Sinterklaas

 

How easy to live abroad an be politically correct when it comes to the Dutch Sinterklaas, or rather 'Black Pete' discussion. This year, however, I find myself at the front line of the 'Sinterklaas war', which makes me feel surprisingly emotional.

Not because I do not want to change the tradition. No, I am all for changing the look of 'Black Pete' and make him into a colourful pink, green, purple, fair haired, dark haired or ginger Pete. I don't think children will notice and it certainly won't take anything away from what is in its core a fun and festive tradition, geared towards young children.

What I do find difficult, however, is a small group of international parents in the Dutch International School I work for, who really do not like our school to celebrate Sinterklaas (in whatever shape or form). Their arguments being that they are not Dutch, nor will they ever become Dutch and they sent their children to an international school to give them a broad and open-minded view of the world in which there is no place for the internationally criticised figure of 'Black Pete'.

That I find tricky to deal with. My children (now 13 and 11) have celebrated many traditions in the different countries they have lived in. In Italy for instance they have enthusiastically celebrated 'Carnevale', dressed up for it, sung the traditional 'Carnevale' songs and eaten the fried sugary snacks that come with it with gusto.

In Italy they have also learned to celebrate 'La Befana', a witch, generally portrayed riding a broomstick and always covered in soot, because of her habit of entering children's houses through the chimney. La Befana brings Italian children presents on Epiphany (6th of January).

While living in Switzerland my children have come upclose and personal with Samichlaus and his rather sinister tramp-like helper Schmutzli, who is believed to stick naughty children in his bag and kidnap them. The pair of them by the way also hand out presents of course, this time on the 6th of December.

Learning and getting involved with the culture of your host country always is part of the curriculum of any international school. Teaching primary school children in a Dutch International School this means you will always talk to them about King's Day (Koningsdag) and teach them how to ride a bike. I have never been more proud than when a group of our older primary students passed their cycling exam (Nationaal Verkeersexamen). And yes it also means, as a school, you will celebrate Sinterklaas.

I love Sinterklaas and all that it entails. The fact that as a child you can put your shoe out overnight and find it filled with sweets or small gifts the next morning (I would invariably wake up around four am). The funny poems adults write each other to accompany their presents. The excitement as a child to go watch Sinterklaas sailing in from Spain, safely seated onto your father's shoulders.

Although I have always loved Sinterklaas, when my children were the perfect Sinterklaas age we happened to live in England, where Mr. S. and myself took the executive decision to  celebrate Christmas, rather than Sinterklaas. We simply weren't clever enough to explain to our then 3 and 4yo children, that father Christmas would fly in from Lapland on his present laden reindeer pulled sleigh to shower each and every child in England with presents, except for our two.

One of my fondest memories though, is the huge Sinterklaas party the children and I organised in England, where we invited lots of our friends over for a Dutch celebration. I explained a little bit about the tradition and all the little and bigger guests got a chocolate letter in their shoe. I even convinced my elderly neighbour to knock on the door and throw pepernoten (traditional cinnamon Sinterklaas delicacies) inside to the utter delight of the mob of young visitors.

Thinking about it still brings a smile to my face. I found myself grinning from ear to ear again last Friday when a group of mums from all over the world came together to wrap tons of fake presents to decorate the school. The looks on the children's faced when the entered the school this morning was priceless. And they will again be thrilled when Sinterklaas and his rainbow coloured helpers visit the school on the 5th of December. And that really is all that it should be about. Excited children, happy memories.

Guinea Pigs

I dreamt about guinea pigs last night.Something, I might add, that is very, very unusual for me, as animals don't figure largely in my life. Until three weeks ago that is, when my daughter finally got to choose two guinea pigs. Now I feel like a new mum.

Within hours after their arrival in our household I completely and utterly surprised myself by cooing over the guinea pigs, like I would over a new born. It is completely ridiculous, as Mr. S. doesn't hesitate to point out, but I can't help myself.

At bed time I no longer give my daughter a good night kiss. Well no, I might eventually still give her a kiss, but not until I have talked to the guinea pigs at length, arranging their toys and ensuring myself they are tucked in nicely in their straw burrow.

This all really annoys the 11yo, who a.) is the proud owner of the guinea pigs, as she can't point out often enough and b.) feels she should be far more important to me than two guinea pigs. It doesn't help that she has a bunk bed, of which she occupies the top bunk, while the guinea pigs live on the bottom bunk.

So now when I come to tuck my daughter in all she hears is me busying myself with the guinea pigs. She can't see me from her position in the top bunk, nor can she see the guinea pigs, who always happen to do some incredibly funny tricks, just around bed time.

I am, by the way, not the only one who has completely been won over by the guinea pigs. My son can also quite often visits the guinea pigs in their rodent enclosure. He even went so far, as sitting in his sister's bedroom for around two hours, when he came home early from school to an empty house. According to my son, the guinea pigs, who, despite them being girls, have been christened Ollie and Cheesy make great companions.

Although Mr. S. admitted the other day that our two furry friends are 'quite nice', he doesn't really want to pick them up. He did the first days the guinea pigs were around, but since he found out they go to the toilet wherever, whenever, he is less keen. So most nights my daughter and I snuggle up on the sofa, each holding on the a guinea pig and a towel (to counteract the aforementioned toilet business).

