Here's to a New and blissfully happy New Year

It's never easy to capture a year gone by in a few catchy phrases. This year being no exception. The mayor life transition I am going through will only let itself be properly analysed in a year or two.  But for all the people that have asked me (and also for those that will probably still ask me in 2014) 'how it feels to be back in the Netherlands?',  I will try and put some of my feelings in writing. So in no particular order:


UP:
HOT:

IN:


* Having Mr. S. come home most nights. It's so much nicer to talk face to face than through a stop-and-go Skype connection. Added bonus: I don't have to discipline the kids all by myself anymore. So some days I actually am a great mum again. On those days I happily leave all the shouting to Mr. S.

* My sons's secondary school, where he found some great mates that are just as silly, ball obsessed and i-pod depended as he is.

* Our renewed relationships with bikes, that we use nowadays for any trip under 5 miles, as well as for the weekly shop or a trip to the local DIY store.  I must admit though that after my last wood buying frenzy I had to call Mr. S. to hop in the car to come to my rescue.

* Ice skating. My daughter and I love it. It's such a great excuse to drink hot chocolate all the time.

* The fact that someone hired me to do something that I love doing. I found myself a proper job again and I can't wait to get started

* Rowing. Twice a week I get to go out on some ancient moats around a very pretty fortified little town in a rowing boat. It's absolutely brilliant. It might take some years to master the basics (e.g. not putting the oars the wrong way round, not forgetting to look over my shoulder to see where I am going, never arriving at the club again without at least one change of dry clothes in an emergency bag), but I'll be patient.

*My cleaning lady. May be I should put this at the top of the list! I feel absolutely elated every Wednesday afternoon when I come home to an immaculately tidied and spotlessly clean house! After years of doing the cleaning myself it feels like the greatest luxury in the world to have someone else push the hoover around.

* The good fortune to find my daughter and international scout troop close by, so she can speak her beloved English once a week.

* Having family and old friends close by, so that we can share more of your day-to-day life.

* Enrolling the 12yo in a field hockey club. He has two practice sessions and a proper game each week. The other four days he likes to go and see if there is someone that wants to practise some more. He always finds someone.

* Indonesian and Chinese food being readily available again. Yam! I must admit we also love having a local chip shop again.

* Being able to talk to the butcher, people at the bus stop, fellow passengers on the train, other shoppers in the queue at the supermarket. I am very chatty and always hated the fact that chatting in either Swiss German or Italian was so tricky. I would only ever come up with a great thing to say when there was absolutely no one around to say it to.



DOWN:
NOT SO HOT:
OUT:


* Rain, rain, wind, wind, rain, rain, wind, wind. How can it be Christmas if it is twelve degrees, wet and windy? It just doesn't feel right.

* No mountains on the horizon, so no skiing, mountain hiking, or even just gazing at distant peaks. It helps if I don't look at my Swiss friend's pictures on facebook too often.

* The fact that we're in rented accommodation and probably will have to move again this summer. If we find a place we want to buy (and can afford)  that is.

* Supermarkets that sell more varieties of milk and yoghurt, than fresh vegetables and where you can get almost everything you could ever want for dinner either pre-cut, pre-cooked or ready made.

* Lunch consisting of two limp cheese sandwiches that have been packed into a little plastic bag around day break.

* Missing my Italian, Australian, Canadian, Dutch, Irish and  English friends, scattered around the globe. I think about them all the time.

* My fast expanding waistline. I have a tendency  to console myself with chocolate and cake.

* Getting soaking wet on my bike at least three times a week. The novelty has definitely worn off.

* My 12yo wanting a Play Station, because every single one of his new Dutch friends has one. It's a catch 22 really. If we buy him the darn machine he is going to play on it the whole time, but if we don't he will be going over to one of his friends and play on it the whole time.

* No distant horizons to discover in our new habitat. No pouring over Lonely Planets and no inviting stacks of leaflets scattered all around our living room. Although we did visit the famous Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam and it really was quite splendid.

* My children becoming way more independent than they would have whilst living abroad. In the Netherlands they take their bikes and go pretty much where they want to. It's undoubtedly great for them, but it will take me a little while longer to get used to it.

* Knowing that we won't be living abroad in quite a while. I don't like the idea that the expat part of our life is over.



Have a great  2014!

Bliss

I seldom allow myself to sit down with a cup of coffee and a magazine. That's why I have come to cherish my daughter's guitar lessons.

Every Tuesday afternoon from quarter to six to a quarter past six I get to sit and do absolutely bugger all. Sometimes I don't even bring a magazine. I just sit and stare at the walls, being mindful, but without all the trouble of actually trying to stare at a flower whilst trying to breath deeply.
To just sit somewhere without the slightest opportunity to do something useful, is fast becoming the highlight of my week. And the timing couldn't be more perfect. Most weekdays I seem to go totally blank around quarter to six anyway. Dolefully looking in the fridge, figuring out a way to magically transform it's meagre contents into a nutritious meal without too much trouble. Some days I am moderately successful at this, but these are few and far between.
The fact that I get to sit down and relax at that fatal time just before dinner, really is a blessing for all that are living under my roof. Since my daughter started her guitar lessons, most Tuesdays dinner either consists of pizza, or something delicious that I planned at a time, when my thoughts concerning food are still more or less coherent, thus leading to an altogether more satisfying meal.
Despite it's decrepit paintwork, it's rather harsh lighting and uncomfortable chairs, I have really come to like the little coffee corner at our local music school. If you don't bring your own reading material, there's only a stash of yellowing leaflets on learning how to play the trombone, cello or flute. Since I have no inclination whatsoever to learn how to make music in the near future, there is absolutely no need to read any of the brochures, which is nice. (In equally depressing waiting rooms I always feel morally obliged (or is it my ocd?) to read all sorts of disgusting brochures on nail fungus, piles, or psoriasis.)
Back to the coffee corner, where by now I have got to  know my fellow inmates, like you get familiar with the commuters on your daily tube ride into work. There is the granddad who eagerly awaits his granddaughter to come out of one class and go into the next. In the meantime he feeds her sandwiches and provides her with a drink that he brings in a small blue thermos.
Before and after the meal the old man reads his football magazine with an enthusiasm that makes me think he has a nagging wife at home who never lets him have a moment's peace. But come to think of it, he might be the little girl's father, having traded in his wife for a younger model years ago and now making up for the fact that he was too busy with work to see his first children grow up, by giving this precious girl all his love and attention.
I will never know of course, like I will never know, nor understand, why the father in the left hand corner of the waiting area, reads through the same old tattered free newspapers that must have been left behind weeks, if not months ago. Although come to think of  it, it might proof to be utterly relaxing to read news that stopped being news a long time ago.
Not that I will ever ask him, because letting my imagination run wild is such fun. Has the mum that accompanies a blond boy and a very exotic looking girl adopted one of the children, or both, or is she just looking after her neighbour's kid? What will the stony-faced father of the only boy in the ballet class talk about on the way home? And is the guy at the far end of the room actually waiting for someone, or just looking for a place to while away the time? Over the weeks, I have come up with several plausible, or less plausible stories, all the while carefully avoiding actually talking to any of these people as I feel the truth will probably come as a bit of a disappointment.
Thirty minutes of me time every week do of course come at a price. For every five minutes of silence on Tuesday afternoons, I am made to listen to a thirty minute guitar improvisation by my daughter, who loves to 'compose' her own songs. On top of this she tells me that she is too young to learn how to tune her guitar by herself and so far, I haven't had the audacity to go ask her teacher if she is telling the truth.
Besides, I really want her to learn how to play the guitar, as I can totally see her around a campfire somewhere creating a wonderful atmosphere. Or traveling the world, guitar strapped to her backpack.
In the meantime I will just have to listen to my daughter not getting it quite right. Which is easier said than done, as she plays most days and once she has started, there is no stopping her. But I have found the perfect solution in the form of the extractor fan.
My daughter can strum away and sing as loudly as she pleases, while I hide under the extractor fan. This way most of the guitar music passes me by, while I am still physically close to my daughter, so that I can give her a big thumbs up every time she proudly looks up at me. As an added bonus, every practise session will end with a - hopefully- lovely meal.
Now all I have to do is come up with a really good reason why guitar concerts can best take place roughly half an hour before we sit down to eat. Ideas, anyone?

