Somewhere Over the Rainbow

Somewhere Over the Rainbow

     It is mid-July and has been raining for 13 days straight.  The temperature has not risen above 62 degrees and my father-in-law’s words to me, “Some years, The Netherlands just stays cold all year,” are ringing like a fire alarm in my ears.  My daughter’s Dutch teacher a few weeks ago said to me, “Oh, I hope we have a summer!” I feel like Pete Campbell from Mad Men talking to his secretary.  I have expectations, and although they do not appear unreasonable from my perspective, perhaps in this particular environment, I am viewed as a spoiled brat.  “What are you even talking about?” I want to respond, with a deathly serious tone in my voice.  No summer?  As if the result of the earth turning on its axis optional?  It’s the equivalent to hoping the sun rises tomorrow.  The secretary just shrugs and tells Pete, “I’m sure it’s nothing,” and goes on about her day.  Everyone here knows this.  Perhaps this is why the Dutch are seemingly unemotional.  With this unpredictable weather – usually too cold, persistently windy, and consistently overcast, they have learned to not let it affect them. I, on the other hand, am about as collected as a pregnant woman – ridiculously moody and always just a tad uncomfortable. 

   To add to the fun of completing yet more rainy day projects (a term, I’m beginning to think doesn’t really motivate or excite people like it does in the U.S., it would be like saving projects for a humid day in Houston or a sunny day in L.A.), my husband spent last week in the Ukraine.  With his departure on Sunday morning and return on Friday evening - I was nervous about the looming 132-hour-shift with the kids I found myself facing.  In the end, it was actually pretty successful and I used the time to get creative with the kids and myself.  As the rain fell outside, we completed art projects in the morning and drew with sidewalk chalk on the front porch in the afternoons (sticking close to home so we could dart back inside when the rain fell again in the evenings).  I alternated Yoga and Jillian workout videos and completed Rosetta Stone Dutch lessons.  I started reading a new book and went to bed early.  I think it was important for me to realize that I could keep my kids entertained for a week while maintaining my own sanity (well, for the most part) without my husband home.  I do think it was lonelier than I realized, though.  A lot of Expats complain about the loneliness of the experience, but I had originally found the opposite to be true.  Between commuting to work and sitting in a library-like office in my solitary cube in Texas, I had a lot of quiet time to myself.  Even on busy days with meetings, I typically still had an hour lunch break to sit and read or run errands by myself.  Here, I am never alone taking care of my two kids around the clock, which has been one of the biggest adjustments.  After V returned on Friday evening, we had a good weekend, but as the rain started to fall (again) on Monday morning, I found myself in a cloud of disappointment when his plans to work from home that day were spoiled and he had to drive into the office.  As I watched my daughter decorate the letter L during “art time” that morning I stared out into the wet backyard garden and realized, perhaps for the first time, I was really kind of homesick.  I miss being warm, driving, and drive-thru windows.  I miss my local library and Barnes and Noble where I can drive and park to entertain my children.  I miss stores that are open past 5 p.m.  I miss having someone to talk to besides my children (who although, are entertaining, aren’t exactly the best conversationalists) and my husband.  Poor V.  I have a lot of frustrations, and he’s the one who gets to hear them all, even if they’re ahem, about him.  I guess it’s good from a ‘communication’ standpoint for our relationship, but I’m sure it gets old, too.   

   Although I’ve never seen a rainbow here (hum, perhaps the 40-days-straight of rain promise doesn’t apply here?), I think I’m about to enter into a new chapter that’s filled with more color and sunshine, even if the rain still falls.  I am soon going to have distraction upon distraction in the form of friends visiting me here in Leiden during the next few months, the thought of which, makes me very happy and filled with hope.    

  I’m excited, anxious, and thankful for the opportunity to host visitors.  It’s been a long time since I’ve seen anyone from home and I feel like a freshman in college.  You probably all remember your first day at college.  All the emotions you felt as you said goodbye to your family and moved into your dorm room – excited, relieved, scared, apprehensive, questioning, hopeful you name it – were the same feelings I felt the day we arrived in The Netherlands.   (Cue flashback blurriness and marimba chromatic scale music. . .)

     My children, my Dad, and I arrive in The Netherlands at 8:00 a.m. in January.  It’s still dark outside and I can tell through the windows of the jet bridge, that it is cold and drizzly.  My Dad successfully loads our 7 checked suitcases and travel crib onto two luggage carts, while I push my baby’s stroller.  My sweet 21-month old daughter must walk herself, there are no more hands to hold or carry her.   She pads through customs in her footed pajamas.  We near the sliding glass doors.  I know that on the other side of those doors are my husband, which I have not seen in three weeks, and my new life, of two years.  The frosted doors slide open.  My Dad, with the help of some friendly Dutch customs agents maneuvers the massive piles of luggage and my daughter, baby, and I follow.  We are all disoriented, tired, and confused.  I see a large, looming, Starbucks.  And then I see him, my smiling husband, and he’s holding two red tulips in his hands, one for my daughter and one for me.   We walk to him and embrace.  I’d like to cry out of just pure joy of seeing him again, but I’m so exhausted from taking care of my newborn baby and daughter for three weeks without him, while wrapping up my job, moving out of our home, and flying across the world, I just can’t muster the tears.   I’m happy to have the trip over with.  I’m anxious for what is to come next.  

   We drive through the Dutch countryside via a large highway.  We maneuver through a picturesque neighborhood and pass a large church with a clock on its tower.  We drive past large, square apartment buildings which look like they were built in the 60s or 70s.  Then we turn onto our street.  There are three-story continuous brick homes with tiny front yards.  These homes are 100-years old and survived the bombs of WWII.  We pull up to our new home and my Dad is standing outside waiting in the drizzle.  There just wasn’t enough room for our entire luggage to fit inside of our Dutch car and he had taken a taxi.  We unload and I step inside.  It is empty of furniture, but I can tell that V has made an exceptional effort to make it homey, despite the pile of cardboard boxes in what was to become our dining room.  New vases of red, orange, and blue decorate the mantels and hold happy yellow and pink tulips.  Luckily, our air shipment had arrived, and the card table has been equipped with a new purple tablecloth and there is another vase full of colorful flowers.  There are more flowers in the sink.   

   I slowly discover my new home.  There are hardwood floors and chandeliers.  There are three floors and original stained-glass doors leading from the dining to the living room.  I am in love with the house and all of the unseen opportunities it holds.  My daughter becomes equally excited as she discovers her stuffed animals, play kitchen, and easel are here.  The house is a little cold and empty, but I’m not worried.  Our furniture will be here soon.  And in the meantime, well, we’ll just do the best we can. 

   The next few days were a blur of broken hours of sleep and trips to the Dutch doctor in attempts to buy or borrow a nebulizer for my little baby.  (The American imported one fried the minute we plugged it in despite our conversion efforts).  He has bronchitis and I am equipped with months upon months’ supply of breathing treatments from our pediatrician in Dallas.  We can not just walk in somewhere and buy a nebulizer, like we did at CVS on New Year’s Day at home.  The pharmacies tell my husband over the phone that he needs a prescription.  We make a doctor’s appointment and my Dad, husband, daughter, son, and I walk over to the hospital.  We meet with our family doctor’s assistant (pediatricians are non-existent in this country) and attempt to explain the situation, but the doctor still refuses to give us a nebulizer that will fit the European outlets.  My 3-month old baby is weezing and I am distraught that no one will help me help him breathe easier with the medicine I have.  The doctor gives us a prescription for an inhaler and my family and my Dad trek over rivers and through the woods, literally, to the closest pharmacy – before 5:00 p.m., in order to get it filled. 

