the Dutch youth are fluent in English and she doesn’t even skip a beat, “No,
I’m going into work,” she says. I nod to
her, “Please. Will you return this cart?
Just take the 50-cents.” And I wave her
and the cart away desperately. As far as I’ve seen, The Netherlands has this
tedious system to encourage cart returns and prevent cart stealing. The grocery carts are locked to each other,
and in order to unlock them, you must put a 50-cent or 1 Euro coin into the
slot to unlock it and use it. According
to the Xenophonbe’s guide to the Dutch, “Accumulating money is a virtue. Spending it is a vice.” I did not want to be
the only person in the country that ever failed to return their cart. No one leaves their carts unattended in a
parking lot. That one 50 cent coin is so much more than a 50 cent coin. This would be the equivalent to forgetting to
get your change out of vending machine.
The sweet teenage girl, after sublimely telling her, “please, just take
the 50-cents, I can’t possibly maneuver groceries, a baby, a bike, and a
grocery cart at the same time,” returned my cart and as I was throwing my leg
over the bike, anxious to flee the scene, flagged me down and brought me back
my 50-cent piece. I smiled, shook my
head at her angelic honesty and I pedaled my baby and 90 Euros of groceries,
wearing my poncho, in the rain. After
that, I told myself, I am no longer giving in easily. I’m
taking the lead in this dance of resistance and submission.
I drove my daughter to school. I drove my son to the grocery store. I drove my family to a garden center to buy mums to plant in our front yard to celebrate the arrival of autumn. I did not run over any cyclists. I almost felt. . . American.
The unfamiliar becomes familiar. The impossible become possible. With exposure comes understanding and acceptance. Then the familiar surfaces again. Transformed, like a butterfly, it is more beautiful in its newly enlightened state. The process takes time and patience at a pace that only you can be comfortable with. Sometimes we are waiting for the world. Sometimes the world is just waiting for us.