Old hag

 

 

Today's visit to the dentist proofed (beyond reasonable doubt) that my face these days bears an ever more striking ressemblance to a tea cosy. A disturbing notion made even more frightening by the fact that I hadn't really noticed it until this morning.


My daughter needs to see the dentist as her baby teeth are extremely reluctant to give way to her grown up teeth. The latter are only managing to push half of the said baby teeth out. Literally. Leaving the 10yo with a few half broken teeth that are putting up a really good fight to escape eviction. Whereas my daughter is very wishy-washy when it comes to brushing her teeth at the best of times, her severally unhappy bleeding gums do not make it any better at the moment. 
We are very pressed for time as usual. A piece of toast eaten standing up in the kitchen is our take on a classic family breakfast this morning. And a cup of tea. I can't function properly without at least one cup of tea, so I choose to brew one over blow drying my freshly washed hair. Which is not so bad if you take the car, but we are cycling as there is absolutely no place to park near the dentist. In order to save myself from pneumonia, I decide to wear a wooly hat. Not a nice trendy one as do not own a nice trendy hat, but a rather heavy, mid brown,  knitted affair procuced no doubt by a factory in Bangladesh.
Although my daughter is at the age to start commenting on my appearance;  she only raises an eyebrow when she sees me coming out of the house with the wooly hat not quite covering all of my dripping wet hair and not the slightest bit of mascara. The fact that she isn't very talkative before ten am probably saves me from all kinds of nasty remarks.
I feel less fortunate when I discover that our new Dutch dentist is an attractive, slim, perfectly groomed, blond, young woman at least fifteen year my junior. She takes one look at my unadorned face and  frumpy hat, another look at my daughter's sorry teeth and starts a rather long monologue about looking after one's teeth (which is probably meant as a metaphor for my whole appearance) and one's children's teeth with a little more vigilance. Appearantly it isn't my daughter's fault at all that her teeth are in poor condition. I should have brushed her teeth myself! Not until she is twelve can she my daughter be trusted to brush her teeth without my supervision. Are you kidding me?
I don't think she'll let me hold her toothbrush and there are far more pressing issues to fight over, like wearing a spaghetti strap top to school in midwinter, or putting on a fresh pair of knickers every day. 
So I don't think I will go as far as actually cleaning the 10yo's teeth, but I might give her the odd peptalk while she is brushing. Or set the alarm, withold her pocket money every time she fails to brush twice a day, stick a detailed picture of rotting teeth on the bathroom mirror, or all of the above.
As for myself, I vow to take more care of my appearance. At least when I  am going to see my son's 25yo new orthodontist, our very young new gp, or the physiotherapist that I have been  referred to, who only communicates via What's app. When I go to see him next week about my knee, I might even have to go as far as shaving my legs. In November!

Oh to still believe

One of the best bits of our new life is the fact that my 10yo daughter, like all Dutch primary school children, gets the Wednesday afternoons off. Every single one of them. This leaves us ample time for a leisurely lunch and some ice skating lessons at the famous Amsterdam ice rink.

It's her second lesson today. Just like last week, my girl is very excited to put on her ski trousers as I guess, they remind her of Switzerland. There, for about three months every winter, she would more or less live in her 'snow pants'.
It makes me happy to see her so buoyed up at the prospect of another skating lesson, as the transition from her beloved international school in Zug, to a small Dutch primary school has proofed to be quite hard for her. So much so in fact, that my daughter at the moment point blank refuses to read any Dutch books, or watch any Dutch programmes on the telly. Instead, she totally lives for 'Strictly Come Dancing', 'Junior Bake Off' and 'Operation Ouch!'.
Anyway, she adores the idea of going to the outdoor ice rink every week. Together with her half Dutch, half German 8yo cousin and a number of other children she is being taught the basics of ice skating. The best bit, according to the girls, is that they now know 'how to fall properly', something they enthusiastically demonstrate at every opportunity. The flipside being that they make me practise tumbling down as well. But whereas the girls quickly scramble to their feet, it takes me ages to get my skates firmly planted on the ice and my head sticking in the air again.
Fortunately, after my second fall, it is time for their lesson, so I glide around in relative peace for a while. It's an interesting sensation to be back on skates after eighteen or so years.
In our courting days Mr. S and I, both wearing black,  long track, ice speed skates, and looking much more streamlined than we do now, would easily skate forty odd kilometres together. But by the time we got married and both started work, a period of frost seldom seemed to coincide with time off work, so skating quickly became something we would get back into if we ever got more time.
Instead we had two babies within the space of sixteen months and, besides when we had to go to work,  we were hardly making it out of the house. By the time we got out on the other side of the nappy tunnel once more, we moved to England, then to Italy and later to Switzerland. And although Switzerland had plenty of ice rinks, they were all geared towards figure skating or ice hockey matches and besides we loved skiing too much to go skating more than once in a blue moon.
The minute though that I put my skates on and set foot on the ice, I feel great. So great in fact, that after only a few rounds, I decide that I am going to risk a left turn whereby you cross your right skate over your left a number of times. I manage to put my right foot down, but can't seem to remember what my left foot is supposed to do at this point. Again I land face first on the ice, but since all my limbs seem still to be in working order, I crack on. I haven't had such uncomplicated fun in a long time.
When my daughter comes to join me after her lesson, she can't wait to show me all her tricks. Within the short space of two lessons she has learned how to skate backwards, jump on her skates, break -  a useful skill that I haven't quite mastered yet -and jump up onto the soft boarding alongside the rink. I manage to avoid to have to try any of those things by taking tons of pictures of my stunt girl.
Just as we are leaving the ice to get some hot chocolates, Saint Nicolas flanked by three black Peters - all on skates-  turn up. I am gobsmacked but the gathered Dutch children seem to take it completely for granted that Saint Nicolas gets into a sleigh so that  his helpers can pull him round the ice rink. My 10yo daughter on the other hand, is over the moon. For the first time in her life Saint Nicholas isn't just turning up once a year between two and three in some village hall. Instead she meets him constantly, at the supermarket, the swimming pool, the cinema and now the ice rink.
She doesn't really believe anymore, although she says she does about six times a day. She can be very stubborn. But I must admit that she has a point, because wouldn't life be so much nicer if we could al still believe in Saint Nicholas , Father Christmas and the Easter Bunny?
Ten minutes or so later, her face stuffed with cinnamon biscuits and a sleigh pulling session under her belt and my lovely girl seems to be completely in tune with the 'Dutchness' inside her. For the time being skating seems to take centre stage, alpine dreams fast becoming a thing of the past. And judging by her glowing, happy face, she is almost ready to wear  wooden shoes to school, grow tulips for a living and paint some windmills.

Spoiled

In the middle of  a long and rather demanding week, there are few things more stressful for Mr. S and myself than trying to book a holiday together. Still, that is just what we did.