    Three days later, we drove my Dad to AMS and said goodbye.  I had another friend come and stay for a few days in February as we were still making do with our boxes disguised as play things for our daughter, but those two brief visits seem like decades ago.  Like a college student, I’ve spent an entire semester or so growing, learning, struggling, succeeding, and navigating my new world.  Now, it’s time to show off what I’ve learned.  It’s also strange, like Parent’s Weekend at college, to think that people I’ve known for a large chunk of my life are going to be here.  For six months I have been living in a world that I can call mine – as isolated and dysfunctional as it seems, sometimes.  To think that people from my old world will be here in my new world is unreal and exciting.  I hope they’re impressed with the university tour – “So this is where I sleep. . . this is where I eat. . .”

   I remember visiting College Station for my sister’s graduation.  After the ceremony my family headed to an apartment where most of her fellow cross-country members hung out a lot – lovingly known as the Track Shack.  I had been there before, as it had been home to many members of the team for years.  Think of the dirtiest college apartment you’ve seen and double it.  But that particular day, when my family and I entered, we were encountered with a surprise.  The boys had cleaned the apartment and had graduation presents on the coffee table for my sister.  Even these boys knew the importance of impressing my parents during one of their few visits into town and into their home.  My house in Leiden is far from dirty, but I want it to be perfect.  I’m menu-planning, rearranging furniture, hanging curtains, buying new soaps, and getting suggestions on where to go and what to do.   In all honesty, these are all things I would do or needed to do anyway, it’s just exciting to do the tasks with the intention of hosting friends soon.      

  So while the clouds may still be looming and the rain continues to pour, I am looking forward to the other side of the rainbow, like Dorothy, linked arm and arm with her best comrades, she enters a world surrounded by friends in a newly discovered territory.   

Take A Back Road

Bruges Markt

Take a Back Road

   

I love tourists.  I can easily spot them walking down the street in Leiden.  The signs are all there:  way too comfortable shoes (a.k.a. not boots or converse), the over-the-shoulder purse (women do use these here, but it’s while they’re riding their bikes), a nervous spring to their step, if you’re lucky, a fanny pack. Yes, I’ve seen them, which begs the question – do they still sell fanny packs or has that man been hoarding that fanny pack in his closet since 1987?  I don’t know.  But I love them all because I see them trying to nonchalantly review the map on the street corners while their children keep watch for the imaginary ruffians around.  I want to run over to them, point them in the right direction, and really make their day.  They are the only people in this city less familiar with all the inner-workings of everything than me.  I did help a lost Canadian once.  She walked up to me and asked if I spoke English, I happily replied “I do!” with probably a little too much enthusiasm.  She was in the train station parking lot, but she didn’t know it and was wondering where the train station was.   So, that was an easy question to answer.  See? I’m knowledgeable.

   After incorporating many of the lessons learned while traveling in Paris, my family took a road trip to Bruges for a long weekend in June.  Driving in the car was heavenly after the fiasco of the Thalys train to Paris.  As the highway stretched before me with fields aligning each side, I could almost imagine us driving down I-35.  To further complete the road-trip experience, we stopped off at a Texaco to fill the tank and grab lunch.  We feasted on made-to-order sandwiches of freshly baked bread, grilled chicken, and crisp vegetables.  It was kind of like Subway, if only Subway had a real bakery and a garden growing out back.  The drive was only 2 ½ hours and as we approached the town, the sun started to shine with a warmth we had not encountered this year.   Although the air was still crisp outside, its rays warmed the car to the point we had to turn on the A/C.  Happiness is the first time (not the 100^th time, like most of my friends in the U.S. are doing right now) you turn on the A/C of your car after a long winter.   We pulled off the highway and started viewing close-encounters with dairy cows.  I raised an eyebrow to my husband (the GPS has led us down questionable paths before – including instructions such as “board ferry”).  But I decided to trust it and sat back to enjoy the small country two-lane road it directed us down.        

  We had rented a gardenhome in the center of Bruges.  After passing by a small suburban-like neighborhood complete with an Aldi grocery store, we discovered the hidden jewel that is Bruges. 

“When the headquarters of the Hanseatic League moved from Bruges to Antwerp at the end of the 15th century, many merchants followed, leaving abandoned houses, deserted streets and empty canals. Bruges, a former hub of Europe, slept for 400 years.  The city slowly emerged from its slumber in the early 19th century as tourists passed through en route to the Waterloo battlefield near Brussels. In 1892 Belgian writer and poet Georges Rodenbach published Bruges-la-Morte (Bruges the Dead), a novel that beguilingly described the town’s forlorn air and alerted the well-heeled to its preserved charm. Curious, wealthy visitors brought much-needed money into Bruges, and sealed its fate as a town frozen in time.”

Read more: Lonely Planet

Gate leading into Bruges

After centuries, Bruges is still walled off from the world.  After curiously taking cues from the cars in front of us, we drove over the moat and through a large fortress-like gate into the town.  We maneuvered the car down the tiny cobblestone streets and to our surprise, were able to easily find parking on the street.  The streets were seemingly abandoned as we unloaded the car.   My husband retrieved the house-owner’s instructions from the front door of her house and our family inquisitively walked around the block, found the walled garden in the back and unlocked door.  Just like a secret garden, we were transported back in time and after tromping through the overgrown grasses, we found our tiny, but adequate garden home and entered.   The house was built in the 18^th century and the original stone fireplace still stood.  It’s funny how the mind works.  In a world of unfamiliar, my mind will often stretch to grasp the familiar in ways it may not normally reach so far.  As we played house in a Bruges garden home built centuries ago, I felt a tug on my mind.  The home reminded me of my grandmother’s home in Lubbock and the connection took a few days to pin-point: the floor was a rust-colored stone.  The living room in my grandma’s house was a rust-colored brick.  Despite the fact that she covered the brick with wall-to-wall carpeting when I was in elementary school, the memory still lingered in long-forgotten file cabinet of my mind.  It just took an ancient house in Bruges to dust it off and recall it.     

  All the guidebooks I had read described the town as an ideal backdrop for a fairytale.  Walking through the town the next day, I would agree that Disney must have stolen the scenery for Rapunzel’s and Belle’s trips through town from Bruges.  But beyond the architecture, Bruges reminded me of Disneyworld in many other ways.  The primary modes of transportation were your feet, carriage rides, and boat rides through tiny picturesque canals.  As we meandered through the streets, it did not feel as if any ‘real’ people lived there.  Even the lady who owned the house we stayed in seemed more like a ‘cast member’ than a real resident.  When she wasn’t bringing us breakfast, she was giving tours through the city.  Everywhere you looked people were glancing at maps, speaking English, and taking photos.  If you don’t like tourists, this is not the place for you.  Since we’ve been living here, I found it extremely comforting.  It was a quaint little town, small enough to see everything by walking, like Savannah in America.  It has lots of history, some great sights, a few manageable museums, and great food.   It wasn’t so overwhelming in that I didn’t feel guilty for taking a nap with my daughter on Saturday, while my over-excited husband and son wandered the town square and had a bottle.  (V: beer, Baby: milk, of course).  

  Belgium is proud of their fries, beer, chocolate, and waffles which is a recipe for some good old-fashioned family fun.  Something for everyone, right?!   There are some nice restaurants and a brewery in Bruges and I would suggest checking out those sights if you are in town without children or at least with children old enough successfully enjoy evening hours between 5:00 p.m. and bedtime. We were not, so we opted for the, let’s-buy-a-variety-of-Belgian-beers-at-the-store-and drink-them-in-our-garden-home-after-the-kids-are-asleep-option.  It may sound boring, but it wasn’t.  It was relaxing, which, I think, it what Bruges is all about.

  We took a canal ride and giggled as baby ducks were playfully swimming/being run over by the current created from the boat.  We had Italian and Egyptian take-out.  We took video of our daughter dancing in the Markt.  We shushed our children as we breathed in the peacefulness of the only remaining almshouse community in the city.   We ate Belgian chocolates in the shape of letters in front of ancient churches with the bells ringing.  Our favorite stop though, was the French Fry (Friets) museum.  Beyond zoos and aquariums, there are few museums which can catch the interest of a two year old, but French Fries are on the list.  We learned about the origin of the potato, the development of it as staple crop during the famines of the 1770s, and how they cook fries in Belgium.  It’s a two-step process which involves beef and horse fat (it was enough information to spoil my appetite, I’d rather not know what fats they use to cook the potatoes in The Netherlands – ignorance is bliss).