The 11yo now insists she is going to teach Cheesy and Ollie some tricks and has devised an elaborate obstacle course to train them. Patience, she informs me, is key. First they have to be tamed. Instead of running over to her when she enters to room, the guinea pigs currently still run for cover. Lot's of picking up and stroking and talking to them quietly, whilst feeding them treats is what needs to be done.

I should know this, as I have been trying to teach my daughter some tricks over the years (along the lines of: 'flush the toilet', 'don't drop your clothes wherever you take them off', 'put dirty crockery in the dishwasher', 'return home with your jacket, mittens, hat, umbrella' and 'keep your bicycle keys in the designated drawer'). She is always very polite when I point out the dirty clothes on her bedroom floor, or a floating turd in the toilet and promises me to really try and remember what is expected of her. And then she just gets on with whatever she was doing before.

I on the other hand get so annoyed that I - on more than one occasion - yelled at her. I have also binned all the dirty socks and undies lying around and laughed when she couldn't find her bicycle keys for the umpteenth time. To no avail. But now I have a cunning plan. Instead of yelling at her, I will stroke her and feed her nice treats, whilst talking to her about tidying, flushing and keeping track of belongings. I bet you I can tame her. She will be putty in my hands.

Surprise!

 

The combined birthday and wedding anniversary surprise weekend organised by Mr. S. last weekend featured sanding, painting and trotting around Ikea. It must be love, or otherwise I must be mad, but this week I  can't stop smiling.

On my 46th birthday last May Mr. S. solemnly declared he was going to book us a weekend away. We were to go somewhere fun and exciting just the two of us. He told me September, but then got operated on his ankle and couldn't see himself hopping around on crutches in some far away and exotic place. All right, October then. Since 14 October 2014 was our 14th wedding anniversary, October seemed a good idea.

In the meantime, however, we bought a house. The same house we have been renting for over a year now and still has the washing machine in the middle of the landing, ill fitted curtains in my bedroom, lights that don't work, a huge climbing frame in the garden and boxes everywhere. So, instead of going away, he proposed a DIY weekend. No children allowed.

Except for the fact that the 13yo has a hockey camp and needs to come home on Friday night, which Mr. S. only tells me about on Wednesday night. So instead of going out, we stay in. And because we are fairly tired from traipsing around the Dutch equivalent of B&Q and lugging paint, wood, nails, light bulbs and countless other thing inside, we just have crisps, beer, some French cheese, crackers and garlic bread for dinner.

It is great. We completely pig out and not a single child in sight to tell us off. Just like the old days! Unfortunately Mr. S. chooses this moment of beer and carbohydrate fuelled euphoria to tell me he originally planned to take me to Rome. Rome! I would have loved to go to Rome, enjoy a balmy night under the Italian stars, eating delicious food, sleeping in an ancient palazzo.

Instead we decide to have an early start on Saturday to make the most of our child-free DIY weekend. And we do. I sand and paint a new storage 'solution', Mr. S. fits the washing machine, replaces lamps, hangs curtain rails and even offers to go back to the DIY store, because I forgot to buy enough paint brushes.

A good two hours later and with a triumphant look on his face Mr. S. walks back in. I had almost given up on him. He, however, bought himself an electric saw. In fact he bought himself the best sawing machine money can buy. Wonderful! Just what we need.

Around six we call it a day. I put on my high heels and some lippy, whilst Mr. S. manages to find a clean pair of jeans and a semi-presentable shirt. We drive to Amsterdam, have a beer on the waterfront, whilst watching an incredible sunset. We then go on to a tiny French restaurant where we have the most fabulous food and wine ever, followed by some more wine at home. We literally talk for hours. What a lovely night,

It was in fact such a lovely night that even a slightly hang over visit to Ikea the next day, can't dampen my spirits. We don't buy anything, as halfway the ubiquitous route through furniture hell Mr. S. decides he is going to make me a desk himself. Which he does. Now all it needs is about four coats of paint. 

I also need to make some curtains, tidy the whole house top to bottom, drive to the tip at least three times and fit twenty hours of painting around my day job. When our modest Dutch palazzo is ready, Mr. S. and I will go to Rome. Or we'll  go and sit on a mountain top somewhere, enjoying the view doing nothing at all. I doubt though whether we'll have as much fun as we did this weekend. Turning our house into a home.






 

10!

 

 
To my utter astonishment my 11yo daughter recently started doing her homework. Something she has, up until now, always point blank refused.

Not that she has ever picked a fight over it. No, she has always been very polite. Promising various teachers to try harder to hand in her homework. Occasionally bringing some sheets home, even doing them, but never quite managing to take them back to school.
It has driven some teachers to despair. This child, quiet as a mouse in class, utterly polite, but at the same time not following any directions. Since she has always been more than capable to keep up with the work in class, most teachers finally just gave up.
I have always secretly admired my daughter for her defiance. I was nothing like her as a little girl and I am still nothing like her as an adult, intrinsically always aiming to please. Although not quite sure how good I am at taking directions now that I come to think of it, but that is something to be explored another time.
Back to the 11yo, who I found filling in her dairy! All right she did ask me what date it was, and then what day it was, and then what month is was, but hey ho you've got to start somewhere. But she does more or less do a couple of worksheets every day, using a very clever filing system and even managing to hand some of the sheets in on time.
Why? First of all her new teacher plays the guitar, just like my daughter. For some reason that helps. This new teacher is quite strict, my daughter tells me. She has had strict teachers before though.
And then it suddenly hits me. I am not around any longer to nag her, as three afternoons a week I am at work, while she is at home, or at a friend's house. Doing what she wants, whenever she wants. Why that should include doing her homework, however, is still puzzling me.
As it turns out she does do her worksheets whilst watching reruns of the Great British Bake Off, or MI High at the same time.. Ah well, that is less than ideal, but since I am not around, there isn't a whole lot I can do about that. Asking my daughter why all of a sudden she is doing her homework, by the way, just gave me the usual unhelpful insight in her psyche. She just informed me that she has 'always' done her homework and what, by the way,  I am talking about?
Just as I am getting used to the idea that we have turned a corner on the homework front, the 11yo shows me her true colours. While tidying her room the other day (something I swore a while back I wouldn't do any longer, but still of course do regularly) I found a lipstick sealed contract. This contract states that my daughter and her best mate have betted (for a can of coke) who can get the highest mark in the next geography test. The contract states that:

- they are both going to try and get a 10 (A+)
- they will both try their best
- they are going to honest when telling each other their grades
- they will show each other their grades (so much for the oral honesty)

I never knew that my non-competitive daughter could be motivated by trying to get a higher mark than her friend. But then I read the conditions of the bet at the bottom of the document. There I find out that my daughter's friend wins the bet as she gets 'a 10 and my daughter less than a 10'. My daughter, however, wins the bet as she and her friend both get 'less than a 10'. Clever girl. All she has to do is forget to study for this test, something that comes natural to her anyway, and Bob's your uncle!

Florence

 

I sort of knew this of myself. The recent operation on Mr. S.'s ankle, however,  really brought it home. I am no Florence Nightingale.

Although to start with I didn't disappoint. Driving to Rotterdam at an ungodly hour, listing to the duty nurse, getting the crutches out of the car and installing Mr. S. in his hospital bed for the day: no problem. Leaving him behind, mooching around Rotterdam, treating myself to a luxurious cappuccino and some cake: easy peasy. Hoisting Mr. S. in the wheel chair and wheeling him through the hospital and the parking lot to the car: quite good fun actually.

It isn't until the next morning, that I realise I am a bit of an action hero when it comes to nursing someone back to health. I love the driving - carrying crutches - taping plastic bags around the wounded ankle - getting a stool in the shower - bit of nursing. I am less great at the endless cups of tea, coffee, sandwiches and other tidbits. I just forget.

Normally that isn't a problem. Even if I forget to eat myself, the children and Mr. S. won't starve, because they learned - years ago - that they live in a self service household. No matter when you enter the kitchen in our house, there is always someone making a peanut butter sandwich, or frying a couple of eggs. Dinner is the only more of less reliable service I provide.

I am even worse when it comes to listening sympathetically to stories about Mr.S's ailments. Shortly after the operation I am patience personified. Of course it hurts, someone just made two holes in his ankle and scraped a bit of bone off. That is why the nurse gave us a stash of painkillers. I provide a glass of water, Mr. S takes a pill and all is well with the world again.

Just as I start to grow in my role as carer, Mr. S. reverses back from being a patient, to being his plain old self again. He starts to walk on his wounded foot without crutches, wobbles over to the coffee machine umpty times a day, as no one makes coffee, like he does, and decides to give up on pain killers, as they can't be good for you.

He further demands to be driven to work, three days after his operation, as he is sick and tired of being cooped up in the house. So, I drive him to Amsterdam - again at an ungodly hour - before taking myself to work in Utrecht. When I call Mr. S.  from the car on my way back from work, he picks up after the first ring. His ankle really hurts, he informs me. He even sounds genuinely surprised.

It would be great, if I could come straight away to pick him up, as he hasn't called for the taxi to come and pick him up, as we agreed he would do. As he wobbles towards the car, leaning heavily on a crutch, I really have to delve deep to try and find my inner Florence. 'I am really glad you told me to bring a crutch', he tells me lovingly before he reclines his seat and closes his eyes.

Mr. S. grudgingly agrees to stay home the next day, as long as we both agree it is just the one day, because really there isn't anything wrong with him. Right. As soon as I return home from work the next afternoon, he tells me proudly that he has been cycling. 'It is so much easier than walking'. He beams from ear to ear. From cycling it is only a matter of hours until he declares himself fit enough for driving.

Mr. S. has been back at work for a week now. He still wobbles, but does he let that stop him? You guessed right. He is a bit disappointed his ankle isn't healing more quickly and is sharing that disappointed liberally with his family. At which point, I really, really want to smack him. Not very Nigtingalelesque, I know.

Although when I see Mr. S. carefully putting a cushion under his hurting ankle and install himself - fizzy drinks and snacks handy - in front of the telly to watch a children's programme about dogs with the 11yo on a Saturday afternoon, I cannot help myself but salute him. He is does try to put his feet up. At least for now. 

As we are still living 'happily ever after' and in all probability will grow old together, we'd better make a battle plan. A live in nurse, would be our best option, I think. Someone in an official white coat and in the possession of a very loud voice, who tells us when it is time for our medicine, or our nap. Someone with oodles of patience and enough authority to ensure complete submission. So we can concentrate on what we do best together: eat, drink and be merry.

Over it

Four new soup bowls sitting on my work top brighten my spirits without fail. Not because they are beautifully formed and exquisitely glazed, which by the way they are, but because of the German lady that made them.