Ever since we left Switzerland we have been dreaming about a proper ski holiday. We were not going to deny ourselves a week of frolicking in the snow. But utterly spoiled as we are after five years of being able to effortlessly commute to the nearest slopes every weekend, we felt spending two full days in the car to only find ourselves endlessly queuing for lifts to just go down overcrowded pistes, was simply beneath us. Hence we didn't book a hotel, didn't decide where we wanted to go, nor when our dreamed up holiday should take place. Simply because taking action would mean accepting the fact that we are no longer living in Switzerland, are no longer expats so can't take our children out of school a day or so before they officially break up to make traveling a bit less stressful.
We told the children - who by the way are dying to go skiing - that we might skip a winter and tried telling ourselves that going on a very expensive winter holiday would only eat into our savings and therefore was not a very grown up thing to do. Unfortunately, to no avail.
So we toyed with some ideas for a while, ranging from swopping houses with expat friends still living in Switzerland, or renting a shoebox sized appartment in France, to booking a trip to Norway to 'get away from it all'. But we never once turned on the computer to actually see what is available. Until this week that is.
It all starts with me going for a coffee with one of my new friends. She also recently moved from Switzerland to the Netherlands and is very busy booking a family ski holiday. It is getting more and more difficult to find a hotel she tells me, as the Dutch February 'spring break', tends to be the exact week  when the whole of Europe heads for the mountains. Oh dear. I haven't even started looking.
I know Mr. S will be no help as he is a firm believer of the mantra:  'keeping all options open for as long as is humanly possible'. And I must admit that for him this works beautifully. Mr. S has this unshakeble belief that he will always find a hotel and he normally does, just as he always finds a parking spot close to the entrance of wherever he goes. I,  on the other hand,  always end up parking a least ten minutes walking from where I need to be, but that is a different story altogether.
Anyway, as soon as I get  home I turn on the i-pad to frantically scour the internet. I spend hours looking at hotels, appartments and B&B's close to the slopes in Austria, Italy and France. Getting nowhere of course. My total lack of focus on a specific country, let alone a ski area results in nothing but confusion. And an absolute certainty that a ski holiday is outragingly expensive, especially if you leave booking it till the last minute.
I am just about getting ready to throw in the towel when I stumble upon a little hotel in our favourite Italian ski resort that we have stayed in once before, when every other hotel in the area was fully booked. Because it is rather far from the ski lifts it isn't costing an absolute fortune. And believe it or not it still has one last room unoccupied in our designated week.
Throwing all rationality out of the window, I nearly book it straight away. It is only with my finger hovering over the send button, that I decide that may be Mr. S. deserves to have a say in the matter as well. But as it turns out that evening we are both absolutely knackered and a bit grumpy, so - in order to save our marriage - it is best if we don't talk about an expensive ski holiday.
Early next morning, just after I dropped my daughter off at school, I send Mr. S. a text with the ominous words: 'Ready to book'. Within a second I receive a reply. 'Call you in a minute', which - credit where credit's due - he does.
It's not long before we are both online checking the Italian tourist board website. Whereas it is normally utterly detrimental to our relationship to look at a computer together - we both want to be in control of the keyboard (I know, it's rather sad, isn't it) - each having our own computer (and phone!) saves the day.  As he can now see for himself that actually most hotels are fully booked (even the one that I managed to find yesterday) makes Mr. S. more sympathetic to the idea that booking a bit earlier, in general gives you just a tat more choice. Something that I no doubt can use to my advantage in the future. 
Eventually, after a lengthy session on the phone and a few more hours spend on our computers at opposite ends of the living room, we manage to secure a room in Sporthotel Platz with a very cosy, wood clad dining room where chef Theo, next in line to take over the Platz' family hotel, according to the website cooks robust, yet elegant food. And ( I am not making this up)  once a week jumps on the table with his accordion whereupon the assembled guests and the extended Platz family dance until the sun comes up. It all sounds too good to be true.
So, we have gracefully resigned ourselves to the fact that come February we will be joining the queue of Dutch cars crawling towards the mountains. Now the only thing we need to come to terms with is the fact that we can't reach Florence, Venice, the Alsace, the Matterhorn, Wales, the Yorkshire Dales,  the Lake District, or Milan whenever we fancy a nice day out. Because by golly, are we spoiled.

Triangle

Drawing (and story) by Naomi Hattaway

Some days being back in my home country mystifies me. Behaviours, or unspoken rules, that after living abroad for eight years strike me as really weird are in a Dutch context of course perfectly normal. I am the one that needs to adapt, or am I?

Just this morning while I was contemplating how lovely it is to be able to take my 10yo daughter to school on my bike, I almost bumped into an au pair from the Philippines trying to steady a heavy carier trycicle with three blond children aboard. Poor thing. Whereas I at least have long legs and a past rich of cycling expeditions, head first into gale force winds with rain slashing in my face, she has not.
Is it so much more natural, or normal to see an American au pair in a big four wheel drive Volvo collecting a couple of kids from the international school in switzerland, or children being picked up by a private chauffeur every day from our school in Italy? Not really no. Still the image of this tiny Filipina struggling to keep her monster bike afloat, strikes me as really weird.
Just as weird really to find myself severely overdressed at my neighbour's fortieth birthday party. She had send out handwritten invitations, hired a caterer and erected a party tent in the garden. So it wasn't an informal, bring your own booze type of get together and yet at least half of the guests were wearing jeans and a top.
In the Netherlands it is considered perfectly allright to wear jeans, trainers and the latest knitwear wherever you go, be it a party,  the theatre, a restaurant, or a graduation ceremony. Ten years ago I would probably have thought nothing of it, but after living in England where everyone wears something sparkly and festive to go out and Italy where you wouldn't be seen dead going into town wearing flipflops, or out to dinner wearing the same clothes you had on all day, I feel it is much nicer if everyone takes the effort to put on something special before going to a party.
My English friends will smile when I confess that I do struggle with the bluntness of my Dutch countrymen. Although my English mates have always found me cringingly direct, Dutch people can be forthright to the point of being rude. Over the past couple of days waitresses and shopassistants have told my 10yo daughter off in what I perceived as a very unfriendly manner. Yes, she was touching some things in shops that she perhaps shouldn't have, picking wax of a candle in a cafe and hiding under a clothes rack just for the fun of it, but before I even got the chance to tell her to stop, someone beat me to it. And not in a gentle way with a smile on their face, no, more in an oldfashioned headmistress kind of manner.  I didn't like it and have decided to take at least some of my business elsewhere.
Instead of being one hundred percent Dutch as most of the people I meet these days, I have become part English (I love their politeness, eagerness to queue and - dare I say it- their over the top Christmases) part Italian (I love the fact that they all love my children and always make me feel like
the guest of honour in their cafe's and restaurants) and part Swiss (sometimes it is nice if everyone just obbeys the rules. I for one really enjoy spotless clean swimming pools and dog poo free pavements).
A friend of mine send me a lovely story the other day in which a circle from circle country gets on a plane to go live in square society for a few years. On moving back this little circle dicovers that although he hasn't become a square, he certainly isn't a circle anymore. Instead he has changed into a triangle, without quite realising it.
So that's what I am: a triangle and proud of it. I even found some lovely other triangles to hang out with. Joking about our inabillity, at times, as square pegs to fit into round holes, really makes my day. As does fantasising about a little lady moving back home to the Philippines one day taking with her a Dutch carrier tricycle and telling everyone around her exactly what she thinks of them.


How do you feel as an expat, or repat? Have you become a triangle yet? And what made you realise this? Go on, just spill the beans...

Bad Hair Day

                              




Every move sooner or later reaches the stage of me pulling my hair out. Not because I am that desperate but because I have to find a new hairdressers.

Let me start by saying that there are few things that I dislike more -  on my list a visit to the hairdresser would only be topped by going in for a cervix smear, or a root canal treatment - than having my hair cut. Just the whole back breaking exercise of having it washed is enough to put me in a bad mood. I never am comfortable, despite my politely uttered reassurance, with my neck resting on a rock solid plastic rim and water dripping in my ears. And why on earth you should shampoo and then condition your hair twice in a row is beyond me.
There was one blissful periode in England. After several visits to different hairdressers who invariably spend fifteen minutes cutting and a good hour blowdrying (styling!) your hair, we came accross a lovely lady who made house calls. She could cut, dry and style all four of us in an hour. And the best part: you could wash your own hair in your own shower. Cleaning the kitchen smothered in human hair seemed a small price to pay.
After our move to Italy it seemed neigh on impossibe to find a replacement. Luckily we found an old fashioned salon at the bottom of our street. The team of stylists consisted of mum, well into her sixties with a purple helmet of hair, her daughter, son in law and a ferocious, but impeccably groomed, orange poodle. The elderly head of the family made a mean espresso, so in Italy was deemed a valuable asset to the business. And so he was.
No premium espresso's were being served in Switzerland, where I decided to grow out my hair. Not so much as a fashion statement, but more so because for a long time I couldn't face the discussion about layers, fringes and blow drying techniques in yet another language. In the end I found the one place in Switzerland where you didn't need to book an appointment, so I could just walk in on days when I felt particularly courageous.
With hair almost as long as my 10yo daughter's, I felt that I couldn't postpone a trip to the hairdressers any longer. Since a friend (with lucious chestnut coloured wavy locks completely unlike my own limp blond excuse of a hairdo) recommended her hairdresser, I decided yesterday to take the plunge.
I really tried to ignore the water dripping in my ears and although I vowed that looking at my not so young face upclose in a mirror with my hair piled up high in unfashionable pink hair pins for a least an hour wasn't going to get me down, it did in the end.
I also discovered that language, contrary to my beliefs, doesn't play a part in my disliking of going to the hairdresser. Yesterday, I found that whilst being able to discuss my hair in my mothertongue I still didn't have anything to say about it.
To cowardly to admit that I more often than not leave the house in the morning with wet hair and that styling it is something that I have carefully avoided for years, I tell lies. Something that I manage to do so convincingly that I invariably come home with some useless and very expensive styling mousse or hair serum that I feigned to be interested in.
On the upside though I had enough of my wits about me yesterday to make the girl seriously trim my hair. It's much shorter than I have had it in years. So short in fact that I don't need another haircut for at least a year. Or two. In this timespan I might even manage to use the volume enhancing product that I bought. Or else it might look lovely next to the unused jar of boob dust in it's secret hiding place.