  Late Monday afternoon after a full day of sightseeing, we loaded the car and pressed the Go Home button on the GPS.  Happy and satisfied with the weekend adventure (without too much adventure), we queued up the Big Spring Texas Road Trip play-list I had created last fall.  As we passed though Belgian and Dutch towns and farms, both kids slept soundly, and I turned to my husband and smiled.  After months of pretending to be a resident in The Netherlands, casting ourselves in the role of Tourist from Texas, is just an easier part to play. 

Bruges, Belgium

                

The Times They Are A-Changin'

They Times They Are A-Changin'  


 I’m closing in on 6 months: 25% of this project down, 75% to go.  The cell phone incident was kind of a turning point, if you will.  Up until now, I think I’ve been thinking this is some (albeit, ridiculously stressful) vacation or maternity leave stint I’m on.  On vacation, you don’t necessarily try to make friends or answer your cell phone.  But you also don’t have to make hair appointments.  As I wandered around AMS desperately I realized, no, this is no resort hotel.   This is life.  So, 6 months into this gig, I’ve decided/have been catapulted to shift from surviving to living.  I remember talking to one of V’s co-workers last December at his company Christmas party.  She and her husband had completed a 2-year rotation in London a few years back.  She nodded wisely as I explained my excitement about the upcoming opportunity.  “It takes 6 months before you’re. . . okay,” she said.  I was surprised.  Six months seems like an awfully long time.  A few months after we moved here, while struggling with my new role as a stay-at-home mom, I reached out to one of V’s friends who is a stay-at-home-mom in Louisiana.  She too reiterated that you need the 6-month rule to really find your groove.  Closing in on the end of June, I was starting to get nervous.  6 months?  Well, I was hoping that by July everything would be okay.  I didn’t even feel close.  Or is it compounded?  Six months plus six months – oh good Lord, is it going to be December when I find my sanity again?  This better not be so. 

  Luckily, the sun has been shining for four straight days. (Previous to now, the record has been 2.5 days.  Once.)  It’s amazing what that kind of energy will do.  I’m ready to run a half-marathon, clean out all my closets, and stop eating cheese at every meal.  Not really, but it does make me happy, so that’s always a good thing.  Reflecting on the progress so far, I believe there are three categories that I can conclude on: Things I’m Feeling Pretty Good About, Things I’m Still Getting Used To, and Things That I Still Don’t Get.     

I’m Feeling Pretty Good About:  Shopping.  HomeInLeiden.com is a website that I love.  It has been an invaluable resource to getting us adjusted to life in Leiden as a family.  It has a lot of resources to help find daycares, which restaurants are family-friendly, lists of playgroups, playgrounds, parks, babysitters, etc.  It does have a small list of stores as to where to find children-related stuff such as clothes, highchairs, and books.  But as far as where to find just everyday things, we were on our own.  After months of searching and exploring, I can point you in the direction of pretty much anything you might need on a daily basis.  I can proudly say that I have recently purchased ant bait, teacher’s gifts, and organic face scrub without having to go into multiple stores to find such things.  Not everything is intuitive and not all stores are the same.  For example, just because the Kruidvat on Haarleemerstraat in the center of town has travel size products, it does not necessarily mean the Kruidvat by the train station has travel size products.  The Blokker in Rotterdam has lamps.  The one in Leiden does not.  The stores do strange things like that, which just keeps you guessing.  The following is my list of what I’ve found to be Dutch equivalents to stores back home.  Total Disclaimer:  There is no store in this country that can compete with the amount of square footage in America.  So, each of the entries below is an extremely rough comparison. 

Media Markt – Best Buy

Blokker – Bed, Bath, & Beyond

Kruidvat & Etos – CVS & Walgreens

Albert Heijn – Tom Thumb

Jumbo – Kroger

Xenos – Garden Ridge

V&D – Dillards

Gamma & Praxis – Home Depot & Lowes

Hema – Target(ish) 

Dille & Kamille – Williams Sonoma

Expo – Hallmark 

Hunkmoller – Victoria’s Secret

Prenatal – Babies R Us

Bart Smit & Intertoys – Toys R Us

I’ve even gotten the hang of the sizing.  After successfully getting to the department store and finding the appropriate children’s section (meisjes kinderen), my other challenge was the European sizes.  In March, while my daughter was at school, I bought her a Minnie Mouse t-shirt dress that I thought would fit.  It was size 104.  In a rush of excitement to dress everyone in the family for our first social event, I put it on her only to realize I was WAY off.  Too late to change her, because as anyone with children knows, once the cartoon character is on their body there is no taking it off, we attended a 1^st birthday party with my daughter wearing a dress down to her ankles that she will most likely be able to wear when we return home to the states in 2014.  Once you know the system (the numbers correspond to the height of your child in centimeters), it’s actually simple.  She is an 86, which means, a 104 is more the size of a 4-year old than a 2-year old.  I’ve hidden Minnie Mouse in the back of her wardrobe to avoid a repeat.    

"Macaroni" packet

I’m Feeling Good About:  Cooking.  I LOVE cooking in this country.  All vegetables and fruits are the freshest I’ve ever tasted.  There are fields upon fields of greenhouses, so even in the wintertime; the produce is far superior to anything I would get at home.  It’s also great because you can buy produce pre-washed, pre-cut, and in combinations that make it very easy to cook.  For example, you can purchase “macaroni” packets, which include chopped leeks, red peppers, onion, and mushrooms.  You just dump it in a pan and go.  They also pre-cut chicken into pieces, which is fabulous, because I hate touching chicken.  I mean, I don’t know anyone who does like touching chicken, but Kip blokjes is standard in this country.  It does seem a little contradictory – you have to carry your pre-cut chicken pieces home on your bike.  But whatever, it works.  .  So easy and I’m getting used to the fact that all produce will go bad within a few days of purchasing. 

Still Getting Used To:  We have a mail slot in our front door.  It is old, metal, and clangs.  The first time I heard it, I thought someone was trying to break into our home.  If you’re lucky enough to be in the hallway when the mailman comes, then you get to see a hand actually reaching through the door in addition to the vault-like clanging.  For my American friends, let’s picture this again for just a moment.  There’s a hand reaching through your front door.  It’s enough to make you scream with surprise.   Well, enough to make me scream with surprise.  After my previous grocery store adventures, I'd imagined my photo up at the Jumbo break room with a caption that says ‘Crazy American Woman.” After screaming at the postal worker a few weeks ago, I’m sure my address is also up at the postal office break room with the same caption.      