'Are you German?' Friend P. and I must look very stunned at this question, because the lady in the pottery shop hastily switches to speaking French, trying to guide us round the entire contents all in one sentence. Friend P. is English, I am Dutch, we were probably speaking English on entering the shop, which is in France, because that is where we are on holiday. So German? No.

When I frantically try to unearth my school French in some far away corner of my brain, friend P., who speaks fluent German, surprises the lady with some very interesting remarks about the pottery industry. From which it takes only a very small step to discuss the painful break up of the German pottery lady and her French 'beau'.

Within minutes of us entering her shop, the German pottery lady completely spills the beans.Of how upon coming to France thirty odd years ago for a pottery course she fell in love with this French pottery artist and how they were perfectly happy until he ran off with a Vietnamese girl. Oh dear.

Before we can commiserate, however, the pottery lady tells us how important it is not to drown in one's sorrows. No, it is vital to learn from such life events and to move on. If only her French ex-lover would do the same. Moving on that is, or even better, buggering off to Vietnam altogether. But no, she points, every summer he, his Vietnamese wife and their children spend around three months in their pottery shop, which - didn't we know? - is right next door.

By now two little red spots appear on the pottery lady's cheek bones. Good thing she moved on and is in a good place now. She grabs some bowls and plates of the shelves. 'See this spiral motive?', she points. 'I love it, because for me it represents emotional growth and the fact that life is a journey and one shouldn't dwell upon the negative things, but continue to move forward'.

Not much more German is required at this point. All we have to do is nod and smile and wait for more. 'No she doesn't miss Germany at all', the lady continues. She visits once a year, or since her mother turned 90 three years ago twice a year, in October and March, and that is enough. She truly loves France.

But then friend P. strikes gold when picking up an unidentifiable little blue dome. It turns out to be a salt shaker, a very clever little salt shaker. A salt shaker that the German pottery lady has come up with and designed all by herself and that has over the past couple of years become one of her best selling products.

Again she points across the small garden. 'He copied it'. And not only does the French bastard produce and sell very similar salt shakers, he sells them cheaper. 'When he first started making them he sold them for one Euro less than mine', she says. That left her no choice. So she lowered her price, and than he followed suit and so on and so forth.The pottery lady sighs. Good thing she has responded to the lessons this break-up needed to teach her, dealt with the pain, grown from the experience and moved on.

We buy some more pottery than we originally intended and leave to find our bikes, all the while carefully avoiding to look at the shop next door, just in case the pottery lady is watching us. It is indeed very fortunate that she is truly and completely over it.

(i-)Summer

                        


As it is almost the end of term, tempers run high in our house. Both the kids can be found in floods of tears, laughing hysterically or kicking and punching each other for no particular reason from dusk till dawn . Although not unusual behaviours for teens and pre-teens, these days they either display all three of these behaviours at the same time or in very, very quick succession.

It is all rather tiring and sometimes downright trying. And matters are not being helped along at all by the fact that in the Netherlands this time of  year the sun doesn't set until eleven. Suggesting - around ten -  to the kids it is time for them to turn in, only seems to be causing  (more) hysterical laughter. By the time they finally are asleep it is close to midnight these days, meaning the children are hollow eyed and grumpy in the morning, effortlessly turning the breakfast table into a war zone.

The summer holidays really can not come soon enough, because what we need more than anything is  a great big dose of boredom. At least that is what always seemed to do the trick for me when I was a teenager and in need of recuperation after a busy year in school.

Hanging out with friends, pottering around, reading books and eating loads and loads of ice creams! And inevitable getting seriously bored when my friends would leave before we did, making me count the days before we finally (finally!) packed up of our tent and the zillion other bit of necessary camping gear and drove to France. Which by the way was a three day expedition in these days, with temperatures rising to a shocking thirty plus degrees inside the car and my dad smoking cigars behind the wheel.

Once at the French camp ground it always used to take me a couple of days to truly wind down. At first I missed the telly and my friends, but within a few days boredom was replaced by newly found past times like making a very precise drawing of the 'Mairie' in a little French village while my parents drank coffee, or trying, but never quite succeeding, to build a dam in the river that bordered the camp ground. Weaving lavender baskets, using a pocket knife to make spears out of sticks, or collecting and drying interesting flowers all of a sudden became wonderful ways to while away a few hours.

Needless to say those summers are amongst the happiest times of my life. And nothing would make me happier than to provide my own two children with similar summer memories. And although on the face of it that should be quite easy, I nevertheless struggle. Because, when children (and mine are no exception) are surrounded by machines that never stop sending them messaged like 'your clan needs a leader', or 'your smurfs are missing you', it is really difficult to get them in the state of absolute boredom, that gets their imagination going.

Just banning the pods and pads is too simple, because the minute I leave the house they are on them again. No, we actually have to go places without wifi. But those are harder and harder to find, as most campsites, hotels, or holiday parks boast 'Free Wifi' these days.

I think I have cracked it though. The little summer house in a really small village in France where we are going for the first week of the holdiays only has Wifi in the local library and if the chalet in a car free village high up in the Alps where we will go at the end of the summer has Wifi, I am going to ask for my money back. I am dreaming of long walks in the mountains, building sand castles (do thirteen year olds still do that???) on the beach, making flower necklaces, watching the 11yo battle the waves in a flimsy bikini, playing card games, finishing the ubiquitous holiday jigsaw and really getting away from it all.

I am sure my children will have a brilliant summer. I bet you they won't miss their computer games one bit. Not so sure how I will cope without my i-phone though.I mean do 46yo's still build sand castles?

zzzzzzzzzz.........