Defrosting

                       

Pippi Longstocking would absolutely adore my kitchen at the moment. With the help of two brushes tied to her size 10 feet and a little detergent she could skate to her heart's content. All because as a spur-of-the-moment thing I decided to defrost my fridge/freezer.

It seemed like such a good idea this morning.  The fridge could defrost while I was doing the weekly shop. Upon coming home I was going to deep clean the beast, before packing it to the brim again. All would have been fine, if only I had turned the heating off, before I left the house. Remembering to take the drawers out of the freezer, would also have made a difference.
On a(nother) whim I decide to check out a different supermarket as it seems such a waste to drive to the nearest supermarket as it is only 300 yards from my house. I justify taking the car by driving fifteen minutes to another supermarket where I am going to do a really big shop. A hundredandsixty euro's and three bags filled to the brim later, I feel like I have really accomplished something. It is not until I arrive back home that I realise there is absolutely nowhere to unpack the mountain of perishable goods.  Allthough it is strangely balmy outside, considering we are nearing the end of october, I decide to leave everything in the boot of the car.
I let myself in, carefully avoiding the kitchen, because first I need to go and see my physiotherapist. It takes him a bit longer than anticipated to abuse my lower back, so instead of going home, I need to rush over to my daughter's school to pick her up. Thank God she decides to go over to a friend's house for a play date, because when I finally make it back into my kitchen disaster has struck.
Not only have the overflowing freezer drawers flooded my kitchen; the milk, butter and cheese left outside the fridge has completely melted and is leaving gooey blobs all over the units. Packets of ham have turned greyish and defrosted pakets of peas and puff pastry have mingled into a sorry mess.
Luckily I discover real mushrooms in the fridge as well as white mouldy bits and non identifiable black, crumbly smears, completely justifying the chaotic defrosting operation.
My 12yo and his classmate look at me curiously when they find me smothered in food scraps and kneeling in a large puddle trying to clean the fridge. The last time I did this - in a different house in a different country - I could easily lift the shelves out, but never managed to make them slide back in again, so this time I am desperately trying to clean the shelves while leaving them in the fridge.
You have to be quite flexible to get rid of all the new growth, let me tell you that.
While I scrub, mob and wipe I have loads of time to ponder our recent new beginnings in the Netherlands. something that I have carefully avoided for the past two months. It is not all bad, I decide. Wanting to clean the fridge in my new home, surely is a sign of nesting, is it not? and mY heart is definitely defrosting, albeit slowly, as I am trying to fall in love all over again with my motherland.
Hours later, I contently look at my new sparkly clean and well stocked fridge. I have send Mr. S. to the nearest chippy for a couple of beers and some well deserved greasy treats. No one is allowed to touch the sanitized appliance again. Or at least not today. The cleanliness of the fridge is as fragile and easily disrupted, I fear, as are my baby steps on the road to accepting that life has changed once again.

Glamming up

                                       

Fast approaching her eleventh birthday my daughter has suddenly developped an interest in shopping. Whereas before she would only reluctantly agree to come with me to get her some new shoes/trousers/tops, nowadays I am the one who hesitates when she asks to be accompanied into town.

The fact is that she would rather go by herself - it has allready been two, or even three years since my daughter decided she was old enough to do most things on her own - and thus every shopping expedition starts with an argument. She demands an exact date, albeit months (years?) from now, on which she can set out on her own. I know if I let myself being tempted into picking a date it will be set in stone.
The minute I promiss to take her to a cafe and treat her to a hot chocolate however, she will grudgingly put up with me tagging along. As long as she is allowed to turn left on entering a shop while I take a right, that is. Which is easier said than done, because I have to make myself scarce without loosing sight of her. If she doesn't spot me the second she decides she has had enough solitude, she panicks. Big time.
Nevertheless I adore our girly outings together. It is lovely to see how she is changing from a little girl into a teenager. That she doesn't like a single piece of clothing that I like is only natural and to see her emerging from a changing room in leather trousers and a leather jacket (embellished with a chunky gold asymmetrical zip) is priceless.
My daughter is developping a rather unique style as she likes to combine zip off outdoor trousers and hiking boots with very glitzy leave one shoulder bare tops. We don't buy the leather jacket outfit as it is way too expensive, but instead we manage to find her a pair of black leather boots adorned with metal studs and a very garish orange top with loads of sequins and a rather busy print.
Over coffee and chocolate in a lovely little cafe, my olive skinned daughter confides in me, that she
really wants blusher, because she would like to be 'very brown in the winter too'. She is determined to spend her pocket money on it and since she can do whatever she likes with her own pennies, I let her.
Ages we spend surveying the different 'revolutionary' skintone alterating products. Finally my daughter picks a powder blusher that is the shade of an old fashioned clay tennis court. It will defenitely do the trick. She also finds a nice looking bottle of Vampy Kiss, which wouldn't go amiss if someone threw up in the car, but is just a tat overpowering in all other circumstances.
Hours later, glow in the dark orange and smelling divine, I find her on the sofa reading a girl's magazine.  She has a brilliant idea, she tells me. Next time we go shopping together she is going to pick out stuff for me to try on. 'It is going to be great', she says, smiling seductively. 'I will find you a really good pair of leather trousers and a very sparkly top'. Great idea! I am only hoping however that she will have forgotten all about the necessity of blusher by then.

Star

My children have learned how to conjugate verbs in four, or in my sons case, five different languages. But do they use any of that knowledge to communicate with me? Nope. One word suffices to get their message across.

Depending  on intonation, rhythm, volume and breaking up of the word in two, or sometimes even three nonexisting syllables, a single 'mum' cuts straight to the chase. 'Mum' sounding loudly and yet strangely muffled at the same time, means that one of my kids can't find his or her P.E. kit, homework, guitar, or favourite jumper. It might by the way also mean that they can't find the butter, chocolate sprinkles, bread rolls, or - my favourite - have run out of loo paper whilst sitting on the toilet.
With their head stuck in a kitchen cabinet, sock drawer, or laundry basket they expect me to magically pull whatever it is that they want (need!!!) out of a top hat. I can not seem to make them understand that stuff could also be at the bottom of a pile, behind something else on a shelf, or still in one of the zillions of bags shattered around our house.
 'Mum' uttered in a kind of whiney tone of voice however conveys a different set of messages in our family. 'I told you I have a tummy ache and you're not responding to it the way that I want you to', certainly is one of them. As are: 'I left my rain jacket in some changing room somewhere and now I am cold and wet and it is all your fault', 'I failed my geography test and it is so unfair, because I did study for it and by the way, it is all your fault', or 'I left my lunchbox at home and you did not want to bring it and now I am soooo hungry and it is definitely your fault and did you know that you are the worst mum in the world'.
 'Muhum', or 'muhuhum' repeated over and over, combined with a rolling of the eyes is my children's way of telling me that I have never been more wrong in my life than when I suggested they bring waterproof trousers on a day trip to the zoo in November. Or when I tell them I don't want to watch Harry Potter at two in the afternoon on a gloriously sunny day, nor want to teach them how to bake at nine 'o clock at night (but you always say we are going to .., but when I ask you, you never feel like it').
 My children 'mum' from dawn to dusk, preferably simultaneously, never doubting my superwomanpowers to listen to my daughter playing guitar in her bedroom upstairs, while at the same time searching for my son's maths book in the kitchen downstairs. They also seriously expect me to not bat an eyelid when they need me to handwash their team sports socks that they forgot to put in the laundry bin a week ago. And didn't I know they need those socks tonight? And all that while I am busy cooking dinner.
When I finally sit down for a spot of apathetic gazing at the telly, I hear a softly whispered 'mum' coming from upstairs. It is my 10yo daughter who should have been asleep by now. She needs to know whether we have any cardboard. 'It is for a present for you', she hastily adds when she sees my
face. I leave without getting too cross with her, but ten minutes or so later she lures me into her
bedroom again. Covered in glue, paper, ribbon and beaming radiantly she hands me a giant card. 'To mum, you are a' it reads, followed by a massive and very sparkely star. And you know what? I think she has a point.