Still Getting Used To:  Understanding Dutch.  90% of my conversations can be filed into two categories:  Either people are complimenting me on my children or they’re telling me what I’m doing wrong.  Unfortunately the former is typically in Dutch, which I don’t completely understand, but I smile and nod appreciatively, and the latter is in English, which is just annoying.  In a country where I do a lot of things wrong, the Dutch Directness is sometimes overwhelming.  For example, my first interaction with a Dutch man went something like this:  it’s my first week here and the heater in our bedroom is out. My husband had told me that the repair man was coming by, but I had forgotten because my children and I are still jet-lagged.  My husband is at work and the doorbell rings at 8:30 a.m.  I am in my flannel PJ pants, the ones with the tiny pink reindeer on them.  I haven’t been outside our house yet.  This is my big, empty fortress complete with its folding chairs and cardboard box end tables and I am determined to protect it and my children.  There is no peep hole in our door, and honestly, even if there was, I probably wouldn’t be able to reach it anyway, seeing as I am the shortest female over 12 in this country.  I don’t speak a lick of Dutch.  I’m like that one house in the neighborhood.  You’re on the other side, with your order form in your hand for your school fundraiser.  An old lady opens the door a fraction of an inch, yells something at you in a language you don’t understand and then slams the door in your face.  You think, really?  You’re scared of me?  But you slink away in your green beret and make a mental note to avoid that house during next year’s cookie sale.  That’s me - the crazy lady who is scared to open her door, shouting things in a language not native to the country.  Yes.  I refuse to open the door and start talking to the man through the mail slot.  Luckily, most everyone here speaks at least a little English.  He says enough to remind me that he’s the repair man and is expected and I open the door to let him in.  I’m holding my 3-month old baby and show him where the main heater is.  My daughter (21 months old at the time) starts to cry.  She wakes up and I’m in the middle of changing her on her changing table and the man asks me a question.  Flustered, I show him the heater that’s out in the room next door and he takes the opportunity to lecture me.  “You should never leave her like that.  You never know what might happen.” Even our pediatrician at home only offers advice upon solicitation.  Who does this heater-man think he is?  I was livid.  As if I didn’t know my own daughter.  She’s not 8 months old, eager to flip off at any second.  She knows what’s right and wrong and I know she’ll stay put.  But, the more I’m here and the more I research, this is just part of the culture.  No fuss.  No holding back.  They say what they want to say without fluff.  I have to learn not to take things personally.

Things I Just Don’t Get:  Climate.  Okay, fine.  Call me Goldilocks, I deserve that.  After six months of learning how to cope with the cold, it’s warm now.  I’m excited because I'm wearing the short sleeved shirts and Capri pants that I imported.  I have about 30 sundresses as well, but while Dutch women wear skirts on bikes, I’m just not sure that I’m ready to try to pull that one off.   I wore some Steve Madden slip on shoes while cycling the other day and one fell off while pedaling down the street.  I stopped my bike, picked it up, and pedaled the rest of the way home painfully barefoot as the spokes from the pedals dug into my skin.  I decided to just throw those shoes away.  I have no use for them here.  There will be no blog post about me doing something as ridiculous as cycling with a skirt on.  Pass. 

    Up until now, my experience with living and sleeping with the windows open was limited to the handful of times the A/C went out in Texas and a week-long camping trip to Camp Goddard in the 5th grade.  In The Netherlands, few houses are equipped with air-conditioning, so in order to cool your home during the warm months, you must open the windows.  Surprisingly, unlike those rustic cabins in Oklahoma, there are no screens on the windows.  I was briefly naïve enough to think, oh wow, there must not be that many bugs here.  I was wrong.  I’ve been constantly battling flies the size of bumblebees, invisible buzzing mosquitoes, and winged ants inside my house ever since the temperature rose high enough for these critters to join my house party.  The winged ants invading my kitchen pre-7:00 a.m. last Saturday morning prompted another one of my "I'm-not-sure-if-I-can-do-this-moments", but luckily, I am expecting a visit from an exterminator early next week.      

    After coming to terms with nature in the house, there's still the heat and humidity to contend with.  We have large windows in the back of our house, which results in the Greenhouse Effect in our kitchen, living, and master bedroom.  I think my children have inherited one of my husband’s genes.  His cheeks will get red anytime it’s above 75 degrees outside.  My face does not get red until after I run three miles in 100 degree heat and am about to pass out from heat exhaustion.  Like I said, I’m pretty sure my daughter and son have my husband’s genes, but they just haven’t been around long enough for me to feel confident with this assessment.  So as soon as my kids’ cheeks turn pink I start to flip out.  The first time it got to 86 degrees outside, my son was roaming around the house in a diaper, still flushed.  I attacked my husband, who had been chilled like a slab of meat in his office refrigerator all day, the moment he walked through the door.  If there’s one thing this Texas girl knows, it’s that I like to be comfortable in my own home.  The next day, we had a portable air-conditioner blowing and my baby had clothes on.           

  In conclusion, I think we've come a long way in six months in establishing a foundation here in Leiden.  I’m sure the next 18 months will bring new challenges and moments of confusion, but I feel confident that perhaps we are ready to embrace the task with more and more conviction each day. We’ve been thrown into the deep end and after six months of treading water to get our bearings, we could succumb to exhaustion and sink like stones.  Instead, I think we are strong enough to start swimming, but we may still need our floaties.      

Ridin' Solo

Ridin' Solo

 
We spent our first few months finding dog sitters, dog groomers, babysitters, daycare, where to buy paint, trash cans, ant killer, rugs, Duraflame-like lighters so I could stop using matches to light my stove, birthday candles, kids clothes, light bulbs, lamps, a toaster, a mop, and a vacuum cleaner.  Finally, my last and final frontier to step over into the world of the Dutch service sector:  a hairdresser.  It seems simple, enough, but it is not.  My friend who lives in Germany is terrified of getting her hair cut.  She admits that she nearly cries through the hour and a half ‘trim’ as she sees her hair becoming shorter and shorter with each visit.  Another friend here in The Netherlands told me a story of highlights-gone-wrong.  It took at least 3 tries to fix the disaster and she explained that last years summer’s pictures were just all, well, not cute.  To sum it up, an international hairdresser is a BIG deal. 

  My hairdresser at home:  he’s my college roommate’s uncle, but he treats me as if we were family.  He went to my college graduation.  He took me from brunette to blonde years ago and we’ve never looked back.  He performed miracles for me and my bridesmaids’ hair when the Louisiana 100% humidity was upon us on my wedding day. This man has heard countless dramatic stories about work, love, family, and friends as I sit in his chair. This man knows me.  He also understands that I default to him.  I’m a CPA and I’m okay with that.  HE is the hair professional.  I sit in his chair and say “Oh, whatever you feel like today, just make me look pretty,” and he does.

  I peruse the Expat website and find that there’s a hairdresser highly recommended in Haarlem, a town outside of Amsterdam.  In April, 3 months after my beloved last visit to Uncle Oscar in Dallas (and probably at least a few weeks overdue for my roots), my husband makes me an appointment and we drive the 30 minutes to Haarlem on Good Friday, the kids in the backseat.   We’re already running late because, well, we have two kids under two and then the GPS tries to direct us down a street that has been blocked off as pedestrian only.  I’m starting to stress as we maneuver the car through a market and I realize there’s no hope of getting any closer via vehicle.  This is it.  I kiss him goodbye and with little piece of paper in hand, I jump out of the car while memorizing his verbal directions as the horns honk on the cobblestone road behind us.  I high-tail it through the market and pedestrian footpaths and I find it:  Toni and Guy, my destination.  I open the door, flustered and 15 minutes late.  The concrete steel grey interior of the salon is bathed in an industrial light, and every employee is dressed in black.   I am SO out of my element.  I tell the receptionist my name, apologize for my misunderstanding of the pedestrian-only streets and she leads me to my chair.  She kindly asks if I’d like something to drink, perhaps a tea or cappuccino, and I nod a thank you and pick out a tea bag from a large wooden case.  I am introduced to the woman who is in charge of the highlights.  She’s tall with dark flowy hair, dark eyes, and bright red lipstick.  She is Dutch and speaks superb English.  In her Dutch (direct) way, she tells me that we will have to hurry because I was late.  I apologize again and explain the GPS mishap, but she is less impressed than the receptionist, who didn’t seem to mind too much.  I mention that I had gotten her name off of an Expat message board and she admits that she had a lot of Expat clientele.  “Oh yes, I’ve seen all SORTS of horrible circumstances come through that door. Horrible.  It’s amazing what some of these Dutch hairdressers will do.  But I fix all their problems,” she says, with a wave of her hand.  “You are used to highlights using foil, correct?” she asks me.  I’m still processing the ‘horrible circumstances’ comment, but manage to mumble a ‘yes, foil” in confusion.  What are the other options?  Reading my mind, she explained that some Dutch hairdressers use a “board.”  I don’t know what that means.  And I don’t really care to find out.  This girl, whether intentional or not, is dishing out a scare tactic, ensuring herself some long-term job security, and I’m buying it hook, line, and sinker.  She continues, “What type of shampoo do you use?” I swallow.  Oh goodness.  This is a trick question that I don’t even know enough to be able to lie and give a good answer.  At home, I used Toni and Guy, actually.  But I haven’t seen Toni and Guy products since I’ve been here, not even in this Toni and Guy salon.  I panic and just tell her the truth.  “Dove,” I mumble.  She frowns.  “Well, you know, you have to be careful with those products.  They can strip away your highlights,” she says tactfully.  I sip my tea and I miss Oscar.  I miss the fact that he knows I’m going to be 10 minutes late for every appointment I make, and will always show up to his salon panicked and apologetic.  He doesn’t ask me silly guilt-ridden questions about my grooming habits; he’d rather know what the latest gossip is.  I miss the fact that I know where his salon is and it doesn’t require a 15-minute sprint down cobblestone roads.  He gives me a glass of wine when I arrive.  After the highlights and the rinse (another girl is in charge of the hair rinsing process), I am introduced to the person in charge of haircutting.  I’m starting to feel like a Chipotle burrito or something.  But I don’t doubt.  If this is what it takes to avoid hair-disaster in this country, okay.  She’s an American and she has a voice of a yoga instructor.  I ask her suggestions of what to do when my family visits Paris and she says she could spend days in the Louve, just looking at art.  I giggle at this, thinking of spending hours on end at a museum, just breathing in the beauty and swallowing the information around me.  It is clear.  None of these people have children.  I don’t even think they know a child.  I used to be oblivious, too.  But seeing as this is the longest I’ve been out of my house by myself since I had arrived here, the out-of-my-element-feeling-continues-to-rise.  I ponder briefly about the professional career I left in the U.S. but yet how vulnerable I feel now in a strange country without a stroller in tow.  I shake myself out of my daze.   Her voice is soothing and beautiful, and in the end, she makes my hair look and feel fabulous.  I’m pleased with the result and buy a ridiculously expensive bottle of shampoo on my way out.      