 

A weekend of domestic bliss! Even a Sunday night spent wading through the spillage of the blocked downstairs toilet doesn't seem to shake us. We just watch the football with our wellies on.

During the past few weeks Mr S. and I have had our ups and downs. Yes, we are getting used to living in the Netherlands again, but it definitely doesn't feel like we've arrived. I am sort of kidding myself that I am loving it here and that we should buy a house, make a pact to stay here for a least a decade and buy tons of new furniture to cement the deal.
Mr S. on the other hand is not so sure about the whole living in the Netherlands thing, so doesn't want to buy a house yet, let alone think about how long he is going to stay. Needless to say, furniture never even enters his head.
However hard I try not to push Mr S. - and I honestly do try - most weekends start with me wanting to discuss buying a house and more often than not telling him which one I would like to make an offer on. This weekend of course is no exception.
To my surprise however Mr S. is not only willing to discuss houses (as long as we don't have to decide), but he also agrees to look at some furniture with me. Now! So we decide that after fifteen years, two home births and four moves we will treat ourselves to a new bed. And not that we're pining for our lovely place in the Alps, but we head straight for 'Swiss Sense', a Dutch chain of bed & mattress stores that, as we are about to find out, have nothing to do with Switzerland whatsoever. According to the sales guy the 'Swiss' in 'Swiss Sense', is purely for marketing purposes. It just sounds nice. The beds are in fact produced in the Philippines.
He is not too bad this guy, until he starts jotting figures on a piece of paper. Although 'every bed in the store can be combined with every mattress and top layer', when we do suggest a different combination, it all of a sudden seems to get a.very complicated and b.very expensive. But we do like the bed. We do however  definitely do not trust the salesman, so we leave.
But then we find an even bigger 'Swiss Sense' store that is open on a Sunday as well. The weather is absolutely gorgeous as we head out around two. Which is just as well as the store (one of fifty furniture stores in a massive arcade, which is pretty much how I would picture hell if I believed there was one) is very quiet. As soon as we enter the store,  the manager dives upon us.
Before we have had the time for such much as a cursory look around, this guy is bombarding us with information. He talks about pocket springs, bonnell springs, foam mattresses, memory foam, latex foam and different seams. He also talks about different zoning in mattresses and shows us five booklets of different upholstery fabrics. All I want to do is lay down. At the rate that this guy keeps going, I would be able to sleep anywhere. 
I soon realise that bringing an engineer to a bed and mattress store is a very bad idea. Mr S. actually seems to enjoy talking about different types of coils. 'Let's buy this one here', I mutter under my breath to Mr S. when the sales guy finally draws breath.
Luckily my husband agrees and an hour and a half later of testing different mattresses and top layers ('toppers' in bed & mattress store jargon) he too is willing to pay the guy extra if only he would shut up. Although I now know everything about Talalay natural foam latex and have laid down on a 'topper' made of camel and horse hair, which is more expensive than my car.
When at the end of the process the guy is willing to 'do us a deal', we just nod.Whatever, we're buying the bed. Three hours after we entered the shop, we are finally set free. The sun have never shone brighter!
We have the best time ever driving back. Hours later we are still in high spirits. So when the water from from the downstairs toilet floods our hallway, we just laugh. Who cares? We have just spent the best couple of thousand euro's in our lives. Not only did the money buy us a very nice bed, but more important, it bought us fifteen years of not having to set foot in another bed & mattress store again!

BBQ

 
May be inviting 20 plus people for a BBQ, without owning a BBQ, wasn't the best idea. And may be, just may be, planning this BBQ on a Sunday, whilst at the same time being out from dusk till dawn on the Saturday before, wasn't such a great idea either. Our worst mistake however, was feeling invincible and certain we were going to pull it of.