Coffee morning

It's official. I am a repat. An ex expat. Back 'home'. And I am not sure that I like it much. At least not yet.

It's not my new surroundings that I mind, I mean, yes of course looking at snow capped mountains on a daily basis had a certain charm, but no, it's myself that I seem to like less in the new place. It feels like a bit of a failure that whilst being surrounded by people that I can understand perfectly, I don't seem to get them at all. Nor they me.
Scene 1. My daughter and I decide to take a trip by  train. (She wants to see the Hague, because she 'needs to know where our government is based'). Eight years ago, you would buy a ticket and that was that. These days you need a special public transport card. We manage to get two of said cards out of a machine, but don't have a clue as to what you do with them next.
I ask a friendly student who points to a machine on the platform. I need it to 'beep' my card, he tells me, all the while struggling not to laugh in my face. As it turns out, the public transport cards were introduced a good five years ago.
On our return journey my daughter and I completely forget the business with the cards until we have made ourselves comfortable on the train. There is nothing for it but to leave my daughter with all our bags and coats on the train for a desperate sprint trying to locate one of the very unobtrusive beeping devices. I make it back on board with just seconds to spare.
Whereas it is kind of fun to figure things out when living abroad - in fact I got a real buzz  the first time I managed  to buy tickets from an Italian speaking machine - back home it is just annoying. You are supposed to be intimately aquainted with things you have never even heard about.
Scene 2. For the umptieth day in a row my daughter hasn't managed to get herself a play date. To fully understand my feelings you need to know that Dutch primary school children go over to a friend's house - or invite a child back to their's - most afternoons. My daughter, used to playing in the school playground after school, finds it really difficult to initiate a play date. But when she is asked by one of her lovely new class mates, she tells them she can't make it that afternoon as she is afraid we have something else on.
Scene 3. Whilst living abroad I felt an enormous freedom to shape my life exactly as I pleased. And although no one says so out loud, the message I nonetheless pick up is that I need to go back to work. To conform to the juggling act of a parttime career and being a mum. Being different anyway whilst living abroad meant that conforming was utterly pointless and I really liked that.
Struggling with this - and my endless to do list - I all of a sudden get an invite for a coffee morning. A group of twenty or so repats, all living locally, meet up once a month for a good old natter about
their expat adventures and life in general. Although I hesitate at first, not being the coffee morning type, I let curiosity get the better of me.
And what a good decision that proofs to be. I genuinely like meeting a bunch of women that are (or were) in exactly the same boat. I quicky gravitate towards three women that look as bewildered as me. As it turns out neither of us has been back for more than six weeks.
Finally I manage to have a laugh about some of the things that I am doing at the  moment. Trying to buy a car while still owning a Swiss driver's license? Check (it can't be done), getting medication from the nearest pharmacist without registering at said pharmacist which you
can only do if you bring a passport? check. Calling the health authorities trying to explain that children get jabs in other countries too and my 12yo therefor doesn't need the four injections they have lined up for him? Check.

Women that have succesfully reintegrated two, three or sometimes more years ago are at hand to sprinkle little pearls of wisdom. Which really helps. /span>
I also discover a woman, back from I can't remember where, who lives just round the corner from me. She listens patiently while I lament the fact that my son, now that we're in the Netherlands really enjoys his bit of freedom and doesn't seem to need me anymore, except for studying Dutch, something we both dread. She tells me to brace myself, because playing catch up with my children's 'mothertongue' is not necessarily going to be a quick process. And also to knock on her door when I am at my wits end. > The meeting cheers me up no end. I get to talk to loads of interesting women and no one (no one!) asks me what I do with myself all day, or when (not if) I plan to go back to work. It is utter bliss. Hours later on the school's playground, waiting for my daughter, I am still smiling. Life isn't so bad after all. At least not today. Not even my tired, grumpy daughter who tells me she wants to go back to Switzerland, because she really, really misses her friends, can dampen my spirits. It's going to take us a while to adjust. And that's ok.

Settling in

Moving to a smaller house, I thought, would mean that we should be able to comfortably settle in without buying any new furniture. That was before I got rid of a lot of our stuff in a recent decluttering frenzy though.  

So now I am - once again - the proud owner of a Grundtal loo roll holder, a Mysa Rosenglimm (warmth rating 5 on a scale from 1 to 6) duvet to keep me warm at night, some nifty Skubbb drawer dividers, an Enudden towel rack, a little plastic stool named Frosta and some things that I so don't need that I don't even want to list them here (why is it that I can never leave a certain Swedish furniture superstore without buying paper napkins and plastic food containers?).
For the past eight years, going to Ikea always marked the transition from one country to another. In England we arrived without children's beds, as we decided - just before we left - that both our children had miraculously outgrown their cots. The nearest Ikea to our new home in Timperley was the one in Warrington, which was kind of tricky to get to as it involved various busy motorways on which left hand driving was required. I nonetheless managed to get beds, curtains, a two seater sofa
and some garden chairs home.
When we visited Bologna last spring, the first thing both children instantly recognised was 'the way to Ikea'. It must be said that during our years in Italy we single handedly kept the local Ikea afloat. Our beautiful appartment was, as is quite normal in Italy, completely devoid of fixed ceiling lights. As a consequence we still own about twelve identical Hemma floor lamps (go on look them up, I know you want to). The cheap fabric lamp shades are all a bit wonky, but since we have them, we might as well use them for the next twentyfive years or so.
In Switzerland we came precariously close to buying a whole series of Billy bookcases. Thank God we managed to stop ourselves just in time. We didn't show such restraint when it came to various chests of drawers and desks. And I really wish I had kept myself from buying a zillion plastic boxes to keep on top of the rigid Swiss recycling, but hey-ho you can't have it all.
The thing with the Swedish furniture that we have purchased all over Europe is that we always thought that we would get rid of it, the minute we would return to the Netherlands. For the 'real'  house that we were one day going to buy, we would purchase only stylish, well made pieces that
would really stand out. The truth of course is that by the time we will have replaced all of the Ikea things, we are never will be able to afford to actually buy a place that we like. In effect we are doomed to live in an Ikea showroom for the rest of our lives. I suppose there are worse things.
There clearly must be, because I manage to spend a hundred and fifty euro's in Ikea today. As I am loading various bits and pieces into the car, it hits me. Going to Ikea is a very important part of the transition process. It goes something like this:  1. I can manage to find the local supermarket and I have unpacked just enough pots to cook and feed the family; slowly changing into 2. Two months of living surrounded by boxes is enough, so time for some more unpacking; quickly followed by 3. There is nowhere to put loose screws, pencils, paper clips, lip balm, underwear, nail fungus cream,  fondue sets and children's paint; seamlessly leading to 4. Find the nearest Ikea  NOW!
I take the familiar route starting from 'living room' (at the top of the escalator), to 'work', 'kitchen', 'dining', finally reaching the restaurant via 'bedrooms', 'bathrooms' and 'children's rooms'. After the ubiquitous meat balls I move on to 'home organisation', my favourite Ikea section by far.
After all these years of living with myself I still believe that the only thing that stands between me and an organised house is a lack of 'clever storage solutions'. So I keep buying plastic, fabric and cardboard boxes that all promiss to keep chaos at bay. And I completely fall for drawer dividers, toothbrush holders, towel racks and see-through shoeboxes.
The truth is however, that I am not a tidy person. In fact I am very lazy when it comes to tidying. So much so, that I quite often find myself filling lunch boxes in the morning, whilst being surrounded by the dirty pots - foodscraps still in - that I used to cook last night's dinner in. What I do like is to spring clean and organise my house once a year. I also like to dream about a household run with military precision. I even like - once in a blue moon - to throw out things I don't longer want or need. But most of all I like to fool myself when shopping at Ikea.