  Two months later, it’s time for another visit.  V makes me another appointment and this time, I’m going to take the train.  I’d taken the train in The Netherlands by myself when we had visited years ago.  I’ve even ridden the train in Paris and Tokyo solo when I worked at AA.  Now that we live here, sometimes I feel like a version of myself that's been Xeroxed too many times.  You can see the outline and know it used to be sharp and clear, but now, well, it’s just a little grey and there’s some dust in the picture.  V writes down the times for the train and the platform.  I walk briskly over to the station and as I approach the top step of platform 5a, the 10:28 train pulls away.  That’s okay.  Geez, it looks as if it’s only 10:26, according to the clocks, I wonder if they’re running a little early.  V had written the next train, just in case, which would still get me to Haarlem with time to spare.  I needed to catch the 10:42 train.  A train pulled up at 10:38.  Oh good, this must be it.  I jump on, proud of myself for being proactive and I sit.  I brought a book, but I’m too anxious to read it so I just look out the window.  I pass through fields of farmland but the peaceful countryside does little to calm my nerves.  I have only ridden the train a handful of times since we’ve been here, and unlike most subways, there are no announcements or maps above the doors for you to track your progress.  I start to panic when I see the Kyocera building.  This doesn’t look right.  Finally, finally, a voice comes on and says – Amsterdam Schiphol Airport in both Dutch and English.  My heart drops.  My mind is thinking and saying things it shouldn’t.  I took the wrong train.  I’m at the freakin’ airport!  Oh no.  This is bad, bad, bad, bad.  I exit the doors and am met with crowds upon crowds of people.  I rush up the stairs and am met with more crowds of people.  I’ve been doing yoga for a week straight but my chi is no longer centered, rather, it has exploded into a billion pieces and has been scattered all over the universe.  It’s 11:02 and my appointment is at 11:20.  I am SO upset.  “Get Celeste a cell phone” had been on our list of Things To Do for months.  I had one in the states, but I needed a new phone and plan here.  There are a million reasons why we just hadn’t gotten one yet, but at that moment they all seemed pretty weak.  My husband had written the salon number on my piece of paper, but it was hardly helpful without a phone.  I see myself from above, a tiny wandering speck of confusion in this large, industrial type airport.  I am trying to find a ticket desk, an information booth, a payphone, anything.  There are so many people and nothing is clearly labeled, it takes me forever to find a smidgen of help.  I finally find and race over to the train map and although it’s completely confusing, I see a small red and white striped line between AMS and Haarlem, complete with a tiny man with a construction hat on.  Fabulous.  The direct route, which looks like it’s the distance of a centimeter, is under construction.  I’m panicking because I know the salon is going to call my husband’s cell phone.  No one is going to know where I am and to top it all off, these Toni and Guy girls are never going to want to see me again and I’m going to have horrible hair for the next two years.  I’m about to cry, but the tears just won’t come.  The Me Party I’d been looking forward to for weeks – the Me Party where my husband gave me some money, kissed me goodbye and told me to have a good time - the Me Party where I have the day to myself, got a fabulous haircut and strolled around the women’s clothing stores at my own leisure, was gone.  All the attendees for the Me Party had gotten lost.  I race around and find an information booth.  With my biggest sorority girl smile and confidence, I walk up and ask, “Could you please tell me how to get to Haarlem?” (I’m sure I even added a head nod in there)  The printer is having trouble printing my directions.  She’s humming and tapping on the machine.  The people behind me start to get impatient, “Excuse me, may I ask you a question while you’re waiting for that to print?” they ask anxiously.  Her smile flips upside down.  “NO!”  She shouts.  “NO you may not!  You may not ask me a question, I am waiting on HER.”  It was nice.  Thank you, fake flag-girl smile, or rather. . . maybe she just likes doing that to people because she can.  Dutch authorities are confusing to me.

  I get my directions.  I have to connect to get to Haarlem.  I’m not scheduled to arrive there until 11:42, and then, it’s probably a 10 minute walk from the station to the salon.  I race around and discover the long-abandoned pay phone booths.  I frantically start shoving Euro coins into the machine and dial the Toni and Guy number.  I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, but a Dutch recording is playing.  Apparently this lady is very pleasantly explaining to me that the stupid phone is just going to eat every coin I feed it while refusing to connect my call.  Cha-Ching!  The phone eats 3 or 4 Euros before I decide it is pointless.  I feel so defeated, alone, and confused.  I’m about to give up.  I want to go home and be doomed to highlights gone wrong for the next two years, but I don’t even know what train to take to give up and go home.  I’m not going to stand in the information line again.  I decide to take the train to Haarlem and try to save face.  I’ll walk to the Toni and Guy and apologize.  I have the scene in my head: “I’m sorry, I know there’s nothing you can do for me today, but I apologize for wasting your time, it was not my intention.”  And then I just walk out.  I don’t know if there’s a penalty fee for canceling on an appointment.  I hope not.  But yes.  That’s what I’m going to do.    

  I arrive at Toni and Guy 40 minutes after my original appointment.  The salon is almost empty, unlike my previous visit.  I deliver the script and to my surprise, they take pity.  Well, at least the American does.  They say they can fit me in and they call my husband (whom they had called previously) and told him I was okay.  I endure the typical small talk questions such as “So, how are you adjusting to the country?” as if it wasn’t obvious that I’m struggling, and more tedious personal hygiene habits questions.  The Dutch highlights lady seemed pleased with my response to the “How do you blow dry your hair?” and she had already given me the appropriate response last time to “How often do you wash your hair?”