It wasn't until last Monday, weeks after I invited both our families for a Whitsun BBQ, that Mr S. casually mentioned that we do in fact no longer own a BBQ. Apparently we (well Mr S of course) threw it out whilst we were living in Italy. We were way too polite to try and light the BBQ on our Italian balcony and smoke out the neighbours, so by the time we left Italy the unused and unloved BBQ was covered in rust (according to Mr S) and not worth taking with us to the new destination.
In Switzerland we had one of those lovely brick built fire places, complete with its own chimney. BBQing became our second nature. We (well actually Mr S) loved charring  burgers, or grilling the hell out of some ribs. Lovely.
Luckily our rental place in the Netherlands doesn't come with a build in BBQ, because Mr S. long since dreams of buying himself a 'proper' gas BBQ. And not just any old gas BBQ, but a really, really big one. As this is an important purchase, he decides to take a day off.
After he had a nice little lie in and three cappuccino's, Mr S is ready for some serious online investigating. For a while he is completely lost to the world, but then the 12yo, who doesn't need to be in school until ten on a Friday morning, decides to take a look as well. Within minutes both the boys have a in depth conversation about 'flavourisers', titanium, extra burners and are watching promotional films of outdoor kitchen with lovely names like the QR4200, or PL250A.
Time to hit the shops, or shop, because apparently our rather large village, only has one shop that sells half decent BBQ's. With the warmest weekend so far this year upon us, it is eerily quiet in BBQ Land. After long humming and hoeing and looking at various 'outdoor kitchens', we find out why. Most of the BBQ's are out of stock. And although forty pallets of BBQ's and BBQ accessories are due to arrive any minute, the sales guy has no idea whether or not Mr S's desired model will be in this shipment. He thinks it 'likely', or even 'highly likely', but can't be sure.
Mmm, time to come up with a plan B. After some frantic browsing on the net, I find a shop, about half an hour's drive from our home. According to their website the '3000 titanium pro', should be in stock.
An hour and a half later, Mr S triumphantly walks in with a box, the size of our kitchen. The only thing between him and total happiness is a gas bottle, but that will be easy to fix later on. First he needs to piece together the monster BBQ, which Ikea fashion, comes in exactly 271 different pieces.
I decide to keep my distance and hide behind a magazine at the back of the garden. Mr S is whistling. Assembling is FUN!
But then it gets quiet. All I hear are some sighs and whispers. I am probably just imagining Mr. S is muttering swear words under his breath.  swearing.  Any time now the whistling will start again.
But of course it doesn't. Loud swearing and some throwing around of screwdrivers follows. As it turns out, the very expensive BBQ that Mr S just bought, is probably a display model that someone assembled and then disassembled a while back. And just like Ikea furniture, once disassembled, you can never put it back together again.
With clenched teeth and loads and loads of counting till ten, Mr S. manages to get the 'titanium pro' back in the box again. Silently we lift the box and carry it to my car, where it just about fits, if we pull the seats down. Of course customer service closed 5 minutes ago and the shop isn't open on a Saturday, so there is nothing we can do.
We've got tons of meat, garlic butter, potato salad, corn on the cob, a special BBQ cook book, a rain cover, beautiful stainless steel thongs, but no BBQ. It takes Mr S about six cans of beer and myself a bottle of Chardonnay before we see the funny side of the BBQ fiasco (there isn't a funny side of course, but who cares after six cans of beer and a bottle of Chardonnay).
On the morning of the party we decide to just play it cool and pretend we completely planned a BBQ-less BBQ event.And it works! It honestly turns out to be one of the best BBQ's ever, with Mr S in an orange 'I love BBQ-ing' apron presiding over the hob, frying everything he manages to get his hands on. It is utterly brilliant. Who needs a BBQ?
It isn't until I need my car the next morning to go to work, that I realise the downside of the 'hob-be-cue' being such a success. Knowing Mr S., the urgency now gone, probably means he won't take another day off to return the faulty BBQ. I will probably have to drive around with the blasted thing filling every inch of my car, the caption BBQ Land visible from almost every angle.
So we're throwing another BBQ party and all 17 or so members of Mr S's field hockey team and their families are invited. I doubt we can pull it off without an outdoor kitchen.Oh and did I mention the party is next Saturday?

Safe Cycling

Back in the Netherlands my 11yo daughter needs to grow up fast. From a sheltered and cushioned existence at an international school with mum taking care of her social life and the transport involved in said social life; she now needs to become as independent as her Dutch peers. Which means, amongst other things, she needs to be able to cycle everywhere.

That is why, together with tens of thousands of Dutch 10 and 11yo's, she has had traffic lessons for the past six months, preparing her for the National Cycling Exam. If she passes both the theoretical and the practical exam, she'll be awarded the much coveted Safe Cycling Certificate. So far so good. She managed the theoretical part and she had her bike approved by the nice policeman who set up shop at her primary school to make sure all the candidates have a fully functioning bike (preferably one with working breaks and lights).

I promise my daughter to take her for a test cycle along the exam route, but rain gets in the way. I never want to go cycling when it is pouring with rain again. Which it does. Six days in a row. When the heavens finally dry out and the exam is getting really, really close, we finally get the bikes out, study the route and set off. We/I decide that my daughter should go in front, so that I can check she looks the right way, signals and behaves impeccably.

We get off to a good start. She almost twists her neck, trying to get a 365 degrees helicopter view before crossing a road and makes the appropriate hand signals when turning left or right. She is focused and in control. Until she hits the first roundabout, that is.

Instead of letting the cyclist already on the roundabout have the right of way, she plunks her bike right in front of his bike and stoically cycles on, completely oblivious to the fact that the elderly gentleman had to hit the brakes hard. I stop her, point out the mistake and let her enter the roundabout again, wishing the man would play along to re-enact the scene. Needless to say I haven't got the guts to ask him.

On to the next tricky point, which my daughter doesn't get at all. Two streets on either side of a narrow strip of parkland, both one way streets, no exception for bikes. The 11yo completely misses the sign and ploughs on. So I stop her again. This time she is really not amused, as she doesn't see much harm in cycling the wrong way down a one way street, as 'there wasn't a car or other bike coming towards me, so what does it matter if I cycle here or on the other side'.  Besides 'you are allowed to make four mistakes, mum'. Yeah right. Over my dead body.

By the time she has to cross a really busy road she is so angry with me and my completely unjust comments, that she must have decided  to wait and wait until she is absolutely sure there are no cars in a five mile radius of where she has planted herself. It's as if she is playing musical statues without the music. Completely frozen. After five minutes or so a truck full of street maintenance guys behind us start to honk, which she ignores quite successfully.

Of course I act like a total idiot, telling her to 'just go', while at the same time shoving her onto the road. My daughter is in tears. I am almost in tears. Luckily she accepts my apologies and after some serious roadside bonding, she is ready to try again, this time noticing there is a wide strip of tarmac between the two lanes, allowing her to cross half of the road, look again, brace herself and cross the other half of the road, which she does. I am really proud of her.