Back To School

The umbilical cord between my eldest son and me has finally been severed. It wasn't a gradual process. Oh no. All it took was one blow. Days later I am still recovering.

After nine weeks of summer holidays the first day at my son's new school finally dawned. It wasn't a full day. In fact,  he only needed to be at school from one till three to meet his form tutor and all 31 of his new Dutch classmates. As some sort of  rite of passage he wanted to cycle to school all by himself.
From a Dutch perspective, this is a very common request. Children in the Netherlands start to cycle to school on their own when they are eight, or nine years old. Maybe  their mums and dads still help their children to cross a busy road, but the kids will at least cycle part of the way by themselves.
Not my 12yo. Till he broke up last June, I had always driven him to school. In Italy only lunatics try to ride a bicycle and in Switzerland we had to climb several hundred meters to get to school. Although it is much healthier to travel by bike and it will probably do wonders for their independency, as a mum and designated driver, I have to say, it was quite nice to monitor their school life from up close.
Anyway, in the Netherlands you cannot be seen cycling to secondary school with your mum. That would the end of your budding social life. So, my son and I did a few trial runs and I bought him a way too expensive phone to make sure, if need be, we could at least communicate.
My 12yo - who is going to a new school for the fifth (!) time - isn't the least bit nervous. This comes as a bit of a surprise to both him and me. I can still picture him looking pale and worried on first days in England, Italy and Switzerland. Having had an easy start and two great years in Switzerland, surely must have helped.
As my son has been asked to bring a significant object into school to help him introduce himself, he put a Swiss flag into his backpack before he sets off to school. I know I am nagging, but I nonetheless tell him about ten times to text me when (if?!) he gets there. He has obviously decided to humour me, because ten minutes later the words 'made it' appear on the screen of my phone. Marvellous.
It is a long afternoon. Till around half three I am pretending to be busy, walking up and down stairs, sort of unpacking boxes, creating more and more chaos as I go along. By four 'o clock he is officially late. I manage to wait another five minutes before I call him. Of course he doesn't pick up his phone. It's at least another ten minutes before he finally turns up.
,,I fell off my bike", he explains. ,,I was holding the Swiss flag in my hand, because it doesn't really fit in my backpack. When I suddenly swerved to avoid bumping into this guy on a bike in front of me, the flag got stuck in between the spokes and I was catapulted off."
Oh my God. Luckily he got away with just a few bruises and thank God it happened in a quiet little street. I need a drink. And my son deserves a coke. I am really proud of myself that I manage to get the drinks on the table, without giving my 12yo a lecture on responsible cycling. I really keep my cool. He doesn't seem too shaken up by this accident and I am intent to keep it that way.
'OK', is all he is willing to share about meeting his classmates and form tutor. When pressed he reluctantly adds 'fine' to his description of the afternoon, before he - the can of coke in his hands -heads upstairs to his room. Half a hour later he is back, ready to go to field hockey practise. A quick wave and he is off again. On his bicycle. My lovely, independent 12yo boy.

On your marks, get set, cycle!

Since moving back to the Netherlands, cycling has become a very important part of our life. Instead of driving to school, the sport's fields, hairdresser, dentist, a friend's house, or the supermarket, we get on our bikes.

My children take our new exercise regime in their stride. And so do I. Well for now at least. When the sun is out almost everyday and it hasn't seriously rained for at least three weeks, I think all this cycling is great fun. Since I purchased an ugly, but highly functional double pannier bag, I even do most of our grocery shopping by bike. And I must say I am getting better and better at judging the capacity of the aforementioned pannier bag. The last time I cycled home with a couple of bread rolls and a packet of crisps clamped between my teeth is almost a week ago.
Every morning when I take my 10yo to her new school, we encounter a - hitherto unknown - subspecies. That of the cycling (grand)parent/child combination. Fathers with a little one in a seat on the back, leaning precariously over to the left to hold another child's shoulder in an attempt to point it in the right direction. Mums with two, three little blond children on large carrier tricycles. And grandparents with a 4, or 5yo on a tag along bike. To try and manoeuvre a car through my neighbourhood during the school run, really is quite an endeavour.
My daughter, a virtual novice on a bicylce, acts as if she's cycled all her life. And fair enough she isn't zigzagging down the road like some of the younger children. Negotiating traffic however is still pretty tricky. Not that she'll ever admit it. In fact she is on a mission to get my permission to cycle to school all by herself.
Which - to her infinite disappointment - is going to take a while. Firstly, I need to see for myself that she notices and stops for motorists and cyclists coming from the right. And secondly, I would like to make sure that she doesn't hesitate when crossing a road, that she gets on her bike a little quicker and that she doesn't come to an unexpected standstill in the middle of the road every time she spots a tiny
bug on her arm.
We negotiated a fragile truce. She rides her bike twenty or so meters ahead of me. That way she can pretend to be all grown up and I can anticipate oncoming traffic, even if she doesn't.
Cycling with my son is an altogether different experience. He is fast and furious. Daring me to keep up with him. Refusing to wear a helmet as no one else does. He has a point.  I loose my first battle, before we have even started some serious cycling.
After explaining him all the rules and the different traffic signs that he should be paying attention to, we set off to the supermarket together. We're not even halfway there, before it all goes pear-shaped. Not only do I forget the necessary handsignals, as he impatiently points out on several ocassions, I also have the nerve to ride my bike on the pavement.
Let me explain that to get to our local supermarket, you have to ride your bike round a roundabout where cyclists have priority. If you take the second exit as you are supposed to, you then need to

cross a very busy road to get to the shops. If however you take the third exit, you need to cycle on the pavement, for about fifty meters or so, to get to the supermarket. It's an altogether safer option.
My 12yo is appalled. He apparantly has become all Swiss over the past two years and now feels that rules are rules and that you should obey them at all times. Even if those rules  make no sense at all.
Oh dear. One of the nicest things about being Dutch, is that from a very young age you learn to ignore loads of rules. As long as you don't hurt anybody, act sensibly and courteously towards other people, most things you do, are absolutely fine. In other words, if I ride my bike very slowly on the pavement and make sure I get off it and walk if there are some pedestrians coming towards me, then all is well.
My son however insists on abandoning me and stubbornly follows his own internal compass. From my pavement position it is impossible to make sure that my son - a hundred meters or so down the road - executes his crossing perfectly. Luckily he makes it to the supermarket in one piece. The grocery shopping however, I do on my own these days. And that, surely, must be exactly what my son aimed for all along. Grrrr.

Zen (2)

Am I completely relaxed? Not worried about anything? Laughing at the challenges ahead of me? Not really. What I am though is back 'home', tanned and in possession of a nice little paunch.

But what a holiday it was! A sunbathing triumph!  A 'tart' extravaganza! A very happy reunion with dear friends! A cunning and well executed maneuver to avoid standing in a steaming hot traffic queue!
And of course an exercise in trying to live harmoniously on a few square meters with husband W. and the two children. We slept five nights in a row on our sailboat. The children sausaged into the forecabin, husband W. on the 'big' bench and myself on the other bench, my feet safely tucked away in a cupboard. The benches, each on opposite sides of a small table, are so narrow, that you wake up every time you try turning over.
In order to be able to make oneself a cup of tea, or indeed some breakfast, one needs to pack away four bags of clothes, two duvets, two sleeping bags, four pillows, eight towels, a fishing net, books, magazines, buckets, various ropes and sail bags. Only to find that it is nigh on impossible  to light the swaying camping stove without setting fire to one's hair.
It also took me a few days to work out how to attack the clever little cupboard that holds the mugs. It is fitted with an opening the exact size of a mug. This way the cups don't fall out when your are sailing in high winds. Marvellous.
On to our little French appartment in which I got very intimate with everyone's bowel movements, including those of our neighbours. Luckily we booked an appartment for six to eight adults, so we didn't need to move the dining table onto the balcony in order to be able to fold out the sofa bed. As it turned out our appartment had a lovely shower (a redeeming feature in my books) and a great communal swimming pool. But best of all was the fact that it was only a ten minute drive (or a thirty minute cycle ride) away from the lovely friends we met whilst living in England more than five years ago.
Holidaying together is very reassuring, for A: every year we find we do still really like each other, B: every scrumptious meal during our week together is followed by cheese and 'tart', C: our children though much older now, are still very comfortable in each other's company and last but not least D: large quantities of rose and red wine are drunk by all who can legally do so.
We sat on long wooden tables together with all the inhabitants of 'our' little French village during the annual 'Sardinade' to eat (yes you guessed correctly) sardines (and spicy sausages). We played crazy golf, we kayaked, cycled, body boarded, giggled, ate lots of icecream and had a truly great time!
Soon our lives will start to get busy again. Jobs await most of us and helping children with schoolwork, cooking them nutrious meals, cheering them on playing various sports and applauding their musical performances will fill most of our days to the brim. And although we do try, we seldom speak to each other over the phone more than a couple of times each year. That however, doesn't matter one bit. And next year, like Katie Perry, we will do it all again!