  I arrived safely and without drama back to Leiden and later that evening, we biked the family over to the shopping district to comparison shop the cell phone options.  6:30 p.m. was hardly the ideal time, but Thursdays are the only evening the shops are open past 5, Saturdays they are a zoo, and Sunday they are closed.  As I fed my children their dinner in the stroller, my husband negotiated with the salesmen and we left with a cell phone and plan.  The rain started to pour as we attached the stroller to my bike.  My perfectly and expensively styled hair-do didn’t even last 3 hours.  As I pedaled home, squinting through the raindrops, I decided that perhaps, it was time to go back to my natural hair color.  I’m looking forward to my visit to Oscar in Dallas during the holidays.  I think he can help me.  So if you see photos of me in 2013, don’t be surprised at the brunette looking back at you.  I’m not sure if blondes have more fun in The Netherlands, anyway.                   

Things That Make You Go Hmmmm

Things That Make You Go Hmmmm

Leiden Centraal

  It’s an “in-between” Saturday in spring and my family and I are at the train station, enjoying lunch before we head out to the market to purchase our weekly allotment of cheese, bread, fruit, vegetables, and flowers.  “In-between”, in that, the sun is shining for the first time in what seems like decades, and its radiance is reflected in large, overflowing smiles glowing on everyone around us, which is a stark contrast to the stoic faces we normally encounter at Leiden Centraal.  But yet, “in-between”, as it’s not quite, well, what most people would call, warm.  The crisp breeze whips through the station, down the street, and across all alleyways and canals.  It is the breeze that accompanies us most days (at least, from what I’ve experienced so far) here in Leiden.  Seeing as we have seagulls swarming our house at all hours of the day at night, squawking, crying, fighting with the crows, and thus, confusing me:  “Is that the baby, the toddler, or those ridiculously annoying seagulls, again,” I guess that the coastal breezes are to be expected. 

    I’m anxious to see what the Dutch wear when temperature rises above freezing cold.  I am a keen observer of wardrobe.  I love the expression of self.  It used to be my favorite part of going to work.  Coordinating accessories and makeup while experimenting with combining pieces, well, I just had a lot of fun doing it.  Attending marketing meetings were a lesson on new wardrobe ideas.  So far, here in The Netherlands, my eyes have observed nothing more exciting than wool or weatherproof coats, skinny jeans, leggings, boots, scarves, and a number of other grey, black, and brown garments.  I can not wait to embrace my new European style and with this hopeful change in season, my eyes are anxious to observe.  Like an A+ student on their first day of class, I have my mental pencil and paper ready.  To my shock and surprise, every direction my head turns, my eyes feast on (drumroll, please): black pantyhose.  What?  Black pantyhose?  (Okay.  I have a supply of those in my top dresser drawer, I guess?)  And what have my Dutch brethren paired these with?  Jorts.  Jean shorts.  (Okay.  I don’t have those, at least, not since 1996.)  Or tiny, tiny, black mini skirts that are almost small enough to be bikini tops.  Everyone in the entire station is wearing either Vans or Converse sneakers – of multiple colors.  On top, most coordinate the black pantyhose with spring jackets and then finalize the whole ensemble with a light, springy scarf.  Oh my.  I don’t know if I can do this.  Actually, I’m pretty sure I cannot.  Ah.  Sigh.   

    I’ve made some other observations around town, most of them involving bicycles.    I saw a man air-drumming on his bike the other day.  He was jamming to his iPhone headphones, just rat-at-tatting away on his handlebars.  I couldn’t help myself but smile and reminisce about the opening scene of Office Space.  Another time, I was on my way to drop off the recycling at the end of our block and passed a guy trying to tie a wooden dining room chair to the tiny cargo platform on the back of his bike.  He attempted all sorts of combinations.  I later saw him pedaling down our street, carrying the chair in his left hand, while steering and riding his bike with his right.  It was amazing.  I’ve seen people balance Webber barbeque grills on their bikes while pushing them down our street.  The Dutch can pedal their bicycles while dogs and suitcases keep pace along side.  They hold hands with their lovers and keep a protective hand on their children as they ride down the roads and bike lanes.  I saw a Dad show his very young son the importance of watching the light turn green on the bike path.  (Ugh!  If only I was 4 and not over 30 when I learned such things, life would be so much easier!)  I’ve seen a guy and a girl bicycle around each other, pull their bikes real close, and successfully complete a goodbye kiss without an entangling of pedals, handlebars, or wheels, as one turned left towards the train station and the other went straight.  The feat was beautiful and graceful, like watching a couples ice-skating routine.  I found it equally romantic and impressive.

   Between the fashion, the funny bike moves, and well, we’ve already discussed the playgroup and shopping observations in prior posts, my husband V, is the member of our household who has the perspective from the Dutch businessman.  He too, has observed a number of things that has made him go “hmmmm”.   (He wanted to be a guest writer, but I told him, don’t worry Honey, you just give me your ideas, and I’ll make them pretty.)  With that said, one of his first phone calls home to me (when I was still in Dallas and he had started his job in Rotterdam), he said, “Have I told you about lunch?”  Now, I’ve experienced a variety of lunches during the ten years I worked in Corporate America.  The Public Accounting Lunch: you must go out to-be-part-of-the-team-and-charge-it-to-the-account-lunch, The Internal Audit Lunch: we-actually-LIKE-each-other-let’s-go-have-Pho-lunch, The Finance Lunch: I-don’t-have-much-to-say-so-I’d-rather-just-eat-in-my-cube-lunch.  So, I said, “No, V, you haven’t, what is lunch like in your office?”  He explained, basically, everyone just works away in their respective offices or cubes until the partner comes by and says “Want to go to lunch? (or rather, “Wil jij iets eten?” in Dutch)” then everyone files down to the corporate cafeteria, grabs a tray, two pieces of bread and the stuff to put on the bread.  Choices: Ham.  Cheese.  OR chocolate sprinkles.  (Sidenote:  He grew up Dutch, right?  He thought chocolate sprinkles were a kid’s thing – like Cocoa Puffs.  Apparently not so.  Good thing we moved here to discover the truth.)  Anyhow, all his co-workers are enjoying their thoroughly satisfying cheese OR ham sandwiches (heaven forbid they have both on the same sandwich, and let’s just call the authorities if a tomato or lettuce wedge attempts to engage), and then, they stare at him.  Not only has he eaten his lunch with his hands, but he has left a bite on his plate.  A bite.   They are bug-eyed, politely making small talk, and finally someone asks him.  “Are you done?”  Embarrassed, he scans every plate around him.  They are all happy plates.  No trace of lunch remains.  This is what the Dutch do.  They eat everything on their plates, with a knife and fork.  (Early on, we once asked for a doggie box at a restaurant, and a flustered waitress brought us an entire roll of commercial-sized foil from the kitchen to pack up our chicken pasta in.  Of course! There are no leftovers, ever, in this country.)   After lunch, his co-workers take the stairs up to the 16^th floor where their office is located, because cycling to work and eating bird food just isn’t enough to keep your figure in shape.          

    The next phone call home, he explains coffee at the office.  “I see the coffee machine.  It’s on the way to the men’s room.  I can easily just grab a cup of coffee on my way back, but I can’t,” he whispers to me, as if he’s explaining his desperate attempts to use a Jedi-mind-trick to prevent an accident from happening.  “Really, what do you mean, you can’t?”  I play along, intrigued.   He continues to illustrate, in that every ten minutes or so, a different member of the group visits every office and cube and asks each person if he/she would like a cup of coffee.   “They have a tray and if you say yes, the co-worker pours you a thimble-sized cup of coffee, asks if you’d like cream or sugar, and tosses you the appropriate packet.  So, if you go and get yourself a cup of coffee, you have to get a round for the entire office.  It’s like, if you were at a bar with all your friends!” he says.  I can tell he’s sweating, just reiterating the story.  “Well, why can’t you go and get coffee for all your co-workers?” I ask.  “Because, I don’t know where the tray is!” he says.  He’s clearly panicking.  Either he’s the too-good-to-serve-his-co-workers-coffee-because-he’s-an-American/Manager-type-guy. . . or he’s the Stupid-American-that-can’t-even-serve-his-own-co-workers-coffee.  By the end of the day, he has at least 6-8 tiny cups stacked upon his desk.  He daydreams about having a huge, steaming paper cup of coffee that lasts all morning long.   (Actually, truth be told, he has brought his thermos-sized American-imported travel mug on the train with him.  It’s bright green, kind of like my bike.  People stare.  But anyway, this post isn’t about what makes the Dutch people around us go, Hmmmm.) 