Much more mature than I am this afternoon, my daughter decides that she wants to do the whole circuit again. But only, if I promise to shut it. Point taken. This time she is almost flawless. I follow my chick around like a very meek mother hen, keeping my distance. Of course she is much, much better without me interfering (aren't they always?). We celebrate in a posh little café with cappuccino and completely over the top white chocolate milk with all the trimmings.

When the day of the exam finally dawns my daughter all of a sudden is pretty nervous. Will she be able to remember the route? What if she forgets that awful one way street sign, the one which doesn't have the 'except for bikes' sign attached, or what if she doesn't dare to cross the busy road? I really don't know, but tell her you can not do much more than your best. And that, by the way, I am really proud of her anyway, for taking part in the cycling exam, considering the fact that she hasn't really cycled much at all, before moving to the Netherlands only eight months ago.

Of course the whole thing goes really rather well. She tells me that she lost her way a couple of times, meaning that although she left after number 15 and just before number 17, she manages to finish only just ahead of number 20. But she doesn't seem to have made too many mistakes. At least she proudly brings home the official 'Safe Cycling Certificate'. Of course Mr S. and myself are really proud.

It isn't until days later when we suddenly realise the flipside of the much praised certificate. Ever since she passed her cycling exam, the 11yo thinks she completely masters every kind of traffic situation and therefore assumes she can now cycle solo anywhere she likes. May be, just may be that would have been OK, had I not been on that practice run with her. But I have witnessed her ignoring traffic signs and failing to spot other cyclists or cars.

But I have to let her go (she'll never speak to me again if I don't). All her classmates bike to school without their mums hovering around them, so my daughter demands her freedom. So every morning I have to watch her cycling away from me. But instead of the relief I should have felt, now that she has her Safe Cycling Certificate, I can only frantically repeat my latest mantra until I finally feel my heart rate go down. 'She is much better, without me interfering', 'she is much better without me interfering', 'she is much better without me interfering'...

Pick nick

Criss-crossing the Netherlands on various day and weekend trips these past few weeks has rekindled my love for the motherland. It almost feels like I am seeing the low horizons and endless skies for the first time.

 Over the past six months I have been pretty much blind for what the Netherlands have to offer. Moving back after eight exciting years living abroad felt a bit like an anti-climax. No new horizons to explore, no alien culture to conquer and going to the supermarket was like a deja-vu. My surroundings felt way too familiar to really appreciate them. The fact that we moved to a new village in a part of the country that I had never seen before, did not change that feeling one bit.
My eyes were not ready to see beauty close to home, nor was my heart ready to let new people in. After the draining months of prolonged farewells, an exhausting move and a month of unpacking boxes and trips to the skip, I simply was not ready to look at the world with expectant eyes.
Luckily autumn came to the rescue, giving me a perfect excuse to hibernate. Within the four walls of my rented house I could easily pretend nothing much had changed. Armed with my knitting needles 500 grams of wool and endless cups of tea I could just about face my new life.
But now it is spring and the sun has been shining bright for at least six weeks. Fresh, almost see through leaves have magically appeared, countless tulips open their flowers and little lambs are frolicking left right and centre beckoning me to come out of my shelter. And I must admit that after visiting the famous Keukenhof, I am feeling a lot more upbeat about Holland. Even the ubiquitous tulip/wooden shoes/windmill paraphernalia that I find in most places I visit can not seem to dampen my spirits. The little multicoloured windmill my friend bought me a the tulip festival has quickly become one of my most priced possessions. I love how its moving vanes and tulips set the scene just outside my back door.
Last weekend I mingled with tourists from every corners of our planet to have a lovely Easter stroll round the Museum Square in Amsterdam. The sky was the brightest of blues, the façade of the Rijksmuseum looked truly magnificent and I did not even have to wrestle my way in to get a look at the paintings, because I can do that any day, so in effect it can wait for a rainy day. No, I just sat and watched and ate an ice cream and it was lovely.
The rest of my Easter weekend I spend visiting friend in Zeeland, the far south western tip of the Netherlands, where the land is so flat and the villages so few and far between that the sky really takes centre stage. I used to live in this beautiful corner of the world and felt the roots I grew tug at my feet. Life seemed simpler, or at least gentler in this peaceful corner of the world. I surprised myself by enthusiastically taking various pictures of a photogenic dike with typically Dutch houses and a windmill.
Without moving away from the Netherlands and living abroad for almost a decade I do not think I could have ever seen my country, nor understood the identity of our national symbols with such fresh mind. I always laughed at this windmill fantasy of Holland, but actually seeing an antique windmill in a spring green field adorned with lambs and narcissus, these days almost moves me to tears.  Tulips are indeed absolutely wonderful and I love the fact that you can buy arms full of them for very little money so my house is never without in vase filled with tulips in the spring.
Wooden shoes are of course a bit of a nuisance. No one actually wears them. Or may be some farmers still do, although the reason eludes me, as wooden shoes must be the single most uncomfortable shoes in the world. I must try them on one day, just in case I am totally wrong.
As far as national symbols go, we have done all right in the Netherlands. Our easily recognisable, quite decorative and brightly coloured windmills, tulips and wooden shoes don't need much explaining around the world. Come to think of it so don't the gondola', the boot shape and the Colosseum of Italy, nor the cowbells, cuckoo clocks and pocket knifes of Switzerland. England our first expat country is probably the trickiest of all places we lived to define by just a few symbols. Cricket, cream teas, school uniforms, rose gardens, liberty prints, cooked breakfast are all part and parcel of English culture, but which one to choose to unify it all?
One image that springs to mind is the ability to have a pick nick in the rain. And I mean to sit and eat completely unperturbed when the heavens open. I have witnessed, on more than one occasion how people just flip open their umbrella's while they continue eating. No panic, no screams, no running for cover. My favourite school trip with my son's class was one to the seaside at the end of June when the rain was pouring down, but the kids just went on with it, making sand castles, playing chase and jumping the waves. Of course we all had an ice cream, even though our lips were blue and we were shaking violently from the cold. We were at the seaside after all.
So I dare the tourist crap making industry to come up with one of those little glass domes with a pick nick scene inside. The minute you hold it upside down or shake it, instead of snow, rain should fall and umbrella's should magically open. Or even better, let them produce a whole series of these with different rainy scenes (the beach, the camp ground, the Easter egg hunt, the summer fair, the diamond jubilee to name but a few).
It will be an absolute delight to look at them. Especially on - the not infrequent - rainy weekends when on Saturday I will be getting soaking wet watching my son's hockey game and on Sunday I will be getting soaking wet coaching my daughter's rowing team. Because how wet, cold and miserable I might be when I get home, it could be infinitely worse. I could have been pick nicking after all.