Zen

No more unpacking as of today! Not that there aren't plenty of boxes still waiting to be explored, but we're going on holiday! Two weeks of al fresco fun awaits us.

Only last week did we finally get around to booking a French shoebox that sort of sleeps four people. You only need to fold away the entire kitchenette, hoist down a bed, fold out another bed in front of the bathroom door and Bob is your uncle. A call of nature during the long mosquito filled nights will offer an interesting choice: you either pee in the measuring jug - don't ever use it for anything else! - or from the balcony.
Anyway it is all going to be just wonderful, as we are meeting up with some dear friends that we met whilst living in England almost a decade ago. The children can't wait to catch up with their Mancunian mates and frankly, neither can I. I absolutely adore our (almost) annual cake eating, wine drinking, beach combing, cycle riding days together.
But first we're going to get ourselves reacquainted with our sailing boat. We bought her a lifetime ago, years before we started a family, together with equally watersports-minded friends. We used to spend most weekends and holidays sailing. And even after the children were born we just added little hammocks, a potty, duplo blocks and tiny life jackets to the ship's inventory and carried on as usual.
It's been exactly nine years since we last set foot on our boat, so I am a little apprehensive. Although we've had many, many lovely days aboard, in my post-move stressed state, I can only remember husband W. shouting and myself shrieking because we forgot to reef the sails before setting off in rough weather, or me steering the boat to the left, while he kept yelling 'right', 'right'.
The weather however looks perfect for the next couple of days: mediterranean temperatures and very little wind. And of course the children are twelve and ten, instead of two and four and that surely
must make a difference. Staring at the horizon on a gently rocking sail boat I am sure will be just what the doctor ordered to get us all into a state in which we can tackle new schools, new jobs, a new house and a non existing social life.
In order to take full advantage of the possibility that I might actually relax this coming fortnight, I am going to try to live a Wifi free life. Trying to post a blog from the only harbour with a hotspot in a fifty mile radius, or a Mc Donalds along a French motorway, isn't going to get me in the zen like state that I will be working towards over the next fourteen days.
So until the 5th of August (at least) it is going to be dead quiet on the blog front. For anyone who in the meantime comes knocking at my virtual door, I will just leave two words: gone sailing.

Moving

We weren't going to sort through all our worldly possessions before the move. God no, that would be such a waste of time. Or so we thought.

Four days, a purple toe and some painful lessons later I look out over my new garden, filled from hedge to hedge with furniture. Bookcases, tables and nondescript shelving units that we could have dealt with before we had them all loaded into a truck. But really, we should have chucked out most of the stuff years ago
It's a nice enough house, our new place in the Netherlands, but it isn't very big. Or, more to the point, we've become quite spoiled, living in some very nice houses and appartments abroad, courtesy of our expat status. The fact that all of our foreign living quarters came with spacious basements, meant that getting rid of surplus furniture never seemed all that urgent.
Panick strikes Wednesday afternoon, when shortly after inspecting the new house, the massive removal lorry turns into our street. It finally dawns on me that measuring your new space and trying to fit your existing furniture into that space, is something you need to do weeks, or - even better - months before you move.
As it turns out we are bent over the hastily sketched floor plans till well past our bed time. At long last husband W. declares it is all going to be just fine and he is going to go to bed. Within minutes a familiar snoring exudes the new master bedroom. I on the other hand, lay awake for hours and when I finally doze off I have the most disturbing dreams featuring loads of furniture and a merry-go-round.
After a quick peck on the cheek, W. goes off the work early the next morning, leaving me and my mother in law, who - unaware of impending disaster - has kindly offered her support, to deal with a couple of German speaking movers and precisely 273 boxes.
The first hour or so of carrying stuff into the new house is relatively uneventful as the movers work their way through piles of boxes filled with books, plates, bowls, glasses and kitchen utensils. Our bookshelves fit, that much I know, so as a result, the books will all find somewhere to live. And the kitchen, the lovely new kitchen, is way bigger than the little Swiss galley kitchen. Finally I can fill three cupboards with tupperware, without feeling the slightest bit exessive.
Just as I start to relax a little bit, the movers come rushing in with scores of boxes labeled with the ominous 'Keller' (basement). Since we don't have a basement in the new house, we designated one of the bedrooms as (permanent?) storage space, deliberately overlooking the fact that this room is half the size of our former Swiss basement.
When this room is filled to the brim, I have to change tactics. The garden shed, I decide, will make another fantastic storage space. I could even lock the door and throw away the key. I can't imagine that I will ever have the slightest urge to look inside boxes and boxes of stuff that has been breeding in our various basements for the past eight years.
After the movers fill the shed, I send them two flights of very steep stairs up to a tiny bedroom in the attic. About ten boxes filled with fabric, pretty ribbons, buttons and other treasures find their way up there. I know I need to sort through my fabric stash and throw some of it away, but really life is too short to not give in to one or two addictions. Buying fabric is my addiction of choice. I am a bit of a magpie, what can I say?
By three in the afternoon, the constant decision making is taking it's toll. I can't think where the movers could possibly put down any more boxes, let alone two beds designed to go into guest rooms we no longer possess,  an old dining room table, four Ikea bookcases, six garden chairs, a coffee table, two carpets and an assortment of brightly coloured hat boxes that I haven't opened for the last three years. I let the men put it all down in the garden. Credit to them, they don't bat an eyelit.
Four days of absolutely glorious weather later (it must be the best summer since Napoleon invaded the Netherlands) and the furniture is still piled up high in the garden, spoiling the tiny, but once very pretty lawn. I have put all my cards on the local second hand furniture store who are despatching a few men and (hopefully a large) van. In order to tempt them to take my scruffy decade old Ikea furniture, I make husband W. carry most of the things back into the darkest part of the house. There I treat all the furniture with a bit of soapy water and/or a vacuum cleaner. It doesn't look half bad.
As I see it the second hand furniture shop assistants either take it, or we'll have to wait till New Year's eve when we can spray the stuff with petrol and strike a match or two.

Where there is smoke, there is fire

Just before leaving Switzerland, I am finally completely on board with the Swiss national hobby: grilling sausages. My technique though still leaves a lot to be desired.