  I ran across this quote in my Expat book, “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,” Rhiannon Paine writes.  As me, my husband, and even my daughter continue to navigate our new world, I believe this quote reins true.  We may nod in appreciation, cock our heads in confusion, or just shake our heads violently.  We continue to mesh the two cultures to fit our needs, and at the end of the day, I’m incredibly appreciative of the opportunity to open my mind to new experiences. (But you can hold your breath on the black pantyhose and jorts-combo.)   

 

      

I'll Be There For You

I'll Be There For You

“I’ll be there for you!  As the rain starts to fall.  I’ll be there for you, like I’ve been there before. . . I’ll be there for you, cause you’re there for me too.” 

The Friends theme song is blasting through my kitchen.  Hum.  This is one of SkyRadio’s more recent tunes.  According to my Lonely Planet Netherlands guidebook, the ‘Don’t Leave Home Without. . .” list includes:  “good jacket and scarf” (check!), “appreciation for flowers” (check!), “220V converter for European plugs” (after frying my American Crockpot, neubulizer, and Blue Ray player – check!), “quick reflexes to avoid cyclists” (check!), and “taste for bad ‘80s music because you won’t be able to escape it.” (uh, working on it).  Driving down the road, my husband and I often glance at each other when a song comes on the radio.  After the intro, I’ll cock my head to one side and ask, “Jazzercise song?” and more often than not, he will reply, “Oh yeah.”  It’s one of the things we have in common from our childhood.  My mom was a regular attendee in Texas and his mom was an instructor in Louisiana.  Here in The Netherlands, I’ve heard a range of warm-up songs, increase your heart-rate songs, and cool down songs.  Some of their favorites are, I Just Called To Say I Love You, Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go, & Dancing on the Ceiling.  More recently, I’ve heard Ace of Base (All That She Wants), Savage Garden (I Knew I Loved You Before I Met You), and Vanilla Ice in the same set.  (Although, I must admit, my 6^th grade alter-ego does appreciate a little Ice Ice Baby while spoon feeding my 8-month old.) 

   So, anyway, the Friends Theme song is playing and I’m smiling.  I have two friends in this country.  And I’ve only been here 4 months.  I think I’m doing pretty well for a stay-at-home mom who is exhausted and overwhelmed and well, a stay-at-home mom in The Netherlands.  I’m used to making and keeping friends at work.  2/3 of my wedding party was friends from work.  So, how did I find friends?  Well, admittedly, there are playgroups and such around here.  We did attend one.  Once.  There were about 200 people in a space about half the size of an elementary school gym and twice as loud.  Kids of all ages and backgrounds were running around and shrieking.  The parents around us were unaffected by the chaos and pleasantly sipped their coffees as the newcomers stood with eyes wide open as the scene unfolded around us.  This was our first month.  My family was still accustomed to the organization of daycare in America.  You enter the cozy room, your daughter sits at a table with kids of her own age.  One teacher leads the kids in singing grace as another one puts a small plate of food in front of each child.  You’re dressed in your suit and heels, quietly kiss your child on her head, and slip out the door while mouthing a silent ‘thank you’ to the instructors.  “Playgroup” was not in our vocabulary.  My daughter looked stunned.  She stood, feet planted, mouth open.  Luckily, my husband was with me.  We decided to divide and conquer.  I took the baby (then, 3-months old) to a very large, but questionably sanitary pillow where other babies were just lying there with their mothers talking.  My husband took our daughter to a large, equally questionably sanitary, inflatable trampoline.  After an hour or so of making straining-to-hear-you-as-if-I-was-drinking-in-a-loud-noisy-bar-but-I’m-unfortunately-not-small talk with people from around the world, it was time for singing time.  The children and parents struggled to make a circle with the chairs as one of the instructors(?)/ lead parents (?)/ zealous volunteers (?) passed out song books and started to lead the choir in their first song.  My husband was one of the few men in the room.  As the chorus began, an extremely excited man wearing a pink shirt and baby carrier, practically tripped over my daughter as he encouraged his other child to get closer-to-the-action in the middle of the circle.  It was clear.  This man loved singing time.  After we sang the Itsy-Bitsy spider in both English and Dutch, we justified that it would probably be ok to slip out a little early, like a Baylor football game in the 1990s: the event wasn’t quite the success we had hoped for. To top it off, I ended up getting a cold for two weeks after the playgroup.  Perhaps it came from somewhere else, but on top of everything, it shook me enough to decide not to go back.  At least until cold season was over. 

  So, we found ourselves hanging out at the library.  The library here has a cute children’s area complete with a Pooh bear, rocking horses, miniature stroller, and tiny shopping cart.  They mop the floor every morning and it’s relatively quiet and organized.  I had been to the library before and heard any number of languages, but on a particular day in early February, my two kids and I entered the children’s corner of the library and heard English. American English.  I had been here three weeks.  I was weary and exhausted and as much as I just wanted to be an ostrich and stick my head in the ground, I knew this was important.  “Look Cosette, they’re speaking English!” I told her.  The girls looked my way.  I smiled, we started talking, and I found out they were both from Minnesota.  One was named Erin, and she had fabulous hair and boots (later, I found out, which were both obtained in Italy, where her husband is from).   The other was named Janelle.  She started her bio, like I’m sure she has, so many times before.  “I’ve been here for 10 years.  I came to The Netherlands to study, but I just never left.”  This rang a bell with me.  Previous to moving here, I had found a blog on Expatica.com of a woman who lived in Leiden.  She had given birth in the country.  Her story (for better or worse) made me decide that was not something I was interesting in doing.  She loved Amsterdam, but Leiden suited her well, as it too has picturesque canals, but a lack of tourists as she described in her post, Amsterdam vs Leiden.  Well, it had me.  All signs pointed towards Leiden, and this mysterious blogger justified all the cosmic forces.  After the playgroup adventure, my husband had suggested I contact her.  “Are you serious?  I’m not going to contact her like a ridiculous groupie!”  But as she reiterated her bio to me in the children’s section of the library, I could not help myself.  “Ten years?  From Minnesota?  You wouldn’t happen to be the girl who writes the ‘BlondeButBright” blog? Would you?”  She threw her head back, slightly embarrassed, and laughed.  “Yes.  Yes, I am.”  I was no longer aloof and far, far from cool.  I was SO excited.  I was a total super-fan and treated her like a celebrity.  “OMG!  Let me shake your hand!” I exclaimed!   She obliged, with a slightly-uncomfortable smile.   She probably thought I was crazy.  I’m sure she did.   But after she had said to please contact her,  packed up her son and left the library, Erin admitted that she too had found her blog on-line, had contacted her about giving birth in The Netherlands, and now they were good friends.  Wheew.  Okay.  Erin gave me her number and email address.  Happy, but still overwhelmed by just, well, moving here, I contacted her a month later.  Ever since then, all three of us have been in touch, meeting up for coffee, hanging out at the library, and anyone who knows me, knows I LOVE hosting parties, and I’m pleased to say I brought one of my favorite traditions to Leiden: Brunch, with my new friends and their families.    

  Although I’ll unfortunately never hear the song on a Dutch radio station due to the decade in which it was written, I am on the same continent of the fabulous Beatles song which resonates, “I get by with a little help from my friends. By with a little help from my friends.”  In a country where language, logistics, and just the daily way of life is completely foreign, nothing could be truer.                                    

