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...)