Today, again, I'll go up a mountain with good friends L. and S. packed with sausages in all shapes and sizes. And tons of highly toxic fire starter cubes, extra long and fat matches, foil grill trays, barbeque tongs and between us about eight Swiss army knifes. We pack it into the funicular and up we go. A ten minute stroll brings us to the nearest grill pit. Luckily there is a forest to explore, so within seconds we have lost all ten of our children. Utter bliss!
Before we even contemplate unpacking all our bbq tools, we are put to shame by three very fit middle-aged Swiss, who no doubt spend the last three hours hiking up and are now sharpening sticks with their pocket knifes, so they can spear the ubiquitous sausages on, ready to be grilled. While two of them are busy with the stick sharpening, the third is lighting a fire. It all happens so fast! I am desperate for a replay, so I can watch an learn. But allthough there is probably a (weather) webcam around somewhere, I still haven't worked out how to watch that from the top of a mountain. Anyway, within twenty minutes or so the Swiss hikers have finished eating and are ready for the descend.
In absence of husband W., who normally doesn't let me go near a BBQ or fire place, I am thrilled to be let loose in nature with a box of matches on such a regular basis (the kids and I have barbequed at least five times over the last two weeks). And thanks to the small fortune I spent on 'fire lighting solutions', I am getting really rather good at lighting fires.
As is turns out it's not my lucky day. A young Swiss guy who is taking his two grannies out for a picknick, allready has a roaring fire going. Since he and his elderly companions had their fill of sausages, he insists that we use his grill pit. So now all we need to do is sit around and stuff ourselves with paprika crisps and bread, while we wait for our assortment of meat to sizzle.
We have such a wide variety of sausages on the BBQ (big fat white 'Kalbsbratwursten', tiny chipolata's, Walter Fritz's famous Wurst - we love the package! - and fiery red merquez type sausages), that it feels as if we cleared the processed meat counter, but then friend L. reveals that we managed to completely miss Switzerland most loved sausage: the cervelat. Phone in hand, she fills us in on the details.
Orginally made from beef and pig brains, the Swiss nowadays produce 160 million cervelats annually, although by the end of the 19th century they stopped filling them with brains. That's allready a lot to take in, but L. is just getting up some steam. ,,The Swiss", she starts with a devious smile,  ,,couldn't source enough casing 'material' for their sausages locally, so moved on to using Brazilian zebu intestines some twenty years ago".
Undeterred by my shrieks of horror L. continues with the 'cervelat' saga. And - credit where credit's due - I wouldn't have missed it for the world. Because, poor Swiss, in 2006 the EU banned the import of animal parts from Brazil in an attempt to stop the spreading of mad cow disease.
Quickly the Swiss set up a 'Cervelat Task Force' (really, you can't make this up).The sausage crisis was apparantly even subject of a parliamentary debate as cervelats are such an important part of a Swiss childhood that people stopped having babies altogether (I did make that up, by the way). It wasn't until a few years ago that the special task force cunningly managed to solve the cervelat upset, bij sourcing all sorts of (bovine) intestines from Uruguay, Argentina and Paraguay.
I am sooooo pleased that I could share this. Sausage anyone?

Shopping spree

I really am quite a sensible shopper. I don't buy heaps of clothes that I never wear - although I might leave a new top in the wardrobe for a season or two before I let myself put in on, but that's a different story altogether - and I manage to prepare the majority of the food I buy before it gets (too) mouldy. But get me into Lidl and all my level headedness goes straight out the window.

So I don't allow myself too many trips to the discount supermarket, but since my day today is filled driving the children to-and-fro swimming pools, friend's houses and sport clubs, Lidl really is on my way. I don't actually pass Lidl, unless I make a little detour, but on the basis that the children won't notice - I could drive them to France as long as I make sure the batteries of their i-pods are full - I decide to go for it.
As soon as I am in the door I find myself stocking up on fake mars bars, obscure looking chocolates and bags full of garish sweets that I would normally never buy. It is the distinct eastern european feel of the packaging that I find completely irresistable.
I don't really care for the vegetables, or the meat, but I do like the baffling selection of joghurts and joghurty drinks. I take one of each flavour, so about thirty or so little joghurts in total. On to the tomato juice, a glass of which is considered a very healthy breakfast by  husband W, and the tinned goulash soup, that sustains us on many an empty fridge day.
The food shopping over, I can finally turn my attention to the non-food isles. This weeks offering doesn't disappoint. There is a wondrous high pressure cleaning device for the kitchen and bathroom ('tough on limescale'), a wide selection of foldable plastic storage boxes of which you can never get enough, an 'easy baby food heater' and a cyclist's mankini that would come in very handy one day for some theme party. And then there is the laminator again.
I bought the exact same one four months ago and still haven't taken the thing out of it's box. Because, seriously what could I possibly want to laminate? But since the laminating pouches are on sale now, I throw a few packets into my trolley, together with some permanent markers and a packet of miracle
fertilizer that will transform my lawn overnight!
The products at Lidl are, without exception - dirt cheap. Just looking at the price creates an instant need. You would be insane not to buy a paper shredder for fifteen quid, or a wet suit for even less. You might never get the chance again and on the off chance that one day you might actually need a shredder, or want to take up body boarding, you'd better buy now.
I come home, feeling really pleased with the laminating sheets and permanent markers, which I hastily throw into the nearest cupboard so none of my family members will get a chance to comment. Because I know all too well that after the flush of excitement dies down, I too will struggle with the fact that the permanent markers and laminating pouches landed right next to my last Lidl visit's yield (a massive box of fine liners, thirty rolls of sellotape, a staple remover, an electric pencil sharpener and a stack of note pads). Not to mention the unopened paper shredder that I know is also lurking in there somewhere.
If husband W., the children and I ever get stuck in our house due to excessive snow, a heat wave, or other global warming related freak weather events that are no doubt going to be all too common in the future, we at least will be able to take countless notes, feed the useless ones to our shredder and laminate stuff worth keeping. Scientists the world over, that will no doubt come to rely heavily upon our data, will thank me for my shrewd shopping. Stocking up on office supplies instead of tins of baked beans.

Edelweiss

Three days of solid hiking high up in the Alps and I still haven't managed to spot edelweiss. Nor did I bump into a saint-bernard wearing a barrel filled with brandy for that matter. But I'm not fussed about rescue dogs.

I am however pretty desperate to see edelweiss grow in the wild. Ever since I set foot in Switzerland  I have been surrounded by images of edelweiss. Every single souvenir you can buy in this country has some edelweiss painted on it, or carved in it. I know that my countrymen make a ton of money selling wooden clogs to tourists, while no one in the Netherlands actually wears these, but that can't be the same with edelweiss. I just point blank refuse to believe that the Swiss are that calculated.
So in order to give my edelweiss-finding-mission one last chance I book a room in a mountain hut close to Wengen and start planning some serious hikes. Fortunately my friend S. offers to lend me a hand and together we manage to persuade some of our children that hiking is really good fun (don't ask).
It's a good thing that we packed hats, gloves and thermal underwear, because it is snowing (!) when we arrive at the top of 'our' mountain. So we carefully layer up before we set off on our first hike. It isn't long before we bump into the first of many groups of Japanese tourists that are let loose in the Alps. Just like me, they get exited by every flower they see. But although we spot white flowers in all shapes and seizes, edelweiss eludes us.
A thick fog accompanies us on our second big hike. We decide to walk to the nearest village, a descend of a little over three thousand feet. It's an exhilarating hike, following a tiny foothpath that meanders through massive avalanche guards, which presents us with a totally new perspective on the alpine scenery. This time too my eyes are firmly cast down. Partly because I don't want to loose my footing, but also because I haven't quite given up on the idea of finding edelweiss.
My friend S. is game and is busily flower spotting as well. So much so, that both of us manage to completely miss a herd of ibex that frolicking on the mountain side above our head. Luckily my son has been paying a little more attention to his surroundings. He enthusiastically points the ibex out. Hmm, may be I should look up too every now and then. As if to remind me of my resolve, five minutes or so later the sun makes it's first appearance.
We get a first glimpse of the famous alpine trio: Eiger, Monch and Jungfrau, towering magnificently above us. Eternal snow glistening on their peaks. The mountain giants - all three of them are well over thirteen thousand feet - never fail to impress me and for the rest of our hike my gaze is directed firmly upwards.
That night we celebrate the completion of a five hour hike with beer, hot chocolate, schnitzels, chips and humongous ice creams. After dinner friend S. and I feel refreshed enough to hike up to the nearest viewpoint. It doesn't matter that the fog has rolled in again and there are no views to be had. It's just a matter of pride to have stood on the top of the peak that lend our mountain hut it's name.
After two days of hiking we let the children decide what they want to do. Needless to say they don't want to hike. Instead we fly down the mountain on scooters. The obligatory trail winds it's way through flower filled meadows. My heart beats a little faster, but my speed is such that I can't really tell a daisy from an edelweiss.
As soon as I get home I wikipedia the elusive alpine flower. 'Leontopodium alpinum (aka edelweiss) prefers rocky limestone places at about six thousand to ten thousand feet altitude' it tells me. And also that 'as a scarce short-lived flower found in remote mountain areas, the plant has been used as a symbol for the rugged beauty and purity associated with the Alps'. So it might exist after all. It just doesn't want to be found. At least not by a novice alpine hiker like me. I can live with that.
But then friend S. calls me that evening. She is on her way home from the supermarket where she spotted row after row of potted edelweiss. I am appalled. Edelweiss, as it turns out, does want to be found by me. But only as long as I look for it in the supermarket.


Did you ever spot edelweiss?(If so, please don't gloat...)