This Ain't No Place for the Weary Kind

The Weary Kind

   The birds here must be exhausted.  I’ve never lived north of well, Highway 121 in Texas until now.  Currently, the sunrises at 5:23 a.m. and sets at 10:00 p.m., and we haven’t even hit the equinox.  Desperate to understand where in the United States Leiden, The Netherlands is similar to as far as latitude goes, I googled latitude of major North American cities. I found that there is nowhere in the United States that is equivalent to where I am now.  Nowhere.  At 52 degrees north, the nearest North American city is Moose Jaw, Canada.  I don’t even know where Moose Jaw, Canada is – but it sounds pretty ridiculously far from civilization.  So, there we are.  Birds chirping at 3:30 a.m., and our bedroom is not equipped with the black-out curtains which are found in the bedrooms in the front of the house.  This was the driving force behind moving our baby from our room into his own room.  After he started taking cues to start his day from the sun and birds, without ceremonial ado or a lot of heart-wrenching reflections, he started sleeping in his crib out of practicality.   He’s still not sleeping through the night, while disheartening, is completely expected.  Actually, considering I’m the mother of two sweet babies 18 months apart, I have rarely slept through the night since 2009.   

   While I still reminisce periodically about 8-hours uninterrupted sleep, in all honesty, like any mother, doctor, or finals-cramming college student, my body has proven to run pretty efficiently by now on broken hours of sleep.  The biggest challenge and surprise I’ve been overcoming for the past few months, is the total physical exhaustion I encounter on a daily basis.  Most people recognize the feeling.  You’re lying in bed the morning after a difficult workout.  You pushed your limits at the gym or ran a few miles too many before your body was ready.  Maybe you’ve just started a new routine with an intense trainer, picked up a new (or old sport), or perhaps it’s January 2^nd and this is the result of a hopeful new resolution.  Your eyes open wide and you stare at the ceiling.  Your eyelids are the only part of your body which can move without pain at this particular moment.  The cause and effect is clear.  You knew it was coming, perhaps, not quite as severe, but you take a day or two off and start to feel great.  You’re stronger, happier, and proud of yourself for accomplishing a small goal.  I remember talking with my co-workers, just a few months ago, about how I’d hope to put the kids in daycare at least once a week to give me a break.  We discussed the possibilities - perhaps I’d ‘work out’ or run errands.  I laugh at this now.  “Work out.”  I would agree - my ideal day to myself in the U.S. included a fantastic run through the neighborhood and a bubble bath at home.  That’s what Americans do.  We schedule time for such events, whereas in Europe just everyday life is a workout.    

    Our first few weekend here, we ventured outside our home to explore our new town.  The double stroller hadn’t arrived from America yet, so with confidence, we loaded the baby in his stroller so he could sleep, and strapped our toddler to my husband’s back.  We grabbed a steamy cup of coffee from the walk-up service, crossed over picturesque canals, and weaved our way throughout the cobblestone streets.  As we navigated through the market vendors, our eyes feasting on wheels of cheese, endless bouquets of tulips, and loaves of freshly baked bread, I prided myself on our resourcefulness of carrying one child.  I smiled at the ladies pushing their love-seat sized double strollers down the bricked sidewalks.  I marveled as to why no one else had a sling.  It seemed pretty handy as we weaved among the stalls and people.   It wasn’t until we returned home and had repeated the act a couple more times before I realized the truth of all this.  Pushing two kids around town (which, inevitably results in at least a 2-mile round trip) is hard work.  Carrying one while pushing another is making a difficult task even more unreasonably exhausting and therefore, ridiculous.  

  So.  To expedite the trip around town, we invested in a bike.  This is what the Dutch do.  We’re going to try it.  Ah, biking.  It still amazes me.  As I’ve mentioned before, everyone here rides a bike.  It’s no wonder that Americans are overweight, but to the same tone, it’s no wonder that Europeans are not.  It’s not a conscious effort on their part or an unconscious effort our part I don’t believe to be healthy or fit - it’s just a result of the system.  Cycling and walking is built into European society, whereas, in America it’s not.  Between the enticing bike lanes, the lack of parking, the fact that you will never drive over 10 miles per hour through town, etc. – it’s just not the efficient way to go.   With that said, cycling myself plus two kids all over town is more challenging than I had expected.  For months I had watched mothers zoom by me in their bakfiets as I pushed my strollers.  They looked happy and healthy, no trace of strain or exhaustion on their faces.  I’ve never seen a Dutch person gasping for breath.  They make biking around town look like an effortless, even pleasurable experience.  Of course they do.  They’ve developed and maintained the muscles to do such things since they were 4.  I’m not afraid of physical exertion – I was in marching band throughout high school and college (insert funny comment here), and ran a ½ marathon 7 months after my daughter was born, but this is a whole new ballgame.  It seemed like such a simple answer – of course I’d bike my kids around town! – We only have one car and I can’t get that American-made 2-ton double stroller with the 6 cup holders on the train.  But yeah, here I am, winded after every time I take my daughter to school on the other side of town.   I’m sure the neighbors have noticed.   On the last turn onto our street, with my two precious babies snug and peacefully asleep inside the neon green carrier, I just stop pedaling.  I am gasping for breath, my shoulders collapse, and hang my head.  I’m happy and tired and thankful that we made it back home again.  Jiggity Jig.  I can only hope that I will gain the endurance after a few months to prevent the laying-in-bed-eyelids-thing from happening every time.                 

Stairs without railing...eek!

   After walking, pushing, and/or biking the kids around town, I’m at home at last.  It’s time to relax and unwind, right?  Not quite so.  From what I’ve seen, it appears that the Dutch don’t build out, they build up.   Truth be told, I have 35 stairs inside my house, which basically equates to having a Stairmaster workout, all day long.  Don’t get me wrong, I love my house with all its charms.  But as I explored the Dutch version of Realtor.com last fall, eyeing each home, all of them with at least two or three floors, the consequences of living life in a tri-level home never entered my realm of consideration.  The first floor is the living and kitchen areas.  The second is the bedrooms and main bath.  The third is the guest bedroom, office, bath and laundry area.  It’s a nice set-up, to be able to separate the three areas of your life with the floors.  There are 17 stairs from the first to the 2^nd and 18 stairs from the 2^nd to the 3^rd floors. (Believe me, I know - I use them to practice counting with my 2-year old everyday).  The stairs are the width of a dollar bill, so even my petite 5 ½ foot shoe, barely fits.  The height is almost the same size, so if you’re not careful (especially on the stairs to the third floor) your knees can easily hit the stairs above.  After my buns were starting to not-so-much feel like steel, I put a pad of paper and pen at the top of each flight for a week, just to calculate my exertion and I discovered that I averaged climbing and descending the stairs at least 20-25 times a day.  Laundry days are even more (which, due to the largish-size of my family and the smallish-size of the washer, results in an every-other day washing event).  As if that wasn’t enough, while I felt comfortable letting my daughter climb our lovely carpeted, completely railed stairs at home in Texas, there was no way I’d let her ascend the stairs here unattended – as beautiful as they are, there is no railing on the left side of the first flight and there would be nothing to stop her from falling to the tiled floor 8-feet below.  So, I’ve been carrying my two children up and down the stairs for months.  “Hold on honey, I’m going to take your brother up first, and then I’ll come back and get you.”  I know it sounds a little ridiculous, but it took me about 3 months to do this effortlessly.  I’m not sure which I’m more proud of – the ½ marathon in a little over 2 hours, or being able to carry my kids without gasping for breath.  I think it might be a toss up. 

Dash doesn't seem to mind the steep stairs

  This all said, as with everything, it gets better and easier everyday.  I finally had enough of carrying my daughter up the stairs and have started to let her “hold Mama’s hand!” and climb up (but not down) the stairs.  I smiled and began to doubt my first attempt at letting her ascend the stairs as I had a death-grip on her precious hand.  I steadied her as her tiny legs climbed the intensely steep staircase.  We counted - “Fiiifteeen, Siiiixxteeeeen, and SEVVEEENTEEN! Steps” We cheered her accomplishment and then I had to giggle as she collapsed on the 2^nd floor landing out of pure exhaustion.  I’m glad it’s not just me.  At least it made nap time easier for her.