tulip festival

 

I have never been laughed at more as last week on telling my family and friends I was going to visit the famous tulip festival. People from all over the world fly to the Netherlands to catch a glimpse of the tulips in bloom, but Dutch people, or at least the ones I know all thought I was absolutely mad.

It is, I discovered, decidedly uncool to visit the tourist highlights in ones own country. Especially the Keukenhof, which apparantly evokes images of - oh horror - wooden shoes filled and windmills surrounded by tulips. So what, you might think, but I must admit that not that long ago, I too felt that shuffling in amongst thousands and thousands of people just to look at some tulips, was not something I considered worth my while.
But then I was a right cow when it came to respecting my own cultural heritage. And while I would visit museums, monuments, gardens and nature reserves in various exotic places, I wouldn't want to be seen dead in a Dutch tourist hotspot like the cheese market in Alkmaar, the Anne Frank house in Amsterdam, or the windmills of the Zaanse Schans, although in my eternal wisdom I did make an exception for the Van Gogh museum.
Living abroad for nearly a decade luckily cured me from such shallowness. Not overnight of course. On moving to England nine years ago, I still felt I couldn't really go and see stone henge, or book a boat tour on lake Windermere, let alone set foot in the Tower of London. So I opted to go visit the Isle of Man, hike in the peak district, see Durham cathedral, drink tea in Harrogate and walk along Hadrian's wall. None of which I would have missed for the world,but at the same time I think I probably would have enjoyed wandering around Harrods or gazing at Buckingham palace for that matter and I am sure the children would have loved to pull faces at the guards.
Some inner changing did take place however, during the years we lived in Manchester. I took up knitting (very uncool) and even told some people about it. I also spend hours looking at perennials in my local garden centre and bought a sewing machine. All very uncool, but I couldn't care less.
However, once firmly settled in Italy I became a right snob again and point blank refused to visit either Florence or Venice the first year we lived in Bologna. It took meeting a lovely French girl who systematically worked her way down a long list of things one simply had to see in Italy while one had those things on one's doorstep, to realise that actually she had a point.
When I finally managed to cure myself of my snobbish views on touristy things to avoid,  I absolutely adored our trips to Venice, Florence, Cinque Terre, Pisa, Verona and Milan. Armed with a travel guide, a camera, and wearing a hideous sun hat, I looked at every church, monument, view and museum there was to be had and loved it of course.
Our move to Switzerland got rid of the last bits of desperately only wanting to travel 'off the beaten track' (who was I kidding anyway?)So, Sharing a gondola with fiftiy odd Japanese tourist the see the Jungfrau ('roof of the world'), what a treat, boarding an historic steam boat for a tour around lake Lucerne, sure, driving out to Colmar to see the quaintest Christmas market in the whole of Europe, hell yes.
And now that I am back in the Netherlands I really want to see it all. Anne Frank's house in on my list, as is a trip to miniature Holland, an Amsterdam canal boat tour and the wooden clogs museum in Eelde (well that actually may be taking matters a bit far). But top of my list definitely is going to the Keukenhof, where every year for the past 65 years 7 million bulbs are planted to create the largest spring bulb flower festival in the world. To make the trip truly unforgettable I invite the one friend who I know will adore the tulips just as much as I will.
And so I find myself at the gates of the Keukenhof this Saturday bright and early. The weather is gorgeous, the vast majority of the tulips are in bloom, the crowds are, well the crowds, but even they can't dampen our spirits, because the tulips are absolutely stunning. So we walk and we walk and we walk, all the while talking about life (and tulips), ocasionally stopping for Dutch 'delights' like a Gouda cheese sandwhich or a big fat piece of apple cake. We marvel over the fact that  62 procent of all bulbs that are sold world wide are grown in a tiny corner of the Netherlands. Then we talk some more about life (and tulips) and when we can finally walk no more, we drive around the Keukenhof to see the bulb production in action.
Field after field decked out in vibrant purples, reds and yellows. And while we talk some more about life (and tulips), I all of sudden realise that for the first time since moving to the Netherlands I really, truly appreciate being back again. Who knew that taking a friend to see some tulips would make me finally want to grow some roots?